The scanners worked for the third round, but it brought no clarity to what was happening.
There was not the slightest hint of rebel forces detected by scouts in the system.
And on the planet—no trace of armed forces.
The local governor is doing his best to declare his loyalty to the baroness, he's practically bursting with it.
"And then they'll say we're fighting for Flintarian tobacco sticks," Hedge Spar grumbled when the "Rottaran" emerged from hyperspace near a planet known for its production of elite tobacco sticks, which are incredibly popular among the wealthy middle class of the galaxy.
"If you don't want it, you can give me your wonderful ship," Martok offered, scraping his right horn with his combat blade. "I assure you, under my command, it will operate much more effectively."
"Only over my dead body," Hedge categorically replied, making it clear to the arrogant Devaronian that he wouldn't see the battleship as easily as the tips of his horns.
"We're at war," the lieutenant shrugged, taking a sip from his flask, which smelled of lumin-el. "I'll just wait."
He said the last part after a satisfied burp.
The leader of the Kal-Thorn Mandalorians exerted all his patience to avoid resorting to instilling principles of decency into this horned face, which was behaving provocatively on the bridge of the Mandalorian battleship.
But, almost putting his hand on the hilt of his combat knife, he remembered that this upstart was, in fact, an ally.
And killing him, though impossible, was at least possible to teach him a lesson...
Turning sharply on his heels, Hedge headed for the holoprojector, calmly pushing aside the Devaronian who had again taken a sip from his flask, causing him to spill his drink on his clothes and armor.
"Hey," the Devaronian exclaimed indignantly, "that drink costs money, you know."
"Then do me a favor," Spar threw back over his shoulder, activating the holoprojector, "take any shuttle and fly to the Hutt from my starship for your drink."
A loud yawn came from the Devaronian, but the Mandalorian no longer paid attention.
"General," he greeted the hologram. "The 'Rottaran' has arrived in the Flintaria system."
The volumetric projection gave the leader of the Dominion Mandalorians a thoughtful look.
"No resistance?" the commander clarified.
"Not the slightest hint of enemy ships," Hedge confirmed. "The intelligence data is outdated."
"They're an hour old, Spar," the General reminded him. "In such a timeframe, you don't build a base, move property, and withdraw ships. However, the 'Cavil Corsairs' have the same situation on Galloa II."
The Mandalorian felt a sense of irritation.
So the enemy had fled not because Mandalorians had appeared on the system's borders.
But because they were systematically withdrawing their forces.
"They are avoiding encirclement," the General stated. "After taking Doli and capturing Rividdia, they faced an obvious operational crisis."
"It was precisely to create a 'cauldron' that I agreed to tolerate this band of perpetually drunk and eager-to-fight Devaronians on board my starship," Spar reminded him, gripping the edges of the mechanism. "And now it turns out? The enemy is fleeing?"
"It appears so," the General said calmly.
"Cowardly noons," Hedge spat contemptuously. "They know we'll smear them on the rocky base of the lithospheric plates if we meet them on the battlefield, so they're retreating."
"Do not underestimate them," the General advised. "They are abandoning positions they could not possibly hold. Instead, they are digging in on Lorardia and Rentalles."
"Familiar names," Hedge said, rummaging through his memory, forced to admit that he remembered nothing but the names.
"There was once a settlement of Mystril refugees on Lorardia," the General prompted.
"Mystril refugees are about as much of a joke as pacifist Mandalorians," Hedge now had associations. "Mystril were warrior women who once conquered a significant number of worlds..."
"And then their planet was thoroughly bombed," the General finished. "And the Mystril became refugees. But that's all irrelevant. The fact remains—what is called a 'refugee camp' is actually a decent fort that was abandoned by the Mystril when they were defeated on Lorardia by the Cavilhu Pirates. If the enemy has entrenched themselves there, and that's precisely why they staged their troop withdrawal, then they've done the same on Rentalles. If we take them, we'll reach Serenno. If we capture the latter, the civil war will end."
"Keep your political agitation to yourself, General," Hedge advised. "Mandalorians don't fight under foreign flags for someone's beliefs. We are paid—and we do our job. Which of these two planets is our target?"
"Take Rentalles," the General sighed. "The 'Cavil Corsairs' and Lieutenant Martok's group will handle Lorardia. Will you pass the order to the latter, or should I do it myself?"
"I'll inform him," Spar promised, not particularly pleased with the General's request.
The perpetually drunk Devaronian, who threw himself into suicidal attacks without a drop of sobriety, was getting on his nerves.
At least because his behavior was tempting him to count the bones in the horned creature's body.
"End transmission," Hedge said.
The General simply disconnected the device from his end.
The Mandalorian was already accustomed to these Imperial quirks, such as the absence of generally accepted greetings and farewells, having resigned himself to the rigid military etiquette of the Empire, which the Dominion had adopted.
Well, what difference did it make to him?
Mandalorians do not obey strange military hierarchies, choosing their own path in the galaxy by the will of their leaders, not by scribbles in books published in trillions of copies.
"Martok," he called to the Devaronian. "There's a mission for your guys... Where did that shaved Wookiee go?"
Glancing around the bridge again, the Mandalorian looked at his deputy.
"Where is that baroness's horned lackey?" he asked.
"Literally: 'Went for lumin-el'," the second Mandalorian replied. "Since we don't have any on board, the lieutenant went to the surface. You yourself offered him to take a shuttle."
"Well, now it's clear why they couldn't deal with the rebels for six months, and we took seventy percent of the sector in a couple of months," Spar chuckled. "With warriors like these, you don't need enemies. They behave as if they're on vacation, even though the planet isn't ours yet..."
A combat alert siren wailed in the cockpit.
"The planetary defense weapon on the surface is firing at us!" the watch officer reported simultaneously as the ship shook violently.
And the term "shook" is only a small part, reflecting the fact that the "Rottaran" was literally thrown up in place, shaking from the hull to the last weld, scattering those who hadn't managed to grab onto something.
Hedge and the fighters on the bridge were lucky—they had that opportunity.
"Mass driver installation," the deputy informed, looking at the damage. "We've been pierced through. The hangar is destroyed! The main reactor is damaged. The engines—maneuvering and main—are out of order. We're moving by inertia."
"Long-range communication is down!"
"Breaches on decks one through thirty!"
"Losing atmosphere!"
"Fire in compartment six!"
And all this is happening directly in the firing zone of the cloaked weapon.
Hedge swore softly in his native tongue.
"We need to shut it down urgently," he ordered. "Do we have anything in space that can conduct a raid?"
"A patrol pair on the other side of the planet," the deputy shouted over the roar of the sirens. "By the time they arrive, the cannon will have fired a second time."
"Everyone into sealed armor and outside the ship," Spar ordered. "Call the nearest allied ships—we need our guys to be picked up."
He understood perfectly that if his fighters had real Mandalorian beskar armor, they could descend into the atmosphere and give the enemy a thrashing.
But most of the Mandalorians under his command had armor made of simple durasteel, and not of the best quality—meaning they would melt when entering the dense layers of the atmosphere.
But before that, the fighters would simply be roasted alive.
Therefore, their only way to survive was to get out of the doomed ship, which clearly would not escape the Planetary Defense Forces and...
"Um... Spar?" Martok's voice came through the helmet. "Hic. We, with the guys, saw a projectile flying into the sky in the atmosphere. Did it hit you by any chance?"
"Exactly," Hedge agreed. "I need you and your men to suppress the Planetary Defense weapon before it recharges and blows the 'Rottaran' to pieces."
"WHAT?" Judging by his tone, the Devaronian had even sobered up. "Someone wants to destroy MY ship?! Not on my watch! Send the coordinates—we're going to have some serious fun now!"
Hedge didn't bother arguing about who owned the ship.
In his humble opinion, the extent of the damage should be assessed first and it should be determined whether the "Rottaran" could be repaired at all.
For a small sum, of course.
If so, there was a possibility of negotiating its repair and restoration at Dominion shipyards.
If the price was too high or the starship was now just a mobile piece of scrap metal, it would be easier to abandon it.
And start negotiations with the Grand Admiral to get another similar starship as payment for the work.
The only question was whether the Dominion had such ships in reserve, which, according to rumors, were absolutely bottomless.
And for now...
"Loyalist corvettes have responded," the deputy reported. "They're coming to us at full speed."
Hedge realized that this referred to patrols that were nearby the operation site.
"ETA?"
"Forty-seven minutes," the interlocutor said, approaching him.
This was done specifically so that no one on the bridge crew would figure out the obvious.
In almost an hour, the ground weapon would pulverize the "Rottaran" into atoms, even if it were reloaded manually.
"All wounded and combat escort—into escape pods," he ordered. "Deploy them to the planet."
At least someone from the "Rottaran" crew would survive.
The rest faced a much less glorious fate.
Help would arrive in forty-seven minutes.
The mass driver weapon of the system, if it's a Mandalorian model, recharges in ten minutes.
The oxygen supply in the crew's combat suits lasts for twenty.
Even if they all abandoned the "Rottaran" after the upcoming shot, they wouldn't survive in a vacuum until the rescuers arrived.
***
Martok prepared to momentarily lose control of the ship as the shuttle, which had seen the Clone Wars, broke through Flintaria's dense atmospheric layers.
Detached parts separated from the starship's hull, turning the transport's steep descent trajectory into a smoky fireworks display, clearly visible from the surface.
Well, credit must be given to the brave opponent who pulled this off.
The enemy had undoubtedly withdrawn their troops.
And left sufficient forces to inflict significant damage on the loyalists when they relaxed from such an easy victory.
They succeeded, no doubt.
The Devaronian manipulated the controls, carefully targeting the area from which he noticed the projectile being fired.
However, "noticed" is too strong a word.
It was just a massive blurry spot, which he initially mistook for an optical illusion, somehow engulfed in flashes of fire from passing through the planet's atmosphere at high speed.
The thought of what it was struck him at the same moment he was informed about the shelling of the "Rottaran."
That is, it took literally a second or two.
Even if he had realized what he was seeing—a shot from a mass driver—even if he had managed to warn the ship in time—nothing would have changed.
The reaction speed of mechanisms, even to the most urgent commands, is completely different.
And the dense cloud cover, typical of Flintaria, only helped the enemy—it masked the moment of firing.
On ordinary planets, this cannot be done—there, a mass driver shot would be visible on scanners almost from the surface.
Which, in turn, would give ten to fifteen seconds for a counter-maneuver.
Mass drivers are thus becoming obsolete: to compete in rate of fire and range with turbolasers, they require an enormous amount of energy.
The damage to the Mandalorian ship is nothing more than a fortunate coincidence.
All that remained was to avenge the damage to this beautiful starship, which Martok had fallen in love with at first sight.
And now the Devaronian's mind was working very quickly.
He is generally quite operational, and now he's been pushed to the limit by the Lumin-el.
It's unlikely that the mass driver installation is a stationary object; in that case, the enemy risked losing everything.
If their goal is to slow down the Mandalorian advance, then they would have to consider that the "Rottaran" might arrive at a different time, take up a different orbit, or even move over the polar cap.
And to get to it in a way that would prevent the ship from escaping would be practically impossible.
Therefore, the installation is mobile.
Not to mention that it must have a truly enormous energy source to...
"Found them!" shouted the co-pilot, sitting in the cockpit behind him. "They're heading into the forest! To our nine o'clock!"
It took Martok some time to change the starship's course, but now, turning the shuttle ninety degrees to the left, he too saw the receding walker platform.
With its paint scuffed, gleaming with a gray hull and moving on six supporting limbs, it resembled an Old Republic AT-TE walker, famous on the battlefields of the Clone Wars.
But through the treetops, it was already possible to see that the machine had undergone significant, and in many ways, crude modifications.
In particular, a mass driver accelerator had been installed on it, which the crew was trying to bring into a travel position by folding the aiming cannons parallel to the "spine" of the walker.
A homemade self-propelled gun by Ansel Xiao.
A little further away from him, another AT-TE was walking, and behind it, on a wheeled platform, a huge generator was rolling on a rigid hitch, looking like it had been gutted from the depths of an Old Republic SPHA.
"Landing!"
Martok's decision was met with an approving roar from the commandos.
The ship landed at the edge of the forest, precisely on the border of a wide "path" that the lead walker was breaking through with its hull.
But the decision to land here and catch up with the column was immediately relegated to second place.
The loyalists had no chance to fly forward, and they lacked assault chutes...
But running after a caravan of AT-TEs moving at almost sixty kilometers per hour was also not an option.
Margot found a quick and logical solution.
"Prepare for disembarkation!"
The shuttle soared upwards, and, gaining speed, began its pursuit.
Now, having flown closer, it was possible to notice that the assumptions had been confirmed.
It was indeed a disgusting, crude contraption, which, according to its creators' design, was supposed to function as a mobile anti-air and planetary defense point.
This was evidenced by the presence of two mass drivers on the upper part of this unwieldy monster.
One was clearly rapid-fire and intended for destroying strike craft.
The second was a more substantial construction.
Judging by the scorch marks on the hull, where the power cable was located, the enemy did not intend to stop firing.
The power cable between the reactor and the installation had been run, and on the upper part, there were folding bridges between the two AT-TEs, over which a cylindrical piece of metal, the size of an average humanoid, was being rolled.
The enemy, realizing they lacked the energy for a quick follow-up salvo, was changing their position to recharge the main caliber.
That's why they weren't firing the anti-air mass driver – they were saving energy to finish off the "Rottaran."
Well, they would have to be disappointed.
"Control transferred!" Martok announced, switching the shuttle's piloting to the co-pilot.
His seat moved down, and he found himself in the cargo-passenger compartment of the shuttle, where a squad of a dozen of his commando fighters were already preparing to disembark directly onto the moving target.
The front ramp was lowered, and blaster fire appeared towards the ship – the enemy had noticed them, understood their intentions, and were waiting for the hatch to open to thin out the landing party.
They succeeded – two of Martok's comrades fell with perforated chest plates.
But the Devaronian squad could no longer be stopped.
Eleven fighters, including the commander himself, jumped onto the reactor cart with heart-wrenching cries.
Only ten landed.
Eight successfully.
The rest tumbled from a twenty-meter height to the ground, becoming victims of the enormous wheels of the cart, clearly converted from an early decommissioned "Juggernaut" model.
Martok saw the death of his comrades, who had slipped off the armor, but immediately threw negative thoughts out of his head.
He could do nothing to help them, so the only thing that concerned him now was the success of their mission.
The first enemy fighter – a tall Rodian with a blaster rifle at the ready – received a penetrating wound from a Devaronian vibroblade, which pierced him through and through.
Pushing the body over the metal railing on the reactor's hull, the unit commander rushed forward.
He decapitated another enemy who emerged from behind the cooling circuit, despite the fact that he tried to shoot him with a blaster pistol.
The charge singed his cheek, but Martok didn't care.
He saw that the second projectile was already on the lead AT-TE of this entire caravan, and therefore understood that he had to hurry if he didn't want to allow the next shot.
The third enemy, who emerged from the reactor control cabin, was struck in the throat by a Devaronian's fist. After that, he kicked him off the platform.
A muffled thud, distant and masked by the sound of the transmission, accompanied by a slight bounce of the platform, could be heard.
Reaching the catwalk leading from the reactor platform to the second AT-TE, Martok almost fell when the driver decided to maneuver slightly.
Only by grabbing onto the bridge thrown between the machines was he saved.
His fingers clung to the edge of the metal as if they were clamps tasked with holding the position at all costs.
Seeing several enemies near the metal strip on the stern of the second machine, the Devaronian released his vibroblade from his hand, then switched to his second limb on the bridge and moved forward by hand.
He made it.
Almost.
The enemies dropped the bridge when he was only one step away from the rear of the second AT-TE.
But he didn't fall to the ground – he swung and at the last moment threw his body onto the armored vehicle.
His hands grabbed onto a protrusion on the armor.
The muscles in his arms tensed, and he pulled himself up.
The sloping armor in front of him was almost bare, and the handrails were two meters above his head.
And there were enemies there.
Sounds of shooting came from behind him.
One of the enemies fell, the second retreated, which allowed Martok to make a forward and upward leap, grabbing onto the handrail.
The metal gave way treacherously, and the Devaronian almost fell, but managed to grab onto a vertical strut.
Despite the fact that it was also not made of the highest quality and began to bend under his weight, the lieutenant managed to pull himself up and grab the grated deck plating with his fingers.
The metal dug into his fingers, but he didn't care.
He glanced back and saw that only a few fighters from his unit had survived.
They were the ones suppressing the enemy fire, preventing them from poking their heads out from behind the improvised fortifications.
Once on deck, Martok realized he only had three combat knives left.
Two of them immediately met the palms of both his hands, and the Devaronian rushed towards the nearest enemy support point.
A knife strike from behind and above severed the spinal cord of a Twi'lek recharging his blaster, and the lieutenant finished the job for him.
To the right, there was an opening into the machine's control cabin, over which the power cable to the gun platform, which was already finishing its recharge cycle, stretched.
Martok rushed into the cabin, dodged a blow from a tall man hiding around the corner, but lost the captured blaster that had been knocked from his hand.
However, it was only getting in his way.
Another blow – a kick to the chest, Martok simply ignored it, letting his chest plate absorb the impact.
There was pain, of course, but the enemy felt it too – as well as the crack of broken toe bones.
This momentary confusion was enough for the Devaronian to plunge a combat knife into the left armpit of the enemy, push his torso aside, and get into the cabin.
The Twi'lek driver made a guttural sound with both his mouths, but, receiving a punch to the temple, slumped to the side.
His hands caught the control levers, and the AT-TE veered to the right of its course.
The massive power cable of the installation tightened.
Martok moved the levers to the extreme right position, increasing the tension on the cable more and more.
It was too thick and too strong to break like a rope under tension.
So the Devaronian climbed out, estimated that the guide along which the projectile was being transferred had also been dropped to make his life difficult.
But the cable was still intact.
Moreover, it was taut as a string, as the second AT-TE was moving to the right of the first.
Even if the Devaronian had a vibroblade at hand, he wouldn't be able to cut it and stop the energy supply.
But he could stop the gunners.
All he had to do was cover ten meters separating the two walkers.
A jump would be certain death.
And only one thing connected the two machines.
"A good Devaronian doesn't walk on tightropes in the circus," Martok grumbled, climbing out of the cabin onto its roof.
The cable ran under his feet.
No matter how the machines moved apart, he couldn't detach it from one side or the other.
He looked back and saw that all his men were engaged in hand-to-hand combat – enemy fighters were climbing out of the reactor's depths.
The Devaronians were trying to cut off the energy supply and now faced resistance from within the platform.
It was too long to wait for the outcome there or to rush to their aid.
The mass driver of the planetary defense system had already begun to rise to prepare for firing.
On the "Rottaran," they naturally couldn't see it – if they even had power, it was being used to support the life support system.
There was no choice – only one way out.
Sighing, Martok stepped onto the thick power cable.
One step – balance played with him like electricity with someone with bare hands.
Stumbling and balancing, he managed to cover a few meters, almost reaching the midpoint between the two machines, when the effect of the AT-TEs diverging made itself known.
The safety attachment on the first walker gave way to the tension and flew off with a crash, exposing the cable's direct connection to the gun platform.
And it released an additional few meters of cable, which was bound to sway.
And again, he managed to grab on, not falling down.
The second AT-TE gained some freedom and turned further to the right, tightening the cable again.
"I don't get paid for acrobatics," the Devaronian gritted through his teeth, pulling himself up and placing his second hand on the cable.
His strength was waning.
There was no question of throwing his legs over this "wire" and sliding to the lead machine.
The hand-over-hand method came in handy again.
Reaching the lead AT-TE, the Devaronian gratefully jumped behind the railing, taking two seconds to catch his breath.
The enemy had other plans for him.
He miraculously managed to pull his head aside and avoid a blow from a heavy crowbar from above.
"Where did you come from?" Martok could only wonder, dodging the blow.
The hulking mechanic missed, but was already doing everything to correct the unfortunate oversight.
He swung, raising the tool high above his head and brought it down with force, seemingly intending to drive Martok into the deck up to his chin.
The Devaronian dodged.
But not to the side, not backward, but forward, towards the enemy.
Hitting him in the face with his forehead, he grabbed the brute, who was screaming something through a broken nose and lips, and with all his might pushed him towards the railing.
The mechanic, realizing too late that he was being sent down, managed to grab the handrail with his hand and regain his balance.
"And this is welded properly, right?!" Martok exclaimed, dodging a blow from the mechanic's heavy fist.
It seemed only the lead AT-TE was made with care.
Because the mechanic's body weighed a hundred and fifty kilograms, and how he didn't break the railings with his weight was a mystery.
Blows to the stomach and liver were ineffective – the man was saved by a layer of fat.
The enemy struck the Devaronian hard on the head with his palm, sending him flying to the other end of the platform, almost falling off.
Only by grabbing the handrails was he saved.
"Now there are no complaints about the welding quality," he said, feeling that it was thanks to this structure that he remained alive.
The brute lunged at him, intending to crush his head with a fist.
Reaching for his last knife was too slow.
The Devaronian struck the enemy's leg, surprisingly easily breaking the knee joint.
The mechanic collapsed.
At the same time, impaling his lower jaw on the lieutenant's horn.
The weight of his body almost tipped the Devaronian over, and he had to struggle to get rid of the extra load.
Exhausted, he drew his last knife from behind his back and headed for the gun.
He caught the gunner who rushed at him with a knife to the chest.
The second – he simply pushed over the railing.
The third, abandoning the targeting cycle, reached for the blaster on his belt.
Martok approached him, intercepted the enemy's limb with his left hand, and took possession of the weapon.
With his right, he struck the combat knife between the ribs, thanking the enemy's logistics for not issuing armor to the gunners.
"Automatic targeting initiated!" the targeting computer informed him. "Three seconds to firing..."
The Devaronian approached the platform, glancing at the power cable.
"Two seconds to firing..."
Some smart guy had broken the cable's mount so it couldn't be pulled out.
"One second..."
Damn the ship.
Allies are more important.
Martok grabbed the nearest protective metal panel, which was used to protect the control devices.
With a combat knife strike to the breech of the mass driver, he gutted the control and electronics protection, and then, with all his might, shoved the protective shield into the exposed wires and sparking, smoking electronics.
First, he heard the decreasing hum of the installation's nearest booster blocks.
"Firing," the computer stated unequivocally.
"Bantha poodoo," thought the Devaronian.
And then the mass driver fired, and the world around him was torn to pieces.
***
What brought him back to his senses was more like a punch to the jaw.
And when he opened his eyes, he tasted blood in his mouth and a bit of crushed teeth.
"Alive," he heard a voice speaking from under a muffled helmet.
Shaking his head to get rid of the dizziness, he only intensified it, and added red hues.
And nausea.
And everything in his body hurt.
Especially the back of his head.
So he didn't so much feel as hear the work of a pneumatic syringe, followed by a feeling of lightness and a chill throughout his body.
His eyes opened on their own, but now, instead of red-green images, he saw a bluish sky, covered with heavy clouds.
And a slightly horned helmet with an open visor, through which he could see eyes and human skin.
"This is the most disgusting kind of afterlife," Martok rasped, coughing.
"You're just not dead yet, horned one," Hedge Spar replied. "Broken arms, legs, bruised lungs, ruptured intestines, shrapnel wounds, cracked facial skeleton, two vertebrae broken without displacement, as many with displacement, cracks on three, ribs like gnawed fossil bones, concussion, foreign object in the left eye, punctured larynx..."
"Splendid," Martok rasped. "I'll live without them."
"I'm amazed you survived at all," the Mandalorian shook his head. "Causing a short circuit in the mass driver at the moment of firing, being at the epicenter of the explosion, flying fifty meters into the forest, hanging for half an hour on a branch that pierced you, and surviving... it will take a lot of bacta, of course, but you'll definitely survive."
"Oh, shit," Martok groaned, lifting his head and looking at his body, from which all clothing had been cut off. But there were plenty of bandages, braces, and IV drips. "And I thought I was done for."
"You're a damn lucky son of a bitch, Martok," the Mandalorian leader said without a hint of humor. "I and my men owe you and your guys."
"Did anyone survive?" the lieutenant asked.
"I'm sorry, but none of your men are alive," the Mandalorian said. "And none of the enemies either. Before we arrived, the enemy brought up a mobile group that shot down the shuttle. Your men fell in battle with them. They died themselves and were finished off."
The Devaronian looked at the sky.
Through the heavy clouds, he could see loyalist corvettes breaking through, undoubtedly delivering something important to the planet's surface.
Probably Mandalorians.
But the main thing was different – following them, the gentle, warm rays of the local sun broke through to the surface.
"Not a bad day to be a hero," he said, coughing.
"That's for sure," Spar nodded. "They'll get you back on your feet quickly, friend. But for now, you'll have to swim in bacta."
"Is the 'Rottaran' alive?" the Devaronian asked.
"Severely damaged, but not yet falling apart," Hedge said without mincing words. "The stern is one big hole, the hangar was blown out."
"They have projectiles a meter in diameter," Martok said. "They could have turned it inside out."
"We saved people and had a good workout on the local militants who were left to cover the retreat," Spar said. "A shame about the ship, but it will have to be scrapped – it's easier to build a new one than to repair this one."
"Give it to me," Martok grabbed the Mandalorian's arm.
Their eyes met.
"Collecting scrap metal?" the Mandalorian leader clarified.
"I want a dreadnought," the Devaronian admitted. "Big, strong, and beautiful. To fly wherever I want. And to kick ass wherever I want."
"And seriously?" Spar chuckled.
"The sector has never had heavy ships since our cruisers were lost at Hoth," Martok sighed. "We need something substantial to defend ourselves from enemies..."
"I still don't believe it," the Mandalorian laughed. "You're not much of a warrior, and large ships are completely contraindicated for you. Any other version?"
"Yes," it seemed he had been given quite a few stimulants, and they had patched him up while the lieutenant was unconscious, because despite his injuries, he could speak almost without problems. "Everyone should have a dream. Mine is to have my own dreadnought."
"We'll discuss it when you're recovered," the Mandalorian promised.
"Well, to hell with you," the Devaronian said, not offended at all by Hedge's words. "Do you have any Lumin-el?"
"We have something better," Spar assured him, placing a metal flask in his hands. "Virren Aged. We found it with the local commanders – they took a few cases when the command fled. I decided you wouldn't mind getting this as a replacement for your favorite Lumin-el."
"Poison for aristocrats," the Devaronian smiled. "I've always dreamed of tasting it."
"You'll have time," the Mandalorian promised, taking the flask and taking a sip. "Divine taste."
The Devaronian looked at him with a killing gaze.
"Don't worry, we saved a couple of bottles for you," Spar assured him. "Mandalorians remember those who helped them."
"That's good, so I don't have to worry about the drinks," the Devaronian said with a smile.
"Don't worry about anything, friend," the Mandalorian said, but his voice already sounded as if through cotton wool. "We owe you our lives..."
***
The first day of the enemy's attack on the Dominion was drawing to a close.
Only a few minutes remained before the new day began.
But that doesn't mean it's time to stop thinking.
On the contrary, now is the time.
The information received from Thalassia is both pleasing and thought-provoking.
The fact that the plan to lure the pirates out of their den worked and a significant portion of the slavers and their associates, both in space and on the planet, have been destroyed, is gratifying.
We have solved a serious problem – we have defeated the pirates, captured and will free their slaves, and also destroyed the lion's share of radicals on the planet itself.
Undoubtedly, no one intended a further ground operation against Thalassia aimed at total cleansing.
We've tried it once before – the enemy retreated into the underground.
Of which there are a great many on the planet.
If we repeat the landing idea, we will again encounter unfriendly local inhabitants.
No, Thalassia will not be subjected to orbital strikes or total cleansing – at least not at present.
But this does not mean that this outpost will be abandoned or forgotten by us.
The planet will be blocked for any visits.
Minefields will remain and will be supplemented in such a way as to block any attempt to slip onto the planet.
There are no valuable resources on Thalassia in large quantities.
There is fertile land there, and therefore the local population will have the opportunity to feed themselves.
Yes, it's cruel, as it will condemn the local population first to starvation, and then to operations to restore agriculture and ensure the functioning of facilities that were previously controlled and managed by slaves.
But there is one "but."
When our troops retreated from the planet, the local population was informed that anyone who wished could evacuate with us – after our departure, life on the planet would significantly worsen.
Those who believed – a few thousand – are now undergoing filtration and will soon be integrated into Dominion society.
As for the rest...
Well, they are relatives, as well as direct accomplices in the slave-owning activities of their population.
Both adults and children and the elderly.
Their choice is to live off slave labor.
The law is the same for everyone.
If they didn't want to abide by it, hoping that their pirates would return and drive out the Dominion, then let them solve their problems themselves.
Defense stations will also remain in orbit, and their number will be increased over time.
They will monitor compliance with the order that no one is to descend to the planet without proper authorization.
And even more so – not to try to leave it.
Ship records and sentences against local criminals on Kessel will be demonstrated, if possible, as a visual aid to answer the question: what will happen to those who intend to violate the norms of reason.
Beyond that, except for a strategically important point near the border, which is a junction of several hyperspace routes of sectoral importance, my interest in Thalassia is exhausted.
But there is another point.
The initial interrogations of captured pirates and slavers, not to mention the slaves, show that the attack was financed by "Black Sun" officers, who coordinated the attack.
The cells of the Thalassian slavers were gathered in the Nembas sector, bordering the Meram sector.
There they were prepared, armed, their ships underwent repairs, and from there they were unleashed on Thalassia.
And it is this fact that makes one ponder the reasons why the "Zann Consortium" decided to involve external forces in its attack on the Dominion.
If they have enough troops and ships, then why did only slave owners participate in the attack?
Yes, one could say that the enemy clearly lacks starships for the first wave, so they preferred to block the secondary direction – Thalassia – with mercenaries.
But this is just a hypothesis, which is not confirmed by anything.
It is the most obvious, but without facts, it is no better than other hypotheses about what happened.
And, as is known, delusion is the path to defeat.
What is much more interesting is that the current attacks were mostly preemptive.
The enemy could have sent reinforcements to the D'Astan sector to defeat the loyalist forces, but they did not.
Instead, they consistently attack the northeastern and eastern borders of the Dominion metropolis.
Which is somewhat strange.
Considering that their interest lies in the heart of the Dominion.
Except for the attack on the "Red Star," the efforts that Tyber Zann put into the breakthrough were more demonstrative than effective.
And here it is important to understand that this is not done out of a lack of ships.
But precisely to distract attention.
I think the most obvious will be an attempt to break through in several more places in the northeast and east, possibly – southeast.
Each of them originates from sectors adjacent to ours.
It seems to me that the main blow will occur in completely different directions.
I know the enemy's interest, I myself demonstrated it to him, but he still does not attack these systems.
Why?
Most likely, they are testing our reaction speed, and also – they are trying to draw Dominion forces away from the central sectors to the borders of the metropolis.
Thus – to weaken us as much as possible.
Well, we will observe.
The "Chimaera" is located on the most advantageous route to the first of the major targets in the Dominion.
And very soon...
The sound of the commlink rang out.
"Yes, sir," I replied without delay.
"Sir, scout drones and alert systems are reporting cross-confirmation of an invasion in our area of responsibility. The enemy fleet has been forcibly brought out of hyperspace in full force," reported Captain Tschel. "This... This is an armada, sir."
"We're not made of flimsy stuff either, Captain," I reminded him. "We continue to observe what's happening."
"Yes, sir."
"Raise the alert level to 'yellow'," I ordered. "I'll be on the bridge in a few minutes."
"Yes, sir," Captain Tschel's voice sounded relieved. "We look forward to seeing you."
When the commlink went silent, I felt myself smiling.
Well, that's it.
The second, most "hot" phase of the enemy's attack has begun.
Our forces have checked, localized, assessed – and moved forward the main units of the "Consortium Zann" fleet.
As Anakin Skywalker used to say:
"Now the fun begins."
Everything before this was just a warm-up for the fight.
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: Granulan