Ten years, five months, and seven days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, fifth month, and seventh day after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year, one month, and twenty-two days since the Arrival.)
Heavy cruisers of the Invincible-class had never looked like paragons of beauty, and now...
Invincible-class Heavy Cruiser.
An old, battered ship that had seen better days—one of the Dominion's similar trophies from the fight against the Zann Consortium—slowly moved along the starboard side of the Guardian. An almost two-kilometer giant, larger than the Chimaera stationed next to the flagship, was dwarfed by the nineteen-kilometer colossus.
In the boundless space not far from Trogan, but unreachable by chance witnesses, numerous replacements of the ship's multi-meter plating were clearly visible. The armor, incredibly thick by modern standards, had been cast at Horn to replace elements damaged in battle, and now stood out against the old plates. As did the modifications to the hull and stern, giving the streamlined cylindrical ship an even more absurd, intimidating, yet at the same time warlike appearance.
The Dominion had acquired three such ships in total, all captured during hunts on Zann Consortium convoys.
However, Grand Admiral Thrawn, who now stood before the central viewport with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands clasped behind his back, believed that Tyber Zann had not given these ships to the Dominion by accident at all. The leader of the criminal organization had spent considerable time and effort staging his supposed concern for Kamino and Rothana for Thrawn's benefit. And these ancient, slow, weakly armed but mighty starships—mighty due to their multi-meter armor—were, in Thrawn's opinion, slipped to the Dominion by Zann to give them a means to attack Kamino and Rothana. Those held in the greedy clutches of a Dathomirian witch named Silri, Zann's former associate who had betrayed him and begun building her own criminal empire. Seizing the 'sweetest morsels' after the Zann Consortium's destruction, she stopped at nothing for power.
According to preliminary data, Silri and her 'Syndicate,' if not controlled, were certainly in covert cooperation with the New Republic at the highest levels.
Worst of all, both the Silri Syndicate and the Zann Consortium were puppets in the hands of Emperor Palpatine, who had been lying low in the Deep Core and intended to use them to crush his enemies—the New Republic, the Galactic Alliance, and... many others.
However, Thrawn rightfully believed that the criminals had slipped the control of their creator and thus had become, if not a threat, then certainly an undesirable factor for Palpatine. The Grand Admiral was entirely confident that the Emperor, pursuing his own goals, would not intervene in the conflict as long as the Dominion acted in his interests.
Whether the Emperor knew that Thrawn was using Palpatine's idea of using the Dominion for his own ends—Captain Pellaeon did not know and honestly did not want to know. The sheer volume of information, which seemed to grow every standard week, was making his head (and everyone else's who was in the know) spin. Only Thrawn remained imperturbable, using the enemies' plans against them.
Pellaeon, taking the latest data from the duty officer, scanned the screen, then approached the Grand Admiral, glancing at Rukh standing nearby. The Noghri watched the Guardian's commander with a careful gaze, then resumed his impassive expression and continued polishing his obsidian blade—the favored weapon of his race.
Lieutenant Colonel Grodin Tierce, standing like a silent shadow next to the Supreme Commander, didn't even turn his head, quietly talking with the Chiss.
."..details of the cloning cylinders that Moff Harsh captured on the second moon of Tiraggi have already been delivered to Wayland, unloaded, and placed, along with the rest of the cargo and machinery, inside Mount Tantiss," Tierce reported quietly to Thrawn. "Work on the mountain has been completed in full. Security and personnel consisting of droids have been posted."
"Everything is proceeding according to plan, Lieutenant Colonel," Thrawn nodded to his own thoughts. "Are the locals still refusing to relocate to the safe zone away from the facility?"
"Yes, sir. They won't be persuaded. As you ordered, they were explained the importance of the work at the facility and the danger, but the Psadans and Mineyshri refuse to follow our advice."
"Well, we have done what we could. The consequences of this rash decision will fall on the shoulders of their chieftains."
As he approached, both fell silent.
Without a word, Pellaeon handed the datapad to Thrawn, then glanced at Captain Tschel, commander of the Chimaera, and the blue-haired young man named Ghent, standing a couple of meters away.
Thrawn did not reveal the details of his strategic plans more than necessary, but Pellaeon knew for certain that Ghent was responsible for some work on the trio of Invincible-class ships, and Tschel was to implement some part of the plan for which the captured heavy cruisers were being restored, rearmed, and modernized. Each of the three ships looked somewhat different from the others.
The first had a standard appearance but much more reinforced armor, increased by welding additional elements, making it look more like the multi-year trunk of a Kashyyyk wroshyr tree. From bow to stern, it was covered in solid armor. Special attention had been paid to protecting the bridge and engines. Additional laser cannons were visible, replacing the old artillery, suggesting this ship had been converted into a blockade runner. Its artillery was reconfigured to enhance defensive rather than offensive characteristics. This ship, named Bur-I, was clearly intended to bite into the minefields blocking free approaches to Kamino and Rothana and move forward slowly. In Pellaeon's opinion, its armor and anti-aircraft artillery were only for absorbing as many enemy mines as possible and ensuring a safe zone for the rest of the fleet's emergence from hyperspace. It seemed Thrawn intended to send it ahead to protect the Guardian or the Chimaera from unnecessary damage.
Bur-II looked far more extensively modified. Its old engines had been replaced with relatively new ones, some interior compartments had been altered, and thus the ship had clearly become a little faster. It also had additional armor and exclusively anti-aircraft artillery, but numerous mechanical and magnetic grapples were visible on the hull. It seemed the second ship was to act as a carrier for small craft or TIE-drones, to further thin the enemy minefield.
Bur-III, however, was the most interesting in terms of modifications. Hull reinforcement and artillery were no different from its sister ships, but its numerous antennas and projectors made it look more like one of the Project Asteroid objects.
"It looks excellent, Captain," Thrawn nodded approvingly to Pellaeon. "Everything looks as it should. Mr. Ghent, Captain Tschel," the Supreme Commander addressed the pair patiently waiting for his words. "You may continue the test as soon as you are ready."
"We've been ready for a long time, sir!" Tschel reported.
"No, not ready," the blue-haired Ghent said indifferently. "Still need some time. The technicians are having some problems calibrating the cloaking fields on one of the ships.
"One of the ships?" Pellaeon wondered silently but said nothing aloud. Did all three Bur-ships have cloaking devices? But then why wasn't it obvious on the first two?
He held his breath, expecting a reprimand from Thrawn for this pair of beings. The work on Project Bur had been going on for quite a while. First in orbit of Trogan, protected by orbital platforms and a planetary garrison. Then, for some reason, all three ships were moved to a point in interplanetary space, access to which was strictly limited by interdictor cruisers and their escort. Any starship except specific ones appearing in this area, lying far beyond the hyperlanes or logistics traffic in this part of the galaxy—well, the measures were severe. Not only was the final work site secret, but not every Dominion ship could even get here.
Well... if the cloaking was indeed installed far from the prying eyes of enemy intelligence, the security measures were more than justified. Especially considering the latest report from the commander of the Project Bur security group. Over a dozen starships had been destroyed by patrols, despite their crews' assurances that they were 'just lost.' Those who truly got here by accident don't try to flee from a patrol inspection. Quite logically, those attempting to escape were destroyed.
Grand Admiral Thrawn had placed the highest priority on the secrecy of Project Bur, so any moral qualms or sentimentality were simply out of place here. All possible measures had been taken to prevent accidents here. Therefore, those killed by patrol fire had only themselves, or those who sent them and whom they tried to contact before their deaths, to blame. Unfortunately for them, that didn't work, as the Sentinel, leading the escort group, was extremely zealous about anyone trying to use long-range communications. The crew of that ship had extensive experience in suppressing enemy communication systems. And since that was the case, it was no wonder Thrawn had sent them here.
The expected remark from the Grand Admiral never came.
"Temporary difficulties are inevitable," he said calmly. "What do we know about the Galactic Alliance's preparations to strike Makem Te?"
"Intelligence reports that the fleet will be commanded by General Rahm Kota," Tierce reported. "Judging by the number of ships ready to depart, they intend, if not to conquer Makem Te, then certainly to deprive us of our raider base and link with the rest of the galaxy."
Thrawn nodded again: "As expected, they intend to attack while the raiders are on operations."
"Perhaps they want to catch them returning to base and take advantage of the malfunctioning HoloNet systems?" Pellaeon suggested.
"Not just the raiders," said the Grand Admiral. "They are hunting one of their own, aren't they, Lieutenant Colonel?"
"Correct, sir."
"Do we know his current location?"
"We are tracking the Millennium Falcon's movements, but have no significant results yet."
"Has an analysis of its movements been performed?"
"Yes, sir. It is searching for information about our raiders. A transfer base where they can hide from patrols without returning to Makem Te," the Lieutenant Colonel reported.
"I see," Thrawn's gaze sharpened. "Quite constructive of him. So he hasn't fallen into madness. Good. We'll play along with him a little earlier than planned. Continue monitoring, Lieutenant Colonel."
"It will be done, sir."
Pellaeon found his superior's musings too abstract from the current situation. It was all logical and interesting, but they hadn't gathered here for nothing, had they? Tschel and Ghent appeared next to Pellaeon.
"They are ready, sir," said the Captain.
Thrawn returned his gaze to the heavy cruiser, now hovering near the forward tip of the Star Dreadnought.
"Are the mechanisms functioning, Mr. Pent?"
"Well... yes..."
The Slicer's confidence still wasn't there.
"Let us proceed with the demonstration, gentlemen," the Grand Admiral announced. "Activate the cloaking field. Set the Guardian's scanners to maximum sensitivity."
"Yes, sir!" Pellaeon relayed the command to the watch officers and received immediate confirmation of its execution.
The heavy cruiser on the other side of the viewport...
...remained exactly as before.
Thrawn's eyes devoured the ship.
Pellaeon glanced sideways at Tschel, who appeared outwardly calm.
Then he turned his gaze to Ghent.
The Slicer stood there, chewing his lip and nervously fidgeting with his personal datapad.
Tierce reacted to the proceedings with stoic composure.
The Grand Admiral stepped aside and began studying a command display.
Then he looked back through the viewport and, finally, turned to Tschel with a satisfied smile.
"Excellent, Captain. Project Drill is functioning as planned. I congratulate you, Mr. Ghent, and your technicians."
"Thank you, sir," Tschel said, visibly relaxing.
"Mmm... thank you," Ghent repeated, just as uncertainly. "Well... what's next? Can I finally go back to Ciutric and work on the HoloNet-Dominion systems before my clones mess something up there that I won't be able to figure out myself?"
The Grand Admiral's expression didn't flicker for an instant.
But with some sixth sense, the Guardian's commander sensed that Thrawn clearly had no intention of letting the Slicer go so easily.
"Not yet, Mr. Ghent," he said. "You're going with Captain Tschel. Operation Breach and Infiltration requires your direct participation."
The blue-haired man sighed deeply and mournfully.
He rolled his eyes, clearly mulling over how he might say everything he wanted to about yet another assignment.
But he stayed silent.
And Pellaeon kept trying to understand how Drill-2 — which had no cloaking field projectors registered — could have vanished.
Why had the Grand Admiral been so certain the test would succeed?
The ancestral estate of House Tion was stunning in its magnificence.
Built in the highlands, defended better than many Imperial military bases.
Orbital bombardment — even if it got through the shield, which was a local variant of the planetary one — was useless.
The rock strata, inside which this luxurious splendor sat, were far too thick.
Dozens of laser and turbolaser cannon barrels, missile launchers, anti-air gunner posts with handheld rocket systems.
Automatic blaster cannons working in conjunction with scanners scattered along the path of any fool who decided to storm this citadel by climbing the sheer cliffs.
Guarded by the finest fighters, utterly loyal to the House, incorruptible, brave...
Trained by the best instructors in the galaxy that money could buy.
Armed with the best weapons available on the galaxy's black market.
Who knew exactly how to turn every corner of the estate into a fortified defensive position that couldn't be pried loose even with heavy assault gear.
Ober Admiral Eduard Woodstock stepped over the corpse of one such defender, showing respect for the fallen and not soiling his boots on his innards.
The high-cheekboned face of the native Tionite wore a look of mortal terror, frozen in the last moments of his life.
No matter how highly they thought of themselves, only an Imperial stormtrooper could meet his death without emotion.
But these people...
Eduard looked at the faces of the slain enemy soldiers and saw simple human emotions that fit the situation.
Fear.
Panic.
Terror.
Smeared with blood, soot, covered with streaks of tears and sweat, mutilated and disfigured...
All of them had frozen as a death mask along the path of the Ober Admiral, who was heading toward the holy of holies — the "master" zone.
Behind him walked Marek Stele, the Emperor's Hand, and by extension — an ace pilot of tan rank, one of the few virtuosos of piloting who had ensured today's triumph.
With the grace of a dancer, the lethal danger of a taung, the ruthlessness of a rancor, he had brought the wrath of his flying machine down on the defensive structures of Lord Bonteri's residence.
And then, after the entire mountain began to resemble an awakening volcano, with smoke from an imminent eruption promising lava flows, volcanic bombs, a sea of fear, death, and destruction, the stormtroopers went into action.
His eyes blurred with the multitude of white armor from the fallen stormtroopers who had done exactly what was needed.
They had paved the way to where his — Eduard's — vengeance, sanctioned by the Emperor himself, would be carried out.
The doorway leading to Lord Bonteri's bedroom had been blasted out along with part of the wall, and his experienced eye caught the traces of a directed explosion.
Stepping over the threshold, guarded by a squad of stormtroopers, Eduard and his companion found themselves in a lavishly appointed bedroom.
Carved panels on the walls, frames of countless mirrors and paintings made of precious metals, inlaid with precious stones, each of which could easily be compared in price to the latest civilian technology for shamelessly wealthy aristocrats.
By the most conservative estimates, the number of large precious stones was so great that they could have bought a small fleet of heavy cruisers.
Eduard ignored the huge bed, drenched in the blood of a dozen of Lord Bonteri's lovers and, by extension, bodyguards, who lay right there, cut down by Imperial special forces.
He wasn't bothered by the mountains of cash piled in a corner, next to a carved chest of drawers made of dark wroshyr.
And even the antique set of furniture, dating back almost to the time of the Ruusan Reformation, which, according to rumor, had stood in the field headquarters of the Sith army's commander (Stele had told him about it), didn't interest Woodstock.
But the Emperor's Hand was clearly intrigued by what he saw, examining these objects while the Ober Admiral reached the luxurious leather armchair in which the master of the estate himself sat, legs crossed.
Completely naked, except for a house robe worth the price of a Corellian corvette, decorated with some intricate script, Lars Bonteri contemplatively puffed on a cigar, spreading aromatic smoke around him, releasing it now and then in the direction of the Imperial special forces guarding his aristocratic body.
"Rear Admiral Woodstock," Bonteri's voice seemed unnaturally aged, commanding, and alien. "Kindly explain..."
Eduard obliged.
In the most accessible way possible.
When the house slippers with curled-up toes flew upward, accompanying the trajectory of his flight onto his back along with the chair, Woodstock could have sworn the special forces soldiers barely restrained themselves from applauding their commander's respect-worthy uppercut.
"Hmph," came a grumble from behind him — Stele's voice. "And this box of manuscripts is clearly from the third level. Records preserved by Darth Gin from her mad teacher..."
A grunt was heard, and from behind the overturned chair emerged a somewhat disoriented Bonteri.
Swaying, he sat on the edge of the chair, calmly taking a drag from the cigar miraculously still in his hands.
"Not bad," he assessed, showing Eduard the black gaps alternating with the remnants of his snow-white smile. "Is that the whole explanation, Rear Admiral Woodstock?"
With a second blow, Eduard broke the aristocrat's jaw and dropped him to the floor of expensive marble.
* * *
For several minutes, he couldn't stop himself, landing kicks wherever they landed, completely disregarding areas of impact and not controlling his actions.
Just blind rage.
A long-held desire for revenge, multiplied by the long-awaited permission to strangle the bastard with his own hands.
Sounds reached him as if he were wearing a helmet with external sensors disabled.
However, he felt something touch his shoulder.
The rage subsided.
The Ober Admiral stared at the last representative of the conspirators who had destroyed his family, now reduced to a piece of meat.
Lying in a pool of blood, with clearly broken ribs and a left arm he'd tried to defend himself with, the man clumsily pushed himself up with his right hand and sat up, shifting his weight to the healthy limb.
His bloody face glared at him with spite.
"These are expensive cigars, Rear Admiral," Bonteri said, barely moving his mangled lips and deformed jaw. It took him three tries to get the message across.
Then, pushing off the floor with his right hand, he deftly grabbed the cigar that had fallen from his mouth during the beating and returned it to his lips, nearly falling onto the floor, which was shiny from polish and his own blood.
Eduard was momentarily stunned, watching Bonteri calmly puff on his cigar, despite the bloody foam on his lips and the deformed ribcage that clearly indicated punctured lungs.
"I just need a few minutes, Ober Admiral," Stele said to Woodstock, removing his hand from the officer's shoulder.
The moment he did, the rage that had faded returned, flooding his consciousness.
Only his loyalty to duty and to the Emperor, whose Hand this famous hero was, kept the commander from snapping again.
"So, so, so," Lars said, barely articulate, but somehow Eduard understood him. "So the admiral isn't in charge here."
"You're wrong," Stele squatted down unceremoniously, looking into the eyes of the admiral's wrath victim. "He is in charge here. Right where you tried to build your little fiefdom of betrayal right under my nose..."
"Under his nose?" Eduard marveled, feeling the aura of command radiating from the tan literally drowning the flames of his rage in its cold. "What in the world is going on here?"
"These are all dirty slanders!" Bonteri protested. "I would never have dared to do such a thing! I am loyal to..."
"Only to yourself," the roaring blood in the Ober Admiral's ears subsided, like a hurricane losing its strength. "Or did you think I was too busy to notice your antics?"
"I acted according to the plan, my lo..." Bonteri fell silent after Stele slapped him. "I don't understand, I..."
"Is that so?" Marek snorted irritably, wiping his bloody hand on a small clean patch of the robe's hem. "Then maybe you'll tell me about the tailor who made these clothes for you?"
"They were a gift to me..."
"A worthy token of appreciation," Stele chuckled briefly. "Have you ever heard the tragedy of Darth Plagueis?"
"My lo..." Bonteri caught himself, then continued fawning. "Of course! He was a worthy Sith..."
"I killed him because he was weak and relied too much on his own arrogance," the Emperor's Hand revealed. "But what he couldn't be denied was his skill at manipulating his puppets. He often gave gifts to those he used. As a demonstration of gratitude for services rendered. Which raises a question for me."
"Of course, I'll answer..."
"And where would you go?" Marek said with a smile. "So, tell me, my cunning, devious traitor, for what services did that despicable alien shower you with such gifts? And where did he get them, can you tell me? I'd very much like to pay a visit there and take what's mine."
"Yours?" Bonteri's mangled face expressed complete incomprehension. "I... I don't understand! It was all given to me by a merchant to secure my loyalty..."
"Oh, loyalty," Stele repeated in a mock-kindly tone. "Well then... Perhaps you'd like to tell me about the reasons you invested several million credits into Trogan's economy? Makem Te's? Columus's? I won't even mention all the planets you sent your people to with money, where it settled, weaving into the economies of worlds and sectors that — surprise! — later fell under Thrawn's control. I'm sure you have a suitable explanation, don't you?"
"Of course! I was monitoring him, figuring out the reasons for his interest in the trees on Ithor, the grain crops on Agamar..."
"And on Trogan, he apparently decided to help the locals with their plans to create tourist zones?" Marek inquired in an oily voice.
"But I reported..."
"Yes," Stele nodded. "I read your notes. And for a while, I even found them worthy of my attention. As were your plans for working with the northern and eastern sectors of the galaxy. And then extremely strange things started happening, don't you think?"
"I... Obviously, my agents weren't quick enough to uncover his secret agreements with the local government!"
"So you lost your edge?" Stele's voice turned so icy, the temperature in the bedroom seemed to drop. "Started relying on incompetent people?"
"No, of course not!"
"Then how can you explain that Bonteri's money was funding future members of the Dominion? How do you justify that art objects from my personal collection were given away to those who could provide Thrawn with military, financial, or intelligence support? What do you have to say in your defense regarding the destruction of the Ubiqtorate? How did the best of the best, whom you personally lured into your service, turn out to be so incompetent that they were slaughtered like cattle in an abattoir by pitiful rebels who trumpet it at every turn? Or do you have an explanation for the fact that Thrawn, who took over the poorest and most criminal sectors of the Empire, suddenly had the money to buy fifty-three legions on Carida, leaving Ambassador Furgan part of my collection to boot? Just like he left you some, I might add."
"My lord, I don't understand, this is some kind of mistake!" Bonteri began to wail. "I... I can clearly see this is an operation to discredit me. Pellaeon must have started to suspect..."
"Gilad Pellaeon is incapable of ordering an attack unless prompted," Stele declared. "Absolutely led, spineless, born only to lick boots with his tongue, and ended up in the fleet only because of his past merits. And stayed there due to the shortsightedness of Vader and other traitors. No, you haven't convinced me. Want to try again?"
"We should attack them! Capture Pellaeon and..."
A resounding slap nearly twisted Bonteri's head around his Tionite spine.
"So that's your advice," Stele smiled the way a rancor smiles during a fearsome roar. "Spend my forces, which are preparing for a counterstrike against the rebels, so they get bogged down in the Dominion's defenses? Are you suggesting I stick my head in the noose Thrawn was preparing?"
"My lord! I had nothing to do with it! I don't know where he got the money..."
"Thrawn didn't have the money to maintain his fleet," Stele cut Bonteri off. "He was too proud to serve on a leash and broke free. The alien fancied himself equal to humans. And he ran from one Imperial to another, using MY FLEET as mercenaries for some paltry hundreds of millions of credits! No one has enough money to maintain a fleet, prepare such a defense using MY VALUABLES AND SECRETS, and support an economy! Not to mention that Thrawn or Pellaeon somehow managed to find the trail of a Grand Army of the Republic weapons depot that only you and Devian knew about! Devian is dead; the Dominion is either using the equipment or selling it. But even then, those funds wouldn't have been enough for what's happening now. Hundreds of Star Destroyers are storming sectors from the Hydian Way to the Perlemian Trade Route! Did you think you could lie to my face, traitor, claiming your 'intelligence games' weren't veiled cash transfers to support Thrawn? Or are you going to give me the story now that the Chiss found some treasure? Maybe 'Sa Nalaor'? Or the treasures of Xim the Despot? The lost Sith dreadnoughts full of ore?"
"My lord, I am not guilty of what happened..."
"You're wrong," Stele said with disgust, standing up and stepping back, not letting Bonteri kiss the toes of his boots. "You, Furgan, the 'Hell's Hammers'... You're all traitors. You're cunning enough to use my resources to create your own little Empire under the guise of fighting my enemies. I even know why you, a lover of other people's treasure troves, chose the Corporate Sector and the Tion Cluster for yourself. I know everything about you... I bet you already envisioned yourself pushing me off the throne and taking it, you mad, pathetic old man?"
"My throne?" Woodstock marveled once more, as if he'd been forgotten entirely. "Oh, Great Tion, could this really be the Emperor himself?"
"Why are you silent, you pathetic imitation of a Sith?" Stele inquired. "Where are your fiery, insightful, and power-laden speeches about how you'll crush the rebels and destroy crime in the galaxy? Where are your assurances that Thrawn shouldn't be interfered with while he distracts the rebels from my preparations with his actions? Or," Marek grabbed Bonteri by the chin, crushing his bones with his inhuman grip, "did you decide I had grown weak? That I didn't understand you were playing underhanded games for yourself? That you were just playing the victim, using the Dominion to destroy Tyber Zann's forces that were disloyal to you? Or did you think I wouldn't find out about your intention to form an alliance with Organa Solo to conquer the Tion Cluster with rebel hands? Were you hoping I'd keep waiting until you found Roganda and her bastard who could restore what's mine? Maybe you thought I'd forgotten that you yourself are a master of mechu-deru?"
Pushing the now-silent Bonteri away with disgust, Stele didn't even try to wipe the blood from his hand.
"My lord, please, believe me — it's all the machinations of Thrawn and Pellaeon," Bonteri babbled.
"Thrawn is dead," Stele declared. "And the one who gutted that arrogant alien is now on the verge of turning to the Dark Side. Pellaeon is a completely useless sentient. The more I study what Iceheart dug up on you, the more I ask myself: how did Thrawn, whom I was forced to hide from the political intrigues of the Palace, turn out to be such a virtuoso manipulator, a master of long-term combinations, as you are, Cronal? Isn't it because you are that very schemer who whispered in his blue ear, just as you do for Zann? And when your puppet was broken by a lightsaber, you took Pellaeon under your wing? And now, with your tales of dire straits, you intend to redirect my forces to fight the Dominion, while you continue to lead my dim-witted minions by the nose? No, Cronal! You are exposed! You will no longer be allowed to live! Every one of your puppets will be destroyed!"
"My lord! But that's exactly what Pellaeon wants!" Bonteri howled desperately in a voice not his own, his eyes bloodshot. "He's pitting you against me to split the Empire..."
"The Empire is me!" Bonteri slowly rose into the air, as if a characteristic hand gesture from Marek had activated some invisible tackle from which the former ruler of the Tion Hegemony with his exorbitant ambitions was suspended. "And I, as you can see, am indivisible."
"My lord," Bonteri rasped. "I am telling the truth. The Dominion is playing strange games. They... They are manipulating all of us! Whoever is doing this — I had nothing to do with it!"
"Is that so?" Stele grinned. "Then in that case, you will carry out my will, won't you, Cronal?"
"Why does he keep calling Bonteri that?" Woodstock thought frantically. "Maybe... because if the Emperor controls the tan, then Bonteri is Cronal's puppet?"
"Anything, my lord!" the bleeding mountain of meat rasped, wincing from the pain and the contraction of dying nerve endings. "I serve you faithfully..."
"Exactly," Marek Stele laughed, clenching his fingers into a fist, causing Bonteri's body to begin shriveling. "You weren't trying to build your own Empire when you thought I had died at the hands of the traitor Vader, were you?"
"It was a mistake, my lord! I wanted to save..."
With a crunch and a squelch, Bonteri's leg tore from his body, exploding in a spray of blood.
Eduard felt droplets hit his face.
He looked at Stele, who was drenched from head to toe in Bonteri's blood, gushing from the ragged wound.
"What pressure," the tan wiped the blood from his face with his other hand. "You can tell the master's control over the puppet. You feel all his suffering, don't you, Cronal?"
"Y-yes, my lord!"
"Excellent."
The second leg separated from the body next, and a huge pool of hot blood spread beneath the mutilated torso.
"You have only one chance, Cronal," the Emperor warned through Marek Stele's lips, his tone threatening. "Prove to me that you're not behind the Dominion, and then I'll let you live."
"Whatever it takes, my lord!"
"I never doubted it," the tan snorted. "Destroy the Dominion. Immediately. Deliver blows that will bleed them dry, then burn their worlds! Without mercy! Without delay — the way Blackhole used to do it!"
"My lord, but my forces..."
"Your forces?" the Emperor inquired in a gracious tone.
"I misspoke, my master..."
The next moment, Eduard barely had time to close his eyes as streams of blood from the human body, compressed into a small ball with bones crunching and breaking, drenched him from his feet to his head.
With a juicy thud, like a wet rag, the remains of the ruler of the Tion Hegemony collapsed to the floor.
"Remember, Ober Admiral," the blood-covered tan said, addressing him. "I only keep useful people close. Those who don't know their limits — die. By the cruelest forms of execution."
"Yes, my lord, I understand."
"You had better not test my patience," the Emperor advised, looking at Eduard with pitch-black eyes. "Unlike Cronal's, your mind won't be limited to a stroke when I turn it into something like that. Even one warning will be your last."
Marek Stele pointed at the bloody ball of flesh, then headed for the exit.
"Take care of the witnesses, Ober Admiral," the Emperor threw over his shoulder without looking back and disappeared from sight.
Woodstock, who had seen thousands of types of death and corpses in the most unnatural states over his decades-long career...
...had just been turned inside out.
Not so much by what he had seen, but by the understanding that he would have to eliminate the remnants of the legion that had stormed the estate.
What he had witnessed left no doubt: he needed to cover his tracks to avoid receiving a warning from the Emperor.
The Guardian was in jump, its elongated dagger-shaped hull hurtling toward Makem Te.
I, meanwhile, started playing Corellian music and immersed myself in studying the reports.
Much has to be kept under personal control.
Not because my subordinates are incompetent.
No.
Each of them is a reasonably competent sentient, placed into the state apparatus exactly where they belong.
But that doesn't change the fact that the situation must be assessed personally.
What distinguishes a commander from a chief?
A question our political officer often asked during my conscription.
Unfortunately, our youthful and maximalist assumptions were not correct.
"A commander leads his subordinates; a chief issues stupid orders while sitting in a cozy spot."
Later, in the navy, I heard another version of the same saying, where "commander" and "chief" were replaced with "admiral" and "general" respectively.
Not explicitly, but competition between different branches of the armed forces always has been, is, and will be.
As long as the budget can be pulled toward oneself, taking away new developments from the "dirty infantry" this will continue.
In the Dominion, this is fought, of course — enmity within the armed forces is equated to a deliberate violation of orders, which is the greatest of military sins.
But problems aren't solved with a snap of the fingers.
Only through careful analysis, lengthy examination of all the components of the problem, and comprehensive eradication of causes and conditions.
As one "figure" said: "The main thing is to start, then expand and deepen," which in its meaning implied a rather sensible thought.
Any task must be implemented according to a carefully thought-out plan, and if necessary, when unaccounted critical factors are identified, change tactics in favor of a wider scope of problems.
It's a pity that sometimes wise sayings and their deep meaning are interpreted incorrectly on the ground.
Which leads to a misunderstanding of the tasks assigned to the implementers.
As the military saying goes: "If an order can be misinterpreted, it will be misinterpreted."
All military codes are built on this, their lines written in the blood of soldiers.
In the Dominion, this is somewhat simpler than in my past world.
Ideology exists, and it won't go anywhere.
The power hierarchy is built extremely clearly, with military simplicity, so no confusion occurs.
Each department has its own tasks and authorities, which are communicated to the population through open government broadcasting on telecommunication networks, legal education lessons, and so on.
Yes, ruling an illiterate people would be much easier.
But that won't work.
Not in a reality where even the simplest repulsor cannot be repaired without at least some idea of what you're dealing with.
I reviewed the data on proposals for optimizing the specializations of ground and fleet formations.
If in the civilian sector we put things in order, providing an efficient and minimally bureaucratized system in which bodies don't have overlapping authorities and tasks, then the military path, ironic as it sounds, appeared the least organized.
The cobbler, as everyone knows, is always barefoot.
I made several notes on the existing proposals, striking some, adding to others, but left most unchanged.
Then I moved on to studying a number of bills.
A modern soldier is not an ordinary peasant with a sharpened stick, whose only task is to run, shout, and execute the simple command "Short — stab!"
They are a sentient with certain knowledge, trained in the use of deadly technologies.
Therefore, it is quite logical that I approved Moff Ferrus's bill on the circulation of lethal weapons within the Dominion.
If a sentient has received special training in the armed forces, law enforcement, or other security structures, for what purpose should he go through a weapons handling course on the same basis as civilians who have never been in "boot camp"?
Right — no reason.
And for such sentients, there should be no gradation as for "non-serving" civilians, who initially are only permitted non-lethal self-defense weapons, and after a certain time are granted access to combat weapons.
Otherwise, it would be absurd.
Absolutely any sentient living in the Dominion who has reached the age of sixteen standard years can receive military training.
* * *
And if so, then by around seventeen, according to military training standards, he will be perfectly familiar with non-lethal and lethal small arms.
Developing this issue, one need only think: what is the logic in first training a sentient in warfare and killing other sentients, and then, when he is a civilian, forbidding him from using the knowledge he spent half his life acquiring?
That is, we can issue a blaster to a seventeen-year-old sentient for garrison service, but as soon as he finishes his service in the Defense Forces, he has to wait until twenty-one to get a permit for a stunner?
This is as fair as forbidding a fighter pilot from driving a speeder because he doesn't have the appropriate driver's license.
This would be funny, but roughly such laws were left to us "as an inheritance from the Empire."
Ironic.
That is, the pilot has the necessary qualifications to fly, bomb, and kill, but not to pilot his own vehicle?
Same with weapons.
Since the Dominion is a militarized state living by clear military laws, it should treat its active and retired military accordingly.
Forcing a military person to undergo "civilian" certifications and relearn what he mastered over years of service is to devalue that part of his life that was devoted to defending the state.
Laws should be observed, but within reasonable limits.
War in this galaxy never ends.
And it's better to enter global and local conflicts with a reliable and satisfied rear, a civilian population that, if necessary, can support the army, the navy, or join the Defense Forces to defend state interests, than to put everything on the shoulders of clones and allow the population to fatten in peace and quiet, criticizing the military from their proverbial "sofa."
Reviewing the bills took a considerable amount of time.
By ship time, "night" had fallen, and I had only dealt with civilian matters.
Putting the military matters aside, I freshened up, including "rebooting" my mind with strength training, and after refreshing myself, returned to work.
The second phase of the counteroffensive continues, and consequently, we are moving forward exactly on schedule.
Several sectors have already been captured, and their rebel armed forces destroyed.
Msst, Tesme...
Not the largest, but at the same time — important.
We are creating a direct hyperlane running through Dominion territory, providing us not only with increasing demands for asteroids but also securing shipments of hybidium, needed for a significant number of projects.
Speaking of hybidium.
Vice Admiral Dorja's report is interesting.
A secret laboratory of Trauten Teradoc has been discovered, containing both scientific and military personnel.
The laboratory was studying hybidium, fortunately the system where the base is located was in the same sector as Garos IV.
Furthermore, they worked in the field of advanced weaponry.
Small arms, primarily.
Purification and filtration of tibanna, reducing its consumption, increasing energy efficiency, lowering the cost per shot while increasing power.
The scientific personnel are largely "coerced," meaning they were simply kidnapped and forced to work for Teradoc.
Loyalty and voluntary cooperation from them are not to be expected — at least in the near future.
But the results of their work...
The project to stabilize and improve artificial tibanna seems quite promising.
Yes, artificial tibanna exists in the galaxy.
It is cheaper than natural tibanna, but has inferior qualities.
The Mon Calamari, and now the Alliance, widely use it in their weaponry due to a shortage of natural tibanna supplies.
Teradoc was in the same problematic situation and, instead of spending money, he set about solving the quality problem.
Any war has an economic "echo" in the market economy characteristic of this galaxy.
The more sentients fight, the greater the demand for weapon consumables.
Tibanna is one of them.
Price tags for this substance have multiplied since the start of my campaign last year, and the actions of the Imperial Remnants this year have driven even wholesale prices to incredible heights.
We had a significant stockpile of tibanna — I foresaw such a turn of events, and therefore diverted the transports from Bespin.
Our storage facilities can supply gas to thousands of warships and million-strong armies of shooters.
For a year.
Maybe a year and a half.
While Grand Moff Kaine was alive, in exchange for allowing his trucks through our territory, we received tibanna and other useful goods, technologies, and cargo in return.
Now that is impossible.
Buying tibanna at prices ten times above pre-war levels is unwise and ruinous.
However, we still acquire it — through smugglers and the front companies of Captain Hoffner, whose clones operate disguised as traders throughout the galaxy.
Organizing more raids on manufacturers and suppliers is extremely burdensome, given the military campaign.
On the other hand, the Alliance continues to supply its factions that are strangling Imperial Space.
Including, their ships transport both natural and artificial tibanna to their bases.
Considering that we need to lure Galen Marek's clone out of Alliance territory toward Kamino, the "planting evidence" plan can be supplemented with raiding for tibanna.
I'll note that thought.
Until now, to create an even larger stockpile of tibanna (which is necessary given the increase in armed forces), I planned to launch a raiding strike on one of the planets producing tibanna.
Now, we can step away from the traditional "false flag" operation and solve the strategic raw material supply problem differently.
In the long term.
However, first it's worth studying Teradoc's scientists' report and seeing if we can use their developments for our own purposes.
This galaxy is entirely and completely governed by a market economy, and consequently, a supplier of weapons and equipment can trade scarce goods to one warring side as well as the other.
There are no allies among traders.
Whoever pays more gets what they need.
Teradoc did not have large reserves of money when he was pressed from all sides.
He switched to using low-quality artificial tibanna, which, according to the specialists' notes, has a red tint.
Curious.
I had come across information before about the color grading of energy weapons depending on the purity of the resource gas.
Green is the purest.
The Empire used it only for ships, leaving the cheapest tibanna for ground forces, since a soldier's protection on the battlefield is not as strong as a Star Destroyer's hull.
We also used whatever was available at first, but then, given access to quality raw materials, we switched over.
This improved the performance of ground forces.
But it also increased tibanna consumption.
Hmm... according to the reports, the scientists managed to make significant progress in filtering and enriching artificial tibanna through various technical treatments and additional additives.
I looked at the date of the report.
It was compiled just under a month ago.
The quality of the resulting tibanna doesn't even come close to the level of the "green" variety.
Slightly better than "red," but the production cost is much higher.
The project was terminated due to its economic unprofitability.
Let's note that fact.
My point of view is that a young state can purchase some technologies and equipment from abroad.
But this cannot continue for long.
If you buy machines, you become dependent on the machine manufacturer.
If he decides to stop supplying you with units or maintenance personnel, problems arise.
Complete sovereignty and independence from other states in all spheres of life is also unattainable.
Isolation is a path to degradation and weakening.
But ensuring complete sovereignty in equipping the armed forces, industry, and ideally all significant sectors of society is necessary.
Vitally necessary.
And therefore the Dominion strives to produce equipment for its own needs independently.
We have spent large sums, and have even more to pay for acquiring patents for the production of certain technologies, units, products, and so on, but this allows us to produce them without regard to possible legal or other claims.
Currently, for example, negotiations are underway to acquire from Kuat Drive Yards, through intermediaries, a number of patents for seemingly outdated starships whose production ended shortly after the Clone Wars.
Yes, it's unlikely that we will build them from the same blueprints — better to refine them based on operation and improve them.
Small craft and a number of significant technologies are provided to us by patents on all technologies developed by the Sienar and Santhe families.
In fact, we are the Sienar corporation in everything related to space technology production.
The Chiloon Rift is still in the study stage, but even now we can say for sure that the asteroids filled with low-quality fuel from the Peragus system are no longer needed for our engines.
But they are welcome guests in the projects under the general name "Asteroid," through which we protect our borders.
As for the fuel we extract in the Chiloon Rift, it may be slightly worse than what is bought on the black market, but at the same time — it is ours.
And our starships won't stop in the middle of the galaxy with "empty tanks" because the supplier stopped transporting reactor propellant or liquid fuel for a number of Small craft.
Artificial tibanna...
We are checking all leads on natural tibanna deposits in the conquered territories, but successes so far are small.
But if we can obtain sufficiently high-quality artificial tibanna, even if more expensive than the pre-war rate, then we can with a clear conscience not begrudge "throwing shells away for nothing."
Given the enemy's dependence on the same resources as we ourselves, a rather interesting operational combination could be achieved with a stock market attack on purchase rates.
And the more money the enemy spends on buying necessities, the less he has left.
The less money a state has, the less it spends in the civilian sector.
It's nice when your economy is based on the real production sector, for the export trade of which you receive real aurodium, not credit chips or bank transfers that can easily turn to nothing at the whim of banks.
Artificial tibanna...
A promising project.
Let's note that thought.
And now to more pressing matters...