Nine years, nine months, and seven days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, nine months, and seven days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and twenty-seven days since the incident.)
Cautious footsteps echoed behind him.
— Admiral, — the Mon Calamari swiveled his chair to face the speaker. — The primary hyperdrive has failed. The system has switched to the auxiliary.
— Meaning we won't reach Coruscant anytime soon, — Admiral Ackbar said with a tinge of sorrow.
— Yes, sir, — the chief engineer reported. Lowering his voice so only the commander could hear, he added:
— Sir… I haven't told anyone else, but *Home One* is literally falling apart. We're patching holes, repairing what we can, but systems are failing one after another.
— My people build reliable starships, — the Mon Calamari remarked.
— Yes, sir, I know, — the engineer confirmed. — But for some reason, this is happening. I still don't understand why the primary hyperdrive shut down. We should have dropped into realspace, yet…
— The backup engaged, — Gial Ackbar glanced toward the main viewport. — The automated navigation control system doesn't account for that, does it?
— It never has, sir, — the chief engineer assured him. — That's only possible with manual intervention. But we have no information on what's happening in the engine or navigation compartments. Decompression and rising radiation levels simply prevent us from accessing them.
— This is peculiar, — Admiral Ackbar stated.
"Peculiar" was merely an approximation of the events unfolding aboard *Home One* since their escape from the ambush orchestrated by Grand Admiral Thrawn.
Less than a day after that incident, systemic decompressions began occurring in the ship's aft section.
The damaged stern continued to deteriorate, deck by deck, compartment by compartment.
Repair teams, dispatched to restore the hull, had worked tirelessly over the past days to patch the breaches and address the issues.
But nothing helped.
Yesterday at noon, shipboard time, a section of the reactor compartment's hull was torn away, and everyone inside perished, sucked into the vacuum. The breach was so massive that restoring the compartment's integrity was unthinkable.
Then, the navigation deck suffered a similar fate.
The damage to the aft section grew daily. The number of breaches, coupled with failures in communication and control systems, reached a critical peak. The two hundred fifty sentients still aboard had lost all morale. Defeatist sentiments permeated the air, compounding the already oppressive atmosphere aboard the New Republic's storied starship.
And now, the mysterious failure of the primary hyperdrive…
The chief engineer hadn't shared this malfunction with anyone else for a reason.
The crew was on edge.
Currently, *Home One* was a mere day's flight from Coruscant, but this new issue delayed their journey by several days.
— A highly unusual technical failure, — Admiral Ackbar declared.
— It's all unusual, sir, — the chief engineer agreed. — I've been in many battles, but consequences like these… I've never seen anything like it. What concerns me more is that, due to hyperspace radiation in the decompressed compartments, I can't send repair crews to investigate—they'd be cooked alive.
— Even in high-protection suits? — Ackbar clarified.
— Those are designed for open-space work, sir, — the engineer shook his head. — Only half-meter-thick durasteel, like our armor plating, could block hyperspace radiation. But I can't imagine how to shield repair crews with it while still allowing them to work without dying.
— We must preserve our soldiers and specialists, — Admiral Ackbar stated. — We will reach Coruscant.
— Yes, sir, — the chief engineer replied, though his voice lacked confidence.
— That question we'll address later, — Ackbar promised. — First, we must reach Coruscant.
After a moment's thought, he added:
— Select personnel among your team who are skilled in repairing emergency evacuation systems. If the ship continues to deteriorate during flight, we need every option to evacuate at least some of the crew.
— It will be done, Admiral, — the chief engineer responded, but his tone conveyed little assurance.
***
Approaching the doors to Grand Admiral Thrawn's quarters, Captain Pellaeon silently nodded to the two guards stationed at their post.
Clad in red-and-blue armor, the sentries showed no reaction as he touched the control panel for the outer door and stepped into the airlock. They were unperturbed even by the fact that the commander of the Star Destroyer was softly whistling a tune.
Pausing before the second door, which led to the commander's quarters, Gilad waited with a sly smile.
The Grand Admiral's bodyguard was undoubtedly nearby, likely preparing to engage in his perennial game of hide-and-seek upon Gilad's return to the *Chimaera*.
Closing his eyes, Pellaeon awaited the inevitable.
The game of "Find Me" with Rukh had long become a ritual, a trial Captain Pellaeon had to endure before entering the Grand Admiral's quarters.
At first, Gilad pretended it wasn't happening at all, as if he didn't notice Rukh's antics.
That didn't work.
Then, Pellaeon grew irritated that Thrawn permitted these games.
That had no effect either.
Next, Gilad began bargaining with himself, contemplating ways to rid himself of the bothersome Noghri.
But he concluded he couldn't do so and justify to the Grand Admiral why his flagship's bodyguard was found with injuries incompatible with life. Nor could he devise a way to pass off a Noghri's multiply fractured body as an accident. Luring Rukh into the engine compartment and vaporizing him was tempting but unfeasible.
Unable to stop the games, Gilad fell into a brief period of despondency, burying himself in work.
Today, however, after several days aboard the *Guardian*, in a different atmosphere and focused on matters unrelated to shortening the bodyguard's lifespan, the captain had devised a solution.
If Rukh wanted to play hide-and-seek, let him play.
The *Guardian*'s technicians had crafted something special for the ship's commander. Something very special.
Rukh would surely appreciate it.
— Captain, — a sepulchral voice mewed.
Gilad kept his hands crossed over his chest, making it easy to press a tiny button through his uniform's sleeve.
— I missed you too, Rukh, — Pellaeon assured him. — So, you won't open the door until you've had your fun?
— This isn't a game, — the Noghri mewed, this time from the right. — I've told you—it's training. The Grand Admiral has a visitor. You must wait.
The last sentence came from above.
— Very well, we'll wait, — Gilad replied.
— Giving up so easily? — the voice came from behind.
— Want me to entertain you with my attempts to find you? — Gilad asked.
— Training is constant, — the Noghri reminded him, now speaking from the left.
Swift little pest.
— As you say, — Pellaeon said evenly, removing his cap and pretending to scratch the back of his head.
He tightly shut his eyes, pressed his forehead against the bulkhead, and hunched his shoulders.
— Are you praying to your gods, Capta-a-a…? — Rukh's taunt cut off as a blindingly powerful light source, borrowed from an engineering lantern, flooded the darkness to which the Noghri was accustomed with stark white light.
The power source lasted only a few seconds, as the *Guardian*'s technicians had promised.
Though colored spots danced before his eyes, Gilad spotted his prey.
The gray-skinned creature crouched in the far-right corner, frantically rubbing his eyes with both hands.
Grinning predatorily, as if hearing the posthumous applause of Wilhuff Tarkin, Gilad approached Rukh.
An obsidian blade flashed in the Noghri's hand, slicing through the air before Gilad.
Pellaeon, still smiling sardonically, recalled the hand-to-hand combat techniques he'd learned at the academy.
Delivering a solid kick to the bodyguard's backside, the captain triumphantly raised his hands, even tossing his cap into the air.
Rukh hissed furiously, still recovering.
He'd clearly realized no attack on Thrawn was planned.
The obsidian blade spun like black lightning in his hand…
Gilad eagerly clenched his right hand into a fist…
The blade returned to its sheath…
The fist shot forward like a spring toward the bodyguard's face…
— Ouch-sh-sh-sh! — Rukh whimpered softly, rubbing his nose where Pellaeon had landed a sharp flick.
Initially, Gilad had intended a full punch but realized it would only lead to a fight—one the Noghri would undoubtedly win. So, he settled for a smaller victory.
— You're so predictable, Rukh, — Gilad mocked, mimicking the bodyguard's own words. Turning toward the now-open inner airlock door, he locked eyes with a young officer exiting Thrawn's quarters.
Surprisingly, he recognized him immediately.
— Commander Dobramu, — he nodded to the polished youth with a contemptuous smile.
— *Captain* Dobramu, — the officer replied crisply, almost pretentiously, brushing imaginary dust from the new rank insignia on his uniform. — I have matters to attend to, Captain Pellaeon.
And the upstart left.
He'd emphasized Gilad's rank, implying that this youngster, now equal in rank, was mocking the gray-haired commander of the *Chimaera*? The subtext was clear: *What a failure you are, Gilad.*
— You may enter, Captain, — Rukh said calmly, his voice now coming from Pellaeon's left. The pest had recovered. — This training was beneficial.
— Anytime, — Gilad advised. — I've got plenty more tricks.
— I'll be waiting, — Rukh's voice carried genuine interest.
Choosing not to dwell on it, Gilad stepped into the quarters.
As expected, the room was filled with holograms.
But for some reason, these weren't works of art.
Today's "exhibition" displayed holograms of tanker starships, which Commander… no, *Captain* Dobramu had delivered to the Dominion.
— Enter, Captain, — Thrawn invited, as his guest, stunned by the sight, paused in the doorway. — What news?
— Operational-tactical units are moving into position, — Gilad reported, watching as a holographic galaxy map, marked with tactical notations, joined the tanker images. — Your fleet is also prepared for the operation.
— Thank you for the report, — Thrawn gestured to red dots—targets for the upcoming counterstrike. To Gilad's mind, there were more markers than he'd been informed of. — Additional targets, — Thrawn explained in a teacherly tone. — What do you think of Captain Dobramu?
What could he think of a true Imperial? Arrogant, boastful, xenophobic?
— A promising officer, — Pellaeon said reservedly. — He secured our fleet bacta reserves for months. I ran into him in the airlock—his joy at the promotion was palpable.
More accurately: *It's burning his heels.*
— Undoubtedly, — Thrawn agreed, nodding faintly. Pellaeon noticed the Grand Admiral's uniform lacked epaulets, standard for Imperial regulations. Instead, two curved aurodium plates adorned his collarbones. — Especially considering the tanker capture wasn't his achievement.
Pellaeon regarded the Grand Admiral with interest.
Of course, only a fool in the Dominion would believe a boy could capture an entire convoy on a single cruiser, destroying its escort fleet.
Dobramu had merely located the ships, intercepting their distress signal—as he'd honestly admitted.
— Rewarding prudent initiative, — Pellaeon remarked, alluding to the xenophobe's promotion.
— Don't read too much into it, — Thrawn replied. — Captain's bars are a mere necessity. Dobramu and his kind must be dealt with.
This was highly unusual, out of character, and clearly carried hidden motives. If only Gilad knew what drove Thrawn's decision…
Wait. Stop the reactor. He wasn't planning to *kill* the boy, was he?
Reflecting, Gilad thought he'd found the answer.
— The recent personnel reassignments in the fleet, — Pellaeon said. Thrawn, who had been focused on the monitors, leaned back slightly and turned his gaze to Pellaeon.
— Clarify your statement, Captain.
— Officer rotations, — Gilad said. — You transferred notable officers from medium cruisers, replacing them with those suspected by counterintelligence of potential disloyalty to the Dominion.
— Correct, — Thrawn agreed. — Elaborate.
— You did the same with the *Striker*'s crew, commanded by Dobramu, — Pellaeon said, concluding his logic. But recalling the reason for Thrawn's actions…
— You've gathered all potentially disloyal officers on those cruisers, — Gilad licked his suddenly dry lips. — Xenophobes, New Order loyalists, those dissatisfied with your command…
— Yes, — Thrawn pointed at the bacta tanker holograms. — There were more—fifty, to be precise. Delta Source was quite detailed. Such a large convoy was meant for the First Military Fleet, guarding Coruscant and the Core Worlds, protected by an entire squadron, including Mon Calamari star cruisers.
— Someone went to great lengths to ensure those ships were destroyed, — Pellaeon voiced aloud.
— *Someone*, — Thrawn emphasized, — ensured our commander returned to the Dominion from the galaxy's fringes a hero. They helped by destroying the convoy's escorts without damaging a single transport…
*Then where are the rest if there were fifty?*
— …while taking most of the bacta, leaving Dobramu a substantial amount to ensure his actions didn't go unnoticed by me, — Thrawn continued.
Pellaeon frowned.
He didn't like the Grand Admiral's tone.
— You know who?
— You do too, Captain, — Thrawn declared. — Consider who has the strength to destroy thirty escort ships so swiftly they couldn't raise an alarm. And who needs thirty such tankers, — he pointed at the holograms, — of bacta, without paying.
There were several possibilities, but Thrawn wouldn't focus on those posing no threat.
That left only one candidate in the galaxy…
A sinking feeling hit Pellaeon's gut.
— Palpatine, — he rasped.
— Not personally, — Thrawn confirmed. — His agents. The Dark Side Elite or a fleet segment, part of which attacked Luke Skywalker at the Polis Massa asteroid. It matters little. I've already taken countermeasures.
*He's assigned potential traitors to ships on constant patrol…*
— Captain Dobramu, for his valor and ingenuity, has been promoted, — Thrawn commented. — He now commands four *Strike*-class medium cruisers, a maneuverable unit for critical Dominion defense tasks. Currently, he's deployed to the southern metropolis to position our cloaked asteroids…
*Now it's clear why Dobramu was grinning so hard—the boy realized a Star Destroyer's bridge wasn't in his future. Wait! A potential traitor handling defense?!*
— Sir, is it wise to let Dobramu handle cloaked asteroid placement on our borders? — Pellaeon asked.
— We need to secure the Dominion, — Thrawn said. — Star Destroyers are occupied pacifying criminal elements in the Sprizen sector or preparing for upcoming operations. Dobramu, whoever he truly serves, is a competent officer, capable of escorting and guarding asteroid transports to establish hyperspace blockades into the Dominion. It's honorable but tedious work, requiring a responsible officer. Dobramu is an excellent candidate. His masters aren't exposing him without reason—he's their tool to probe the Dominion's metropolis. And knowing our primary defensive perimeter? Quite a feather in his cap for the supposedly deceased Emperor.
Pellaeon frowned:
— Sir, you're deliberately risking… Dobramu gaining favor with Palpatine? Helping him curry favor with our potentially greatest enemy?
— Yes, Captain, — Thrawn's eyes glowed like embers poised to ignite a blaze. — I've gone to great lengths to weaken the New Republic before Palpatine's advance. There's a chance that, after Operation *Crimson Dawn*, Coruscant's current masters will reach a catastrophic defensive low. We must ensure Palpatine isn't too strong either. Eliminating some of his potential allies will serve us well in the future. In the long term, it may even strengthen the Dominion.
How would the Dominion grow stronger if a traitor captain knew cloaked asteroids guarded hyperspace routes into the Dominion, where a collision at sublight speeds could crush a Star Destroyer into a Corellian corvette-sized scrap?!
Pellaeon's thoughts refused to form a coherent picture.
He needed clarification.
But he suspected the Grand Admiral wouldn't give a straight answer.
It was worth a try.
— But if Dobramu serves Palpatine, you've effectively handed him several *Strike*-class cruisers, — Pellaeon noted. — Three, besides his own *Striker*, to be precise. Not to mention, he'll know how to breach our outer defenses.
— Really? — A dark brow arched on Thrawn's blue face. — I hadn't considered that.
Pellaeon struggled to keep his eyes from bulging.
Fine, not the first time the Grand Admiral showed human-like traits. Emotions, humor… Wait. He might say this without a hint of jest. It's like him…
— My apologies, sir, — Gilad said, calculating that disrespect could earn him a reprimand, perhaps push-ups. Though the "educational" incident with Lieutenant Colonel Astarion was months ago, the *Chimaera*'s crew hadn't forgotten. Junior officers across the fleet and army had adopted Thrawn's method of humbling arrogant subordinates, especially among recruits.
— Has Lieutenant Rederick reached his destination? — Thrawn asked.
— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon replied, handing the Grand Admiral an encrypted data chip. — The cipher confirms he remains undetected. We've received defense system data.
Thrawn plugged it into his computer, studying the hologram of a star system.
A well-fortified star system.
Not many starships, but ten defensive platforms suggested it wouldn't be easy.
— Has General Kaine prepared the ground operation plan?
A clone of Major General Maximillian Veers had arrived on the *Chimaera* less than an hour ago via private shuttle… but his existence remained secret to most of the crew. They'd be informed only when the ships entered open space.
— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon said, relieved to discuss straightforward matters that didn't make his gray hairs stand on end. — The second file on the chip, after the reconnaissance data for the *Chimaera*'s target and its unit.
— Is the special cargo in place? — Thrawn inquired.
Pellaeon nodded affirmatively.
— Yes, sir.
— Is Captain Makeno's team at the target?
— Affirmative, Grand Admiral, — Pellaeon confirmed. — All our sabotage teams are at their starting positions, awaiting orders. Teams sent to Hutt Space have also reported contact with Warlord Devian's recruiters.
— Then it's time to move, — Thrawn said thoughtfully. — We begin the main operation as soon as we receive confirmation from Axxila. But first, — the Grand Admiral lowered his voice, — we will administer justice to some captured enemy commanders.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon saluted silently and headed for the exit.
***
— This will be an easy victory, — Yazuo Vain declared, twirling his vibro-axe and glancing at the B-1 series droid that had just reported ten-minute readiness.
Soon, the *Colicoid Swarm* would emerge from hyperspace in the southern Wild Space.
And give the *Lumin Pirates*, entrenched on Zonju V, a proper thrashing.
Irv, seated in the captain's chair on the bridge of the carrier Star Destroyer, stared intently at the large monitor displaying the *Colicoid Swarm*'s schematic. Much was shown, but Yazuo had no interest in deciphering what the commander was studying.
— Think staring at the hangar image will spawn more *Vulture* droids? — Vain smirked, aiming to lighten the mood and provoke conversation.
Irv didn't react but waved dismissively at the B-1 droid standing too close.
The droid approached the corsair, and Irv took a swift step forward, exclaiming:
— Boo, tin can!
The droid, flailing its arms, dropped its blaster carbine, which clattered across the deck.
— Uh-uh-uh, — the Separatist droid grated. — Orders?
— Fly to Tatooine, — Yazuo ordered. — Find the biggest Tusken Raider tribe, wander the desert with them for ten years, and when you befriend their chief, tell him you slept with his mother…
— Vain, — the ship's commander said softly. — Stop frying my droids' synapses.
— Why's he walking around with that dumb face? — Vain asked Irv.
— Confirmed, — the B-1 declared, retrieving its unloaded weapon and returning to the control panel.
Such dim-witted droids… They'd reassigned some infantry to crew roles, yet they couldn't ditch the habit of carrying blaster rifles.
Irv let out a heavy sigh.
— Your jokes make these droids dumber, — he said.
— They weren't exactly brilliant before me, — Vain clarified.
— Your flunky makes them even dumber, — grated Aut-O's head, mounted on the captain's chair armrest, positioned so Irv could rest his hand on it, like pirate legends where kings sat on thrones adorned with enemies' skulls.
— All that's left of you is a head, — Vain smirked.
— Even if I'm just a circuit board, I'm smarter than you, foolish organic, — Aut-O retorted.
— If I toss you both out the airlock, will you stop bickering? — Irv asked, glaring solely at Vain.
— That's discrimination, — Yazuo protested. — There's hardly anyone sentient on this ship to talk to.
— In your case, keeping your mouth shut might make you seem smarter, — Irv advised.
Yazuo rolled his eyes.
— How many days have we been crawling these smuggler routes? — he asked. — I'm going stir-crazy. The *Lumin Pirates* aren't worth this stealthy approach.
— The *Lumin Pirates* were legally on their planet, — Irv countered. — The New Republic couldn't touch them…
— That's the Republic!
— …because their intelligence is as good as Cavil's, — Irv finished. — If we'd charged their reserve base via the Hydian Way, they'd have known we were coming before you got bored.
— Then we'd have taken everything they've got and been on our way! — Yazuo pressed. — Or have you changed your mind about digging up old Separatist secrets?
— This sentient needs a processor upgrade, — Aut-O declared. Irv flicked the head's top.
— The *Lumin Pirates* have an *Immobilizer 418* cruiser, in case you forgot, — Irv reminded. — Knowing we're coming, they could pull us from hyperspace wherever they want and treat us to turbolasers while our systems recover. And, if you haven't noticed, — he gestured to the bridge's massive rectangular viewports, — we're in a fishbowl. One good missile hit, and we're breathing vacuum. Done.
— I said we should've paid Reyes at Lok's yards to armor the bridge, like Tiberos did, — Vain said. — We wouldn't be shaking like Twi'lek schoolgirls post-graduation, stuck with drunk, lustful Rodians.
— Irv, I strongly recommend lobotomizing your subordinate, — Aut-O grated.
— I'm considering it more each day, — Irv admitted.
— Move your hand, — Vain cocked the blaster built into his axe's haft. — Come here, head! Let's talk, man to defective droid!
— Don't insult defective droids by comparing yourself to them, — Aut-O said. — I've seen B-1s a hundred times smarter.
— Both of you, shut up, — Irv ordered, raising his voice.
Yazuo, eyeing his former and current captain, disengaged his weapon's power cell conciliatorily.
— Fine, don't boil over, — he advised. — Just easing tension…
— Find a Twi'lek to ease your tension, dimwit! — the tactical superdroid's head snapped.
— Ooh, — Irv chuckled, patting the head while watching Vain flush, as references to Ryloth's women (one of whom had cuckolded him) were a sore spot. — That was a low blow, Aut.
— Give me a body and a vibroblade, and I'll show you a low blow, traitor, — the head retorted.
— On the other hand, — Irv removed his hand from the remains of one of the droid army's finest commanders, — Vain, shoot.
Shaking his head, Vain snorted.
— A traveling circus, not a corsair destroyer, — he said.
— Look who's talking, — Aut-O shot back.
— I'm starting to see why the Neimoidians didn't let their droids run constantly, — Irv noted. — Over time, you develop foul tempers.
— If the droid army wasn't shut down and reset to factory settings, we'd have wiped you inefficient organics out long ago, — Aut-O declared.
— You know, — Irv looked at Vain, — during the Clone Wars, the Confederacy didn't wipe memory from tactical or super tactical droids or deactivate them, leading to personality development based on their programming for efficient enemy elimination. Sometimes, they'd kill organic commanders for battlefield blunders or inefficient orders.
— No, I didn't know, — Vain grimaced. — I'm not that old. But if this, — he pointed at Aut-O's head, — is the last of those metal maniacs, I'd wipe its memory before it orders the droids to string you up on the comm antenna mid-flight.
— It can order all it wants, — Irv smiled. — All droids on this ship are reprogrammed to obey only me.
— Wait, — Vain glanced at the B-1 he'd teased earlier. — Even this one?
— You can give droid orders if they don't contradict mine, — Irv explained, patting Aut-O's head. — But our tactical superfriend isn't in the command hierarchy.
— The traitor prepared, — the head stated.
Yazuo grinned.
— Can we talk business? — he asked.
Irv looked at him, surprised.
— Since when are you interested in the raid?
— I'm bored, — Vain explained. — Plus, you said the *Lumin Pirates* could cause trouble if they know we're after their cruiser.
— Exactly, — Irv nodded. — I don't believe they lost all ships but the *Immobilizer* in the Ciutric Hegemony. They've got something up their sleeve.
— He doesn't believe, — could droids sound so smug? Apparently, tactical superdroid heads could. — I told you in plain Basic! Compare raid data, public info on ships the *Lumin Pirates* used in attacks. Filter out those they brought to the Hegemony and lost. You'll find they currently have at least three ships—a cruiser, a *Munificent*-class frigate, and a *Rebel*-class light destroyer. Give me access to Confederacy fleet databases, and I'll name their IDs…
— Your virtual nose stays where it belongs, Aut, — Irv cut off.
— Three ships, — Vain whistled. — Not bad, but we've got a carrier destroyer…
— With barely any fighters, — Irv reminded.
— We've got more guns than all of them combined, — Vain continued, not bothering with precise counts.
— Oh, mathematical algorithms, how can you be so inefficient! — Aut-O pleaded. — Check the manuals, count the guns!
— Together, they'll thrash us, — Irv simplified the math. — That's why I accepted Tiberos's help. His guns, missiles, and fighters will ensure we not only crush the *Lumin Pirates* but keep their cruiser from escaping.
— Should've asked Thrawn for our own interdictor, — Vain lamented.
— You could've gone with Tavira and convinced her to handle it, — Irv smirked, eyeing his young protégé. — She was sweet on you, batting those purple eyes…
— I'd rather climb into a rancor's mouth than be alone with that witch, — Vain assured.
— Well, — Irv couldn't resist, — on Lok, it looked like you were about to sweep her up and start building a family nest…
— I was caught off guard, — Vain justified. — When I saw her staring, my brain shut down… All I could think was that this harpy seduced and killed Cavil from Axxila to take his crew.
— I think you're safe now, — Irv chuckled. — Word is, Tiberos is quite to her taste.
— May the Great Force be with him, — Vain laughed. — By the way… when he dies, can I claim the *Black Pearl* back?
— I wouldn't set your sights on that ship, — Irv advised. — Tiberos isn't a privateer anymore; he's a captain of auxiliary raider forces. He sold out to Thrawn to lead his own group. If he dies, the ship goes to the Dominion. Its crew is loyal to Thrawn. Even Tavira would think twice before grabbing it if Tiberos meets an untimely end.
— Ugh, — Vain sighed. — Such a pity… I look at my old ship, and my heart bleeds. All black, like space. No stupid aft fin. Guns from *Victory*-class, not these Separatist popguns. Imperial launchers, deflector generators too. Even the armor's upgraded, not the junk we've got…
— If you don't like it, the airlock's always open, — the Separatist tactical superdroid's head reminded.
— Useless tin can, — Vain snorted. — Alright, Irv, what's the plan?
The *Colicoid Swarm*'s commander thoughtfully scratched his chin.
— Same as always, — he said. — Jump in, hit hard, send droids to board. We'll deliver the *Immobilizer 418* to Lok, hand it to Tavira, then head to old Separatist factory worlds. Some must still be intact.
— Like Geonosis? — Yazuo asked.
— Or Salucami, — Irv nodded.
— Or Hypori, — Aut-O added.
— Plenty of places to explore, — the *Colicoid Swarm*'s commander concluded. — With what we'll earn from the cruiser, maybe even the other ships, we'll have enough to rebuild at least one factory.
— Then what? — Vain asked.
Irv paused, glancing between the viewport and Aut-O's head.
— We'll figure it out, — he said firmly.
At that moment, the hyperspace tunnel collapsed into white-blue streaks, shrinking into tiny star points.
And the massive ash-brown orb of Zonju V.
— Captain, — the same B-1 droid Vain had teased nasally reported. — Scanners detect four starships. Two *Munificent*-class frigates, a *Rebel*-class Star Destroyer, and the cruiser…
— A bit more than you predicted, tin can, — the *Colicoid Swarm*'s commander tapped Aut-O's head. — Looks like you're not the most efficient either.
The battle alert drowned out Vain's laugh and the offended grumbling of the insulted tactical superdroid.
***
— The *Colicoid Swarm* is engaging, — Tiberos noted, watching the *Black Pearl*'s twin advance, absorbing turbolaser salvos from all four enemy ships.
— Like we're back in the Clone Wars, — grumbled a stout officer managing the scanners.
The privateer recalled he'd been a Confederacy officer before joining the pirates when the Separatists lost.
— Antique junk, — Leonia Tavira said disdainfully.
Tiberos turned to the petite woman beside him.
In her moff's uniform, whip in hand, she sat in the massive commander's chair. Her diminutive frame made the bridge's furniture appear even grander.
— Deploy fighters, — Tiberos ordered. — Raise deflectors. Primary target: the cruiser.
— Got it, boss, — the chief gunner replied.
— Excuse me? — Tiberos eyed his subordinate.
— Order understood, Captain, — the officer corrected.
— That's better, — Tiberos smirked. — Course four-seven-seven, approach the upper echelon between the cruiser and the *Rebel*.
The enemy, reforming into a defensive formation, sent frigates forward, aiming to use their speed and fighters to tie up the attackers, allowing the remaining ships to operate in ideal conditions.
— I'm impressed, — Tavira said enthusiastically. — I expected your ship to be crewed by rabble. You've trained them well, Captain. My applause.
She clapped, the sound muffled by her gloves.
Tiberos fixed his gaze on the tactical monitor, watching upgraded *Delta Seven* fighters launch from his ship's hangars.
A standard *Providence*-class carrier destroyer, like the *Black Pearl*, could deploy twenty full squadrons of droid fighters or equivalents.
With the hangars reconfigured for other models, Tiberos had to halve the complement.
Still, ten squadrons of fast, agile, deadly machines were ten squadrons of fast, agile, deadly machines.
They were already charging at the enemy's "uglies," ready for a lethal clash.
— Captain Irv deployed only five droid fighter squadrons, — Tavira noted.
— And? — Tiberos asked, glancing at her.
— Just reminding you he has twice that, — she batted her eyes innocently. — Yet he's holding back…
— Because *Vulture*-class droid fighters, Madam Moff, — Chief Engineer Reyes interjected, — are relics. Their fuel cells last thirty minutes in combat—average. Point of no return is fifteen minutes from the ship. Then they must return to the *Colicoid Swarm*, swap engines for full ones, and rejoin the fight. It's quick, but in modern combat, it's inconvenient.
— You think the battle will last over thirty minutes? — Tavira looked at the engineer, astonished.
— My job's fixing ships and tech, — Reyes replied promptly. — What happens on the battlefield is for specialists.
Tiberos shook his head.
Bad move.
— Then stay silent, Chief Engineer, — Tavira said with a radiant smile. — You're here to test your ship upgrades in combat and note flaws. Don't join conversations where you're unwelcome.
Nick met her gaze with his artificial eyes, then silently turned to his technical console.
— So, where were we, my magni…? — Tavira began.
— Shut up, Leonia, — Tiberos said quietly, ensuring only she heard, keeping his words from the bridge crew.
— So rude, — Tavira switched to a conspiratorial tone, eyeing the *Black Pearl*'s commander hungrily. — That excites…
— They skin banthas for fur, — Tiberos countered, stepping away from the chair to avoid her touch. — I've got a battle.
He pressed the emergency harness button, locking Tavira to the chair's backrest.
*Such a pity it doesn't come with a gag,* Tiberos thought regretfully. But he caught himself—if his wish came true, Tavira might enjoy it. Then she'd cling to the *Black Pearl* even if offered all of Despot Zim's treasures.
— How's the *Pearl*? — he asked, approaching Reyes.
— Energy signatures are stable, — the engineer pointed to the monitor's graphs. — Fluctuations within acceptable limits, no issues. The reactor chain provides enough power for guns, shields, and my installed systems. But it's too early for conclusions until the battle's over.
— I'll bring the artillery online in quarters, — Tiberos indicated the gunner's screen, where only half the turbolasers glowed green. The anti-fighter laser cannons, however, were all active, clearly not firing idly as the enemy's uglies broke through the destroyer's fighters.
— As you see fit, — Reyes said. — The system's tested; there shouldn't be issues.
— *Shouldn't* or *won't*? — the carrier destroyer's commander pressed.
— *Shouldn't*, — Nick didn't dodge. — Repairs and upgrades were successful. Beyond that, I won't guess. I'm no Jedi predicting the future. You're not heading to a resort but into battle—I can't know what might…
The *Black Pearl* shuddered violently.
A redundant ceiling display tore loose, crashing to the deck in a shower of fragments, miraculously missing everyone.
— Repairs successful? — Tiberos eyed the engineer with keen interest.
Nick sighed heavily.
— You just took a hit from five heavy turbolasers, — he said. — Did you think the first battle would be so simple that a strike that'd split lesser ships wouldn't knock something loose on the *Pearl*?
— Just don't forget to fix it when we're back at base, alright? — Tiberos requested.
— When we return, I'll first find the team that worked on the bridge and give them a dressing-down, — Reyes promised.
Tiberos glanced at Tavira, still struggling with the emergency harness.
— At least they fixed the restraint system properly, — he smirked.
Reyes muttered something indistinct.
Assessing the tactical screen, Tiberos waited for the right moment and ordered the missile launchers to fire.
When one hundred two anti-ship torpedoes obliterated the light destroyer, the enemy began to grasp their fate.
After the *Black Pearl*'s fighters not only thinned the uglies but demolished the *Munificent* frigates' protruding bridges, that fate became clear.
The pirate cruiser tried to escape, slipping past the attackers, abandoning its uncontrolled ships to their mercy.
Crossfire from red and blue turbolaser salvos, supported by harassing missile strikes, forced the *Lumin Pirates*' leader to surrender.
An hour later, locking the surrendered pirates in the *Black Pearl*'s hold, distributing crew to the captured ships, and bidding farewell to Captain Irv and Vain, who set off on a free hunt, Tiberos could finally fulfill a long-held dream.
He returned to base leading three large ships, knowing exactly who to inform Grand Admiral Thrawn that both *Munificent* frigates would serve well in future raids.
***
The western wall of the entertainment establishment hadn't been repaired in ages.
Despite being a place where Axxila's elite indulged their every desire, one would expect the building to be adorned with signs and in pristine condition…
But that assumed the brothel's owners pursued such interests, which they didn't.
Reynar climbed the chipped, cracked, and pockmarked wall with ease, avoiding sections where crumbling plaster might give way underfoot.
Many assumed being an Inquisitor meant dramatically blasting doors with the Force, wielding a lightsaber, and crushing foes with fencing prowess.
That was, of course, a large part of the job.
But sometimes, using one's head was necessary.
Thus, to avoid the guards of Axxila's councilors, Reynar infiltrated the building not through the main or emergency entrances typical for the average mind.
— Need help? — Vex's voice crackled in his earpiece.
— Help yourself, — Reynar snapped, continuing his ascent by pulling the rope hand-over-hand, practically walking up the wall.
— I'm beyond help, — the girl said sadly. — I wouldn't have left the *Chimaera* alive if I'd refused the Grand Admiral's order to pilot your ship. So, hurry up, do what you're told, and let's get out of this dump at lightspeed.
— Then shut up and don't distract me, — Reynar continued climbing, channeling his irritation into rage, fueling his strength. The rain pelting his face, accompanied by gusting winds that swayed his figure, only aided him, as expected in such scenarios.
He reached the top floor when a sense of unease, bordering on wrongness, stirred within.
— You dead or what? — he checked with his partner, whose speeder was parked several buildings away. The elevated parking spot allowed her to monitor the building's entrances and exits, ensuring the Shadow Guard had accurate intel that the targets were still inside.
— You told me to shut up, so I didn't argue, — she replied irritably.
— Since when are you so obedient? — Reynar asked, surprised, reaching the sloped roof's railing. Staying in the shadows, he attuned to his senses, mentally expanding his Force perception…
As expected—an armed guard ten meters away. The rain masked soft sounds, rendering him oblivious.
— Since Fodeum, before we left, asked me to return in one piece, — she answered. — Anyway, I'm quiet. Do your job. I'll report if anything comes up.
— Suits me, — Reynar said, muting the comlink's audio with a finger to avoid alerting his prey.
Sensing the guard's attention was distracted by something at the building's base, he calmly scaled the railing, unclipped his carabiner, and laid it silently on the roof.
Calculating the guard's distance from the roof's edge, bored in his raincoat, Reynar darted forward.
In one precise motion, he knocked the guard onto his back, crushing his windpipe with a fist before snapping his neck.
Dragging the body from the edge, he tied it to the rope and positioned it so the railing's supports prevented it from falling.
From there, it was a matter of technique.
Using the Force to crush a simple lock, he dropped into the service corridor of the top floor.
His senses were at their peak, the Force his reliable tool.
As the first councilor's guard rounded the corner, Reynar used the Dark Side to choke him and snap his neck.
The second, realizing his partner was dead as the body hit the floor, managed a surprised exclamation before a crimson blade cleaved his skull into two unsightly halves.
Using the Force, Reynar hurled the body into a group of guards blocking the floor's exit.
They scattered like bowling pins, allowing Reynar to close the distance, avoiding hand-to-hand combat, and end their pitiful lives with a few swings of his lightsaber.
No more life signatures glowed in the Force on this floor.
Like a black shadow, Obscuro vaulted the railing, landing before the entrance to the penultimate floor, where his true targets indulged.
He felt nothing killing the guards in his path.
Though not a resident of this planet, he knew the kind of beings who served councilors.
Through the local data network, he'd seen examples of their crimes.
Even without witnessing their brutal "games" with locals—hunting them or worse—he'd have killed them regardless.
The logic was simple: he had a mission, and he'd complete it. Those between him and his goal were mere obstacles.
So he slashed, hacked, and practically flayed a pair of thugs, pressing toward his target, leaving a trail of carnage and body parts.
When living guards ran out, droid bodyguards tried to block him, but Reynar crushed them into shapeless metal and used them as projectiles to smash more hapless foes against the far wall.
Finding the lavish bathhouse where the councilors relaxed was easy—it was the floor's only chamber.
The heavy, real-wood doors shattered, unable to withstand the Force's might.
Blaster fire erupted, but the former Inquisitor's skill deflected shots back at the shooters.
The councilors' guards—one thin, one obese—were dispatched in minutes.
Reynar spun his weapon, parrying a shot aimed at his back. The crimson bolt reflected off the arterial-blood-colored blade, searing a cauterized wound where the guard's eye had been.
— Don't do this! — the thin councilor squealed, watching the black-clad, cloaked figure with a hooded face.
— Any money, any price! — the fat councilor wailed.
Amusing little men…
Almost pitiable.
Using the Force, Reynar yanked the thin one from the pool, impaling his chest on the lightsaber.
— Jedi, please! — the fat councilor sobbed, flailing his fleshy arms, skin quivering like sails. — We'll do whatever you say! Give you anything! Money! Mountains of money! Take it all, just spare me…
*Well, well,* Obscuro thought, tossing the lifeless first councilor's body into the pool.
The second would require more effort.
— What can you offer me? — Reynar asked with a smirk. — Your treasures are dust.
— I… I… Skywalker! — the fat man pleaded, seeing Obscuro adjust his grip on the saber. The Shadow Guard wasn't offended at being mistaken for the galaxy's most publicized lightsaber-wielder. — Curse you and your New Republic! Burn in fire!
— Believe it or not, I've already burned, — Reynar muttered, recalling his saber after a throw.
As he left the bathhouse, the fat councilor's severed head still rolled across the tiled floor…
Using the first guard's body as a weight for a rapid descent, Reynar fled the brothel long before patrol speeders or Cavil Corsair observers, fulfilling their part of the deal, arrived.
In the speeder beside Vex, Reynar sent an encrypted message to the Grand Admiral, then stunned the silent Twi'lek with:
— Want to dinner together?
Only her quick reflexes saved them from a crash that day…