Ten years, fourth month, and fourth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, fourth month, and fourth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year and nineteenth day since arrival).
Perhaps it was a coincidence, or perhaps it was planned, but the blocking squadrons left their positions exactly at midnight.
Following the four Dominion *Venators* that had retreated from the system, the only regular fleet ships to survive this terrible slaughter.
And after the enemy fleet rushed along the sixth vector, leaving the space of the Lur star system.
Captain Vigor, having verified that the starships of his formation had successfully jumped to the backup point, almost shot out of the combat bridge.
Reaching the nearest sanitary room on the deck, he barely waited for the moment when the door would slide aside and let him in.
And only there, finding himself in the ship's head, did he allow himself to light a thin cigar, blowing clouds of smoke into the ventilation grate.
"Hutt knows what," the commander of the *Occupier* was shaking from the realization that an entire assault fleet had been destroyed. "This... This is a meat grinder, of some sort..."
"Hey, relax," a calm male voice came from the far toilet stall. "So what, they blew up a bit... Not the first time."
Vigor, almost choking on tobacco smoke, mentally cursed himself for his carelessness.
Smoking on starships was strictly prohibited.
Not for the same reasons that prevented it in ancient times, like the danger of smoking out the already small living spaces on spaceships.
The Charter's requirement regarding the preservation of military personnel's organisms in the healthiest possible condition.
Water began to gurgle in the stall, while Vigor was already extinguishing a cigar in the metal sink.
An expensive thing, by the way — fifty credits a pop.
But he could not allow the fact that the ship's commander might be caught violating the Charter.
Just as he could not overcome his bad habit, actively melting his brain in stressful situations.
A lock clicked, and a tall, well-built human man appeared in the narrow corridor between the stalls.
On his chest was the same command insignia bar as Vigor's own.
A Fleet captain.
Vigor strained his memory but could not recall this sentient's name, even though he knew all senior officers not only by name but also by face.
"The exhaust works better in the far stall," the man said as if nothing had happened, approaching the hand-washing station and activating the disinfectant sprayer. "Your cigars are excessively aromatic, Commander. No offense and no ranks, but what kind of junk are you smoking? I thought my eyes would melt from the fumes."
It was too late to retreat.
"Karababba tobacco with armudu spices," Vigor grumbled. "Sir, who are you anyway?"
"Ah, yes, of course, we haven't met yet," the man chuckled, drying his hands with the mechanism. "Captain Makeno, commander of a special forces unit. We were attached to you before the last raid."
The commander of the "Raider" frowned.
"A completely different person reported to me about the unit's boarding," he said, inadvertently taking a step back.
He did this for one reason — the man who called himself the unit commander unbuttoned the top of his tunic and reached inside with his right hand.
"Yes, that was my deputy," the special forces operative said, as if nothing were amiss, pulling a thin pack of cigars and an electric lighter from an inner pocket. "My head was hurting so much after the procedures I could barely stand. Want one?" He offered the open pack to the ship's commander. "Ours, Dominion-made. Practically odorless, but with plenty of quality tobacco."
Valum, after thinking, accepted the offer.
He had flushed his own cigar down the drain anyway, and his trembling hadn't stopped.
The special forces operative also put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it for the commander of the "Dominator," and then for himself.
Both took a silent drag.
"If needed, I can provide the code cylinder too," Makeno said with a smirk, looking at the destroyer commander, who was silently staring at the polished wall in front of him.
"Huh?" the destroyer commander flinched. "N-no, not needed. The system would have reported an intruder anyway..."
All ships of the "Three" project were equipped with recognition systems, rumored to be borrowed from one of the star super destroyers captured by the Dominion.
The central computer tracked the movement of every ship member according to their identifiers.
An attempt to board the ship by someone without proper authorization led to an immediate alarm and activation of internal lockdown and counter-boarding systems.
Yes, those very large-caliber turrets sticking out in the corridors weren't for decoration.
They would successfully pierce through anyone who didn't have the crew member mark.
But no one ever explained exactly how the ship's onboard computer determined who was "friendly" and who was "hostile."
Certainly not by code cylinders.
Although they were upgraded by Dominion scientists to respond only to the fingerprint, DNA, and biometrics of the legal owner, it was unlikely to be the only identification method.
"That's for sure," the special forces operative exhaled a barely visible puff of smoke. "Worried about the massacre our commanders orchestrated in the system?"
"It was just a slaughter there," Valum nodded. "Dozens of ships, thousands dead — and that's just on our side!"
"There was no one there," Makeno took another drag.
"What do you mean 'no one'?" the star destroyer commander didn't understand.
"We gathered the oldest junk from the boneyards, stuffed them with droids as crew, and threw them at the breakthrough," the special forces unit commander explained. "What else are they good for, if not suicide missions?"
Vigor took a deep drag.
And indeed, that made sense.
On every Dominion ship, besides the crew, there were several types of combat droids.
Legacy of the CIS, of course — B-1, B-2, Droidekas...
They were used for boarding enemy ships and for forming skeleton crews for captured vessels.
The commander of the "Raider" hadn't even considered that droids could be used in such a capacity.
Or rather, he simply hadn't thought that command could act in such a way.
But one question remained.
"Why did they need all that?" Valum inquired.
"They don't report to me," Captain Makeno shrugged, exhaling smoke. "Even if they offered to acquaint me with their secret plans of that level, I'd definitely refuse."
"Why so?"
"Had enough already," the special forces operative darkened. "Got invited to one project... Not only did they practically turn me inside out..."
"My condolences," the ship's commander said.
"Yeah, that's all fine," Makeno winced and waved his hand. "We're used to worse. Seen it all over the years of service. But there was this one lady I interacted with... Br-r-r, that's something else entirely. All sweet and nice, but with indifference and a maniac's interest in her eyes. Constantly chewing something. Once she came up to me and said: "Captain, how would you feel about me opening up your skull?""
The commander of the "Raider" felt his fingers beginning to tremble.
The ash from the tip of his cigar couldn't withstand the tremors and fell to the floor.
"Is this some kind of joke?" he asked.
"I wish," his interlocutor grimaced. "A very real proposal. My frontal lobes interested her. For her, digging in brains is like me disassembling a blaster. Obsessed with it... Actually, I started smoking after meeting her. You should have seen those eyes... Just pure indifference to everything. Just wants to eat and poke around in brains. Droids have more empathy than her. When I was alone with her in the lab, I was never so scared..."
"Why does the Dominion even need such butchers," Valum suddenly felt disgust at what was happening. "It's... It's simply immoral."
"Tell that to General Maximilian Veers," Makeno advised. "The man lived in a wheelchair for several years, turning from a dashing officer, the founder of all modern warfare strategy, into a cripple who was essentially useless as an active officer to anyone."
"And... What is your remark supposed to mean?" the star destroyer commander clarified, realizing there must be something more behind the special forces operative's words.
"His brain was transferred to a cloned body," Makeno lowered his voice to a whisper. "You were at the Academy on command courses. Didn't they conduct joint classes on ground unit tactics?"
"Of course they did," Vigor became embarrassed. "But Veers wasn't there in person, only his interactive lectures and tactical exercises."
"Well."
"I thought those were old, still Imperial records," the star destroyer commander admitted. "Haven't heard anything about Veers for a long time. I, and many others in the Alignment, thought he died quietly somewhere..."
The special forces operative snorted.
"Yeah, right, of course," a smile appeared on his lips. "Veers switched to serving the Dominion. And now, as if Palpatine himself is chasing him, he's actively rushing all over the Dominion, setting up the work of armored forces and army units. Teaches at the Army Academy himself. I heard he keeps trying to slip off to the front, but they won't let him — until the army 'gets on its feet' and can develop without his motivating kicks, he'll be stuck in the rear. But it seems the process is getting established. Maybe we'll see him on the battlefields soon..."
Valum took another drag.
Slowly exhaled smoke.
Repeated this simple algorithm once more.
Then looked at the special forces unit commander.
"Why did you tell me all this?" he asked, looking the latter straight in the eyes. "Surely half of what you said is classified information you shouldn't share with the likes of me."
His interlocutor raised an eyebrow in a display of stern surprise.
Reinforced it with a deep drag.
"The likes meaning what?" he clarified.
"I haven't been on your side for very long," Valum explained. "Surely I'm not yet trusted among commanders. And discussing secret projects with me, including brain transplantation into a cloned body... Obviously, I won't blab about it..."
"Ah," the special forces operative chuckled. "Well, let's put it simply. Most of your crew on the ship are clones. That the Dominion uses clones to man its ships is known to a very limited circle of sentients. Not counting those who work with them directly. Do you think, if they didn't trust you, they'd put you in command of the 'Dominator'? That's, by the way, a fairly new ship. Barely passed military acceptance and trials before it was handed over to you. And they wouldn't have shoved you into the Academy if they doubted your loyalty..."
"Yes, but no one told me the operation plan anyway," the ship's commander felt some annoyance at his own words.
It was as if he was complaining to his interlocutor about being left out.
"How 'no one told you'?" Makeno was surprised. "I just told you."
"But you're not my command, you're attached forces."
"Ah..." the special forces operative nodded understandingly. "Well, it's simpler here, Captain. They tell you and will only tell you the information relevant to your role on the battlefield. The rest — be so kind as to use your brain and analyze. The Dominion isn't the type to just chew up all orders and spoon-feed them. Thrawn used to do just that last year — until the battle for the Lok shipyards. Then he changed his approach. He only gives the general strategic task to the unit commander..."
"We call that a formation," the commander of the "Raider" corrected, extinguishing the remains of his cigarette on the edge of the sink.
"Whatever," the special forces operative waved his hand, following his example. "You were given a task. Informed of what you need to know. The rest — you'll learn in due time. You surely received encrypted packets with orders for the unit before departure?"
"As always," Valum nodded.
"Then everything you need to know is written in them," Makeno shrugged, slapping his interlocutor on the shoulder. "For example, my next envelope needs to be opened when we exit hyperspace."
"As does mine," the commander of the "Raider" mentally cursed himself for the weakness he had shown.
He fell apart.
Panicked.
Started worrying about losses...
Obviously, what they did to them at Balmorra affected the commander of the "Raider" more than he thought.
The special forces operative looked at the chronometer.
"About twenty minutes until exit to real space," he announced. "Well, Captain," he extended his hand, "don't get discouraged. In the Dominion, allies aren't considered idiots. If something seems too simple and obvious — it means everything is not as it seems. That's Thrawn's favorite tactic, which he slips to the enemy with different sauces. And they lap it up with a full spoon."
"Yeah..." Valum returned the handshake, then froze, struck by a thought. "Wait a minute... Thrawn's tactic, which he slips... You said that in the present tense. Is he alive?"
"Well, yes," the special forces operative echoed him. "Did you think some Jedi runt could really kill our Supreme Commander?"
"But..." Valum hesitated. "To be honest, I thought someone would inform me about that..."
"Well, I informed you," Makeno snorted. "Or were you expecting Thrawn to personally inform every commander that he's been leading the entire galaxy by the nose for months now?"
"No, of course not," Captain Vigor became embarrassed. "It's just... Why isn't he participating in the campaign, like this one?"
"Who told you he isn't participating?" the special forces operative was surprised. "He's participating very actively — he's in orbit of Lur."
"How so?" Valum blinked. "The assault fleet was completely destroyed."
He wasn't a simpleton, but what his interlocutor was saying...
No, not even that.
The casualness with which the special forces operative laid out things that seemingly couldn't possibly be true was unsettling.
"The fleet — yes," the special forces operative agreed. "But the Grand Admiral's flagship has surely already slipped through the breached lane in the minefield and is moving into the rear of the enemy orbital stations to surprise them all with one salvo..."
Emperor's black bones!
If Thrawn is on the "Guardian," how could he possibly slip past the thousands of eyes of the station crews on a multi-kilometer ship?
Unless...
There are disguised enemy ships in the system.
Who said the Dominion doesn't have any?
* * *
Pho Ph'eah is truly a treasure trove of technology.
Generators, reactors, weapons...
They really can give us a lot.
It's just a pity they never manufactured engines for star super destroyers and don't even have the slightest idea of what they should look like.
However, that's not the biggest existing problem.
The Pho Ph'eahians learn quite quickly and understand modern technologies perfectly, so one day they might produce their own version of the necessary technology to replace the main engines of the "Executor"-class ships.
Examining the project of the Dominion's main star destroyer, which is a reworked and deeply modernized version of the "Imperial"-class, I caught myself thinking that Pho Ph'eah's entry into the state has huge and undeniable advantages.
The final development of the "Imperial"-class is a ship that externally resembles its progenitor but is stronger, better protected, and... faster at sublight speeds.
The standard speed the main engines of the "Imperial"-class can produce is sixty megalights.
Is that a lot?
Quite decent.
The cruising speed of the "Guardian" is forty megalights.
While the speed of the same TIE Interceptor in its basic variant reaches "only" one hundred and ten megalights.
The Empire managed to achieve speeds of one hundred twenty-five megalights with a radical overhaul of standard systems.
Which inevitably led to a significant increase in the ship's cost.
Interestingly, the manufacturers of TIE-series equipment, after familiarizing themselves with the technology proposals from Pho Ph'eah, suggested that with not the most complex and expensive modifications to our machines, they could achieve a similar result.
And increase the power of deflector shields on our machines.
Through purchasing more compact and efficient reactors from Pho Ph'eah and reworking a number of systems.
Work in this direction is already underway.
Consequently, we will get results soon.
If they are acceptable, we can expect our star destroyers to become faster.
Not radically, but still "livelier" than their predecessors.
This is much needed, considering the Alliance is massively transitioning to saturating its aviation units with starfighters of the E-wing type, the notorious "E-wing."
Whose cruising speed is one hundred twenty megalights.
Quite... good news, actually.
The superiority of the Alliance's main machines over ours in speed and other characteristics means extra casualties among our pilots.
Unfortunately, nothing more can be done about the bomb and missile load for our small craft.
In a sense, we are approaching the limit of durability and modernization of machines developed at the dawn of the Empire.
Of course, none of our opponents will massively rearm all their armed forces as soon as they get a new type of fighter.
It's expensive.
Insanely expensive, if you think about it.
Last year, the backbone of our flight fleet consisted of TIE fighters of Imperial production.
Their replacement with interceptors was and still is being carried out at a frantic pace, with huge expenditures on component purchases.
But we are not scrapping the old machines either.
Those that can still be sold to the Imperials go for export.
But most of the TIE fighters decommissioned from the regular fleet are transferred to the Defense Forces, where there is literally a huge logistical gap in the issue of aviation cover for planets and patrol ships.
To conduct a massive rearmament all at once, dozens of manufacturing plants are needed.
To build them requires time and mountains of money.
The budget is already strained at the seams due to numerous programs implemented by the Dominion in both civilian and military production, not to mention dual-use.
Too broad a scope was taken.
But we cannot cut these programs now.
The only way to "cut the sturgeon" is to postpone the implementation of all existing development programs for sectors in territories slated for capture in the second stage.
Even now, we have military industry prevailing over civilian, which is not right.
Grand Moff Ferrus is straining himself but trying to increase the volume of the economy in the civilian sphere.
This, of course, yields certain fruits, but it must be understood that for the construction of, say, a Land Speeder factory to pay off, at least several years are needed.
Another option is to increase the retail price of the goods, which will lead to reduced demand.
A complex game on the edge of a knife blade.
I set aside reading Grand Moff's reports, leaned back in my chair.
While the "Guardian" moves into position, there is time to study current reports delivered by courier ships.
My gaze slid across the viewport.
Past the "Guardian," "leisurely" moving through the field of debris, floated the wreckage of the assault fleet destroyed not long ago.
Was it rational to destroy such a large number of ships to break through the minefields?
Yes, rational.
Old and requiring large investments for repair or maintaining combat readiness, these ships were a heavy burden on the military balance of the Dominion's Armed Forces.
Yes, many of them were restored and put into service by the Defense Forces.
Corellian Corvettes CR90, Corellian gunships, "Carracks," "Tartans," patrol ships, customs frigates, "Lancers"...
Much of what was captured was, of course, outright junk that the New Republic kept on the principle of "well, it flies — so it's good for something."
We use them roughly according to the same scheme.
But at the same time, we achieve the unification and optimization discussed not long ago.
Conventionally speaking, even an M90 in excellent technical condition is not worth more of our attention than a dozen battered CR90-type corvettes.
The latter are significantly widespread in the galaxy, spare parts for them are cheap and available.
And interchangeability with analogues for them is quite cheap, practical, and mass-produced.
With the transition of the regular fleet to "Crusader II"-type corvettes as escort, support, patrol, and reconnaissance ships (in other words — they cover the entire range of tasks related to light forces), I planned to transfer all CR90 and DP20-type starships to the Dominion Defense Forces.
We have accumulated about a thousand ships of this type (in various modifications, of course), which more than compensates for the internal security needs of the state in areas that do not require active intervention by the regular fleet.
And yet, once upon a time, every ship of this type was perceived as something important, rare, hard to obtain.
And now — one raid on Sullust, active work by gangs of cloned ship hijackers like Niles Ferrier, the merger of the Karthakk sector fleets and a number of private initiatives — and we have more ships than we need.
As with interceptors, replacing the niche of Corellian light ships with "Crusaders" is not instantaneous.
Orbital repair workshops work around the clock on restoring and improving such ships.
As much as I'd like to bring the entire regular fleet to a common denominator, I have to consider the fact that our shipbuilding capacity for producing "Crusaders" is insufficient to equip all large ships and fill the standard roster.
All this sucked money at an enormous rate.
That's why Pellaeon would be happy to give away all the "non-regulation" stuff to anyone but himself: at least to get rid of the logistical headache.
Transferring this entire colossus to the Defense Forces is quite easy — one order will suffice.
And overnight, this would lead to us losing half of our large ships' light forces.
Which is not right.
We have to rotate slowly.
And endure losses.
Of course, one could strike a pose and say we should have thought about the budget earlier.
And we shouldn't have given Dorr the order to take everything from Sullust during last year's prologue to the Battle of Sluis Van.
But, as they say, you can't have too much of a good thing.
We sacrificed a considerable number of ships, but we have even more in reserve.
That's first.
Second, having ships that can be sacrificed without harm to the regular fleet or Defense Forces is always a boon.
For example, the assault on the mine positions at Lur clearly showed why Rothana never (until Imperial times) suffered direct attacks from the enemy.
Even during the Clone Wars, no one dared to attack it.
And there's not a single mention that Tyber Zann conquered Rothana with mere brute military force in his time.
Though, one cannot deny his inventiveness either.
It took several more hours to deal with most military and industrial issues.
Not that I was making direct, radical decisions on substance affecting development prospects.
That's not a strategist's task.
That's the work of executors.
I only need to be aware of the progress of the tasks set before them to track the development vector.
The "Guardian" needed another hour before all five blocking units returned to the system, and the sixth, previously unaccounted for and not demonstrated to the enemy, would approach.
They would completely block the system, and the problem of the existence of an "invisible" enemy fleet in the Lur system could be solved.
Why didn't the invasion start immediately?
For one simple reason — time was needed for the "visible" enemy ships to leave the system.
Along with those Lurrians and Lurrian technology they were evacuating aboard their ships.
The entire fleet that "shattered" our assault formations must also withdraw from the system to a sufficient distance.
This is necessary so they do not return to Lur at the most inopportune moment.
It takes about two days to travel to the borders of the Aparo sector with second-class hyperdrives.
We will spend half that time positioning our ships—both mine and those under the command of Rear Admiral Shohashi—into their designated positions.
And only after that will the assault begin.
The hastily constructed tracking stations confirm—the enemy is moving directly toward the junction of the territorial borders of the "Corporates" and Aparo.
Therefore, having covered half the distance, even if they learn of the attack on Lur, they will have only two options.
First—return to the system and give battle.
A tactically losing proposition from the start.
If they learn what is happening in Lur (and they will be able to do so as soon as Cronal can connect with one of the local commanders), then information about the presence of an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer and blocking forces in the system can no longer be concealed.
The goal of the enemy's maneuver was to exit the system and evacuate the most valuable assets.
Returning to Lur means returning to a trap with guaranteed subsequent defeat and loss of the loot.
This is unacceptable from a strategic standpoint.
Therefore, they will continue their journey to the border.
And, most likely, will call for additional forces from the Corporate Sector to ensure unimpeded passage through the minefields at the border.
Well, we have a response.
And for now…
I have time to study the most important report among those available.
I inserted the data crystal delivered by the Guardsmen from Laboratory Three and decrypted its contents using my code cylinder.
Symbols indicating message decryption and authenticity verification scrolled across the screen.
So, there are no copies of the report; the recording is single-use.
After review, in the best traditions of Imperial Intelligence, the information will be erased without the possibility of re-examination.
Once will be enough for me.
Perhaps it will clarify questions that have interested me since the moment I opened my eyes in this new body.
And universe.
A three-dimensional copy of Third, a quarter of her actual height, formed above the holoprojector.
The woman, as always, held food in her hands.
Something resembling a sandwich.
It seems her passion for food is as constant as the presence of the Force in this universe.
Sometimes I think that if you deprive this lady of food while working, she would wither like a flower in the cold.
"Grand Admiral, your assignment is complete," Third said, chewing a bite, wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her lab coat, and looked straight ahead. "As you requested—the genotype has been studied. The clone autopsy has been performed. I have exhaustive data on your species. So, 'Chiss,' as you call yourselves, like humans in the past, had a common ancestor…"
* * *
"Leader," the Dathomirian witch looked at the leader of the Lurrians. "Are your people ready?"
"Yes, Lady Ventress," he replied, looking at the several hundred compatriots armed with archaic, yet still deadly, blaster weapons. "Ready to begin drilling the underground passages at your command."
Kyp Durron looked at his mentor with interest.
"Are we attacking them from underground?" the youth asked.
"We already are," Ventress snorted.
Durron opened his mouth in surprise.
"Since the alliance was formed, our organisms have been boring through the rock," the Lurrian leader explained. "It's not a quick process, but our Asgnats are bred for drilling through stone. Those forced to work for the occupiers have nothing like it."
"And… how far have we progressed?" Durron inquired, glancing toward several new five-meter-wide tunnel mouths that hadn't been in this part of the main passage to the underground city before.
"Another day and we will penetrate the occupied settlements," the Lurrian leader clarified.
"Did you make exits to the surface where I ordered?" Ventress specified.
"We did not breach shafts to the surface, as they are easily spotted," the leader explained. "But we completed all preparatory measures for it. One command from you—and within five minutes, the Asgnats left in the tunnels for this purpose will reach the surface."
"Depth of such shafts?" the Dathomirian witch inquired.
"From ten to forty meters."
"Good," Ventress snorted. "My apprentice and I will move to the front lines with your people. We'll go to the attack line. Assign several of your warriors to guard the shafts and inform the Helldivers which direction to move."
"Yes, Lady Ventress," the leader bowed to her. "But… How long must we wait for the assault to begin?"
"We attack as soon as we receive the signal. Your observers will inform us."
"But the surface weather is bad," the Lurrian reminded. "It's unlikely we'll be able to see or detect a transmission…"
"This signal your observers will not miss for anything," the Dathomirian witch smirked.
"Even so…" the Lurrian said meaningfully. "But… I would like to know what this signal will be in principle. To avoid the slightest delay."
"Stations," Ventress smiled, almost baring her teeth. "Exploding and falling stations from orbit will be the signal for Lur's liberation."
Silence fell in the tunnel.
It lasted several minutes, after which the Lurrian leader, sighing, said:
"Yes, my observers will not miss such a signal."
"In that case, we move to the front lines," Ventress commanded. "And ensure that only those Lurrians without unique knowledge participate in the assault. You are needed only for the first strike. Then the shock troopers of the 501st Guards Legion will take over. 'Thrawn's Fist' will break the spine of even an enemy that has burrowed underground."
* * *
"First, biological questions," Third looked at the sandwich in her hand and, with a visible effort of will, set it aside.
That's already a feat on her part.
This gesture indicates that the issues she's about to address will be very important.
Certainly for me.
"The oxygen content in the atmosphere directly influences blood pigmentation and eye shade," the woman reported. "The more oxygen in the atmosphere, the more intense the eye glow, the richer the skin tone. Melanin in your bodies is quite dependent on oxygen. Even more so than in the average human. Study of hair coverage indicates that the shade—blue-black—is the most common. Study of body chemistry, blood supply, general immunity, and a number of other bodily features indicate that graying hair is not a particular threat to you, by the way," she smiled at her joke, then couldn't resist and took a bite of the sandwich.
After chewing, she returned to the narrative.
"As I said, a high degree of genetic similarity to humans, suggesting your people may be descendants of one of humanity's colonization attempts. Given the existing differences, fixed mutations, I can say this event occurred a very long time ago. Predominant distinctive external features—eyes, hair, skin color, characteristics of internal organs, nervous system—all are dominant traits, reinforced in each new generation. Eumelanin so predominates over pheomelanin that you can immediately expel from the home a woman who bears you a child with light or red hair. He is definitely not of your lineage."
At first, such rhetoric left me stunned.
Frankly, I expected a full report without any asides from Third.
But now I understand that expecting a "clear and to the point" message from someone unfamiliar with military doctrine and protocol is an impossible dream.
"A number of analyses of distinguishing features between humans and Chiss give me grounds to assume that dominant genes, such as the ability to see in the dark, became fixed in your species due to living underground, or on a world deprived of sufficient illumination from its local star…"
The first option is correct.
As far as I recall, Chiss have long lived under the ice on their home planet.
"Whereas skin tone appears to be the result of exposure to minerals unknown to modern science, which on your home planet may be dissolved in the soil, crops grown there, water, and so on," Third chattered. "Probably the mutation did not occur in the first, or even the nearest generations after landing. More likely it's a cumulative effect from exposure to unidentified trace elements."
I can say absolutely nothing about this.
"And now, something very interesting," Third's holographic eyes literally sparkled. "Your muscular framework is more developed than that of humans. Muscles are well adapted to loads, excessive even for robust humans. And where the latter need to work on muscle development, genetics does it all for the Chiss. And not just in your case—your entire genetic code is literally a demonstration of superiority over humans. This is also very indicative and points to accelerated evolution. At the same time—not directed, no traces of genetic intervention. This is natural selection that, for some reason, is accelerated in your species."
Probably—due to the harshness of the worlds the Chiss have had to inhabit all this time.
The capital planet alone is a giant glacier where not everyone can survive.
"What's interesting is the accelerated metabolism," Third expounded. "It's roughly twice as intense as that of an ordinary human. This in turn explains the lack of tendency toward excess weight and the developed musculature. Yes, your body temperature is also lower than that of standard humans. Which again—a rather strange evolutionary turn, since I did not see any special genetic changes that would indicate adaptability to a world with low temperatures. Neither reduced body temperature nor skin pigmentation provide any such advantages. And that your homeworld is a snowy world with low temperatures is easily understood from the complex of physiological differences. In particular—adaptability to vision in the dark. Again—genetics, hereditary. Just like maturation…"
Now this is interesting.
Because age concerns me almost first and foremost in the context of this body.
"Yes, a bit more about similarity to humans," Third tapped her temple, as if driving in a thought trying to escape. "Besides obvious physical features, Chiss are physiologically similar to humans to such an extent that they possess comparable circulatory, nervous, digestive, and reproductive systems. The Chiss vocal apparatus resembles the human one, but there are obvious differences that evidently allow for a characteristic timbre and the use of sharper sounds for communication. I understand your national language largely consists of them…"
Unfortunately, I can say neither "yes" nor "no" to this, as I am completely unfamiliar with the language Chiss customarily speak within the Ascendancy.
"Returning to the question of maturation," Third continued. "In this matter, it's not as straightforward as it might seem. The genes of Chiss are programmed with a rather interesting maturation mechanism. From the age of one to ten years, a rapid leap in biological growth and physiological development is observed. By the age of ten, a Chiss is already a fully formed twenty-year-old average human male…"
How interesting…
"In general, the genes of your species contain a mechanism for accelerated, by a factor of two, maturation throughout life," Third explained. "Besides biological development, I can say there is also a high probability that in the course of the civilization's evolution, such accelerated growth led to premature mental maturity and psychological maturation. Up to the age of ten to fifteen years, a peak of hormonal activity is observed, occurring in the first half of this period, then declining. By the age of ten, a Chiss attains height, weight, muscle mass, and other parameters that his body will possess for the rest of his life. I'm not entirely sure, but I assume the organism continues to grow for about another two to two and a half years, after which biological development stops. At the same level characteristic of humans twice that age. A ten-year-old child is a young man of twenty years, a twenty-year-old Chiss is already a man in the prime of life with rich judgment…"
And if you add the mandatory military training for all males in the Ascendancy, the excellent military preparedness for any comparable age is no surprise.
At ten, a Chiss is already a soldier.
At fifteen—an officer.
At twenty—a commander.
And after thirty—a ready warlord.
Interpreting this mental maturation, one can confidently name the reason why Mitth'raw'nuruodo proved more talented than his comrades in the Imperial Starfleet.
And why his protégé, Captain Pellaeon, at the same age, was not as talented as the overwhelming majority of Imperials.
The original Thrawn was simply emotionally more mature than his opponents, and thus skillfully calculated their moves.
Just as an adult can predict a child's behavior in a given situation, understand his reaction, so Mitth'raw'nuruodo "cracked" the enemy's plans "like nuts."
Yes, for Chiss he was also an anomaly, the best among the best, first among firsts…
Which makes him even more dangerous.
Who wins in a battle—a twenty-year-old lieutenant or a forty-year-old colonel?
In a normal situation—the latter.
Even if the lieutenant has studied the art of war since sixteen, the colonel is more experienced, more composed, more reasoned.
And not distracted by what a growing organism might think about.
Currently, it is the tenth year after the Battle of Yavin IV.
Twenty-seven years before Luke Skywalker torpedoed the first Death Star, Mitth'raw'nuruodo already commanded a task force and destroyed the Outbound Flight.
Thus, a total of about thirty-seven standard years have passed.
Converted to Chiss years—seventy-four years.
How much experience could Thrawn have accumulated over nearly forty years of service and continuous tactical study?
Now it's clear why his mind works like a computer.
Clear why all these intrigues concern me little.
Let's fix the thought.
At ten years—a twenty-year-old youth with developed physique and mental understanding of events.
At twelve and a half—a twenty-five-year-old average, well-developed man with an analytical mind.
Who can tell them apart?
Who can give the correct age of a Chiss without knowing the secrets of his species' genetic development?
No one.
I stopped the hologram playback.
The picture is beginning to take shape.
So, take standard years as a measure of age.
Thirty-seven standard years have passed since the destruction of the Outbound Flight.
For Chiss—seventy-four.
By ten years, a Chiss is already developed as a human male.
At the same time, Third indicates that the hormonal surge occurs precisely in this period, then declines.
Well…
A bit of logic and assumptions.
Attraction to the opposite sex is driven by chemical reactions, biological need for procreation.
Hormones and body chemistry are responsible for this.
During the destruction of the Outbound Flight, Mitth'raw'nuruodo captured smugglers—the crew of Jorj Car'das.
Among the latter's crew was a woman who, judging by indirect signs, was the object of unambiguous attention from the young Chiss.
Later, I cannot recall a single episode where Thrawn showed similar zeal toward the opposite sex.
What if, at the time of the expedition beyond the galaxy, Thrawn was already between ten and fifteen standard biological years old, which explained his attention to the human woman?
If so, then currently my body is between forty-seven and sixty-two standard biological years old.
Double according to the rule of Chiss development.
From ninety-seven to one hundred twelve "Chiss" years.
At the same time—a clear mind, excellent physique, no signs of dementia or age-related changes.
Mother of God…
For the first time, I felt I couldn't breathe…
Truly, the New Republic was saved from complete destruction in Thrawn's original campaign only by the Force and the Chiss's own inattention, failing to see the Noghri betrayal right under his nose.
How can a child fight an adult?
How old are the main heroes of the New Republic?
Around thirty?
For a Chiss, they are teenagers, to outmaneuver in holochess is as easy as taking candy.
Multiply that by Mitth'raw'nuruodo's unique skill…
No magic.
No Force.
Nothing supernatural.
Just genetics, evolution, logic, and analysis.
"…The average human can live about a hundred to a hundred and twenty years without significant biological changes," Third continued meanwhile. "This is the average lifespan, most clearly observed in representatives of the human race. Which in turn determines the approximate lifespan of Chiss with their characteristic metabolism to be roughly the same period. But the final figure in standard years varies, of course. It depends on many factors. For instance, reference information contains data that Force-sensitive sentients, Jedi, could live up to two hundred standard years, but the level of their dementia and activity during that period is a topic sparse on details. But, based on what I analyzed from your genome and from the body of the created clone, I can say directly: your level of sensitivity to the Force is no higher than that of an ordinary sentient. You will not become a Jedi."
Third smiled at another joke and finally finished the sandwich.
"Considering age-related and other changes, I can predict your approximate lifespan to be around eighty standard years," she mumbled, chewing the remains of her food. "Genetics allows for longer, but I think you understand that it depends not so much on it as on external factors. In any case, I estimated that we could use the cloning method to create a young body for you, if such a need arises. With proper genetic manipulations, requiring additional time and resources, premature aging could be halted, thereby producing a clone fully identical to your body without modifications. At the same time, rejuvenation cycles of brain cells could be initiated in the old body to avoid dementia and transplant the brain…"
I stopped the message playback.
The Guardian was approaching its target.
We begin soon.
The results did not particularly please me, but shed more light on the nature of Chiss.
That's good.
There is understanding of questions previously unknown or misunderstood by me.
But at the same time, they raised new questions.
One should not indulge in the hope that Chiss are so desperate as to allow fifteen-year-old adolescents to command ship squadrons, as I assumed with the Outbound Flight situation.
Surely that is not the case.
At least forty-seven years have been lived.
Or thereabouts.
No one will ever say for sure.
Even in Thrawn's personal file, created upon his recruitment into Imperial service, age is not indicated.
Such data is also absent in the decrypted Emperor's files.
Nothing but mysteries.
And the endpoint of life is a highly variable quantity.
There is no data on how long Chiss live.
At least not in the public domain.
Fly to the Empire of the Hand, or the Ascendancy, to ask this question?
No, foolishness.
I have already lived one life.
It is logical to understand and accept the fact that one day the second life will also end.
Is it worth grieving over this?
No, it is not.
Only those who lived their years in vain regret them.
Now the main, I would even say—the paramount question—is to complete the initiated initiatives.
Even if I do not live to see the arrival of the Yuuzhan Vong in the galaxy, it is necessary to ensure the outcome of their invasion is different.
It is foolish to spend so much time, resources, and lose so many subordinates only for the finale of this story to end as in the events known to me.
Or even worse.
There is still time.
There are still resources to fix and arrange everything, prepare and "rehearse."
Train those who will replace me.
Eliminate threats on which excessive forces will be spent in the events known to me.
Be of use.
Well…
There is no cause for despair.
The body feels excellent.
Genetics are good.
Forecasts are also not bad.
We live and work on.
What do career military say to melancholy?
Right: "Not today, friend. Go bother the gadget generation. We're busy with work, and their jeans aren't rolled up right, the electric scooter is dead, and the smoothie isn't green enough."
As if on signal, the comlink came to life.
"Grand Admiral, the Guardian has reached the designated point," Captain Pellaeon's voice is brisk and radiates anticipation of battle.
"I will be on the bridge in ten minutes. Sound battle stations. We begin on my order."
"It will be done, sir!"
The air inside the Guardian filled with piercing sounds, encouraging the crew, who had already been waiting.
That's good.
The battle will put everything in its place.
The bad thing is different.
I already know a place in this galaxy where a year counts as two.
And I don't believe in coincidences.
* * *
Major Kreb took his place inside the cockpit of his Avenger.
The top hatch is sealed, systems checked and ready for battle.
His gaze through the helmet visor fell on the holophoto.
Tia's smile encouraged new feats.
The Major checked the operation of the swivel mechanisms of the twin ion engines by pressing the pedals.
He is ready.
The machine of death awaits orders.
And also awaits its time to fulfill the promise Krieg Jainer made to the commander of the destroyed enemy squadron.
Find the daughters.
Lie about how their father died.
Should he do it instead of Jainer?
But the Codex says no.
By the laws of honor, the leader is responsible for the actions of the led.
And the fact that Jainer was no longer his wingman at the moment the promise was made changes nothing.
Besides morality, there are the laws of conscience.
"KDP, this is Avenger-Leader," he opened the comm channel to his squadron's dispatcher.
"Listening carefully, Avenger-Leader."
"Book me a two-week leave after completing this mission," he said. "With departure outside Dominion territory."
The dispatcher was silent for a few seconds.
"Sir, that can only be done on the order of the ship's commander," the dispatcher warned. "And the SBD will certainly want to 'have a chat' with you about the motives for such an action."
"Well, in that case, put me on Captain Pellaeon's meeting schedule," Kreb stated succinctly, flexing his wrists. "A talk with 'counter-intelligence' doesn't scare me."
But an argument with my conscience—that's another matter entirely.
"Acknowledged, sir, request sent," reported the dispatcher. "Attention! Launch the entire wing!"
Kreb smoothly took his craft off the launch rack guides and shot out through the open hangar bay doors.
Ahead, targets loomed—enemy stations, absorbing oceans of turbolaser fire.
And spewing back streams of plasma and dozens of fighters in response.
Major Kreb assigned targets for himself and his wingman, then dove toward the first victim.
The machine of death began its harvest.