Ten years, fifth month, and tenth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, fifth month, and tenth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year, one month, and twenty-fifth day since the Arrival.)
The Illisurevimurasi sector, relative to Dominion territories, was located along the eastern border of the Quimar sector.
To the north, its territories abutted the Zppi sector, and to the south — the borders of the Nembas sector.
The name is rather ornate and hard to pronounce, so it was almost always shortened to the colloquial "I-sector."
I-sector.
Running through it was the Listerhol Path, a regional hyperroute parallel to the territories of the Corporate Sector, leading to the Shaliti Tunnels, which give access to the "southern" entrance into territories controlled by the Zann Consortium.
The Empire installed as sector moff a man known as Bliss Shagrael.
He was nothing special, a typical bureaucrat and bribe-taker, ruling through fear.
Not that it was necessary to keep the I-sector in line, since various organized crime groups had not been seen here for quite some time.
Yes, there was some territorial disobedience, sometimes even rebels raised their heads here, but nothing that local sector command couldn't handle.
Soon after Endor, the sector fleet partly fled in an unknown direction, partly submitted to Dominator Zsinj.
Most of the ships were lost one way or another in internal battles after the dominator's death.
But nonetheless, the I-sector under Moff Shagrael's control was a supporter of the Zann Consortium.
No, they did not send slaves to his armies.
And did not supply technology.
Raw materials — yes, but that is the fate of any sectors under someone's control and having something on their territory that can be used.
And here, oddly enough, the I-sector had many interesting places that first caught the Empire's attention, then Dominator Zsinj's, and after him, the criminal scavengers.
The planet Serpaine, for example, was a well-known world in this part of the galaxy, famous for its gaming palaces, providing a decent income to the criminal treasury.
The oceanic planet Camus IV is rich in sea creatures, fairly easy to catch and edible enough to be included in the diet of army units and the civilian population in general.
The world known as Lubang Minor was almost entirely covered in jungles containing valuable species of wood and plants that would be useful to the Dominion as well.
Planet Ferro...
Actually, it, like its entire star system, had been considered uninhabited for some time.
And so Dominion scouts, checking the worlds, were quite surprised when they discovered on the planets a rather closed society of Ferroans, who showed no desire for contact with the outside world, and in principle seemed to show no aggression, but at the same time did not seek contact with representatives of the state in which they would soon live.
Well, let the diplomats handle that.
Commodore Kalian faced a completely different task, which he performed almost brilliantly.
The key reason the previous owners of the sector clung to it so tightly lay in the planet Oldivi.
In orbit of which was stationed the Star Destroyer Steel Aurora, accompanied by five other such Victories, modernized under the "Trio" project.
Oldivi and Tula are the last planets that need to be conquered for the I-sector to be considered under Dominion control.
On the planet Tula, there was once a command post of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, where the leaders of the local armed forces and the moff himself now resided.
Their fate is already decided; it won't be long until the corresponding report is received.
Oldivi, however...
The history of this world is quite interesting, but practically indistinguishable from the chronicles of many worlds in this part of the galaxy.
Discovered by the Galactic Republic about three thousand years ago, this world currently had a population close to a hundred million sentients, engaged in almost a single type of activity and its related industries.
Up until the Clone Wars, Oldivi was a member of the Galactic Republic, but at the height of the Separatist Crisis, it joined the Confederacy of Independent Systems.
And the reason here is not at all that the population or their government turned out to be such idealists.
Simply put, the activity of Oldivi's population directly depended on various trade conglomerates that handled the supply of their products to galactic markets.
And so, having little choice, the Oldivians followed into the bosom of the CIS, following the Trade Federation.
For this, they were severely punished and burdened with such sanctions and fines that they effectively lost any profit from their activities.
When the Empire began to fall apart, and Dominator Zsinj took control of the sector, he instantly suppressed any attempts by the planet to declare independence.
Admiral Trigit, Zsinj's subordinate, destroyed the city of New-Oldtown, thereby frightening the peaceful inhabitants so much that they finally lost any initiative.
Later, this allowed the Zann Consortium to take the planet and its production under control.
And thus they solved the biggest issue of maintaining numerous armed forces.
The importance of Oldivi is explained very simply.
All one hundred million inhabitants of the huge planet with a mild climate were involved in food production.
Animal husbandry, agribusiness, production of all possible types of food that can be consumed by humanoids — all of this was grown, processed, harvested, manufactured, and even packaged on Oldivi by the local population.
This planet, if it had dozens of satellites, could compete with Ukio in the east of the galaxy.
But its capacities were insufficient to expand beyond the nearest sectors, as it was in the times of the Galactic Republic, and therefore the Oldivians were forced to remain hostages to the situation and their rash decision thirty years ago.
All of this flashed through Commodore Kalian's mind as the doors to the conference room swung open from the opposite side and a tall man entered, accompanied by his secretary.
"Director," Kalian greeted the head of the Lachani Products company, which effectively governed the planet.
"Commodore," the man replied reservedly, taking a seat at the negotiation table. "Your ships are still in orbit around Oldivi."
"Of course," the formation commander did not deny it.
And it would be foolish to do so — the Star Destroyers and escort ships, not to mention the transports, are visible to the naked eye from almost any point on the surface.
"It was assumed, as a gesture of goodwill, you would move your ships farther away," the director grumbled.
"As a gesture of goodwill," Kalian countered calmly, "we arrived in your sector, in your system, attacked and disabled ten Fire Star-class orbital platforms, landed troops, routed enemy units, and liberated your people. But if you have no objection to my ships ceasing their towing operations to prevent those stations from crashing into the planet's surface, by all means, I'll give the order. However, I must ask you to announce this through the central broadcast network first, so the population knows whom to thank for the hailstorm of fire from the sky, the partial destruction of infrastructure, and the massive civilian casualties..."
"Please," the Director raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I didn't know it was that serious..."
"How interesting," Commodore Kalian smirked, looking the Director straight in the eye. "Because that was the very first thing you were warned about the moment the planet was liberated. And we did it even before we presented you with the proposal to join the Dominion."
"Yes, yes," the other man faltered. "I forgot..."
"More like trying to probe me for weakness", the Commodore thought.
Unfortunately, he was no seasoned negotiator, but with the sheer number of operations being conducted, formation commanders had to fill that role as well.
Kalian buried the self-doubt gnawing at him during negotiations, choosing to operate in this agreement the same way he did in battle.
Where you're confident — strike.
Where you doubt — scout.
Where you're doomed — retreat.
Simple tenets.
Too bad they didn't always work.
But in this case, Kalian was absolutely certain that the people of Oldivi, even if they tried to renegotiate the terms of the proposed treaty, would accept it on the Dominion's conditions.
"We've studied the documents you provided," the Director announced. "And... I must note right away that the people of my world are pacifists..."
"Now they are."
"That was accounted for by Grand Moff Ferrus's apparatus when drafting the documents delivered to you."
"Yes, that's exactly what I wanted to say..." the Director hesitated. "The Dominion intends to become one of the owners of my company, acquiring a controlling stake. That's... brazen."
Kalian almost snorted in surprise.
"Didn't know you were a comedian," I said.
"I'm not joking, Commodore."
Ah, so that's how it is.
"Is that so?" the officer nodded. "In that case, let me inform you that this is standard practice for enterprises of strategic importance to the state. And food, as you understand, is a necessity. So there's nothing brazen about it. The Dominion liberated you, and now your enterprise doesn't produce goods and raw materials only to have them shipped out without you seeing a profit. On the contrary — the Dominion guarantees that its membership among your company's auction bidders will secure Oldivi as the purchaser of at least half your products. And the rest, believe me, won't sit in warehouses long within our state. The Dominion's population is substantial and currently expanding. We bet on Agamar, but even it has had to admit it can't keep up. Oldivi and its people have received some of the most favorable terms of any Dominion member planet. Half your harvest in lieu of taxes and military conscription is, believe me, a small price for security. And utterly trivial considering you'll gain a real, solvent market the size of dozens of sectors, with billions — no, hundreds of billions of consumers. You'll be able to sell your products to them at market prices. Not to mention that precisely because of the Dominion's membership among your auction bidders, you can count on any possible assistance from the state. And regarding protection and preventing any future episodes where you'd have to work your own fields as slaves — I'll wisely remain silent."
"Does Agamar have the same terms?" the Director inquired.
"Of course."
At first, Kalian couldn't grasp the reason for this interest, but then it clicked, and he mentally called himself an idiot.
Of course.
Agricultural worlds Agamar and Oldivi were essentially competitors, meaning they'd have to operate to extract maximum profit from retail or wholesale trade in the civilian economic sector.
Kalian smirked inwardly.
Agamar's monopoly as the largest food supplier was becoming a thing of the past.
And the Dominion would not permit corporate collusion between these planets by any possible means.
Simply because, in truth, it would be far easier for the state to subordinate these enterprises directly and control food policy themselves.
Yet that wasn't done.
For some reason.
Perhaps because existing legislation provided for business confiscation in cases of corporate monopolistic collusion?
And no matter how greedy the biggest players in various markets might be, it was far safer for them and their businesses to operate according to the stated rules than to lose their property and become subjects of investigation.
One thing was certain — law enforcement in the Dominion was merciless when it came to fighting crime.
The businessmen from Agamar had already felt that firsthand when they tried to unreasonably jack up wholesale prices several times over.
And they probably wouldn't have heard a word about it.
If only they hadn't justified it with the high cost of logistics.
Logistics that the Dominion provided for them.
There was no scandal.
The Dominion simply quietly sent the management of Agamar's enterprises under investigation and increased its own stake in the business to sixty percent, shaking up the corporation from top to bottom.
But after that, no more dirty games in the food market were on the horizon.
Because Agamar's enterprises were now headed by Dominion administrators, and the old officials were about to be publicly executed.
The Director, who also served as the ruler of the planet Oldivi, was silent for several seconds.
Then he nodded affirmatively and signed the treaty.
"But... will we be permitted to engage in food exports outside the Dominion over time?"
"In time — yes," Kalian confirmed. "But first, you'll need to meet all the needs of the Dominion's residents and citizens, and only then — think about foreign exports."
The Director nodded in agreement.
His only alternative was a complete loss of control over the planet and its industry.
Logically, he chose the most profitable course of events for his world.
The right decision.
* * *
The mountains of Iotia on the planet Tila seemed never-ending.
Massive cliffs, from which wind, sand, and the harsh local star had weathered all signs of life, flowed from one ridge into another, forming a single mountain complex.
Some of their peaks were easily visible from orbit.
The mountains of Iotia.
Quite strange and atypical for desert planets to have open bodies of water, uncontaminated and unpoisoned by exposed minerals.
And there were even jungles of coniferous forests here, sometimes bordering deserts and mountains.
It was in such a place that the facility designated by reconnaissance as "Tila Command" was located.
Here, the planetary governors who had fled the I-sector planets, answering to the puppet "Zann Consortium" and Moff Shargael, had taken refuge.
Protected by massive cliffs and ground-based weaponry, alongside their bodyguards and private armies, they hoped to sit this out while the rest of the sector burned.
Without support from their command, having lost their fleet, destroyed by Commodore Kalian's ships, they fancied themselves safe here.
Well, of course.
Underground warehouses full of supplies.
Comfortable quarters set up for long-term habitation, a state-of-the-art security system...
"The day architects and designers think to protect ventilation shafts, we'll be out of a job," Captain Makeno muttered, pulling his combat knife from the throat of the guard he'd just killed.
Carefully laying the mercenary's body on the floor, he double-checked that the corridor was clear.
Only then did he order his men to exit the ventilation shaft.
It had been a tough slog: a hundred-kilometer forced march from their Raider-III's landing site to this complex.
Then an ascent through the mountain range, cautious movement toward the ventilation shafts.
And finally, familiar work.
This complex had already weathered one assault.
About eight months after the Battle of Yavin, Imperial forces were investigating possible Rebel activity on the planet and discovered the underground base in the Iotia mountains.
However, when they entered the abandoned facility, the stormtroopers triggered a booby trap, killing many Imperial soldiers.
The mission was eventually completed, of course — the enemy base was cleared of everyone inside.
But by that point, the Rebels had already fled and established themselves on the well-known planet Hoth.
And here, with the Empire's collapse, Moff Shargael had set up his secret refuge.
Naval special forces, the vanguard of the Dominion's invasion forces, intended to give Moff a lecture regarding his carelessness.
Probably — with a blaster bolt delivered to the chest cavity or skull bones.
But that would be decided later.
The special forces moved forward.
At one of the junctions, a patrol of three Weequay mercenaries appeared in a line.
The spec-ops troopers learned of the enemy's approach well in advance.
Setting their blasters aside, five operators switched to hand-to-hand and knife-fighting tactics.
Even specialized blasters could be heard here due to the echo in the enclosed spaces.
And the operators weren't keen on announcing their arrival prematurely.
Orsan surprised the nearest enemy with a punch to the throat, then, not giving him time to recover (tough bastard!), swept his leg, dropping the opponent to the floor.
He didn't finish him — another operative did, twisting his head counterclockwise.
Orsan managed to grab the second Weequay's hands before he could draw his weapon from its holster.
Twisting his wrist at a painful angle, the captain smashed his knee with a kick, slashed a blade black as the night itself across his throat to prevent a scream.
With his next strike, the operator drove the cold weapon into the Weequay's chin, twisting it to maximize brain damage.
Contrary to popular belief, the enemy did have one.
Because the third opponent still managed to grab his comlink to report the intruders.
A precisely thrown knife into his hand crippled it, and a second to the throat silenced him.
"Ten minutes until the assault," Orsan's deputy reminded him.
Exactly ten minutes from now, the Victory-III-class Star Destroyer Nexus Smile would appear in orbit.
Aboard, troops would arrive to strike the shelter by the book of ground assault.
And to ensure those "Kavil's Corsairs" didn't end up dead before they even landed, the naval special forces were acting preemptively.
They had a base layout, but it had been drawn up by the Imperials, and Orsan had obtained it from the Ubiqtorate archives.
There was a high probability the complex had been remodeled, but no one would have moved the main reactor.
The grotto one level down was simply too perfect a location for it.
Shoving the bodies into a nearby storage closet, the operators continued following their plan.
Three in the forward team, two covering the rear.
Five black "shock troopers," on whom it depended whether the Nexus Smile's crew would be surprised by functional anti-space defense systems and power on the facility.
The operators encountered the next patrol near the turbolifts.
Six guards this time.
Chatting loudly among themselves, they guarded the only access to the reactor grotto.
However, on the same level were also Moff Shargael's quarters, where he was holed up.
And there was only one way in here.
Straight, wide, and impossible for a stealth attack.
Except the map showed a narrow fissure in the rocks here, since access to the reactor grotto also existed from the opposite side of the complex — through a guarded landing pad where the Moff's personal shuttle was kept at ready.
That was obviously how reactor parts were delivered.
But attacking the same way was stupid.
The presence of rapid-fire laser turrets and turbolasers killed any desire for foolish heroics.
So...
If alarm was raised here, the Moff would either flee, or...
No, seriously, what else could he do?
Of course, the Raider III's crew would shoot down Shargael's ship, but the spec-ops didn't want to take that risk.
"Smeared" sector-level rulers were valuable prizes.
If counterintelligence got even a drop of additional information from them — that was already good.
So charging straight in and assaulting this six-man position wasn't necessary.
That plan was reserved as a last resort.
Gunfire would start, and someone would definitely raise the alarm.
And Orsan and his men didn't have time today to fight a couple hundred thugs.
"Hold this," the captain took off his helmet, then handed his blaster rifle and some additional gear to his subordinate. "Get ready to repel an attack."
"Roger," the deputy positioned the operators on either side of the corridor so they could attack the enemy from both sides. "No noise or gunfire, Commander?"
"Right on the money," Orsan kept only his cold weapons, which he'd come to love after the Dominion replaced standard issue combat vibroknives with their obsidian counterparts.
The black material had an incredibly sharp edge and easily penetrated even human or other bones.
Armor wasn't much of an obstacle for it either.
With a sigh, Makeno pulled a small cylinder of black coloring substance from his belt — cosmetic for applying combat face paint, needed to camouflage his face and exposed body parts when necessary.
After painting his face and making several prominent black marks on his leg and arm, he abruptly twisted his body, pretending to be lame.
Only then did he casually step around the corner, within sight of the enemy position.
"Hey!" he called out to the six, drawing their attention. "What are you lounging around here for? May your daddy turn out to be a Hutt!"
"Who the hell are you?" the mercenaries gawked at the "cripple" moving toward them, who had already covered half the five-meter distance from the corridor corner to their position. "What are you doing here?"
"Why are you limping?"
"What, you have no idea what's going on?" Makeno feigned pain and irritation, demonstratively hissing from supposed agony. "Some weird fighters attacked me in the corridor! I was shooting back! Why didn't anyone come to help me?"
"What fighters?" the mercenary squad leader panicked.
"How should I know?" Orsan grumbled, moving another half meter closer. "Wiped out our patrol like blind whelps! Killed all of them with some strange knives..."
"You and you," the mercenary leader jabbed his fingers at the two nearest soldiers. "With me, now. You," he focused on another fighter, "stay in charge. Raise the alarm."
The last words were said already on the run, as he and the other two men reached the corridor corner.
Orsan sighed and mentally allocated his targets.
He'd been hoping for fewer enemies, but what could he do if they were so slow on the uptake?
"Buddy, what kind of knives did they have?" the first Weequay asked him, while the second squinted, studying Makeno.
The third was trying to pull a comlink from his awkward uniform.
"Knives like these," the captain drew both obsidian blades from the sheaths on his back.
"Assault armor!" the second one shrieked, realizing that Orsan's armor, identical in color but different in appearance from their own, couldn't belong to mercenaries.
But it was too late.
The first dagger pierced the third enemy's eye — the one who never got to use his emergency comlink.
Simultaneously, Makeno drove his elbow into the first opponent's face, stunning him for a moment.
Orsan's second combat knife found its mark, slashing the second Weequay's throat.
The first one, recovering, reached for his weapon, but Makeno's fist broke his nose — which only enraged the enemy.
Abandoning his attempt to grab the blaster, he pulled a thin metal stiletto from his vambrace and stabbed.
"Are you serious?" Makeno scoffed, intercepting the weapon, breaking the enemy's wrist, and claiming the trophy while dodging a punch aimed at his temple.
Crouching, he placed the opponent's arm on his shoulder, flipped him over his back, and delivered a finishing blow with the stiletto through his eye straight into the brain.
Confirming all his opponents were down, the captain looked at the operators approaching him.
"Did you stop for caf or something?" he demanded.
"Well, three enemies, hand-to-hand..." one of the subordinates started to explain.
The captain gestured at the bodies around him.
"And what do you think I was doing? Rescuing an Alderaanian princess?"
"Yeah," the deputy muttered awkwardly. "That was clumsy."
"Let's move," Makeno retrieved his weapons and "bucket," and the five operators entered the turbolift.
No passwords, no identifiers.
They reached the lower level safely.
The moment the doors opened, the spec-ops team exhaled and stopped holding back from justified gunfire.
A kick to the stomach sent the Weequay standing facing them flying from the cabin.
The deputy shot the adjacent guard; someone "controlled" the downed soldier.
Two targets nearby — in two opposite little corridors from the turbolift arrival zone.
"Three — that way," Orsan gestured toward the generator. "Leave a 'present' in the cabin."
He himself, along with one operator, quickly rushed toward the traitor Moff's quarters.
But he noticed and mentally logged the deployment of magnetic anti-personnel mines in the cabin.
Only a few seconds had passed since the shooting in the arrival zone, so the guards at the Moff's quarters entrance hadn't had time to react to the appearance of two black-armored fighters.
After all, their uniforms were the same color.
Two aimed shots — two Weequay bodies with holes in their heads hit the floor.
The operators vaulted over the corpses, bursting into the Moff's reception area.
This used to be a rest area for workers servicing the reactor unit.
The Moff had set up here because it was the closest point to his precious ship.
An elbow to the first enemy's jaw; lean back so the operator could finish him.
A short burst — and a second Weequay slid down the wall.
Nearby, the operator's blaster hummed quietly — a pair of opponents didn't make it to the furniture for cover and dropped a meter short.
But Makeno was past caring about that.
He reached a wall, to the right of which a corridor led to the deeper quarters.
Blaster fire greeted him from there.
Ripping a thermal detonator from his belt, ducking behind the wall corner, the captain lobbed the grenade.
"Detonator!"
A shrill voice was cut off by the explosion.
A roll, two shots — and Orsan finished off the surviving wounded.
A shot at the control panel, and the door slid open automatically.
He rolled aside from the line of fire, taking cover behind an expensive-looking guest sofa.
Extending his arm, he fired in the direction of the shooter.
Naturally, he missed, but that wasn't the point.
He was just drawing attention — the precise shot was taken by the operator who entered behind him.
Soldiers appearing from a doorway at the opposite end of the room raised their weapons.
"The reactor is done," the deputy reported. "Working in the turbolift arrival zone. Reported to the Destroyer — they're in orbit."
Orsan glanced at his HUD — two minutes until the scheduled time.
The Nexus Smile had arrived ahead of schedule.
Hutt show-offs!
In the next moment, the operators activated night vision mode in their helmets.
The opponents, meanwhile, were left alone in the dark with their nightmares.
Short bursts — and five enemy soldiers, having tried to fire blindly, lay motionless on the floor.
"Forward!" Orsan commanded.
They cleared the next two rooms without any issues.
Only a distant explosion announced that the turbolift was destroyed — the deputy's group would control the shaft for as long as the mission required.
An enemy lunged from around a corner; Orsan headbutted him in the face, throwing him to the floor.
He raised his weapon and put an end to the confrontation.
As they approached the landing pad, someone tried to shoot at them — thermal detonators flew back in response.
Entering the landing grotto, Orsan swore as he saw an Imperial Lambda shuttle sliding toward the exit on its anti-grav cushion.
Scanning the area, he let out a triumphant shout and lunged toward one of the crates.
A PLX-1 missile launcher came to life in his hands.
The rocket burst from the tube, hissing with a barely visible exhaust trail, racing toward the ship's engines.
The smart munition struck the shuttle's underside, knocking out the anti-gravs and forcing the Lambda to scrape its belly across the rocky surface.
The shuttle, which had already emerged into the open — a natural launch pad — began spreading its side panels, rising on reserve anti-gravs...
"Dammit!" Orsan grumbled, sending a second round.
The engines on the Lambda's rear exploded, throwing the ship forward, but then died.
A second later, the landing gear deployed, giving the starship stability on the stone table.
Releasing a puff of gas, the ship lowered its boarding ramp, from which bodies in black armor leaped out.
Orsan and his operator, switching off night vision, burst out of the landing grotto, firing, cutting down enemy guards and fighters with blaster fire.
And there were clearly a lot of them...
Too many for two fighters!
Playing hero here was pointless.
Together with his subordinate, Orsan took positions on either side of the landing grotto exit, continuing to pick off enemy soldiers.
"Palpatine's face!" Orsan cursed as he saw about fifteen fighters, realizing where the fire was coming from, form a wall around the pudgy Moff and start moving him away from the now useless ship. "Where the hell are our guys?! Are we supposed to win a war here by ourselves?"
As if in answer to his question, laser beams struck from the sky, instantly sobering the enemy.
With the characteristic roar of engines, cutting off the enemy's path into the coniferous jungle and further into the rocky gorge, two snow-white Lambda shuttles descended onto the landing pad.
Except, unlike the one Makeno had shot down, these transport shuttles bore nothing resembling the faded black "gear" of the Galactic Empire.
"Oh, come on?" Orsan snapped, seeing the Dominion ships cutting off his men's retreat with their fire. "Palpatine hasn't even poked his head out of the Core yet, and you're already here?"
The timer on his visor indicated the Dominion ships had arrived seven minutes after the operation's deadline had expired.
Meaning the object had been completely de-powered for nine minutes already, and the destroyer's crew knew it.
And it was only a three-minute descent from orbit!
"Incompetents!" the special forces captain characterized his regular counterparts, killing several soldiers who had rushed toward the safety of a cave with a dagger-like burst of fire.
A minute later, it was all over.
On one side — the inhumanly accurate special forces.
On the other — the Lambda shuttle and two squads of mercenaries from Kavil's Corsairs.
The moff's bodyguards simply dropped their weapons, realizing resistance was futile.
Orsan was there almost instantly, knocking the blaster out of Moff Shagrael's hands.
Two slaps across his fleshy cheeks to get his attention.
"So this is what a bastard moff looks like," Makeno chuckled from under his helmet, not without satisfaction, tightening the plastic restraints on the prisoner's wrists.
The Assault on Tila Command.
* * *
To avoid making the Galactic Alliance any more nervous than usual, we had to reach Makem Te via roundabout regional hyperspace routes.
But there was another reason for that, too.
Stopping in orbit of the scarcely explored and practically forgotten planet Singia in the Sertar sector meant far more than a simple desire to train our gunners by shooting at stunned pirates and smugglers.
A dozen converted freighters, a Nebulon-B frigate, a pair of Corellian corvettes, and several heavily reworked and modified ships that defied identification.
Every single one — not exactly "first-freshness."
That didn't stop them from being targets for my flagship, though.
From the command chair on the bridge of a Star Destroyer, you get a perfectly informative view of the proceedings.
The transparisteel viewport possessed a number of useful features, like polarization to protect the eyes from bright flashes and explosions, or a zoom function that allowed you to visually observe enemy ships thousands of kilometers away as if they were only ten standard units distant.
Military equipment — what else is there to say?
The enemy couldn't boast such luxuries.
Nor proximity to the system's entry-exit vector, which the multi-kilometer bulk of our ship blocked for them.
The Guardian, dropped right on their heads, asked no questions on the airwaves and set no conditions.
It annihilated.
The enemy attacked immediately.
The bow of the Super Star Destroyer was subjected to a barrage that was more hysterical than accurate.
The mighty ship's armor absorbed the streams of destructive energy without even suffering damage.
"Sir, what are your orders?" Captain Pellaeon inquired, appearing beside me.
"Destroy them," I replied calmly. "If possible, take the frigate and corvettes as prizes."
"Consider it done, sir!"
The radiation on the hull subsided, and then a transparent energy field enveloped the ship from bow to stern.
Subsequent volleys failed to reach the ship's hull, helplessly splashing across the deflectors.
The frigate, as the most combat-capable vessel, attacked the Guardian from the right, while the freighters clustered behind its stern.
The corvettes and unidentified starships joined the attack, but from the port side.
A fairly quick reaction to an unexpected enemy.
High speed of mobilization and deployment of countermeasures — unusual for a heterogeneous group.
Conclusion?
"They're a unified group," Captain Pellaeon stated.
"Correct," I agreed. "Activate the jamming system. Cut off their communication with each other."
"Aye, sir."
Pellaeon's gunners targeted the first corvette, the ship that was "leading" the group for the initial pass.
Warning systems screamed — enemy launchers were targeting us.
Unpleasant.
Not lethal, but it implied the possibility of taking damage before the planned battle at Makem Te.
"Countermeasures!" Pellaeon commanded, sharply and clearly. "Barrage fire on that corvette with heavy turbolasers! Batteries sixteen through twenty! Launchers one through fifty — salvo of homing anti-ship missiles! Tractor beam operators, stand by! Grab both corvettes as they retreat! Ion cannons — stand ready! Hit them immediately after capture!"
Unlike Gilad, this clone was quite proactive.
He didn't wait for orders.
He acted according to the situation.
Seems like that talk about a "path of his own," independent of his predecessor's activities.
The corvette's crew wasn't prepared for such a response from the Guardian.
Heavy turbolasers punched through the bow deflector shields and burned long black streaks into the armor.
The ship seemed to hit a wall, jerked sideways, began to maneuver, but simultaneously found itself in an invisible trap.
At that same moment, white-blue ion cannon battery shots hit it.
The corvette's crew decided to continue the attack with the first group of unidentified ships.
Good try.
We might have feared for our ship's fate from a massive strike by proton torpedo carriers.
But we're not Imperials at the Battle of Thyferra.
The laser cannons met the crimson projectiles with green beams, burning through space with lightning speed.
For a moment, our gunners' work made the Guardian's side look like a hedgehog bristling with laser needles.
Then the missiles struck.
The unidentified ships, realizing they hadn't managed to draw our attention away from the mauled Corellian corvette after their deadly projectiles drowned in a sea of fire, began to pull back from the energy artillery's barrage.
The Guardian spat out anti-ship missiles.
Cigar-shaped metal projectiles, like a swarm of angry fireflies, surged forward to demand satisfaction.
Not one missed.
Thirteen ships of indeterminate class in the first group and ten in the second, rushing to their aid, turned into flaming debris through which the second corvette maneuvered.
It didn't make it.
Three missiles hit it in the forward section, tearing open the ship's barrel-shaped bow.
Losing control and steering, the ship began to spin.
"Third station!" Pellaeon called to his subordinates. "Stay awake! Intercept target number two!"
I continued watching the stricken ship.
Small debris and bodies were sucked out through the holes along with the superheated air, peeling back part of the hull plating like a blooming rose.
The starship tumbled uncontrollably, dangerously closing with the Guardian's side, threatening kinetic damage.
But when only two or three units remained, the ship jerked, as if caught by the tail.
It spun along its axis, but the grip didn't weaken.
"Third station reporting!" a young voice sounded from behind. "Ship intercepted. Holding with three beams."
"Ion batteries — fire!" Pellaeon ordered. "Suppress the target and disable it!"
"Aye, sir!" The senior gunner was calm, collected, and never stopped issuing instructions to his gunners over the internal comm.
The gunners manning the ion cannons on the endangered side concentrated fire on the stern and upper deck, practically stripping the ship of its remaining deflectors in an instant.
On the second salvo, the battered starship went quiet and still, and then, following Pellaeon's order, the tractor beam operators — like a spider dragging its prey into its burrow — guided the ship toward the main hangar.
And right behind it, their first target — a perfectly intact Corellian-design corvette.
Well, we were done on this flank.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side, passions were flaring just as intensely as those I'd just witnessed.
An ion-turbolaser salvo, following the missile barrage, licked the Nebulon-B from stem to stern.
The starship, already stripped of its deflector shields, emerged from the cloud of missile detonation fire, its hull blackened and riddled with holes.
Another salvo, and the escort frigate — once a warship with a brave but foolish crew — became a drifting dead hulk trailing a wake of molten metal debris.
"Boarding parties, prepare!" Pellaeon commanded, addressing General Cain, who was stationed modestly nearby.
The commander of the 501st Legion gave a short nod of acknowledgment and immediately began issuing orders to his subordinates.
The escort frigate, though dying, still tried to bite back.
Its remaining few guns, despite being unable to cause the Guardian any real harm, kept firing until three consecutive volleys engulfed the ship in ion fire.
The armed freighters following it desperately pounded the Star Destroyer's shields with laser and turbolaser cannons, rapidly increasing the intensity of fire on one deflector sector.
In the projection for that sector sat a turbolaser battery whose explosion could cause significant damage to the giant's hull and internal compartments.
But Pellaeon understood that too.
The Guardian's launchers released a cloud of missiles toward the enemy starships.
For a moment, it seemed the glowing exhaust nozzles of our ordnance's rocket engines were distant stars — unreachable and, for the most part, unknown to thinking beings.
But that brief moment ended.
The starships' hulls, even reinforced, couldn't withstand the assault.
A second after the anti-ship missiles struck their lawful targets, the hulls gave way, and the freighters turned into piles of metal.
A quick reconnaissance — no combat-capable enemy remained in the vicinity.
The corvettes were being hauled onto the Guardian's flight deck, which even the standing fighter patrols hadn't left.
The 501st Legion's soldiers were already storming those starships with considerable brusqueness.
The mangled escort frigate was caught by tractor beams and was approaching the Guardian's side.
Numerous breaches in the structural framework were visible — the ship was practically breaking in half.
What a pity — it could have been a valuable acquisition for our future battle.
Then again, not everything is a sarlacc that Jabba the Hutt's gang falls into, easily and tastily digested.
Sometimes a Boba Fett ends up in its stomach — someone who's supposedly been digested, but leaves a bad taste anyway.
Five assault shuttles launched toward the ship to deliver boarding parties to the escort frigate.
Given the loss of hull integrity, it would be quite difficult, but the 501st Legion could handle even that.
"You didn't use the screening corvettes or the air wing," I remarked, drawing Pellaeon's attention to the two dozen Crusader-IIs positioned in the Guardian's rear hemisphere.
They, like our pilots, hadn't fired a single shot at the enemy — there was no order.
And there was no danger to the Guardian that would have allowed those ships' commanders to take the initiative and decide to engage, as military regulations prescribe.
"Yes, sir."
"Reason?"
"Training the crew to operate without screening support," the Guardian's commander explained.
"However, we do have it," I noted, solely to gauge his reaction.
"Yes, sir, but until now, ships of this class have died when left without support," Pellaeon explained. "The Guardian is, of course, more powerful and stronger than they are. But today the crew got a considerable shake-up, something they haven't had for quite some time. So we can consider that by the time we arrive at Makem Te, they'll be quite cautious and ready for surprises."
A sound decision.
You can't rely solely on support for all aspects of defense — otherwise, we wouldn't have equipped our ships with laser cannons and rapid-fire weapons.
"Sir, shuttle three-seven-two requests permission to launch," the watch officer appeared beside Pellaeon and me.
"Permission granted," I said, catching the Guardian commander's questioning look.
So, our team tasked with tracking Cronal was departing to rendezvous with the fleet operating in the neighboring Chorian sector, tasked with the final destruction of the Zaishirran Slave Empire.
An unremarkable freighter, carrying concealed weaponry on par with some corvette, emerged from beneath the Super Star Destroyer and headed for the jump vector to the Chorian sector.
"Jaden Korr is staying with the Protector Sabre De'Luz?" I clarified, figuring that after the Shadow Guard's departure, not many gifted individuals remained on board the flagship.
"Yes, sir. Master Windu asked him to keep an eye on his apprentice for a while," Pellaeon confirmed.
Is that so.
"And what was the Protector's reaction?" I inquired, aware of the actions of Fodeum's two apprentices.
Pellaeon averted his gaze.
"He agreed, sir," the Guardian's commander replied hesitantly. "After Windu said the Protector was sufficiently ready for the Korunnai himself to teach him some seventh style of swordsmanship."
Is that so — take two.
"I take it that before this promise, the Protector's decision was different?"
"Yes, sir. Opposite in meaning."
"And in content?"
"From words that were permissible, there were only prepositions."
Interesting...
And I thought Saarai-kaar's son enjoyed teaching.
File that thought away.