Ten years, six months, and twenty-one days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, sixth month, and twenty-first day after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year, three months, and one day since the Arrival.)
Of all things, Vice Admiral Pellaeon hated returning to the place he was supposed to call home.
It wasn't that he always preferred spending his time on a warship.
On the contrary, he enjoyed shore leave.
Just as much as he felt a silent thrill from the slight vibration of the deck under his feet when the destroyer's power plant was running at maximum output, while the blackness of space around the ship was slashed by the tiny lights of fighter engines and the tracer lines from their guns, turning the enemy into heaps of space junk.
His desire to go home had faded recently.
And if he were thirty years younger, he would have waved off his worries and found himself a hobby.
One with long legs, good curves, and not the most unpleasant personality—the kind that could brighten the shore leave of any old space wolf, no matter how hardened and tibanna-blasted he was.
But now…
"Arriving, Vice Admiral," the intercom of the Dominion-made Mu-class shuttle reported in the pilot's voice. "Landing will proceed nominally, according to schedule."
"You might as well tell me about the outside temperature, humidity, and pollen count," Gilad muttered quietly under his breath.
He wasn't angry at the pilot, but he felt a sharp pang of nostalgia for the days when he commanded only the Chimaera and his additional duties amounted to occasionally serving as flag captain and adjutant to Grand Admiral Thrawn.
No fawning honors from young pilots and specialists, no sitting in a chair that was making his belly grow, while his free time shrank as fast as the lifespan of any enemy who came nose-to-nose with the Dominion's flagship Star Destroyer.
How did Thrawn manage to always look young and fit?
Gilad didn't know the Chiss's secret, and he had no intention of asking a superior officer about such trivialities. Not his place.
He was even starting to miss Rukh and his relentless desire to catch Pellaeon in the corridor outside Thrawn's quarters.
He wouldn't have believed himself if, six months ago, he'd thought he'd start missing those days.
Being commander of Thrawn's flagship meant always being on your toes, in the thick of things, where even routine work went unnoticed and was completed faster than the speed of light.
But Gilad could honestly tell himself that he was much better at running the Dominion Armed Forces headquarters than he was at being second in command, right behind Thrawn on the spearpoint of the attack.
The old lothario had gotten rusty, grown stiff, and he knew it perfectly well.
And that made him even more envious of his younger self—who, for all intents and purposes, had all his knowledge, plus a bit more life left in him.
Experience, a sharp mind, and plenty to learn from Thrawn.
Gilad snapped out of his grumpy thoughts only when the guards in red-and-black armor marching ahead of him threw open the grand ceremonial doors of the residence.
He paid no attention at all to the security detail of his comrades who were responsible for protecting the residence and its occupants.
Left alone with his thoughts, Gilad headed into the spacious guest hall, where he intended to rest.
Inspecting the Dominion's defense line wasn't exactly easy.
The state was expanding, and officials needed, in the shortest possible time, not only to ensure its security but also to decide which of the old borders should remain in place and which could be removed.
This wasn't about the Dominion trying to simplify logistics within the core territories by clearing the old Perimeter sectors of mines, asteroids, and gravity generators.
It was a matter of simple economics.
The Perimeter cost billions and billions of credits, and its maintenance was nearly a tenth of the entire military budget.
Gilad understood perfectly that Thrawn was trying to create impenetrable borders—something no one had ever done on the scale of an entire state before.
How did it usually work in the galaxy?
State administrative borders were quite conditional.
They existed in special registries, specified with whatever accuracy the government provided.
But there were no checkpoints at the borders.
Everything came down to the direct defense of specific worlds and the work of customs on their surface or orbit.
No one had ever thought to set up barriers of various deadly traps along hyperspace routes or the most convenient paths into sectors.
Because it was simply too expensive.
It required not just a colossal budget, but also a significant amount of personnel.
That was why the inhabitants and government of a state usually learned about an invasion of their territory only when the attackers' starships were already in high orbit.
And then the enemy fleet could move from planet to planet, until the ingenuity of the defenders revealed their opponents' plans.
And then the two fleets would meet in battle.
The galaxy's population had grown accustomed to the idea that their peaceful, quiet lives could, in an instant, turn into a nightmare of death and fire, with minimal chances of survival.
That was why the defenses of the most important planets and moons were built up.
That was why almost all wars boiled down to the old tactical game of Capture the Flag.
No one, unless they had thousands of ships at their disposal, could keep every planet in their state safe.
Everyone understood that.
Which was why acts of genocide through orbital bombardment or executing Base Delta Zero orders were so rare.
While most officers weren't geniuses on Thrawn's level—someone who could take any world, even one equipped with planetary shields (in practice, an unsolvable problem without superweapons), using nothing but regular forces as easily as setting up another trap—there were no outright imbeciles among them either.
Because everyone understood: first you burn the enemy's planet, then they'll do the same to you.
And there was no guarantee that, in the case of a symmetrical retaliatory strike, your own subjects wouldn't play into the attackers' hands by starting an uprising in your rear, choking off your offensive campaign.
The population had grown used to changes of power and occupations.
It wasn't anything out of the ordinary.
But no one in the galaxy would tolerate a government that deliberately exposed its own worlds to a retaliatory strike that left nothing alive.
That was why the standard defense system was positioned directly as "nodal."
Creating a network of fortress worlds that could slow the enemy's advance, pinning their forces to one direction, thereby buying time for the defenders.
This was the most common defensive tactic.
Yes, it was expensive, and sometimes this defense never saw combat in its entire history, but this approach was far cheaper than littering every known or barely explored hyperspace route with an endless stream of explosive asteroids and space mines.
That was why the Security Forces, with the help of "young" regular fleet crews, had to practice moving decommissioned minefields to new positions to expand the state's sphere of security.
It was exhausting.
So much so that Gilad needed a bit of peace and quiet before the next Triumvirate meeting.
They were planning to discuss financial reform.
While the Dominion had plenty of aurodium, and foreign trade brought in enough, it was decided to keep aurodium only for high-denomination physical currency.
Following the example of the Hutt peggats, it was decided to replace low and mid-denomination coins with platinum.
Cash wasn't the most common form of payment within the state—after all, electronic credits were much more convenient.
It was mostly used by inhabitants of underdeveloped worlds that had recently joined the Dominion and hadn't yet fully enjoyed the benefits of civilization.
And for foreign trade deals, "small change" wasn't needed at all—transaction sums were so huge that aurodium for them came in almost cargo-container-sized shipments.
And, thank the work of Intelligence, which was relentlessly buying up patents and rights to various technologies and equipment, the trade in Dominion-modernized "old" fighters and interceptors would never end.
Yes, the warehouses inherited from the Empire were gradually emptying, but demand was only increasing.
The galaxy was full of tiny or larger independent states, corporations, unions, or private companies that wouldn't mind getting their hands on Dominion-factory-modernized Aethersprites, Actis-class, or ARC-170s.
The only ones who dug in their heels and flatly refused to sell the documentation for their ships were the Verpine, Loronar, and Koensayr Manufacturing.
The first, understandably, had separated from everyone and everything, preferring to earn their keep through their own production.
And, frankly, there weren't that many buyers for modernized Torrents—they were bought up by remote regions that couldn't afford modern ships, or even ones close to modern.
When the Dominion realized why demand for modernized V-19s was so low, the question of filling warehouses with them resolved itself.
Trade reps simply sold what they had, and the modernization project for that ship type was simply shut down, reoriented toward other needs.
What was the point of sinking extra money into a model that wasn't popular with buyers, when the costs of modernizing them would almost never be recouped in profit?
But the significantly cheaper standard models from the Clone Wars era—local governments bought those up like free tibanna.
Or traded for them profitably.
The Selkath, for example, really loved these ships and bought them in huge quantities.
True, they didn't have much money, so these deals looked more like ancient barter—kolto flowed into the Dominion in an endless stream, and in the opposite direction, shell companies transported the valuable medicine.
And the Selkath also served as decent intermediaries in the procurement of reasonable quantities of bacta.
Which they supposedly bought on Thyferra for themselves, but then sent it on to the Dominion.
The Loronar Corporation, like Koensayr Manufacturing…
Well, their policy was understandable.
Both corporations had sided with the Galactic Alliance, which led to very unfortunate consequences.
If before its official acknowledgment of cooperation with the Alliance, Koensayr lived quietly in the rear of the New Republic, then a thoughtless move (which, according to intelligence reports, was orchestrated by Alliance agents) led to the bomber manufacturers having to hastily leave their beloved planet with all their belongings and head off to the aforementioned Alliance.
And the New Republic easily set up its own production on the abandoned factories. Incom, which no longer hid the fact that it was tirelessly producing small craft for the Imperial Remnants on Fresia, found itself under full occupation. Of course, for show, it stamped its feet, saying it was improper to produce X-wings and E-wings without licenses, and that they were categorically against such patent violations, but Borsk Fey'lya silently ignored them and continued his work.
Interesting, had Imperial Security found the answer to how Incom had once again managed to smuggle equipment and engineers from the X-wing and E-wing projects off Fresia during the Imperial occupation?
You didn't even need to be a Jedi to understand that those very individuals and that very equipment were exactly what was creating the "unlicensed" starfighters for the Republicans.
A similar situation had played out with Loronar.
Except they, trading with anyone who could pay, didn't put their political considerations on public display.
The Dominion Intelligence boys did that for them.
Footage of Gravstrikes being used by Galactic Alliance forces in various state-run HoloNet broadcasts was more than enough for opponents on both sides of the barricades to start taking action.
The planet Loronar and its moon, Jade Moon, located in the Colonies Region, were hit by a powerful attack from Admiral Sey'lar's and were quickly occupied by the New Republic.
The corporation's branches in the Meridian and Antimeridian sectors, which supplied Moff Getelles with Strike-class medium cruisers, were also conquered by the same Moff.
And now a small but troublesome Remnant under his command, encompassing those sectors, had its own shipyards capable of producing Torpedo Spheres and many other interesting things.
In the shortest possible time, the Loronar Corporation lost all its assets outside the planet Dac, where the Gravstrikes were built.
The Dominion, while not gaining a significant number of the secrets it needed, still felt comfortable thanks to the compliance of Kuat Drive Yards' top management, who graciously sold their patents and blueprints for "obsolete" technologies.
In fact, this was what had drawn Dominion Intelligence's attention to Kuat's internal "kitchen."
Though getting to the corporation's secrets proved more difficult than obtaining the details of the Galactic Alliance and New Republic fleet modernization programs.
If there was one thing the Kuati knew how to do, it was keep their secrets, like no one else in the entire galaxy.
"There you are," came a voice that reminded Gilad exactly why he hated coming home.
And if it weren't for the Grand Admiral's ploy, which had solved so many problems in the D'Astan sector that way, Gilad wouldn't have to play the role of the Baroness's faithful and caring husband.
Though, that didn't stop him from protecting his brains, his sanity, and his rich inner world from the attacks of a collector-wine enthusiast.
"Darling," Gilad forced a smile, suppressing a snappy reply as he saw that Fina wasn't alone. "Lady Stark, it's a pleasure to see you."
"And I you, Vice Admiral," Ellie Stark replied, sitting down on the leather sofa next to Pellaeon's wife.
"It's rare to find guests of such high rank in our cozy little family nest," Gilad remarked, looking at the Baroness with mild reproach as she calmly sipped an amber drink from a massive goblet.
Lady Stark held a similar vessel with the same contents.
'And the sun is still high,' Gilad thought with a sigh, looking at the midday light.
He bore his "beloved's" addiction stoically, as well as the fact that after all the formalities, she hadn't taken his surname.
The honor of an aristocratic house and all that, continuation of the dynasty and the rest of the unspoken rules foreign to a simple military man.
"They're so rare for you because you're not a frequent guest in your own home," the Baroness shot back.
"Yes," Gilad agreed. "That happens when you carry the responsibility for the state's security on your shoulders."
"As if I don't know," Fina snorted.
"Most likely, you don't," Pellaeon cut her off. "Because otherwise, we'd hardly have met in person, darling."
The last word, uttered almost syllable by syllable, sobered the Baroness enough for her to have the sense not to pursue further bickering with her husband.
Though, again, following the wild aristocratic laws by which Fina D'Asta lived, their marriage was effectively a sham.
And they both knew it.
And they also used the fact of the unconsummated marriage as a secret basis, thanks to which they could, if the political wind changed, rid themselves of each other's hated company.
"You have a beautiful home," Ellie Stark spoke up, still not touching her drink.
"Thank you," Pellaeon said. "But the credit goes to the D'Asta family. My wife's ancestors built this residence."
"The most picturesque spot on Nioz Peron was chosen," Fina said, refilling her glass from the bottle. "You've been living here for a week now, Ellie, and you haven't even gone to see the farms. Believe me, they are truly one of the wonders of this planet. Despite what many think—that farming is dirt and unwashed animals—we on Nioz Peron prove by deed that it is only a being's attitude toward their work that determines their living conditions."
'A week,' Gilad noted automatically.
That was exactly how long it had been since he told his wife he'd stop by home for half a day before returning to headquarters.
A fake marriage or not, to the public they were a happy couple, a model of harmony and unity within the Dominion.
He had to at least occasionally play the part of an attentive husband who carved out time to see his wife.
He had deliberately not revealed the exact arrival date, hoping that Fina would, just once, greet him without a glass in her hand.
Even better would have been if she didn't notice him at all in this house, where it was easy to get lost.
But Fina, as in the past, decided not to limit herself to a perfunctory greeting and was forcing her company on him.
And it looked like he'd have to endure it for the next twelve hours—until the Allegiance finished its minor repair of the main hyperdrive.
The ship had been fitted with a device manufactured on Foth Fea, but due to an oversight by the chief mechanic, the power circuit—more sensitive to energy fluctuations than its Kuati counterpart—had burned out.
And so he had to drag himself to Nez Peron on the reserve shuttle, where the necessary spare parts had already been delivered.
"Sounds magical," agreed Ellie Stark. "And how could I refuse your invitation, Fina?"
Weeeell...
Now that was a bad sign.
A wife who knows the arrival time of her husband — the nominal head of the Dominion and Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces — invites a friend who has ties to state defense contracts with that same husband.
You didn't need to be a Givin, a genius of the exact sciences, to put two and two together and get a mathematically precise answer.
"Well," Gilad rose from the couch, noting that the two influential ladies exchanged glances, as if one (the Baroness) was chiding the other (Stark) for something. Uh-huh. A conspiracy in plain sight. And he was beginning to understand what this was about. Time to execute a tactical maneuver: withdraw. Then regroup and fly away to the Allegiance before the tiresome conversation went around in circles yet again. "I won't disturb two ladies enjoying each other's company. I'm sure you have plenty to talk about in my absence."
The young women did, in fact, have something in common.
Both had been placed in their positions by Grand Admiral Thrawn.
The Baroness ruled the D'Astan sector and, as the only surviving aristocrat of major rank in the sector, had pulled virtually all of the region's industry under her control.
Moreover, she was the sector's ruler and, in aristocratic terms, a vassal of the Dominion.
Legally, though, she was an administrator — one who would be replaced if she decided to play a part other than the one assigned to her.
She had no real power behind her, only a loud name, the authority of her family, and — while she stayed with them — the guns of Dominion ships.
Even the sector's Defense Forces did not answer to her and were composed, for the most part, of people from entirely different regions of the state.
Ellie Stark was also an administrator, heading exclusively state defense enterprises, where private capital was barred.
There were several companies under her leadership based on public-private partnerships, which were listed as suppliers of armored and other military equipment for the Dominion.
But those were just facades hiding the real situation.
The Dominion had developed and successfully implemented closed-cycle production complexes, enabling an invisible buildup of reserves.
Thanks to these state enterprises, month after month the Dominion filled enormous warehouses and rear bases with everything needed, while only those units and equipment samples produced in public-private companies reached the front lines.
This simple but costly trick allowed for a covert buildup of reserves.
Yes, all of it could have been thrown onto the front lines, equipping every pilot with a dozen interceptors — but here was the trouble: without pilots, specialists, and other sentients meant to operate that equipment, it just turned into scrap metal.
That scrap, sitting in warehouses, could be spotted in time by the sharp eyes of spies.
And if the enemy learned how vast the Dominion's actual stockpiles were, it would be no laughing matter.
So Ellie Stark continued to play the businesswoman, while shielding with her elegant back from prying eyes what needed to remain unseen.
Gilad, familiar with the real state of affairs, inwardly hoped that Thrawn would succeed in his plans and drastically increase the output of cloned specialists.
Because compared to the mass of equipment waiting in mothballed warehouses, the inflow of recruits and graduation of cadets didn't even cover a tenth of what was needed.
Grand Admiral Thrawn was preparing for a great war, and for that he needed a huge army.
And it was absolutely true that if — no, when — that army appeared, absolutely everything would be ready for it, from undershirts to tanks and walkers.
No need to even mention the fleet — Gilad paid for the fleet's rear support with his own nerve cells.
But only that way could he be confident in its combat readiness for a swift and sudden expansion using all reserve ships undergoing modernization, and those that were yet to become the Dominion's perfected weapons.
"Vice Admiral," Ellie Stark addressed him with a guilty tone as soon as he stood up, and now leaving would have been impolite. "I'd like to discuss a few matters with you. But lately it's not so easy to get a meeting with you..."
Gilad cast a brief glance at his wife, seeing on her face a shade of annoyance and understanding that the guest was here not for her sake at all.
Digging through his memory, Pellaeon recalled that the Baroness had mentioned collaborating with Stark's companies in several areas.
And since there weren't that many high-caliber businesswomen in the Dominion, it was no wonder the ladies had hit it off and formed a friendship.
Honestly, Gilad was even glad that their circle did not include the Arkanian Kratalla, who headed the largest and most advanced prosthetics corporation (and secret military research).
The head of IsoTech-Dominion was a fanatically devoted woman who cared more about scientific progress and new types of implants than about social gatherings.
But, knowing her through duty, Gilad could say for sure that the Arkanian might well have joined this group.
Out of professional interest.
Because the reverse engineering of the Dark Trooper project, which IsoTech-Dominion was working on alongside others, was already threatening to exceed the budget, and the Arkanian kept demanding more and more funding for her experiments.
And worst of all — she wasn't stealing a single credit.
Agents embedded in the enterprise reported that the lady seriously intended to surpass General Rom Mohc's genius, and the Dominion's version of the Dark Trooper would clearly be several times better.
But the military budget wasn't made of rubber.
No matter how much you gave Kratalla, it would never be enough.
Pellaeon, frankly, was afraid to imagine what monsters Kratalla would unveil when the project was finished.
"Is that so?" Realizing that dragging out the conversation wasn't the best way to escape it, Gilad returned to the couch. "And how can I help you, Lady Stark?"
"The TIE Hunter," she said.
Gilad knew his fears had been confirmed.
He shot an angry look at his wife, who was sipping her wine, but turned to his guest-accomplice with a strained smile of maximum politeness.
"Specifically, what interests you about this project?" he asked, perfectly aware of what he was about to hear.
The TIE Hunter multi-role starfighter.
I think you've already guessed that the art was done by Ansel Xiao (taken from here).
He and Fina had discussed this many times.
The thing was, the D'Astan sector had its own factory for producing, servicing, and repairing small craft.
For a long time, it had been dedicated to supplying the sector fleet with MLCs of its own design.
Given the realities of the galaxy, Baron Ragez D'Asta — may the star wind be at his back — decided that the best way to protect his territories was to supply them with as much of his own military industry as possible.
Thus the D'Astan starfighter was born.
A short-range craft, lacking a hyperdrive (except for certain squadrons), but in no way fitting into the regular fleet concept, let alone the Dominion's Defense Fleet, which tried its best to match that concept.
The starfighters had passed their combat test during the sector's civil war, where they were utterly smashed — not only by the old machines of the Grand Army of the Republic but also by their upgraded versions.
The sector's transition to Dominion control had also shown up in the state of the local Defense Forces.
The Dominion optimized its logistics as much as possible in both the rear and the front lines, so there was no place in its plans for the low-powered and frankly low-useful D'Astan starfighter.
That would have put an end to entire sectors of the sector's economy.
The thing was, machines that did not meet the regular fleet's standards for one reason or another were "written off" to the Dominion's Defense Forces.
At first, the rear was flooded with machines from the Clone Wars era, but as soon as the Dominion got control of Sienar Corporation's facilities and could produce TIE-type equipment without unnecessary questions, the ancient craft were withdrawn, replaced by TIE fighters written off from the regular fleet.
This process was not fast, because orders also had to be filled under external agreements so as not to anger the Imperial Remnants — to whom this equipment was supplied either by the late Delak Krennel or by Lianna.
Consequently, a casual system had developed in which various worlds of the Dominion's Defense Forces were armed with TIE fighters, V-19 Torrents, Eta-2 Actis, Alpha-3 Nimbuses, ARC-170s, BTL-Bs, Delta-7 Aethersprites, Z-95 Headhunters, and dozens of lesser-known models from across the galaxy.
It was necessary to at least give the population the appearance that the Dominion cared about them by providing cover for their planets.
Once the Dominion acquired all the flight and space technology assets of the corporation from Lianna and had created the state-owned corporation Dominion Fleet Systems, the Clone Wars legacy began to be replaced — first by TIE fighters, which in the hangars gave way to the TIE Interceptors that had become standard light MLCs for the regular fleet.
And the Clone Wars legacy went to factories, was refurbished, and then either sent as vanguard for planetary defense forces to newly conquered or colonized planets.
Headquarters aimed to complete equipping the TIE fighters — the cheapest and most time-efficient short-range craft — by the end of the year.
At the same time, Thrawn decided that the shipbuilders of the D'Astan sector would be involved in the modernization program, and then (after obtaining the necessary patents and documents) in producing export versions of the aforementioned Clone Wars-era machines.
Since export requests exceeded imports, the D'Astan sector quickly became a monopoly in this business.
And at some point, Fina began pestering Gilad with the question: why, since a significant portion of Sienar and Santhe blueprints were not needed by the Dominion for "some reason," couldn't she start producing certain types of starfighters?
She had obviously intrigued Ellie Stark with her crazy idea as well — Stark perfectly understood that components for new machines, which she could produce at her public-private enterprises, could become an additional source of income for her "official" corporation.
Fina was clinging to the TIE Hunter with hands, feet, and teeth — which, given the machine's characteristics, was a sound move.
With one exception — it wasn't going to happen.
"As you know, my companies supply certain equipment to the fleet," Stark began from a distance. "And at some point Lady Fina suggested to me that besides the models of the TIE series already in service, there are other promising starfighters that could enter the domestic market, for instance. And their export..."
"Given that the Imperials, through shell companies, are buying more and more MLCs from us, we could seriously strengthen our financial flows," his wife couldn't hold back.
Gilad sucked in air noisily, then slowly exhaled, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds.
"Lady D'Asta has misled you, Lady Stark," he said. "The Dominion has already determined which machines form the core of its MLC fleet, and it does not intend to deviate from its planned course."
"But that's not logical," Fina blurted out. "Our pilots are currently flying TIE Interceptors, while the Avengers and Defenders are available only to elite squadrons, the Jensaarai Order, and certain other categories of the Dominion's military machine. The Interceptor is a morally obsolete MLC. It needs to be replaced with something more modern..."
"I agree with that," Stark nodded. "The better our pilots' standard machines are, considering the enemy's new equipment, the better for us."
She was even arguing with generalities, just like Fina.
"Ladies," Gilad said, preserving his patience. "I'll say this once. Headquarters did not reject the Baroness's proposal to replace machines in both the Defense Forces and line units with TIE Hunters for no reason." He looked at his wife. "Nor does it consider any other options. Let me explain why, using numbers and plain logic. The pilots serving in Defense Forces squadrons are the least competent and least experienced in the entire Dominion. It will be a long time before they can master craft that are more complex to fly and significantly superior to TIE fighters in every way. At present, the TIE Interceptor fully meets the regular fleet's requirements for a light interceptor fighter."
"But it's weaker than the X-wings and E-wings used by the Galactic Alliance and the New Republic," Ellie Stark frowned.
Naturally, the Imperial Remnants weren't mentioned.
Because the Imperials used roughly the same equipment as the Dominion, but diluted it with a huge number of heterogeneous machines from all possible manufacturers offering less than the best quality.
"Allow me," Pellaeon readily agreed.
Oh, if they knew how many times this topic had been discussed and rehashed at headquarters, they wouldn't be sitting there now with faces expecting victory over an unintelligent man, a "soldier fossilized in his convictions."
"Our main opponents in the fight against the Alliance and the Republic, as you correctly noted, are X-wings and E-wings. The former in the T-65B modification as the most numerous, and the latter in the A modification for the same reasons," Pellaeon continued. "Let's take generally known data. The T-65B's speed is 80 MGLT — cruising. Shields — fifteen units, which is quite good for a heavy starfighter. It is armed with four laser cannons and can fire six missiles or torpedoes. The E-wing is a more modern starfighter type. With a speed of 120 MGLT, it has the same shield power but mounts three heavy laser cannons and sixteen proton torpedoes."
"And both of those starfighters cost a pretty credit," Ellie Stark reminded him, squinting at the residence's hostess.
She had obviously realized she'd fallen into the Baroness's trap — the Baroness had wanted to use her for her own purposes.
Well, that was better.
"Now let's compare the machines currently in service with the Dominion," Pellaeon continued. "The Interceptor in our configuration can accelerate to 125 MGLT and is more maneuverable than both enemy MLCs. So in speed, it surpasses them. Thanks to new technologies that have become available to us, we've been able to install more powerful engines — that's been happening since the planet Fo-Fea joined the Dominion. So the Interceptor becomes faster than its main opponents. By ten units — and that's absolute superiority over an opponent that they won't be able to match anytime soon. And installing Fo-F'ean engines on any of our MLCs will give each an additional ten MGLT." Due to miniaturization and the use of composites, a simpler but highly efficient technology — Fo-F'ean reactors, with similar dimensions to "basic" Sienar units, have greater power output, which affects not only speed but also the power of energy weapons and shielding. But Gilad didn't go into such details for the ladies. "The Hunter has similar speed, the Avenger — 145 MGLT, the Defender — 155 MGLT. Installing Fo-F'ean technology on them would yield another performance boost, but it's simply excessive. Shields on all three types of machines are now comparable to those on E-wings and X-wings, so on that front, the Interceptor achieves parity. Except for the Defender — its shields are twice as powerful as the enemy's — and the Avenger — similar figures. Thirty units. Thus, our elite machines can withstand enemy fire twice as long. Given that the power of our cannons surpasses the enemy's, thanks to refined natural tibanna rather than synthetic, X-wings and E-wings fall to the background."
"But the enemy is clearly analyzing their machines' performance and will upgrade them," Ellie Stark noted.
"And so will we," Pellaeon confirmed. "But in the enemy's case, their machines will cost a hundred fifty to two hundred thousand credits, while our Interceptor, even with improvements, will barely reach a hundred thirty."
"And since it's cheaper, we can produce more of them," Stark nodded in understanding, while Fina took a deep gulp, glaring at her betrothed with hatred.
He already understood that the Baroness had tried to attract Stark's corporation to keep her own enterprises working on a new project, and Ellie had turned out not as foolish as one might think looking at the blonde.
She didn't have information about the final characteristics of the Dominion's line machines because she only produced components for them and supplied the Security Forces.
And the Dominion prudently did not publish information about its achievements in open access.
"I think it goes without saying that in terms of armament, the Hunter is inferior to all three types of MLCs adopted by the Dominion," Gilad continued. "It can boast only two laser cannons and two light ion cannons, plus eight proton torpedoes. The Interceptor has four medium-caliber, high-power laser cannons; launch tube containers are already practically standard on them, and they can deliver a good number of concussion missiles to the target."
"But the enemy — and the Hunter — can also equip their loadout with proton torpedoes!" Fina noted.
A desperate argument.
"The X-wing — yes," Pellaeon agreed. "The E-wing — only proton torpedoes. Same as the Hunter. But here's the trouble — both a proton torpedo and a concussion missile destroy an MLC equally effectively. And the latter costs half as much."
"But the enemy continues to supply its starfighters with proton torpedoes," Ellie reminded.
"It's all about their hit-and-run tactics, which they've used throughout the entire Galactic Civil War," Pellaeon explained. "It's convenient for the Republic and Alliance forces when one starfighter can dump a pile of deadly ordnance into a line ship. Even if it's destroyed, the cost is no more than two hundred thousand credits on their side, versus several tens of millions on their opponents'. The Dominion uses a different strategy. For raids on enemy ships and stations, we have fast bombers with a very broad arsenal. To counter enemy MLCs, we have good anti-air cover and Interceptors that can catch up with and outrun an enemy starfighter, tie it up in battle, and draw it away from the carrier ship. For more complex combat tasks, ships with Avengers on board are used. The question of cost — which is important — leads us to the conclusion that the Interceptor, at a hundred thirty thousand credits in its maximum configuration, performs much more effectively in routine tasks than its opponents. Same for the Avenger at two hundred fifty thousand and the Defender at three hundred thousand. There is no need to introduce the Hunter line as a full-scale replacement for any of these ship types."
He didn't explain that everything he'd said had already been tested in practice by the engineers of Dominion Fleet Systems.
All existing TIE series prototypes had been recreated and maximally improved, but no qualitatively better price-to-performance ratio had been found.
Yes, work in those directions was ongoing, and over time — Gilad didn't rule it out — either new machines might be developed or older ones might be improved, allowing for procurement without a massive strain on the Dominion's military budget.
But until then, that was how it would be.
Funny.
But Fina hadn't even tried to bring up her signature point about the Hunter's wings folding, making them easier to store on hangar ceilings.
Or maybe she'd finally realized that one advantage didn't outweigh a dozen drawbacks?
Not to mention that producing serial models of the Hunter would require building significant infrastructure from scratch, since the machine had considerable differences from the standard MLC types adopted by the Dominion.
Yes, back when the Hunter was created, it had a right to exist as the only alternative to X-wings and other enemy machines: the Rebel Alliance.
The Dominion had not followed the Empire's path of producing the entire model line, issuing individual examples in batches of a few thousand as experimental runs for the giant war machine of the Galactic Empire in the past.
Grand Admiral Thrawn had soberly assessed his capabilities, refined his predecessors' developments, brought them to perfection, and achieved what he had without spending a colossal number of credits.
Pellaeon smirked, realizing that he'd made the price comparison in terms of Republic credits at a stable exchange rate — something he did automatically now.
The countless arguments with colleagues and his wife were taking their toll.
Experience, as they say.
"It sounds like I've wasted your time," Ellie Stark smiled guiltily.
Good.
It was immediately obvious — she had wanted to be an agent.
Not even a hint that the Baroness had dragged her into this another useless conversation.
"Not at all, Lady Stark," Pellaeon said. "I'm perfectly fine with substantive conversations based on knowledge of the subject matter. If that's all, please excuse me."
"Yes, of course," Ellie smiled guiltily, watching Gilad with her eyes as he left the living room.
No sooner had he left the room than he heard quiet, delicate reproaches from one lady to another.
Well, yes — Stark was a woman of action.
And she had just spent a week to hear a rebuke whose arguments had been refined to perfection through many previous spats between the spouses.
He wondered whether the wine-loving Baroness would lose some influential friends after this or not.
* * *
The flight to the rendezvous point with the Chimaera, where the final campaign against Darth Ziilenlos and the Silri Syndicate would begin, wouldn't take long.
But even that proved enough to settle current matters and move on to resetting my mind.
For me, that mechanism was fulfilled by strength training in the gym.
An excellent way to keep the body in adequate shape and let the brain rest from intense work.
The human brain is wired such that switching between tasks of different priority levels allows the "gray matter," like a muscle between sets, to rest.
But since I'd already resolved all the most complex tasks assigned to the current and future campaigns, my mind, willy-nilly, tried to find me something to think about and be distracted by.
I couldn't say exactly why this happened, but my mind played a cruel trick on me, offering up the scene of parting with Mara for analysis.
No matter how things stood, no matter how much authority I wielded, a simple "Pack your things, you're flying with Rukh" clearly wasn't enough.
Perhaps these were echoes of my human perception of the institution of marriage and relationships between the sexes, perhaps plain ignorance of how real Chiss behave with the mothers of their future children — but I considered it necessary to clarify the situation as it was.
And, to be honest, I expected a scandal.
Pregnancy, hormones, Mara's own caustic personality, the circumstances of our last meeting, and my relationship with Isard…
None of this fell under the category of "routine situation."
So it required maximum persistence and attention to detail not to mess up.
Who knew what Mara might do during the flight if she decided to balk and challenge my decision for her to stay safe?
Rukh alone certainly couldn't hold her.
And I needed all the other Force-sensitives on the ship for the upcoming operation.
And… I immediately knew something was wrong.
Mara was calm.
She listened to me without unnecessary words and readily agreed that she'd have to temporarily step aside.
She just silently nodded when I explained the conditions of where she would be staying.
I didn't sugarcoat the circumstances or assure her that I'd fly in for the birth, be by her side, hold her hand, or bring her a soft pillow in the hospital room.
I didn't mention the reasons.
But I could see in her eyes that Jade understood everything perfectly.
There was no anger, no glint in her eyes, no signs of fury I might have detected watching her expressions.
She was calm.
I'd even say she looked guilty.
"I understand," she said quietly, trying not to meet my eyes. "And… I apologize."
No one had hit me over the head with a club, but after those words, I began to guess what those who had experienced such a moment firsthand might feel.
"Elaborate."
The corners of Mara's lips turned down; her eyes met mine for an instant, then she looked away again.
"The whole situation… it's ill-timed," she said even more quietly. "It's… unplanned, which means you have to change your plans. And besides, you're losing a Hand for a long period. And I can't even guarantee everything will go smoothly and I'll be back to my duties as quickly as possible…"
"Forget it," I ordered. "Your key duty now is to carry and give birth to the child. To take care of it. Your job is to be a mother, if that makes it easier for you to perceive reality. There's nothing shameful about what happened and what will happen."
"But I trained to face Palpatine…"
"Now use all those skills to make sure that rendezvous doesn't happen," I said without flinching. "Your goals and objectives have changed. There will be no condemnation for what happened. When everything is over and the need to hide is gone, you'll return to your former work. If, of course, you want to."
"Or," sarcasm cut through her voice. For the first time in half an hour of conversation. Which was a direct indication that something out of the ordinary was happening. "Or if you want me to return. I'll be gone for a long time. And…" she hesitated. "Anything could happen."
I'd bet a Death Star that she wasn't thinking about me getting wounded or killed.
A woman, even the most trained one, always remains a woman.
And, forced to step away, she worries that someone else will take her place — someone younger, better, prettier, more fit, more "enterprising."
Choose the appropriate adjective or combination.
It seemed Jade had developed a "uselessness complex."
Characterized by the idea that "out of sight, out of mind."
And it had developed against the backdrop of there being practically no romantic feelings or high emotions between us.
We didn't exactly fit the role of a local Romeo and Juliet either.
So her thoughts that she meant nothing, and that as soon as she walked out the door, hordes of "replacements" would appear, weren't without foundation.
From the perspective of a woman losing her cool head under the influence of hormones.
And besides, the "Mitth'raw'nuruodo template" was broken in her eyes.
She knew the Chiss well.
And she understood that between us (in her opinion) something incredible had happened, something that couldn't be dictated by mere organism chemistry.
And you couldn't explain that at that moment, the man had prevailed over the organic supercomputer.
The situation was painfully absurd.
We owed each other nothing in terms of interpersonal relationships.
But at the same time, you couldn't treat the woman carrying your child under her heart like a subordinate.
And yes, I had no doubt that the child was mine.
The medicine of this universe allowed safely taking a DNA sample and establishing parental relationships between sentients.
It was a basic function of medical examinations.
Throughout the pregnancy, parents were sure of their equal relationship to the fetus.
Any "fathered outside" cases were known almost immediately.
Jade had undergone such an analysis.
But she didn't have my DNA for comparison.
I, however, had both the test data and a blood sample.
The scan data had already been delivered by special courier to competent specialists who would monitor Mara's pregnancy and birth.
Because no information about the birth of a Chiss-human hybrid was found in available data.
In a sense, we were pioneers.
"Until we see each other again and make a mutual decision on how to proceed, there's no need to worry about the matter that concerns you," I said calmly.
Right now, the only thing I could do was assure Mara that there would be no affairs.
It cost me nothing.
Thank you, Marg Sab had already failed to work as needed once.
I wasn't about to conduct research or compile a statistical sample.
A spark of hope appeared in Mara's eyes, and for a moment, that same spirited expression crept across her face.
Oh.
I see.
"Well played," I praised. "May I hope you learned this subtle manipulation from me?"
"Don't get your hopes up," she said in a firm voice, carefully hiding her triumph. "Just cold calculation. It wouldn't have worked otherwise."
Simple enough.
Mara had calculated me.
And she'd used the authority of my word to secure her "place of honor," ensuring for herself the title of "mother of Thrawn's child" for the foreseeable future.
Commendable.
Truly magnificent.
And a reminder to me — never underestimate Jade, even when she's vulnerable.
And not just Jade.
"Excellent," I allowed myself a slight smile. "Now I believe my child will be safe."
"I'd rather bite Palpatine's throat out with my teeth than let anything happen to him," Mara said seriously.
"And to yourself," I clarified. "No one will take better care of you and the child than you yourself."
The Hand grew serious and nodded affirmatively.
"Everything will go perfectly," she said with conviction. "Exactly as planned."
And even though my expression didn't change, I very much wanted to warn her that, by Murphy's Law, it was right after those words that everything "unplanned" began.
And it was precisely the calculation of additional possible risks that I was occupied with in the gym when the intercom, with Captain Pellaeon's voice, announced a ten-minute readiness for arrival at the rendezvous point.
"Excellent, Captain," I replied into the comlink, which my trusty R7 was holding near me. "Prepare the ship and crew. We'll begin as soon as we receive the enemy minefield coding information from Mr. Ghent."
After all — he hadn't spent all that time in the middle of a minefield for nothing, had he?
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