"Better cannot be done," the commander of the Relentless reported—or rather, his holographic image, currently hovering over the projector plate on the bridge of the flagship. "The communication antennae have been destroyed. We cannot issue a single order to the ships, and we cannot contact anyone. Furthermore, no one can locate Maris Brood either."
Sykes did not display irritation, despite considering the news detestable. But at the same time, he had a hypothesis on how everything could be fixed and control over the fleet restored. Everything else in the current situation was of little consequence.
"Can a remote antenna be installed?"
"Boss," the Nautolan gave a grim smirk. "Our starfighters are destroyed. Half of the transport fleet has already been disabled with ion cannons by those two Executors. Our Interceptors are living out their final moments just to buy us some time. Of course, we are trying to restore communications. Но out there," he pointed aside, meaning the space outside the ship, "are several dozen squadrons of enemy interceptors and assault gunships. They are literally peeling the hull plating off our ships. Not to mention that our central computer—it's like it fell into a shredder."
Jerid cursed but, catching himself, donned his mask of complete indifference once more. He could not show that this news affected him. Otherwise, what little remained of the spirit of these sentients, still flickering somehow, would be lost forever. Panic would follow. And one could not even dream of restoring control over the Consortium fleet.
"Very well, Captain. Но we need communications. As long as we fight individually, there will be no point. Even with two Executors, they will need considerable time to finish off all the ships."
"Understood, boss. I'll go kick the mechanics—let them crawl into the airlock and set up a temporary antenna."
The hologram dissolved into the air. The Admiral clenched his hands into fists, knowing full well the operation was of little use. Even if they restored communications, what was the guarantee that any Zann Consortium starship still had antennae capable of receiving signals from the flagship? But something had to be done. Even when the house is burning, punch through the wall with an air that suggests it is everyone's salvation. For now, it would occupy the captain and give him time to think.
"Do we have any scanners at all?" he asked loudly so he could be heard in every corner of the bridge.
From the command walkway—the bridge on the Aggressor is almost the same as on Imperials, Victories, and Venators—loud, discordant exclamations arose. The duty officer leaned toward the crew pits with a stern look, listened to a report, straightened up, and looked back at Jerid. He did not look particularly pleased.
"One of our starfighters that has still survived reports via laser beam that a crystal gravfield trap is attached under the Guardian's hull."
Sykes caught himself shrugging at a sudden draft and pretended he was merely adjusting his shoulders.
"Now it is clear how they detected our cloaked ships."
It was an extremely unpleasant thing—realizing that your defeat had been written from start to finish, as if according to a score.
"It has not been established for certain, boss; we have not received confirmation because the starfighter was destroyed as soon as it decelerated. It could be something else similar, but…"
"What imbeciles!" Sykes snapped. "Of course it is a CGT! It is impossible to confuse it with anything else! Do what you must, but the ship should not just hit the nearest target with turbolasers—it must understand whether it is hitting anything at all! If necessary, send men onto the hull plating; let them connect remote scanners! I want to know where we are firing!"
As subordinates began scurrying about the bridge, Sykes cast a spiteful glance at the nineteen-kilometer giant, under whose belly the Chimaera was practically lost, like a small child in a father's arms. From such a distance, one could certainly not see if there truly was a CGT complex under the giant's belly, but now, at least, the reason Thrawn was not destroying the Zann Consortium ships under cloaks, but depriving them of their advantage and ability to move, was clear.
The Guardian undoubtedly saw all the cloaked starships of his vast fleet. It knew and transmitted their coordinates to the Chimaera and the other Dominion destroyer. And they directed their bombers. The Executors could have attacked even without the preliminary destruction of the Aggressors' weaponry, cloaking, and engines. But then a primary risk would have arisen—damage to the CGT would have deprived Thrawn of the ability to see the cloaked ships.
If Thrawn had committed his star super destroyers to the battle from the very beginning of the confrontation, Sykes would undoubtedly have sent all the StarVipers and nearby ships to destroy the CGT. And he would undoubtedly have chosen both giants as primary targets for his ships with self-destruct functions. If necessary, he would have ordered the explosion of the entire fleet just to finish off these death machines.
But now…
Without cloaking and engines, the Aggressors and Vengeances were unable to correct their inertia-driven courses. They were unable to hide or sneak up on the enemy. They could not detonate themselves to cause substantial harm. And the main battery on the Aggressors was now worth nothing either—bombers or assault gunships had simply delivered a preemptive strike and deprived the Zann Consortium of the ability to realize its advantages in space combat!
Instead of a vast slaughter between the fleets of two destroyers, Thrawn had turned the attack into a formal beating, using his ships, bombers, assault gunships, and even, kark it, TIE interceptors to shoot the helpless Zann Consortium starships! And absolutely nothing threatened his CGT now!
No matter how much Sykes hoped for victory, everything here was already predetermined. He had to think about something else. Something he had never thought about before. He had to find a way to escape the starship, get out of the system, and go to ground. Returning to Tyber after such a rout would be suicide. Even if he understood and appreciated the data Jerid provided regarding the Dominion's combat capability and tactics, and reported that Thrawn had survived… none of that would effectively cover the loss of all the ships in the Zann Consortium's combat wing.
Now Tyber had nothing left in reserve except for a little over five hundred Victories. With such forces, he could not hold the Corporate Sector and its satellites if the Dominion or the eastern group planned to attack and finish off the weakened enemy. And certainly not attack. The Zann Consortium had lost more than just a few battles. They stood on the threshold of the defeat of all Tyber's plans, which he had nurtured for so many years. And toward the one who failed Tyber, the latter would never be benevolent under any circumstances.
Death would certainly not be easy. Zann had a decent imagination before, but after he found the archive of Palpatine's executions in the Palace, the options for terrifying and painful slaughter had increased a hundredfold. He had to figure out how to escape the ship before the commander of the Relentless realized how bad things were and detonated the starship.
Hutt-programmed bastards…
***
Major Creb, like the rest of his Avenger Squadron, had launched from the Guardian's hangar a few minutes ago. By the current time mark, he and his eleven clones had rounded the star super destroyer, hovering in the space between the old carrier ship—the Chimaera—and the new one—the Guardian. He and Creb-611 waited exactly as long as necessary for the other pilots of the squadron to pull up, receive target designation from the squadron leader, and form a paired formation.
"Our task is a search and destroy mission," the Major explained to his subordinates. "Enemy starfighters, transports, transmitting equipment, engines—you know the list. Not one of them must fire at our ships. If you can't handle it yourselves, call in the assault gunships or Scimitars for large and heavily armored targets. Acknowledged?"
Eleven clicks of confirmation.
"Let's work."
"Avenger Leader," never in the past three months had his own callsign and the squadron's name resonated within him with any kind of hidden internal pain. Evidently, the latest news from the Grand Admiral had not passed by his psyche for nothing. "Chimaera Flight Control here. There is a side assignment for you and your squadron. Priority."
"Receiving, Flight Control," Creb answered.
"Providing target designation," the controller said. "It is a flagship star destroyer. Our agent is on board, preparing for evacuation. You need to organize cover for his starship."
"Identification method?"
"The beacon frequency has been transmitted to you."
"Received, Chimaera Flight Control," the Major confirmed receipt of the data package and its decryption by the onboard computer. "Transmitting to subordinates."
Now his starfighter, like the machines of the entire squadron, was capable of recognizing the coveted signal.
"Good hunting, Avenger Leader," the controller replied routinely. "And one more thing, Major."
"Listening, Flight Control."
"It is a pleasure to give you target designation again."
And indeed… judging by the voice, it was one of the six controllers who had worked with Black Claw Squadron.
"Likewise, Flight Control," Creb answered. "Commencing operation."
***
Grand Admiral Thrawn watched as the stellar panorama outside the viewport changed its pattern: the enemy fleet was steadily shrinking. As was the distance between the flagship star destroyer and the star super destroyer guarding it on one side, as well as the enemy combat starships they were shelling on the other. No mercy, no negotiations—only the pragmatic extermination of one practically immobile enemy combat starship after another.
For some time now, the Supreme Commander's back had been burned by the intent gaze of Captain Tschel. Thrawn, without looking back, shook his head.
"No, Captain," he said in a casual tone. "Save your strength. We are currently competing in accuracy at long and medium ranges. We do not intend to approach the enemy closer than fifty units."
"Yes, sir," Tschel grunted.
"You sound as if you are extremely disappointed."
"I hate to delay," the flagship commander admitted.
"Only because we are currently in the position of victors," Thrawn said. "I am willing to bet that if we had switched sides with the enemy in the current reality, your impatience would have lessened."
"Not at all, sir!" Tschel protested. "I would…"
The chair, and Thrawn sitting within it, turned so the Supreme Commander was face to face with the commander of his flagship star destroyer.
"What would you do, Tschel?" the Grand Admiral inquired in an almost paternal tone. "Enlighten me on how you would win when every one of your ships has its engines shot off, preventing them from either evading combat or closing with enemy ships for self-detonation; the hull integrity is compromised, making the use of cloaking systems impossible; and furthermore—the main battery guns, which were the design focus during the development of the technical documentation for the Aggressor-class Star Destroyer project, have been destroyed?"
Tschel, awkwardly looking away, bit his lower lip quite childishly.
"My apologies, sir," he admitted. "I spoke without thinking."
"I suggest changing the order of actions for the future," Thrawn said, turning his chair back toward the viewport. "Impulsiveness and a desire for glory are the bane of young officers. The desire for glory and fame as a victor over enemies is an understandable phenomenon. Но a detrimental one. Look at the situation as a whole—the final result and its achievement with maximum efficiency are what matter. It will be better for no one if today ends for the Chimaera not with a week on the ways, but with a month in dry dock."
"I understand, sir," Tschel nodded. "For the further campaign against the Zann Consortium, we will need every combat-capable starship, and unnecessary damage the Chimaera might receive by closing with an enemy who repeatedly detonates themselves is needed by no one."
"Correct," Thrawn said without looking back. "And fundamentally wrong. We do not intend to get involved in an open war with the Zann Consortium in the foreseeable future."
Tschel thought he heard the sound of breaking glass. Disconcerted, he looked around but found not the slightest shard or hint of who could have done such a thing in practice.
"It seems my paradigms just shattered," the young officer thought.
"Yes, sir," he said mechanically.
A tense silence hung over the command walkway of the Chimaera.
"Grand Admiral," Tschel finally spoke up after several minutes of unbearable silence. "If we do not intend to fight the Zann Consortium, then what is the purpose of what is happening?"
Thrawn had his back to him, but the star destroyer commander saw that the fingers of his right hand, encased in snow-white glove material, drummed on the armrest.
"Incorrect perception of information leads to the incorrect posing of the question, Captain," Thrawn said. "We will fight the Zann Consortium," he assured. "But not in the immediate future. Currently, we are doing what we must—destroying their offensive potential, which will inevitably lead to a reduction in Zann's aggressive rhetoric. Our next step is to place the Corporate Sector under blockade. For a direct confrontation, they still have a large number of starships at their disposal—over five hundred Victory-class Star Destroyers alone. We possess far more modest available and combat-ready forces. In such realities, it would be criminal negligence to poke into the beast's lair for a general engagement, where every corner of the sector and every hyperspace route is familiar to it, and in every star system, dozens, if not hundreds, of problems might await us, not to mention that a fairly large layer of the population supports our enemy in one way or another. No, Captain. We have broken their advancing forces—that is already a statement of fact. But we are not yet ready to fight a heavyweight like the Corporate Sector openly. First, we will bleed them dry, exhaust them, deprive them of satellites, obtain additional reinforcements, strengthen our positions in the galaxy, and eliminate the problems identified during the current operation. And only after all that will we deliver a strike after which the Zann Consortium, Black Sun, and other fronts behind which Tyber Zann hides will remain only milestones in the memory of sentients."
Captain Tschel felt uncomfortable. Thrawn spoke in generalities, but that did not make it sound any more reassuring. His preferred tactic—a multitude of strikes that do not look like a single, organized whole, part of something larger—is incomprehensible to most subordinates even after so many joint campaigns. But now, in his speech, Thrawn seemed to have given an indication for the first time of what he intended to do with his enemy, Tyber Zann. Use small forces, dozens of strikes—not only military, but also other types of operations—to strangle the monster in its lair. After which, deliver a filigreed and precise strike to the weakened enemy, against whom fighting openly is suicide.
Captain Tschel blinked. After which he looked at the battlefield with a different gaze. At how the numerically superior enemy fleet, turned into helpless extras, was literally being annihilated by the forces of only four large Dominion ships. And a small horde of small aircraft—interceptors, fast bombers, assault gunships… He grew tense at the thought that he seemed to understand. His wrinkled brow smoothed out and the wrinkles—habitual residents of his forehead when it came to comprehending the Grand Admiral's plans—scattered across his enlightened face.
"I think I understand, sir," he said softly. "I understand what is happening here, I understand what we are doing with the enemy fleet…"
Thrawn's chair turned again, and his searching gaze pierced Tschel like a Death Star superlaser.
"This is a rehearsal, isn't it?" he asked just as quietly, looking into the Supreme Commander's eyes without fear. "A dress rehearsal for the end of the Zann Consortium? A minimal expenditure of force in exchange for maximum harm dealt to the enemy…"
Grand Admiral Thrawn favored him with a slight smile and a barely noticeable nod of agreement. After which he returned to contemplating the battlefield. No, this was not even a battle. It was a choreographed production in which hundreds of thousands of aggressively minded sentients were being destroyed so as not to become a problem for the Grand Admiral's more ambitious projects in the future.
"Unlike the samurai, Captain, we have more than just a path," Thrawn said in a soft but firm tone. "We have an ultimate goal. That is what we wish to achieve, without being distracted by extraneous problems."
Tschel felt his mouth involuntarily drop open. An interstellar criminal syndicate that had subjugated the most economically developed territory of the galaxy was an "extraneous problem"?! He was about to ask Thrawn himself a question but changed his mind. He recalled the Alliance, the New Republic, the Pentastar Alignment, Imperial Space and the Remnants, Palpatine lurking in the shadows, and finally the Yuuzhan Vong whom Thrawn had warned about… Yes, in the end, in such realities, a couple of criminal organizations controlling small portions of the galaxy truly were not the largest problems among those that exist and will be.
***
Maris signaled with her fingers the approach of four opponents moving down the corridor. Mara, looking pensively at these four out of five thin fingers adorned with simple manicures, sighed stealthily.
"The fifth is three meters behind them," she whispered.
"How do you know?" Brood hissed at her, ceasing to peek through the crack of the technical locker.
Mara wanted to palm her face, but her hand met the flight helmet's visor.
"Listen to the Force, Maris," the red-haired beauty said, parodying Jedi instructions.
"I'm trying," the Zabrak admitted, whose helmet visor was even beginning to fog from her effort. "It's not always possible to detect ordinary sentients… Force-sensitives are easier."
Easier, of course. It was like comparing a lone lighthouse at night to the turned-on backlights of thousands of decks in the same conditions. Whoever taught this lady was either a complete amateur or knew no more about the Force than Brood herself did now. Jade did not believe that a Jedi Master would likely be unable to teach his charge such a simple trick. Palpatine, in the distant past, when instructing her and teaching the basics of Force use not even as a full adept, but as a half-educated mercenary, a "courier with expanded capabilities," had not even put much effort into that field. And he was not exactly a natural pedagogue of the Force.
To be honest, comparing Maris's skills with what she had already seen from Obscuro, Bre'ano Umakk, Darth Maul, and his apprentice Streen, Mara could not help but note that even the level of the Jensaarai, who had spent decades detached from knowledge and trained masters, was far higher than that of her new acquaintance. Either she had been an extremely negligent Padawan, or her master had been a negligent teacher. The latter was unlikely. From what Umakk had managed to tell her about the true past of the last generation of the Jedi Order, Mara knew that the representatives on the Jedi Council were not mediocre. Consequently, to think that one of the most influential sentients in the Order had an uneducated Padawan was somehow sacrilegious.
So, most likely, Brood herself was to blame for her regression or lack of progress.
"Maul will be glad to become her mentor," she chuckled internally, imagining how a long-deserved heart attack of one of the hearts would strike the Zabrak's kinswoman from how difficult a student she was.
But that would be sometime later. Now something had to be done about those five enemy fighters who had decided to guard the airlock through which Mara and Maris planned to get onto the ship's hull. Yes, it was an extremely bad idea—sticking one's head out from under thick armor in the middle of a battle. Но it just so happened that the only ship they could use to escape the Relentless was the shuttle Jade had arrived on. And she had docked it at an external airlock, as there was a minor problem with landing pads for that ship type.
Well, now she only had to "thank" that extremely zealous Dominion pilot who had shot through the retractable arm of the docking airlock, depressurizing it, causing a pressure drop and, as a consequence, a rupture of the docking sleeve. And thank—this time without sarcasm—the Zann Consortium engineers who had equipped their small transport ships with automatic response systems for unforeseen circumstances. Specifically, in the case of the ship Mara used, decompression had thrown the ship aside, and ideally, according to the laws of stellar mechanics, given the absence of friction in a vacuum, the ship should have continued to fly by inertia, having received an impulse.
But the onboard computer, realizing that depressurization from an open airlock hatch and tumbling in space was not good, had stabilized the ship's course and position in space and sealed the open bulkhead. Incidentally, the fact that the entry hatch does not close automatically when the ship is vacated already falls under massive "cons." For manufacturers of most ships in the galaxy understand that if their clients die due to problems with their products, they are unlikely to return for new models. Since the air mixture on starships is an extremely valuable resource, a hatch left open by automation after the crew's departure becomes the first friend of possible decompression if there is a need to finish off whoever decided to use such a starship on a long journey.
So now they would have to exit through another airlock and jump from it to reach the RZ-52 Deckard, which was drifting calmly parallel to the Relentless, and make use of it. Mara checked if her identifier was working. It was. The signal was being transmitted. So one way or another, the Dominionists knew about her. One could only hope that no pilot would feel the urge to fly by and see the signal source through the cockpit viewports. It would be rather difficult to give a report to the Grand Admiral later if she were smeared across a TIE interceptor's "eye."
"Technicians are coming toward them," Maris whispered. "They are carrying some portable equipment kits."
"Explosives?" Mara clarified, wondering if the guards could detect their conversation on the dedicated comlink line of their appropriated suits.
"I don't see any danger markings…" Brood said thoughtfully. "No, those look more like antennae. Scanners or communicators…"
"Move over, Horn-girl," Mara unceremoniously pushed her partner aside and pressed her face to the crack to see for herself.
It was exactly as the Zabrak had said. Five guards. Three technicians. Two crates with equipment, from which the antennae of remote scanners and communicators protruded.
"Looks like our side ruined your side's eyes and ears," the red-haired vixen suggested.
"I thought we were all on one side now."
"Ah, well, right…"
"Since they have equipment, the guards are clearly here for more than just a couple of minutes," Brood declared. "And they certainly won't leave until they finish their business. You can't just slip past them as if nothing happened."
Should something be done, and if so, what? The later she announced herself, the better and safer for her. And for the entire operation as a whole.
"I'm of the same opinion," Jade agreed. "I have an idea. Но you won't like it."
"What do you mean?" Maris wondered.
And in the next moment, she was already thrown from their cover at the speed of a laser shot. The girl, having flown the distance separating her from the opponents, crashed into the crowd of guards, overturned a tool crate, and finally landed on the deck.
"Hey, what's going on?" one of the guards shrieked, aiming a blaster at the Zabrak. "Who the kark are you?! Stand up, now! I said stand up! Hands in the air!"
Maris lay on her stomach and began to rise slowly. Mara managed to notice that her partner's suit was undamaged.
"Lady Brood!" the talkative criminal gasped. "Forgive my insolence, I did not know it was you!"
"What are you staring at?!" the Zabrak screamed in a voice as if her horns were being sawn off one by one with a dull saw. "Shoot her! It's an enemy saboteur! Finish her! Now! Everyone!"
Mara activated her lightsaber, beginning to approach the confused criminals slowly. But they oriented themselves quickly enough and opened fire on her. Even the technicians—they too found blasters in their arsenal. They were the first to die. Brood's light weapon—Mara still didn't understand what to call the device: whether a sword, a shoto, or a stick for dispersing demonstrators with a transverse handle instead of a hilt—came to life, and with one swing of the short crimson blade, she severed the necks of all three, launching the separated heads at the guards.
Mara, meanwhile, parried the shots, finishing two of the five fighters, seized the third with the Force, and began to hold him as a target before her, allowing the body to absorb the blaster shots from the fourth guard. Brood finished the fifth on her own, and by the time Mara got rid of her opponent, only dead bodies and scattered equipment remained in the corridor, which the Zabrak, with a stroke of… whatever that thing was, was turning into scrap metal.
"Is the suit intact?" Mara asked Brood.
"Punctured in two places," she answered, clearly displeased at being used as a projectile. "The system compensated for the leaks and sealed the puncture."
She turned sideways, showing two small holes from which traces of foam sealant were visible.
"All the better," Jade patted her shoulder. "You did excellently, my young Padawan."
"One day I'll pull your hair out," Maris promised with a sigh, securing her weapon on her hip.
"If you have problems with your own—no need to covet someone else's," Thrawn's Hand advised. "Speaking of problems… do you always manage with those… those…"
The Zabrak followed the direction of her gaze.
"Tonto?" she patted the hilt of her lightsaber. "Yes, they have no equal among other Jedi weapons."
"Strange, the hilt cuts like butter," Jade mused, pretending to be in thought.
"Because this is the second set," Maris declared. "The first ones were made of phrik and couldn't be cut by a lightsaber."
"And what happened to those?" Mara inquired.
The Zabrak looked away. "I don't want to talk about it," she answered.
"Suit yourself." Jade walked into a small room and looked out the inner airlock viewport. "Seems quiet outside… I think we can head out into a free drift."
She cut through the control panel and noted with satisfaction the standard electrical placement. After which she severed several wires, short-circuiting them differently.
"We'll use the airlock as a pneumatic cannon," she explained. "One enters, the door closes, the outer one opens. No oxygen pumping occurs, and we are ejected into the vacuum one by one. So we don't collide or scatter in different directions—we go one at a time. You first."
"Only after you, Teacher," the Zabrak portrayed composure as best she could, contrasting with her words.
"Women, children, under-educated ones, and owners of exclusive lightsabers first," Jade declared, gesturing toward the passage to space. "We both fit the first three categories, but with your… tonto… nothing in the whole galaxy compares."
"Fine," Brood sighed resignedly, being the first to enter the cramped space. "Arguing with you is just wasting time."
The doors closed behind her. At that moment, she turned and pounded on the viewport.
"Hey!" she shouted into the comlink. "You have an exclusive lightsaber too! There isn't another like it in the galaxy, and the tonto…"
"Safe journey," Mara said solemnly, opening the outer bulkhead. The protesting Zabrak was blown out at the speed of sound.
"Look at that, it worked," Mara smirked. "And I was worried—thought the pressure would rip her apart…"
***
Creb automatically calculated the speed and vector of approach. When the machine had five seconds left to fly to the kill zone, he shut down the engines, allowed inertia to carry him exactly to the spot, after which the anti-gravity cushion played. Avenger-01 stabilized, the crosshairs changed from red to green, and his thumb rested habitually on the trigger.
A pair of rockets left the launchers, and two explosions rose five hundred meters in front of the starfighter. Small fragments drummed against the ship's hull plating, sparking and leaving shallow scratches. Creb turned the machine, switched weapons, and fired, but this time from the laser cannons. The group of sentients mounting another remote scanning station vanished in a vortex of white-green fire.
"Sir, I am registering movement from a source of a specific frequency," Creb-611 reported, drawing his attention to the instruments.
Indeed—if the readings were to be believed, the frequency transmitter the Chimaera controller had noted was indeed moving. Too slowly for a vehicle and too fast for an ordinary sentient.
"A decompression sling," Creb realized. This method was used by pilots to urgently leave the cockpit of a dying ship and instantly be as far as possible from the site of their machine's death. The pilot unbuckles from the seat, explosive bolts blow out the entry hatch, and the body hurtles into free flight in the hope that there will be nothing nearby that will end their life one way or another before the rescue services deign to appear on the battlefield.
To hope for such a thing in the very center of a battle between large ships… was, at the very least, overly optimistic.
"Acknowledged," Avenger Leader replied, looking at the scanners. "Two, follow me. We are heading for the signal source."
"Acknowledged, Leader."
***
"The commander reports that all teams of remote installation fitters have been destroyed by the enemy!"
Admiral Sykes stared at the officer as if the duty officer had suddenly grown Devaronian horns and fangs.
"Am I overacting?"
"Tell me that is not true!"
But the latter only shook his head hopelessly.
"Take command," Jerid rasped, punching his palm in rage. "I will personally deal with what is happening there!"
He practically ran from the bridge.
***
Several enemy starships had nevertheless managed to get closer to the Chimaera than the others. They might no longer have propulsion sources, but the inertia they had received after the Scimitar raid and the loss of engines remained unchanged.
The Guardian, having received the order, opened fire on the approaching machines from its bow guns and began a slow turn to starboard. The Chimaera lagged slightly behind in performing the maneuver, but only to synchronize its actions with its big brother. After all, we are practicing not only firing but also joint maneuvering.
Ion guns poured waves of bluish energy in salvo after salvo, and laser cannons turned the tides of this ghostly sea into a firework display. The enemy transport ships were already immobilized and were being pulled away from the site of the battle one by one by the tractor beams of a Raider and a Crusader. And now, essentially, there was no need to use ion artillery—we certainly did not intend to save any of this scrap metal. We do not need intact ships. Counter-intelligence will then search for what remains more or less whole in the wreckage after the battle concludes.
The work of ion artillery on both Star Destroyers is necessary specifically to ensure the ship's destruction occurs without the use of the self-destruct system so beloved by the enemy. After its use, only melted, shapeless pieces remain, from which not even a hint can be obtained. But if one "carefully" breaks an enemy destroyer into pieces by alternating ion guns and turbolasers—there is a great chance that some terminal or database can be found in the remaining wreckage.
But we certainly no longer intend to risk disabling ships and leaving them in a state close to a sieve. The situation that occurred with Scimitar-05 and how their error had to be compensated for with the sacrifice of a fine pilot still stands before my eyes as an unpalatable picture. We will need to seriously consider how to avoid something similar in the future. Perfect laws and rules do not exist. There will always be those who can or want to bypass them. It remains for us only to note the pitfalls not immediately visible and eliminate them as necessary. It is only a pity that behind all these "discoveries" already lie the lives of sentients useful to the Dominion.
The star super destroyer was pounding three enemy destroyers at once with its turbolasers. The Chimaera took on one Vengeance. Explosions bloomed in clusters on the frigate's armor. Nearby, several assault gunships passed over the ship's mangled superstructure and worked over the stern of the frigate, which could no longer vanish from sight and scanners. The Chimaera's gunners, seeing the glow in the place where the Vengeance's engines were located, increased the intensity of fire, and on the next salvo, the enemy ship broke apart. The larger part—the stern—detonated, but none of our pilots were hit by the blast wave or debris.
***
"The destroyer's bridge is not responding to queries," reported the commander of the Relentless; his voice was dull and weary. "Sensors confirm serious damage. I think we have lost them."
Sykes listened to him with half an ear. He was trying to devise a plan by which he could escape the ship. He turned into one of the service corridors connected to the airlocks and froze, seeing the scene of the slaughter. Five guards, three technicians, and two crates of equipment sliced into pieces.
"What the kark?!" He knelt by a decapitated body and looked at the neat, almost surgical surface of the skin, cauterized at the site of the strike.
"Boss, so what do we do?!" the ship's commander inquired impatiently via the comlink.
"What about the auxiliary bridge?" Sykes asked mechanically. His eyes searched for something that would give him a clue to what had happened, but as yet he found nothing. And he did not like the Nautolan's nervousness. Finally, he realized what the matter was. The angle of the head's cut was such that either the opponent had stood facing the guards and was about a meter and a half taller than them, since the strike was delivered from top to bottom. A single strike that killed all three technicians at once. And idiots do not stand there and wait to be finished off. Or—the killer had stood behind them. And delivered the strike from bottom to top. And he knew only one sentient who had the appropriate height and weapon for that.
"Maris!!!!"
"I'm on the auxiliary bridge right now," the commander of the dying destroyer reminded him, snorting. "I told you when I made contact this time."
"Check what we have for defense," the instruction would have been correct if it made sense. Even without a senior commander, the Nautolan would have known there was no longer any reason to resist. And would have pressed the button. In all the years Jerid had served on Zann Consortium ships, he had never learned the secret of programming ship commanders for insane loyalty to Tyber. And why they go to their deaths so easily. And where, kark it, the explosive that rips a starship to pieces is actually hidden! All he knew was that the commander would spare no one if he realized the ship was threatened with capture. At best—he would prolong the agony so that the greatest possible number of opponents would be in the kill zone.
His gaze stopped on an open technical hatch…
"Sir, where are you now?"
"In the tech-locker," Sykes muttered, looking at the two soft-suits missing from the racks. "In the technical corridor on the starboard side—there is a supply of scanners here. I'll find one of the technicians now and make them install the scanners anyway."
"Sir, that is pointless," the destroyer commander said. "We have nothing to close with or attack them…"
"We have a self-destruct system," Sykes reminded him, moving to his final and very dangerous arguments. "Do you think I am such an idiot as to think we could shoot anyone here? The scanners and antennae were needed to lure more enemies to my destroyer and know when to detonate the ship!"
"Good idea, sir," the Nautolan's voice came. But it did not come from the comlink.
Sykes froze, having barely thrust both legs into the suit. Raising his gaze, he saw the commander of the destroyer standing before him. The Nautolan with a long prison past was smiling such that his snow-white teeth sparkled like diamonds.
"It's not what you think," Sykes began. "I… I decided myself…"
"Stop lying," the Nautolan smirked, displaying a small remote control with a single button on the front panel. "Everything burns!"
"No, wait…" Jerid pushed off for a jump. But he no longer felt the landing.
***
"Beautiful," Mara said, watching the large fireball that had formed in place of the Relentless.
"I've seen better," Maris noted, throwing her legs onto the transport's control panel.
"How cold-bloodedly you regard the death of those you previously served with," Jade noted, glancing at a pair of charcoal-black TIE Avengers escorting their little ship to the Chimaera across the entire field of the recent battle, filled only with ugly wreckage and scurrying Lambda-class shuttles with super-powerful searchlights scouring every even slightly large piece of debris.
"I don't give a damn," the Zabrak declared. "I've already worked off what they invested in me a hundred times over."
"And did they invest a lot?"
"Depends on what you measure it in," Brood shrugged. "Judging by how you fight—I was clearly not shown a master class in Jedi killing by Urai Fen."
"That didn't come for free to me either," Mara smirked, relaxing internally at the sight of the Chimaera's main hangar's rectangular opening. "There were plenty of mistakes, self-deception, blatant lies to the face, and other unpalatable bantha poodoo… But now I've overcome all that."
"And what helped?" the Zabrak inquired.
"Well…" Mara was even somewhat at a loss for an answer.
"No way?" the pale-skinned Zabrak grew animated. "Seriously? You found someone who changed your destiny? Like in the legends about Jedi who redeemed those who fell to the Dark Side, and they then became heroes of the galaxy?"
"Something like that," Mara tried to evade the answer.
"And will it be possible for me to meet him?" Brood asked. "Well, if he's not more than just a spiritual mentor to you, of course, and you won't be jealous if we…"
The subtext even made Mara laugh.
"No, I won't mind," barely suppressing a laugh, she parked the transport in a completely empty—as always when she visited the destroyer—landing berth. "Go for it, if you're confident in your strength. Но he is neither Sith nor Jedi—just an ordinary sentient."
"Ha," the Zabrak stated overconfidently. "I twice talked circles around Darth Vader's apprentice and walked away alive. I'll certainly cope with an ordinary human."
"Of course," Mara smiled. "Of course you will cope…"
"I sense sarcasm in your words," Brood tensed at the sight of Dominion Guards in pitch-black armor entering the landing berth. "What's the catch, friend?"
"Remember two simple truths, Maris," Jade looked into her eyes. "First. The one you will be talking to—is not an ordinary human."
"And…?"
"And second," Mara could no longer hold back her smile as she saw Grand Admiral Thrawn entering the landing berth, accompanied by Rukh and Tierce, with an ysalamiri habitually perched on his shoulder. "He is not human. The most extraordinary non-human I have ever met."
Brood looked at her. Then at Thrawn. Then back at Jade. And sighed heavily.
"You could have said so directly," she muttered dissatisfied. "Fine, I'll find myself someone else. Are there any young little Jedi?"