As soon as the gunners of the Chimaera tore apart two enemy star destroyers that had crept up on the flagship, the pilots received the long-awaited order to attack.
"Telemetry is stable, target distribution complete," Alex reported, confirming readiness. "Data is transmitting steadily on channel twenty-five with all adjustments accounted for."
"Thrust," Tomax said in a calm and familiar tone, shifting the PLAE control lever.
Scimitar-01 (though this was no longer the machine he and Alex had assembled on Tangrene, but a factory-built one, without makeshift work and with the necessary upgrades dictated by the times and the experience of operating the first models), along with eleven of its brethren, surged forward and in a few seconds found themselves dozens of standard units away from the Dominion's flagship star destroyer.
Bren returned the PLAE lever to its original position, and the accelerator, having executed its programmed task, fell silent.
Before the pilot stretched only the boundless expanse of space, the blackness dotted with distant stars.
"Target locked," Alex reported. "Bomb bays open. Twenty units behind, two StarVipers have taken a course toward us."
"On combat heading," Tomax replied, transitioning to the attack. "Disable homing heads."
"Disabled," the flight engineer reported. "Manual guidance."
"I know."
The enemy might be invisible—to scanners and eyes alike.
But channel twenty-five provided unmistakable indications of the presence of a cloaked opponent.
Two proton torpedoes slid off their launch rails, streaking toward the invisible target.
What is invisible to scanners cannot be registered by the guidance computer.
Nor by the homing heads of proton torpedoes, concussion missiles, bombs, cluster munitions, or any other guided ordnance abundant in the bomb bays of a star destroyer.
Thus, the attack was conducted manually.
Complex electronics disabled.
After that, within the contents of Scimitar-01's bomb bay—as well as those of the rest of the squadron—there wasn't much high technology left.
Only the engines that would deliver the payloads to the target.
The acceleration imparted to the torpedoes was visible as a crimson halo around the nozzle of each proton warhead's engine.
"First pair away, evading," Tomax commented on his maneuvering actions.
On the enemy star destroyer hiding under cloaking, it was clear they understood that their invisibility was no obstacle to the crew of the assault bomber striking them.
They dropped the cloak, opening fire from their broadside batteries.
The evasive maneuver Tomax executed carried the craft aside, shielding it from danger.
But the barrage fire could not stop the proton torpedoes.
Filled with baradium fury, they reached their intended target and successfully detonated.
"Confirm target hit," Alex said. "This Aggressor's ion-plasma cannons won't harm anyone anymore."
Executing one piloting figure after another, Tomax shifted the Scimitar sideways.
For a moment, he managed to catch a glimpse of the aftermath of the strike.
The bow section of the once-cloaked Aggressor now consisted of two mangled launch rails, splayed open from within like an ugly flower of deformed metal and framework.
"He won't hide from us anymore," Alex commented.
"Cease the gloating," Tomax commanded, setting a new course. "We still have thirty proton torpedoes under our belly. And fifteen targets to destroy. No relaxing."
"As you say, commander," Alex replied carelessly. "Just..."
His words drowned in the next thrust.
***
Captain Tschel watched the unfolding carnage of the enemy fleet before him and could not believe his eyes.
"This... This... Sir, where did eleven squadrons of Scimitars come from here?" he said thoughtfully. "Our Yatagans, of course, but another hundred and twenty machines?!"
"All in good time, captain," I declared, not taking my eyes off the main viewport. "Note the sixth vector. At point two-seven-seven is a Vengeance-class frigate approaching us on a wide arc."
"Range sixty units, sir," Tschel noted. "At that distance, we'd barely scratch the paint on its hull."
"We don't need more for now," I explained. "Cloaking fields are good because they hide starships from scanners and visual detection. But their nature is such that they cannot simultaneously maintain both a cloaking field and a deflector shield. Any damage to a cloaking projector—and there are many on the hull—disrupts the technology. The invisible ceases to be so.
"And what we can see is easier to destroy by more conventional means than guidance via channel twenty-five."
"You want to strip the cloaks from their destroyers and Vengeances," the destroyer commander understood.
"Exactly, captain," I nodded, stroking the ysalamir. "The first phase of the battle is to deprive the enemy of their advantage. As soon as they lose the ability to approach us stealthily and self-destruct—we move to the second phase."
"We've already destroyed ten Aggressors," Tschel pointed to the tactical screen.
"A good start," I agreed. "But that's an excess of zeal on the part of the executors. The Scimitar pilots were ordered to strike the enemy's ion-plasma cannons. Not to destroy the starships. For the latter, we have far more conventional weapons. Which also need to be tested in the current engagement, without distracting ourselves with targeting cloaked opponents."
"You want to deprive them of the ability to remain cloaked and inflict devastating strikes with their main batteries," Tschel summarized. "But wouldn't it be simpler to destroy them outright?"
"Simpler, captain, of course simpler," I agreed. "However, destroying even one Aggressor requires a salvo from a third to half of the proton torpedoes in the Scimitars' bomb bays. At present, we've lost only a dozen of these machines, achieving the destruction of just ten destroyers. Moreover, the machines perish in the first attack, lingering on combat heading longer than necessary to launch a pair of proton torpedoes. As a result—they die without expending their payload and without destroying their designated targets. We have one hundred and twenty Scimitars left, and the enemy—about two hundred and forty destroyers and frigates under cloak. With this approach, which will run out first—our Scimitars or the enemy's cloaked ships?"
Tschel fell silent, pursing his lips.
"You're right, sir, irrational actions," he agreed. "Comms officers! General directive to our bomber pilots—cease destroying enemy ships in Alpha zone. Focus on damaging their main batteries!"
"Message transmitted, commander!" the comms officer replied.
I gazed into the blackness of space, watching as explosions sporadically emerged from nothingness and enemy starships outlined their contours, frantically and futilely firing their turbolasers at the departing Scimitars.
Alpha zone was a wide area of space in front of the Chimaera. Here were concentrated the enemy's largest forces—both cloaked and not.
The key rule here was to decloak the starships and cripple the monstrous cannons on the Aggressors, a single shot from which could spell a grim end for the Chimaera.
But there was also Beta zone—the space near the Eternal Wrath, where there were no Scimitars. Only a support corvette and several squadrons of TIE interceptors.
And enemy ship detachments moving to destroy the Interdictor.
In Beta zone, any enemy starship must be destroyed—there simply should be no threat to the Eternal Wrath from cloaked vessels.
This Interdictor was our "castle," holding the enemy fleet in the system that would become their grave.
Ensuring its safety—given the small fighter wing, weaker artillery than the Chimaera's, and its assigned function—was more than necessary.
It was the foundation of the entire trap.
"We've disrupted the cloaking field on a Vengeance," Captain Tschel reported, pointing to the structure now appearing in the void at fifty units from us—an enemy frigate.
"Finish it, captain," I said, stroking the ysalamir's tender belly. "Left broadside artillery will suffice. And order our assault gunboats to launch missile strikes on enemy starships that have already lost cloaking. Target—engine systems and hyperdrives. Immobilize them, but don't waste time on complete destruction. Redirect four out of five of our interceptor squadrons to counter enemy fighters—they're approaching us on vectors three-two-two and six-eight-eight. We don't need enemy aviation reaching the destroyer."
"Yes, sir," the Chimaera's commander replied impassively. "Right broadside—target the destroyers marked as targets 'four' and 'five,' prepare to strip their cloaks."
I looked at the specified targets.
The ships had just closed to eighty units and continued approaching, maintaining cloaking.
They belonged to the category of Aggressors already in the system, cloaked upon our arrival.
The fact that they had begun moving from drift and chosen the Chimaera as their target indicated that Admiral Sykes still hadn't understood the method by which we detected his cloaked starships.
Having lost the destroyers meant to eliminate the Chimaera at the battle's start, he sent another pair our way, while the rest of his fleet continued suffering losses from our Scimitars.
"Cancel the order," I said.
"Sir?" Tschel looked at me in bewilderment.
"You heard correctly, captain. Your order to strike the creeping enemy destroyers is canceled," I repeated, noting how the Chimaera's left broadside turbolasers successfully ravaged the decloaked vessel. "Focus right broadside guns on destroying those three Interceptor-IVs moving toward us on vector four-two-seven, already at seventy-five units. They intend to attack us with their launchers, so in fifteen units, ensure they can't."
Despite heavy armor, each salvo reaching the frigate tore out chunks of plating, literally exposing frameworks, internal compartments, and bulkheads.
In battle against a single star destroyer, we demonstrated the full justice of the Imperial military commission's decision denying Vengeance-class frigates and Aggressor-class star destroyers membership in the Imperial Navy.
What should have happened to these starships had they fallen into Imperial hands.
Without its primary—ion-plasma—cannon, an Aggressor became just a large target with mediocre armor, insufficient artillery, and maneuverability.
Installing a cloaking screen on these starships further deprived them of deflector strength.
The absence of the latter on Vengeances was not compensated by the cloaking field and strong armor combination.
Losing the former, the frigate then lost its not-so-numerous artillery.
With decent speed and armor, it could continue serving as a target and ram, but the Chimaera's gunners had just shown that knowledge of enemy starship specs and firing accuracy reliably resolved the long-overdue question of such roles for Vengeance-class frigates.
"Sir, aren't the Aggressors and their main battery more dangerous to us?" Tschel clarified.
"Undoubtedly," I agreed. "But at present, our opponent is studying our tactics and trying to understand exactly how we detect his cloaked ships."
"Sacrificing another two destroyers?" Tschel clarified.
"The sooner we destroy them, the more he'll know about our cloaked target detection range," I explained, pointing to the tactical screen. "Note that despite the Scimitar attacks, Admiral Sykes still holds his starships in their previous formation—they're slowly advancing en masse. This allows dense barrage fire on our bombers and gradual grinding of what they see as the main threat to their fleet. Why do you think?"
Tschel pondered for several seconds.
"They believe that knowing the detection range, they'll shoot down our Scimitars long before we eliminate all their star destroyers, then attack us with the remnants, surrounding us on all fronts," he concluded.
"Exactly, captain," I agreed. "Sykes was recently in despair. His plan—an attack from multiple directions—failed. He lost up to a third of the Zann Consortium's combat wing starships without breaking into the Dominion. Then he shifted to open assault on two detected 'secret objects,' concentrating his remaining combat and transport forces on main axes."
"He knows nothing fell to them on Tiragi's second moon?" Tschel asked.
"At least suspects it," I said. "Redirect an interceptor squadron to sector three—the StarVipers are hugging the hull of the Aggressor decloaked two minutes ago. Order our screening corvette to retreat once the interceptors arrive."
The specified ship, having lost its main battery, became cover for enemy heavy fighters, taking hits from our corvette and noticeably losing armament and protection.
The Raider was mauling the enemy's engines with missile-gun strikes, knocking out left broadside artillery and striving to prevent the starship from reaching the Chimaera.
The enemy wasn't aiming for that.
Sykes on this axis had realized the battered Aggressor wouldn't reach the destroyer, so he forced it to absorb hits, serving as a shield for a fighter ambush.
Tschel executed my order, and a dozen TIE interceptors headed to the designated space.
"He probably guessed from the ambush here that things weren't sweet there either," Tschel supposed.
"He's a sufficiently intelligent sentient," I said. "Not for nothing has Tyber Zann kept him close so long. Destroy him—and opposition to the Zann Consortium in the next phase of clearing the Outer Rim will be eased considerably for us."
"Clearly he despaired enough to drag his transport-descent train into battle," Tschel noted.
"He bet on breakthrough via two major strikes rather than many small ones," I explained. "In that case, committing assault units first, then transports—is a big time waste. And increased losses. It seems he still didn't know how to justify the losses, so he threw everything to achieve something."
"Didn't know?" Tschel clarified.
"Exactly," I nodded, noting our interceptors and corvette beginning withdrawal to the Chimaera. "Now he does. So, with precautions, he's trying to realize the only correct variant of his triumph in the Zann Consortium's campaign against the Dominion."
"And that is?"
"Sykes has realized my death was a cover, and everything in the last three months was the result of my operational game with their organization," I explained. "Now they can win only one way—destroying me by any means."
"Understood, sir," Tschel replied dryly.
"Our interceptors and corvette are withdrawing," the words refocused the Chimaera's commander on battlefield observation rather than pondering my words. "This is a good chance for the enemy to counterattack and accomplish their original intent. Our gunners are busy with other targets, and shooting down their StarVipers would mean firing on our own forces. They can't miss this situation. Order the interceptors to reverse, and the corvette—to finish the Aggressor on my command."
The StarVipers indeed emerged from behind the enemy star destroyer's hull and rushed after the designated Dominion starships.
As said—this was an excellent opportunity to break through to the Chimaera.
It seems some classic described it as: "We burst into the enemy's trenches on the shoulders of his retreating troops."
I waited until the situation turned favorable for our interceptors and corvette, then, as their pursuers couldn't hold back, commanded:
"Destroy them."
***
Executing a one-hundred-eighty-degree reversal, Lieutenant Jainer opened fire, peripherally noting his wingman following suit.
The first StarViper, unprepared for such a dirty maneuver, came under fire from four laser cannons and turned into a blazing sphere.
The wingman lagged by only a fraction of a second.
Leaving two small clouds of scrap behind, the squadron's lead pair of Gray Wing surged into attack.
The retaliatory barrage from the recovering Zann Consortium pilots didn't take long.
The Dominion pilots plunged into crimson flashes of deadly energy, ceaselessly twisting through one piloting figure after another.
From afar, it surely looked beautiful, but in reality unpleasant—especially after one of the more accurate gunners singed Jainer's interceptor's skin.
And so it happened that the inertial compensator collapsed, causing the pilot in the cockpit to feel the universe's weight for a moment and his eyes' desire to leak from their sockets, first thoroughly making him feel the pain of his optic nerves.
But the onboard computer (lowest thanks to Dominion engineers for improving it!) reacted to the damage and pilot's torment a second later, engaging the backup compensator.
For it, as well as deflectors and concussion missile launchers—now standard on TIE interceptors—great and fervent thanks to the engineers too.
Because in that second while Krieg felt like blender contents under pressure, his interceptor absorbed several solid hits from the nearest StarViper's laser cannon.
And though the deflector discharged, the machine remained intact.
And the pilot—too.
And very angry for all his suffering.
Together with his wingman, they dealt with another unlucky Viper caught in their sights.
In place of the enemy starfighter formed a rapidly expanding sphere of superheated gas and debris.
Then another reversal, and the offending Viper fell under his laser cannons' fire, gladdening the pilot with its demise.
Losing only one pilot, Gray Claw squadron halved dozens of enemy starfighters and had no intention of stopping there.
The StarVipers only now realized that the Raider-III they were chasing was comfortably positioned far behind their nozzles, cheerfully blinking its own.
Simultaneously hammering the battered Aggressor's unprotected left broadside with full soul and gun power, plus launchers, shifting toward the stern and turning its engines into a sieve of high-strength metals.
The very one from behind whose hull the infamous StarVipers had recently emerged.
Krieg, twisting into horizontal spin, spotted the harbinger of doom, blasting another Viper into parts with cannon fire.
"Raider," he addressed the corvette commander. "Aggressor's hull changing color."
"Thanks, we're aware," came the dry reply.
The corvette, finishing the victim's engines with a salvo, laid a turn that would make even an interceptor pilot feel his stomach in the sky, then surged away on afterburners.
Escaping the blast wave is impossible.
For a capital ship—interceptors handled it fine, and they were farther from the epicenter than the Raider, fated to die a hero's death.
But to execute a loop, blasting empty space with lasers and launching missiles, expose another enemy starship, shield behind its hull, absorb a full enemy turbolaser salvo into the deflector, reverse, and with pedantic cynicism destroy the turbolasers and engines of a second enemy starship, escaping with only a dozen non-critical hull breaches...
"Some psychos," whispered Jainer, witnessing pirouettes no fleet officer would ever attempt, even to save his own skin.
On that ship's decks, at least half the crew had gone green from gut-wrenching internal conflicts, and the other half—passed out, like the gravity compensator from such acrobatics.
"Raider, you alive over there?" worried Gray Claw's commander.
"Yes..."
The choked reply vividly showed the guys aboard that little ship weren't feeling well.
"We'll cover you, withdraw to the Chimaera," Krieg ordered, coordinating with the controller.
The corvette somehow unsteadily reversed in place, and only then did Jainer notice a long breach crossing its starboard side.
Clearly, one turbolaser salvo from the destroyer they'd taken without deflectors.
By eye—damage not the most serious, but understand this tub isn't a star destroyer.
And that through-hole visible near the starboard engine won't heal itself.
Nor will the missing duplicate gravity compensator return of its own volition.
All the more correct to let the guys withdraw to the Chimaera, perhaps patch breaches, recover from overloads, fix some issues.
The interceptors split into two groups for escort, while others rushed to finish surviving Vipers.
They didn't play with these—approached straight, selecting targets and maneuvering only as needed for safety, but the impression was the Grays intended to ram the enemy.
Jainer's continuous cannon fire peeled the Viper's armor like husk.
From lack of space, Krieg flew through the debris cloud at speed and winced, hearing them drum on the hull.
Such madness didn't go unpunished even for better-protected starfighters, let alone a less-protected interceptor.
The wingman missed his prey—the pilot dodged at the last second, carrying him in a wide arc toward another enemy ship.
Two scanner signals merged into one and simultaneously faded, leaving the Grays' scanners pristinely clear.
But not for long.
A new enemy squadron was already rushing, supported by a pair of Interceptor-IVs.
The latter were targeted by the Chimaera's right broadside artillery, doing so successfully enough that for a moment it seemed some evil god blew and stripped both deflectors.
Somehow, this resulted in another Viper squadron appearing.
Which wasn't good.
Six TIE interceptors against twenty-four StarVipers—not the best odds.
"Gray Leader to squadron—withdraw under Chimaera's protection," Jainer ordered.
He'd already seen the wounded corvette reach the star destroyer's underside and now working from a protected position with its laser cannons and homing concussion missiles.
Like crimson spears, its laser guns—once exclusive to Crusader-class corvettes—hindered enemies from striking the star destroyer from below.
Krieg blinked, realizing too many enemies surrounded the mothership.
Yes—two StarViper squadrons, but from another direction, had broken through to the Chimaera and now diligently interfered with one and a half dozen TIE interceptors performing watch to protect the flagship.
"Gray Leader to Chimaera OCC, withdrawing full squadron to you," Jainer warned.
"Acknowledged," the controller replied. "Your five pilots escorting the Raider are already in ship defense. Others—same order until canceled."
"Acknowledged, OCC, defending Chimaera."
Duplicating the order for all fighters, Krieg maxed the interceptor's engines.
Gray Wing pilots fled the pursuit at full tilt, with several Vipers detached from bombarding the Chimaera approaching, and this entire motley collection of unreliable weaponry opened fire.
So the Grays and pursuers plunged into a plasma storm like suicides.
Krieg grew hot.
He'd just concluded he'd prefer flying straight into enemy teeth than toward an ally who theoretically could distinguish friend from foe, but flagship safety above all.
Turbolasers fired rapidly, sporadically vaporizing Vipers trying to attack the star destroyer.
For some reason, they avoided missiles and torpedoes, trading only energy weapons with the Chimaera.
Whether the enemy lacked skill for missile-torpedo strikes, equipment, or desire—no one guessed.
The Grays unleashed full load: green and red laser blasts, bluish ion charge flashes, smoky trails of homing concussion missiles.
Choose your flavor.
Krieg ordered, and his pilots scattered like minocks lured by electricity then turning the trap into full hunt.
Some pursuers preferred avoiding the deadly fire whirlwind; others were less lucky.
A close concussion missile blast from the Raider spun Jainer's machine—he tamed the interceptor and checked instruments to confirm his wingman alive, intact, and in place.
Ether overflowed with voices, phrases overlapping into one.
His pilots coolly as serial killers corrected each other's flights, warned pilots from another squadron of danger, reported threats from enemy starfighters to gunners on Chimaera and Raider.
"Second squadron, don't distract on..."
"Twelfth to Fifth, gain altitude up, go!.."
"I'm hit, leading machine away from destroyer..."
"Two on my tail, can't shake..."
"Spread missile salvo, and hurry—there's another full squadron..."
Twisting the interceptor into right barrel roll and descending relative to the battle zone, the pilot spotted the squadron the Raider commander mentioned.
StarVipers among the Grays' pursuers formed a wedge for decisive breakthrough.
Spitting on decorum and not distributing targets, Krieg opened fire, downing the nearest enemy ship.
All four shots hit the engine compartment—the Viper turned into a fireworks of explosions and fragments, the cloud from reactor detonation engulfing its wingman.
Though the second fighter emerged from the fire seemingly unscathed.
The wingman fired too.
He aimed at the panels radiating from the cockpit like star rays on a child's drawing, instead burning neat holes in the fuselage.
Krieg and partner didn't bother figuring what happened to the pilot next—they exited the battle zone and chased surviving Vipers.
Others from the squadron joined, but seconds later the Raider commander reined them in.
Adjusting course, eleven Grays let the previously designated missile salvo pass between them, and a series of homing concussion missiles streaked after the enemy.
It ended in a spectacular series of explosions, survived by only one enemy starfighter.
And not for long.
Krieg and wingman boxed it and shot it down, despite the enemy's virtuoso piloting.
Space around the Chimaera cleared of enemy fighters, and now all pilots could watch with relish as the Raider's laser cannons intercepted streams of anti-ship missiles launched by both Interceptor-IVs.
Meanwhile, the Dominion destroyer's gunners almost filigree hammered one turbolaser salvo after another into enemy frigate hulls, literally tearing them apart.
And when both ships were nearly simultaneously reduced to complete silence, the Chimaera's turbolasers fired a salvo "over the heads" of both Interceptor-IVs.
At first Krieg didn't understand the naive miss, but when the gunners hit an "invisible" target, mangling the bows of two creeping Aggressor-class star destroyers, the flagship gunners' feint became clear as a Tatooine day.
The enemy ships, with mangled bow sections resembling (before accurate hits) two rectangular rails, didn't halt forward movement but added their modest artillery to striking the Dominion flagship.
"Chimaera OCC to Gray Leader," the controller's voice sounded. "You have a new assignment."
"Acknowledged," Krieg replied.
"Cover the assault gunboat squadron heading to point three-nine-five," the controller ordered.
Jainer estimated the direction.
"Order understood, covering."
Switching to squadron channel, the squadron leader commented:
"Grays, we're moving to cover the Xg-1s about to strike those two uglies our valiant gunners damaged. Maximum attention—reminder, these things love self-destructing amid enemy aviation."
Dry clicks confirmed orders.
Krieg sighed heavily.
When he agreed to donate for clone pilots, he was quite optimistic.
When they staffed his squadron—he was even glad.
When every interceptor pilot on the Chimaera, after Kreb's transfer, became a clone of Jainer—it even made him proud and cheerful.
Not every day does your face defend the Dominion's flagship star destroyer.
But they didn't tell him the clones would be as joyless and dull conversationalists as Kreb, not like himself.
Well, humanity aside, his guys fly and destroy the enemy better than anyone.
Time to demonstrate that to the crews of those "battered" enemy Aggressors.
***
Mara, without looking back, intercepted her lightsaber and delivered a straight thrusting strike with the blade behind her.
The "vulture droid's" breathing turned to snuffling and wheezing, followed by the sound of falling.
"So what were you saying about 'Idiot's Array'?" she asked, feigning innocence on her face, to the heavily breathing Zabrak female standing ten meters away at the other end of the central computer compartment.
The part of the ship turned battlefield abounded in destroyed terminals and pieces of decorative paneling—all torn and sliced from their places when two furies clashed in lightsaber combat.
The red-haired beast saw her rival's nostrils flare—as if trying to intimidate her human opponent.
From time to time, she emitted a low growl and shook her horned head, baring predatory teeth.
At first, this behavior unnerved Jade.
Now she simply ignored the posturing.
"I know this blade," the female said, continuing to clutch her abdomen with one hand, where a long cauterized wound gleamed.
The author, needless to say, was none other than the red-haired woman in Grand Admiral Thrawn's service.
It was after this that the Zabrak tried to flee, siccing her minions on Mara.
With them, of course, she had to sweat and ensure the automation locked the door Mara had mangled.
But what wouldn't one do to prevent an opponent from escaping?
"Yes?" Mara stepped over another "vulture droid's" severed arm, momentarily catching that it was still alive.
Describing a semicircle in the air, she plunged the blade precisely into the throat of the pretending "vulture droid," ending its life too.
"Enlighten me?"
"This saber belonged to Jedi Master Mace Windu," the Zabrak explained, breathing heavily.
"As you see, that Korun is no more," Mara spread her hands. "And the saber now belongs to me."
"You didn't kill Windu," the black-haired Zabrak stated confidently. "You simply wouldn't have the strength for it. He was the best..."
"Too much knowledge for a simple mercenary with lightsaber imitations?" Mara clarified.
"I was padawan to Master Shaak Ti!" the opponent spat with malice and fury.
Simultaneously hurling the nearest debris at Mara.
Thrawn's Hand casually dodged most, slicing the rest with her lightsaber or deflecting with the Force.
"Maris Brood," her memory accurately prompted.
"You know me?" the female was surprised.
"I remember the names of all Jedi the Empire considered conditionally surviving until confirmation of their destruction," Jade explained. "Some I even tracked and killed."
"Ahhh," the Zabrak grinned crookedly. "So you're like that boy who killed my master!"
"From this point, please, more details," Mara requested. "And no, don't even think of Force-throwing one of your fake-shotos at me. I'll intercept it, and it'll cost you a few clipped horns off your weird head. So? Revelations or more fighting?"
Brood lunged with a simple overhead double strike, but Jade reacted with quick parry, deflecting the blades aside.
The hiss and hum of crossing pure energy blades filled the compartment, after which, realizing the stalemate, the combatants immediately leaped back and returned to waiting stances.
Though Mara managed to solidly kick the opponent's wounded side.
"Bitch," the female wheezed, literally howling in pain.
"Sounds like a compliment," Mara smiled.
Somewhere on the ship, an explosion rang out, causing artificial gravity to play a nasty trick.
And in that moment, Maris lunged forward.
Her right blade swept diagonally right to left in a long, fast arc.
Mara redirected the strike with her weapon but lost balance from reactivating gravity, recoiled back, and rolled.
Maris tried to press her advantage.
Her left blade raced left to right in an arc, the right—symmetrically mirrored.
Ideally, this should have decapitated Jade, but she simply Force-pushed the opponent.
The Zabrak, confirming her suspicions that all the growls and pain contortions were mere pretense to observe how Mara fought "vulture droids," leaped to safe distance, creating space between them.
Mara aborted the half-executed sequence and returned to ready stance.
"Whom did you serve?" the Zabrak asked unexpectedly calmly, straightening as if unwounded. "The Emperor? Vader? Some lesser bigwig like Hethrir? The Inquisitorius?"
"You guessed first try—why bother with further listings?" Mara shrugged, ensuring the opponent wasn't so simple information-wise—she at least knew Hethrir, the Empire's supreme procurator, had his own Force-sensitive aides.
"The Emperor's Hand," the Zabrak spat contemptuously.
"We all have flaws," Mara shrugged. "At least I didn't serve the Order, whose four masters couldn't kill one Sith who'd lived half his human lifespan."
"So you know that too," Maris stated.
"If I act frivolously, it doesn't mean I'm an idiot," Jade assured her. "You, I see, are something too. Sure you don't want to switch sides?"
"And serve the Empire that destroyed my past?" the Zabrak stared wildly. "No, you're definitely an idiot."
"Insulting instead of sharp barbs is bad," Mara said sympathetically. "They used to hit me with Force lightning as a child for swearing, to stop it."
"Didn't help much... Ahhhhh!"
Mara struck with lightning from her left hand, and as soon as she confirmed her opponent intercepted with both blades—struck with the right too.
Thus catching the Zabrak off guard.
Mara had worked on physical mastery the past weeks, when Thrawn expressed dissatisfaction.
Under Maul, she repeatedly practiced forgotten techniques and learned new.
Between trainings, she felt that as skill grew, less mental energy went to material execution of strikes, parries, and counters.
This focused her mind.
Thus, she could use the Force itself, anticipating even gifted opponents' actions, while clouding and disrupting their precognitive senses.
And this allowed multi-directional attacks—sometimes with strength, sometimes with the Force.
But there's a nuance.
"Zabrak medium-rare isn't my taste," she said, looking at Brood collapsed on her knees.
With verbal bravado, she hid her rapid exhaustion from using Force lightning.
Maul had explained (repeatedly, mostly not just talks but extremely harsh lessons) that her path was lightsaber combat and only superficial Force use for combat techniques.
Deeper Force techniques literally drained her.
Of course she listened to her hated instructor but ensured he wasn't her sole knowledge source.
Jedi relics held much interest.
Especially that holocron from Ossus.
The last time she trained with Maul (before the Emperor's death), Mara was a novice.
And the Zabrak often beat her.
While mocking as much as possible.
And he was never at a loss for words.
The Emperor directly forbade killing his servants, so Maul compensated his inability to physically eliminate students with verbal epithets.
That's when Mara adopted his verbal sharpness as one of the strongest victory techniques.
Enrage the opponent, disrupt concentration, sway to your side, or morally crush—Sith are strongest at this in the galaxy.
Now Mara practically mastered all the Zabrak instructor could teach and perfectly assessed her opponent physically and emotionally.
She had some emotional trauma.
And perhaps that would be the key to joining the Dominion.
The Zabrak was well-trained, steeped in the dark side (do Zabrak have a fetish for being evil and aggressive?), and clearly not aiming to restore the Jedi Order in the New Republic or Alliance, having found refuge in the Zann Consortium.
No, of course, it might be overly optimistic, but something told Mara that against Palpatine, they needed as many Force-sensitives as possible.
Since Darth Vader couldn't reduce him to powder, and his son might already be kneeling before Palpatine...
Rapidly spinning her saber, Mara leaped low into the air and dashed at the enemy.
Maul said to subdue an opponent, break them.
Not so much physically as morally.
Since this lady somehow served the Zann Consortium, she could be useful.
At least for knowledge.
Maris parried the attack but fell to the deck from a head kick.
She rolled onto her back and barely raised one saber in time to block the next sharp thrust.
Blades hissed as Mara's strikes rained down.
Maris held off direct hits with a masterful defensive flurry, then swept the legs, knocking the redhead down but earning a knee to the jaw.
Both women tumbled to the deck.
They sprang up simultaneously, mirror images; their blades met with another deafening hiss and crash before distancing again.
Maris's resilience didn't help: she breathed raggedly, shoulders slumped, sometimes gasping.
"Seems your hearts lost sync," Mara noted. "Watch your health, friend, or you'll die not from a saber but a heart attack. What a laugh..."
Brood lunged again.
But this time Mara didn't retreat.
She stepped forward, quick thrust, shifting from Form III to more precise and aggressive Form II.
The unexpected maneuver caught the Zabrak off guard; she hesitated momentarily realizing the change.
Parrying deflected the blade aimed at Mara's chest, only for the violet blade to slice one of the Zabrak's weapons, nearly taking fingers.
Force-pushing her, Brood backward somersaulted, emerging with her second weapon extended forward.
"You thought I'd chase?" Mara clarified. "No thanks—I put too much into the gym to ruin my stomach with a lightsaber slash."
"Is this just entertainment for you?" the Zabrak gaped, standing and regripping her weapon.
"No, I'm just buying time to download EVERYTHING from your central computer," Mara thought.
"Hard to hide it," she said. "I think it's time you switched to our side. I take it you don't breathe evenly toward the Empire?"
"They destroyed the Order and usurped power!"
"And not burning with love for the New Republic..."
"They're worse than the Republic before Palpatine!"
"Well, we have strong military and good laws from Imperial heritage, and decent freedoms from Republican past," Mara voiced the Dominion negotiators' main theses.
"Glad for you! But you have nothing to offer for me to betray my honor and join you!"
Brood readied again.
"You're weak," Mara explained, casually tracing intricate patterns with her saber. "Predictable. Well-trained, but let's be frank—you can't handle me. I'll do what I came for and leave the ship. With or without you. But in the second case, you'll die."
"Don't be such a naive fool," Brood laughed. "I clashed twice with Darth Vader's apprentice and survived! I'm too good to die like this..."
"Which one?"
"What?" the Zabrak didn't understand.
"Which of his apprentices did you clash with?" Mara asked. "This Force favorite had so many secret apprentices that..."
"A boy, about twenty," Brood shrugged. "Galen Marek. Starkiller... Something like that. Over ten years ago on Felucia. We fought twice."
"Really?" Mara drawled slowly.
She understood whom the Zabrak meant.
And reasonable doubts tore at her.
"We fought twice! Once—when he killed my master, Shaak Ti," Brood said maliciously. "Second—when I captured Alliance rebel senators."
"And you survived?" Mara clarified.
"As you see," she looked at the redhead mockingly. "I'm stronger than I seem."
"I didn't clash with that boy personally, but what the Emperor said about him makes your words somewhat..." Mara waved her hand and grimaced. "No offense, but that guy dropped a star destroyer from orbit, fought the Emperor and Vader on equal terms. And you don't even match Darth Vader's prosthetic leg in strength. Precisely because you're such a weakling, that's why you hang with losers like Zann."
"I'm with them because they found me, gave shelter, food, finished my training..."
"And who was so smart to do it so stupidly?" Mara Jade asked, hearing a beep from the central computer.
She reached behind her back, and the data chip leaped into her palm.
Without taking eyes off the opponent, she tucked the device into a secure case on her belt.
Now the information was safe—even a high fall wouldn't harm the precious chip.
"Hooray for Urai Fen, Tyber Zann's right hand!" Brood said with inexplicable pride. "Urai taught me to fight. And Admiral Sykes, who subjugated Felucia to the organization—made me a good tactician. They gave me everything I asked—that's why I fight on their side."
"Only you say it not very confidently," Mara thought. "And something tells me a simple truth—if the door were open, you'd run farther than you could see."
"No offense, friend, but they're just using you," Jade explained. "Don't know what Fen taught you, but you don't shine in fights. Believe me—I fought Jedi. Your mastery level is padawan waving his pokers left and right. And command abilities—silent; you just threw your soldiers at me to watch me deal with them."
"And figure your techniques," Brood bared teeth.
"I spent a couple seconds on each," Mara raised a brow. "Some observation."
She sensed the desired craving from her opponent.
She clearly wasn't set for prolonged confrontation.
Trained, but exhausted, investing in the first minutes.
The conversation Mara led somehow didn't serve as a break to recover.
On the contrary, only drained her.
"You won't leave this ship alive," Maris Brood repeated her thesis, readying her weapon. "And apparently neither will I..."
And so much disappointment and crack of broken hopes in her voice that everything fell into place.
So that's it!
This Zabrak wasn't thinking of fighting to the last!
"You don't want to die for the Zann Consortium," Mara narrowed eyes, assuming a defensive pose just in case.
"Nonsense," the Zabrak parried. "I came here to kill you—Dominion agent."
"Oh no-no, friend," Mara smiled broadly, seeing the Zabrak's weapon deviate aside.
Attacking at that angle—suicide.
"You have nothing to offer," Jade repeated, "for me to join your side. You said that to me minutes ago, commenting on my words where I hadn't even voiced my offer to switch to our side."
"You... You did offer it!" Maris faltered.
"Of course," Mara smiled.
Now the Zabrak was in her hands.
Cards revealed.
"You joined the fight, sending 'vulture droids' to eliminate witnesses," Mara said. "Then pretended all righteous and ideological so your switch to our side wouldn't look like betrayal but as recruitment to me. So I wouldn't suspect you wanted to escape from the start."
The Zabrak ground her teeth.
"That obvious?" she asked.
"From the moment you opened your mouth," Jade lied.
"Bantha poodoo!" Brood deactivated her weapon and hung it on her belt. "I came to them because the Empire was on my trail! And I have no desire to be some commander or liquidator in Tyber Zann's service like others! Recently I thought Zann wasn't bad, and if democracy or tyranny couldn't handle this mess, maybe the Consortium's way of life as ruling regime isn't bad for the galaxy. But now I see it's just another facade. Everyone wants power, and mistakes aren't forgiven," Mara grimaced, recalling how Thrawn "forgave" her mistakes. Better he'd thrown her in boiling water than verbally compare her to floor covering. And hooked up with that Iceheart, as if to humiliate her more! He knows full well the real Iceheart tortured Mara after Endor! "For failing the operation against the Dominion, he'll skin us all! I don't want to be a pawn in matters that don't concern me! But no offense—yours isn't the best side to switch to. You may be strong, but your fleet... Our victory is inevitable."
Her grip on the hilt tightened, as if deciding to continue the fight she couldn't win.
Killing her—nothing to it.
But as more than a Zann Consortium rank-and-file, Brood was valuable.
She at least mentioned other Force-sensitives in Zann's service.
Some might be clear Palpatine agents.
"Yes-yes-yes, we all think that," Mara thought mockingly. "Then a couple fiery speeches from the grand admiral, and you're in the front ranks advancing his plans with zeal, like when you idolized the Emperor."
"So what?" Jade asked. "More fighting or shall we bail from this ship?"
"And where?" Brood grimaced, perking up. "Only two of your starships in the system! Hundreds of ours! They'll finish you now, and I'll be a traitor and..."
The homemade comlink on Jade's belt beeped a call.
The girl activated the holoprojector, knowing perfectly whom she'd see.
But that was the plan.
"Hand," Grand Admiral Thrawn addressed her, "you have five minutes to leave the enemy flagship. After that time, I will destroy their entire fleet regardless of your safety."
"Understood," Mara replied, estimating time to reach her ship, still probably docked to the Zann Consortium flagship. A suitable plan already formed in her head. "I'll manage in half that."
"It's in your interest."
Traditionally without farewell, Thrawn ended the link.
Jade sidelong glanced at her recent opponent standing open-mouthed.
"Still sure we can't win?" she asked the Zabrak slyly. "Reminder: last year Thrawn carved half the New Republic fleet like an Alderaanian nut and foiled all your gang's plans to seize the Dominion. If he says he'll destroy all enemy ships here—it will be so."
"Need to do something with the door," the Zabrak said, licking lips and deciding. "I know a short path to the docking bays."
Darth Maul was a rare pain in the ass, but let's be honest with ourselves—at times his advice really works.
Break physically.
Break morally.
And do with the opponent whatever you wish.