Nine years, nine months, and ten days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, nine months, and ten days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and thirty days since the arrival).
This gas giant measured one hundred eighteen thousand standard kilometers in diameter. Like most astronomical objects of its kind, the planet possessed a solid metallic core.
The surrounding layers of gases were, for the most part, toxic and lethal to the majority of sentient species inhabiting the galaxy. The pressure within the dense atmospheric layers reached levels capable of crushing any human into a fine particulate mist.
Despite this, at approximately one hundred fifty to one hundred eighty kilometers from the upper edge of the stratosphere toward the surface, the gas giant contained a breathable atmospheric layer suitable for oxygen-breathing sentients. Only thirty kilometers thick, this narrow band between the deadly vacuum and toxic gas layers allowed over six million sentients to reside in artificial cities and settlements.
However, this data had not been updated in quite some time.
Yet, the dozens of starships—large and small, military and civilian—gathered here were not present to admire the vibrant hues of the gas giant's landscape.
They were all here for one reason.
A rather rare, yet vital, resource for military endeavors.
The gas giant known as Bespin was one of the galaxy's largest suppliers of tibanna gas.
Tibanna could be found in many gas giants across the galaxy, but such extraction efforts cost trillions of credits and years of exploratory work. Consequently, galactic society clung tightly to known and well-established deposits.
Bespin was unique in tibanna extraction because its natural conditions allowed pressure to transform the gas within the giant's depths. Under immense pressure, tibanna and other gases rose through updrafts to the upper atmospheric layers, where they were detected and collected by specialized mining platforms.
The gas was then processed and frozen in carbonite for transport off-world.
Control over tibanna eliminated concerns about how often or how long one could fire a blaster or turbolaser, not to mention other types of energy weapons operating on the same principle.
When infused with a specific type of radiation, tibanna released vast amounts of energy from minute volumes. Condensed at the atomic level, tibanna served as a conductive agent in blasters and other energy weapons, producing greater energy output and, consequently, inflicting greater damage.
Most personal weapons could not withstand such a power increase, but ship-mounted blasters significantly benefited from tibanna gas. An exception was the DC-series rifles from BlasTech Industries, which utilized tibanna gas to produce powerful ionized bolts capable of damaging both organic and droid targets—a decisive factor in the Clone Wars.
The centrifugation process was prohibitively expensive, except on Bespin, where it occurred naturally. This made Bespin indispensable to any galactic regime—its tibanna reserves were inexhaustible, its production and freezing continuous, and all clients could do was deplete certain Cloud City warehouses, which would be restocked within days for the next bulk buyer. As with all large enterprises, the warehouses of Cloud City and dozens of gas-mining platforms were nearly always full.
Moreover, specially processed tibanna could be used as a fuel source or as a coolant for propulsion systems.
This was precisely what industrialists, business tycoons, and the criminal underworld exploited.
At this particular moment, however, the starships orbiting Bespin were not engaged in anything illicit. These were the same civilian vessels, escorted by New Republic military starships, forming a transport convoy laden with frozen tibanna.
The state was at war with a cunning and dangerous adversary. Grand Admiral Thrawn ruthlessly targeted New Republic transport convoys. But in recent days, his ships had vanished, and logistics operations had begun to ramp up once more.
Yes, it was risky, as Thrawn could simply be lying in wait, anticipating an increase in transport traffic along hyperspace routes.
But there was no choice—military bases required supplies, and numerous convoys traversed the galaxy, capitalizing on the lull to the fullest.
Because, in the future, should the Grand Admiral strike supply lines again, a catastrophe could ensue.
But those who thought this way were unaware of one thing.
The Dominion's commander-in-chief had ordered a halt to attacks on enemy convoys, not to prepare a devastating assault on New Republic logistics in the future, unleashing his full fury.
No.
The reason was entirely different.
Grand Admiral Thrawn no longer saw value in attacking enemy convoys and seizing their cargo.
Grand Admiral Thrawn had, once again, shifted his war strategy on the fly and targeted the sources of his enemy's resources.
***
**Planet Bespin.**
The Star Destroyer *Inexorable* sliced through the fabric of airless space in the Anoat sector, leading its operational-tactical formation back into realspace.
— Commence jamming all signals. Ships—deploy fighters, prepare for combat, — ordered Captain Mor. — Corvettes—intercept the tanker ships. Cruisers—engage enemy forces. Detach a squadron of TIE fighters to locate and destroy the relay station—let them not even dream of calling for help.
Alexander gazed indifferently through the main viewport of the destroyer's bridge, observing the panic-stricken scrambling of the bulbous supply starships, brimming with their precious cargo.
— The *Interdictor* has activated its gravity well generators, — reported the watch officer.
— That means, — a devilish smile played on Alexander's lips, — they have nowhere to escape now. Full speed ahead! All batteries—open fire on the nearest enemy cruiser. Landing craft, prepare. Relay to the *Interdictor*—provide cover and protection for the transports as soon as they finally deign to arrive with their escort.
Two Mon Calamari MC80 star cruisers, supported by three Corellian corvettes and six Nebulon-B escort frigates, fearlessly advanced toward the Imperial-I-class Star Destroyer, ten Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers, and fifteen CR90 Corellian corvettes.
The *Interdictor*-class Star Destroyer hung calmly several hundred units from the battle, projecting a zone of artificial gravity that prevented the enemy from fleeing the battlefield.
A minute later, ten CR-75 medium transports arrived, escorted by twenty Nebulon-B escort frigates bearing Dominion identification markers. A couple of minutes later, five more *Action*-class transports arrived. Ten seconds after that, three dozen freighters appeared with their own escorts. Two minutes later, fifty additional transports and freighters arrived, covered by an equivalent number of corvettes, Corellian gunships, and a pair of *Carrack*-class cruisers assigned by Grand Moff Ferrus.
And that was it. The transport armada had arrived.
Including the massive bulk freighters.
Today, the holds of all these starships would be filled with premium tibanna. And they would keep filling for as long as necessary.
Captain Alexander Mor glanced at the ship's chronometer, synchronized, as per old habit, with Coruscant time.
In the galactic capital, dawn was just breaking.
Well then, good morning, New Republic!
***
Gazing at the seemingly perfect sphere of the celestial body, adorned with swirling white clouds, the deep blue of seas and oceans, and the mottled stone hide of continents through the transparisteel viewport, Captain Dorya smiled.
— Hyperspace jump completed, Captain, — came the report from the crew pit. — No stragglers, no damage.
— We're detecting enemy patrols; they're scanning—they're identifying us.
— Good, — Dorya said with satisfaction. — Begin the countdown.
— Aye, aye!
The words of an Imperial hero, Major General Maximillian Veers, came to mind.
"Chandrila is the jewel of the Core Worlds, but historically, it has sheltered factions of dissent and treason."
Chandrila was located in the same Imperial oversector as the galactic capital, Coruscant.
It was also one of the signatories of the Corellian Treaty, the foundation of the Rebel Alliance. The other two—Corellia and Alderaan—and their prominent representatives played their part in the Empire's downfall.
As the Rebel Alliance grew, Chandrila remained one of its key players. True to its principles of supporting anti-government movements that did not align with its own interests, Chandrila's government trained rebel fighters for years.
So, Veers' words were prophetic...
The truth was evident, if one recalled who led the New Republic's provisional government, having previously undermined the Galactic Empire's foundations.
A Chandrilan. Mon Mothma.
The Rebels, and now the New Republic, loved exploiting such natural marvels. Well, he would break them of that bad habit.
Dorya smirked, noticing a spiraling hurricane forming in Chandrila's atmosphere.
Oh yes, today the planet's inhabitants would endure many anxious hours.
**Planet Chandrila.**
A watch officer appeared silently beside him, as if materializing from thin air.
— Sir, the formation has exited hyperspace. Ships are at combat readiness. Shall we attack?
Dorya looked at his subordinate as if he'd seen a ghost in the flesh.
— By the Emperor's black bones, Lieutenant, think before you speak! — Though said without malice, it made clear to the fool the proper order of operations for next time.
— My apologies, sir! — The young officer, recently transferred to the *Relentless* from a cruiser of the Ciutric Hegemony, was green but competent. — But if we're not here to attack, then… why?
— To carry out the task assigned by command, Lieutenant, — Dorya said sharply, turning toward the communications station. — Only a fool would attack a world shielded by a planetary deflector and guarded by a dozen Golan II platforms with a single formation. Not to mention, before these twenty-four hours are out, significant New Republic forces will arrive in the system.
Meanwhile, the enemy, deploying their patrol vessels, was scrambling its fighters. Not many, if one judged rationally. Perhaps twenty squadrons. Well, well. Dorya had more.
— Hypercomm signal, Captain, sir!
— Source?
— Cryptographers confirm it's from the *Chimaera*, sir. From Grand Admiral Thrawn himself.
If it was encrypted, the officer couldn't know the reason for the transmission. Something confidential, then.
— I'll take it in the decryption bay, — Dorya rose, then, unhurriedly, almost leisurely, headed toward the turbolift shaft. — Watch officer, continue launches as planned. And ensure the safety of our ships.
— Yes, sir! — the young officer responded briskly before the turbolift door closed behind Dorya.
Leaving the bridge, the captain stopped the lift one level below and proceeded at the same leisurely pace toward the cryptography section.
— Isolated terminal, — he ordered the senior cryptographer. Without a word, the officer pointed to an unremarkable section of the wall, which promptly vanished, revealing a small room for secure communications, shielded from all forms of eavesdropping.
As he activated the console, a three-dimensional image appeared—a seated figure in a standard black command chair, undoubtedly on the *Chimaera*'s bridge.
Thrawn, in his unmistakable Grand Admiral's uniform, was easily recognizable despite the monochrome holotransmission, thanks to its distinctive cut and the insignia now replaced by epaulets on the tunic.
Dorya smiled, realizing Thrawn could have configured the transmission to appear larger, grander, more imposing…
But instead of such theatrics, the commander of the *Relentless* saw only a figure one-third the size of the Dominion's ruler and commander-in-chief.
All in keeping with the finest traditions of military ethos—an officer's deeds and actions spoke louder than a perfectly pressed tunic or the ability to navigate high society.
Yet, one thing could not be taken from Thrawn—his ability to achieve the impossible. This campaign was direct proof of that.
To think… just a few months ago, Dorya had gritted his teeth at being sent to Garos IV, believing it to be a mad and dreary mission. In the end, it turned out to be quite the opposite.
— My formation has arrived at the designated coordinates, Grand Admiral, — Dorya reported.
— As expected, Captain, — Thrawn replied, emphasizing his confidence in one of his commanders' ability to navigate New Republic territory and reach its very heart. — Are the reports on the enemy accurate?
— Affirmative, sir, — Dorya confirmed. He glanced sideways as the bulkhead slid open slightly after a brief knock. Extending his hand, he took a datapad with fresh reports from the cryptographer.
— As you predicted, Chandrila has requested assistance. We're not interfering with their communications.
— Don't overplay your hand with the enemy, Captain, — Thrawn cautioned. — Distraction and a point of tension—nothing more.
— I remember the orders, Grand Admiral, — Dorya said, his tone growing serious. — We're tracking time. Combat pickets are deployed, and we fully control the exit vector from Coruscant. The *blockade* has begun.
Even with twice the forces—ten heavy cruisers, a Star Destroyer, and fifteen corvettes for cover—he wouldn't attempt to breach the Golans. Whoever was in charge of Chandrila's defense clearly watched the holonet news. Their orbital defense platforms were positioned to overlap their fields of fire effectively.
Moreover, with microthrusters, the stations were currently maneuvering into orbit to form a defensive "shell." A solid tactic for repelling a large invasion fleet from a single vector, as was the case now.
— Good, — Thrawn said. — Don't forget the second part of your operation, Captain.
Dorya allowed himself a slight smile.
He hadn't always been so optimistic.
But after building rapport with both Thrawn and Pellaeon, the captain, who had fought in numerous battles under the Grand Admiral's command, was somehow certain he'd chosen the right side in this galactic conflict.
— Yes, sir, — he nodded faintly. — We're already acting. When the New Republic fleet arrives to engage us, they'll be very surprised.
"I'd even say—mortally surprised," he added to himself.
***
— …based on the verdict issued by the Dominion's Supreme Court, New Republic General Tyr Taskeen has been sentenced to death by hanging, — say what you will about Imperials, past and present, but their cold composure before cameras while announcing executions was unmatched. Grand Moff Felix Ferrus of the Dominion was no exception.
— Han, please, — Leia grimaced, — turn it off.
The Corellian clicked the remote, but the stubborn device refused to respond.
— Let me remind you that General Tyr Taskeen commanded Republic special forces units that stormed the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, — Ferrus continued in such a mundane tone it sent chills down the spine. — During this ruthless raid…
— Lousy tech, — Han cursed, abandoning the fight with the remote and rising from the couch, heading toward the holoviewer with the intent of silencing the broadcast once and for all.
— …Republic forces killed thousands of Imperial personnel, — Ferrus went on, — ordinary technical specialists and workers, guilty of no crime that could be attributed to them…
Touching a key on the device's panel, Han shut off the troubling broadcast.
— Thank you, — Leia said hoarsely, turning to the holographic projector where the images of Mon Mothma and General Madine glowed. — My apologies…
— No need to apologize, Leia, — advised the commander of the New Republic's special operations forces. — Taskeen was my friend too.
— His execution, along with that of several other commanders held captive by Grand Admiral Thrawn, is a heavy blow to us all, — Mon Mothma declared. — This loss, like many others, weighs heavily on our shoulders.
— Do we know who else, besides Taskeen, was executed? — Leia asked, discreetly biting her lip.
— Over a dozen star cruiser commanders who participated in active campaigns against both the Empire and Thrawn himself, — Madine replied. — The only senior commander not listed among the executed is Vanden Willard.
— And, by pure coincidence, not a single Bothan name, — Han reminded them of his presence.
Leia, offering an apologetic smile to her colleagues in the provisional government, turned to her husband, giving him the most gracious look she could muster at the moment.
The Corellian wisely pretended to be engrossed in something on his personal datapad.
— We've received our copy of the military-trade agreement from Balmorra's government, — Mon Mothma said. — Leia, you've done tremendous work! Not only did you get the Balmorrans to listen, but you've integrated them into our military-industrial complex as suppliers!
— Not to mention that Balmorra agreed to repair TIE-series craft, which we planned to transfer to Lianna, — Madine added. — That's a huge success, especially amid our endless setbacks…
Suddenly, the holograms of Mon Mothma and Madine fell silent.
It was as if they'd paused the transmission to confer privately with someone.
Leia felt her heart clench. The Force, though belatedly, alerted her that something was…
— Return to Coruscant immediately! — Mon Mothma said in a commanding tone that brooked no argument.
General Madine's hologram vanished without explanation.
— My ships are already preparing for that, — Han clarified, not looking up from his datapad.
— What's happened? — Leia asked, her voice faltering, sensing that Mon Mothma wouldn't adopt such a tone without serious cause.
Given recent events, she began to suspect the source of the pale face of the provisional government's leader.
And why General Madine had cut off communication.
— Thrawn, — the flame-haired Chandrilan said hoarsely. Her stone-like expression spoke volumes.
Something… very, very bad had happened.
— Where? — Leia asked.
— His fleet is at the gates of Coruscant, — Mon Mothma said in a grave tone. — He… he…
Mon Mothma faltered.
— Leia… — she said dully. For the first time in their acquaintance, the Alderaanian princess heard the strong woman's voice tremble. — The Dominion has attacked Chandrila, my homeworld… The First Fleet is on high alert, dispatching a squadron of star cruisers to counter, but Ackbar took significant forces with him, and…
The unspoken plea was heard.
— We're heading to you immediately, — Han Solo declared. — We'll push the hyperdrives to their limits.
— And then some, — Leia added.
As the hologram faded, she looked at her husband.
— Han, you don't think Thrawn intends to…
— Conquer Coruscant? — the Corellian said with irony. — I'm more than certain that's exactly what he dreams of at the end of his campaign. But, you see, sweetheart, the capital is defended by thirty Golan platforms—second and third models. There are about ten star cruisers in the system itself, and several squadrons with serious firepower are stationed in the sector. Ackbar may have taken the First Cruiser Division, but the First Fleet still has enough ships to grind anything Grand Admiral Thrawn can throw at us into dust.
— What if the other Imperial Remnants support him? — Leia mused. — Their fleets number thousands of starships, many of them destroyers and heavy cruisers.
— And we have three more fleets, — Han reassured his wife. — They won't send all their ships against us—someone has to guard their own systems. The First Fleet is the most battle-ready, trained, and prepared fleet in the galaxy. Mon Mothma is worrying needlessly about Chandrila's safety—it has solid defenses that aren't easily breached. And when our cruiser squadron arrives, they can forget about capturing that world. The planetary shield is impenetrable…
— Thrawn has a *Torpedo Sphere*, — Leia reminded him.
— And to do its job, it needs to get within range where planetary ion cannons can hit it, — Han explained. — Even if Thrawn brought a *Torpedo Sphere* to Chandrila, even if it takes out one or two shield segments, it won't matter. Local defense forces will sweep their fleet away if they try to close to direct-fire range. *v-150 Planet Defenders* were built for this—to repel enemy ship raids effectively. Chandrila will hold.
The man approached and wrapped his arms around the princess's shoulders.
— I know what you're worried about, — Solo said, kissing the top of his wife's head. — The kids are under Winter's care. There's a bomb shelter near our home that even a corps of stormtroopers couldn't breach. Coruscant is as secure as Fey'lya lacks compassion. Even if Thrawn plans to attack Coruscant, he can't break through all the defenses. And we'll be in the capital within twenty-four hours.
— Just twenty-four hours? — Leia questioned. — It took us longer to get here.
— Well… — Han hedged. — The hyperdrive wasn't at full power, and I wanted to spend a bit more time with you.
— You're incorrigible, — the princess sighed, embracing her husband.
— Otherwise, I wouldn't have won your heart, Your Highness, — Han quipped just as the deck's tremor signaled that the *Mon Remonda* had jumped to hyperspace.
***
Despite its proximity to Imperial Space and the Pentastar Alignment, the gas giant Kril'Dor was a tibanna source directly controlled by the New Republic.
Quadrant I-7, where this planet was located due to gravitational forces, was a difficult-to-access region.
Even though the New Republic's capital, Coruscant, was only a couple of quadrants away, Kril'Dor was not bustling with activity.
Only technical personnel from the New Republic's military specialists and a small garrison responsible for security were present. For added reassurance, a single star cruiser served as both protector and customs checkpoint in the system.
There were no established, charted hyperspace routes leading here, so those seeking access to tibanna had to make several intermediate stops to adjust their courses.
But none of that mattered now as green daggers of fire pierced through the gas giant's clouds.
This fire, originating from Kril'Dor's orbit, was not natural—it was born of human decision.
And that human's name was Aban.
The *Bellicose*, like a regal monarch, stood apart from the fray its vassals had unleashed.
Six Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers pounded the Mon Calamari star cruiser defending the massive tibanna mining complex.
No one knew why the enemy believed a single cruiser was sufficient to protect this deposit. Yes, the station had turbolaser batteries, laser cannons, and even a fighter hangar…
But it was clearly inadequate against an operational formation.
The few squadrons the mining station and its lone star cruiser could muster were no match for the enraged might of a Star Destroyer.
With surgical precision, Captain Aban's gunners dismantled the enemy's defenses.
One precise salvo after another.
One target struck after another.
The *Bellicose*'s gunners obliterated the communication arrays with their first shot, allowing the facility only to scream desperate calls for help and reports of a Dominion raid into the ether.
Finally, when all targets were neutralized and a squadron of interceptors confirmed the facility's vulnerability, landing shuttles poured from the Star Destroyer's hangar.
The heavy cruisers, in a coordinated effort, finished off the star cruiser, shattering its hull, riddled with breaches and fires.
Within an hour, it was over.
***
The planet Roxuli was known for supplying vast quantities of metals to nearby star systems, making it economically attractive to investors in the field.
It was also a full quadrant away from the Kril'Dor gas mining platform, recently attacked by the Dominion fleet. Its inhabitants were unaware of the looming threat…
But that would soon change.
Historians might note that decades ago, Roxuli was the final stop for an Old Republic expedition known as the *Outbound Flight* before it vanished forever into the Unknown Regions. Tens of thousands of men and women, of various species and hues, disappeared into oblivion… with no trace or whisper of their fate.
A Star Destroyer materialized several hundred units from Roxuli's atmospheric boundary. A pair of local security and law enforcement patrol ships initially paid little heed to the distinctive, well-known triangular silhouette entering the system.
After all, how many such ships with New Republic identifiers appeared here?
The first alarm bell rang when the Star Destroyer approached the patrol freighters and greeted both aging vessels, veterans of the Stark Hyperspace War's zenith, with point-blank salvos from its batteries, ripping them open like a can opener.
Leaving behind two disintegrating hulks, the Dominion's Star Destroyer, bearing the memorable name *Death's Head* and commanded by Captain Harbid, continued toward Roxuli's loading station, raining fire from turbolasers and ion cannons on nearby customs and patrol starships.
The Star Destroyer's interceptors, silently slicing through space at staggering speeds, surged forward, engaging the enemy's light ships that dared attempt an escape to avoid destruction or boarding.
But their plans were doomed to fail.
Completing the operational encirclement, six heavy cruisers emerged from hyperspace, accompanied by an *Immobilizer 418* cruiser and nearly a dozen CR90 Corellian corvettes.
By creating an artificial gravity field to thwart escape, the heavy cruisers formed a formation that blocked access to the system's exit vector.
Fighters streaming from their decks joined the *Death's Head*'s interceptors, forming a vortex of death that engulfed the enemy's small craft.
The advantage was entirely with the Imperial pilots.
Bravely and mercilessly, they annihilated New Republic allies, disabling combat patrol and customs ships incapable of withstanding the advancing threat.
The *Death's Head* closed on the station, noting its desperate attempts to defend itself behind a deflector shield, firing sparse artillery.
Perhaps in this part of the galaxy, such defenses sufficed against pirates or raiders from the Unknown Regions.
But to withstand a Star Destroyer determined to complete its mission at all costs, they were woefully inadequate.
Intercepting fleeing freighters and cargo ships laden with valuable ore—what could be simpler for those who made war and killing their daily routine?
The pilots of the Dominion's air wings considered it a trivial task they handled with ease. New Republic pilots might be skilled and experienced, but Roxuli was not guarded by them.
Far from it.
The *Death's Head*, like a reaper of death, mowed down starships, carving a path to the space station.
Because the station—and its warehouses filled with mined and ready-to-ship ores of various metals—was Captain Harbid's target.
Today, those resources would not go to the New Republic. And, as the bomber pilots reported after their first run, much of the mining infrastructure would need to be rebuilt by Coruscant's supporters.
The slaughter and annihilation of anyone attempting to flee the system were completed by Captain Harbid and his crews thirty-seven minutes after the operation began.
Then they turned to seizing the mined ore stored on the planet's surface and in the station's warehouses, while simultaneously executing the second part of their mission.
***
To travel from Kril'Dor to the Core Worlds, tibanna traders and haulers had to stop at the planet Reecee in quadrant J-8.
There, taking care not to attract local attention, they needed to update their navigation computers to continue their journey.
A small world untouched by the Clone Wars or the Galactic Civil War, Reecee was currently a haven for pirates, smugglers, and other criminal elements tied to the transport of metals from Roxuli and tibanna from Kril'Dor.
Notably, according to Imperial intelligence, Reecee's smugglers felt quite comfortable under the New Republic's wing, participating in the restoration of interstellar trade under Coruscant's new masters.
After stopping at Reecee, the onward journey was straightforward, as it followed well-charted hyperspace routes. Experienced traders and haulers had long learned to pay tribute to local powerbrokers in advance to avoid complications.
It was this collaboration between local smugglers and the New Republic that made Reecee a target in Grand Admiral Thrawn's offensive plan.
Unlike other first-phase missions, Reecee faced something entirely different—an exclusive approach…
The Star Destroyer *Captain Rensen*, along with its escort ships, emerged from hyperspace at precisely calculated coordinates.
The arrival of numerous starships in the orbit of the smuggler world caused the expected stir among the local population.
A few minutes of confusion, as gang leaders on Reecee tried to determine who had arrived uninvited, cost many lives.
— Fire, — ordered Commander Darran, seeing that Captain Fulic, on the *Interdictor*-class Star Destroyer, had activated all four gravity well generators.
The space around the planet was now enveloped by an expanded artificial gravity field…
But this was merely a precaution.
The *Captain Rensen* and six heavy cruisers, forming an attack formation in orbit and securing themselves with fighter squadron perimeters, unleashed their weapons.
Kuat Drive Yards' slogan claims that a single Imperial-class Star Destroyer generates enough energy for a hyperspace jump to outstrip what some civilizations produce in their entire existence.
A tall tale, of course, but who cares about precise wording when the energy output is displayed in all its glory?
Commander Darran's first orbital turbolaser strikes hit smuggler settlements, obliterating barracks housing those too lazy to respond to the alarm.
Improvised cantinas burned, fuel depots exploded, and rivers of fire spread through forests and fields, amplifying the chaos. Turbolasers pounded the surface—white-green beams of death from the Star Destroyer's gunners and golden-crimson ones from the heavy cruisers' cannons.
They incinerated everything in their path, creating localized infernos that only heavy rainfall could extinguish.
No such rainfall was forthcoming.
Thus, the smugglers had no choice but to try their luck escaping the gravitational trap that Reecee had become.
In the stratosphere and orbit, they were met by Corellian corvettes, TIE fighters, and interceptors.
Flashes of green and crimson plasma beams tore through metal, scorching hulls and leaving black marks from hits.
Here and there, a ship or fighter from either side broke away from the battle, striving to preserve functionality. But Darran's forces had the upper hand—they could always call for evacuation to their mother ships' flight control.
Yet they didn't.
Because they weren't the ones suffering losses.
The smuggler and criminal fleet—a motley assortment of armed freighters, outdated starships, and repurposed private yachts for illicit ventures—could not withstand the coordinated, relentless assaults of Dominion pilots.
This was not a battle of equals.
It was not a slaughter.
Nor was it a moral lesson from Thrawn's subordinates, demonstrating why criminals should not take New Republic contracts or aid the Dominion's enemies.
It was an execution.
Pragmatic, ruthless, bloody.
Commander Darran left no survivors and took no measures to capture prisoners.
He killed criminals and allies of the Dominion's enemies, burned their havens, and reduced to cosmic dust everything they used to earn their living.
Within an hour, the space around Reecee was littered with countless wrecks and mangled hulls of enemy ships.
Having lost a few pilots, Darran began unloading his hold, carefully placing the secret cargo in the vector of ships approaching from Coruscant.
Once finished and assured his intentions remained covert, the commander withdrew his operational-tactical formation to execute the next operation.
***
The distant star ahead seemed but a yellow droplet in the impenetrable night of space.
Its radiance, which once gave life and spurred a civilization to venture into the cosmos, now played no role.
Distance diminished the majesty of this celestial body, and the protective filters of the viewports reduced its beauty to mere markers.
The other stars surrounding the *Chimaera* appeared as mere specks of glitter on the black velvet of interstellar space.
So alluring, yet so unattainable…
— Dawn has already broken, — the Grand Admiral remarked for no apparent reason, seated in his customary chair at the center of the Star Destroyer's bridge.
As always, an ysalamiri dozed on his lap. From what Gilad could tell, this was not the same creature Thrawn had been tending to in recent months.
It seemed the Chiss had found a new favorite.
Gilad, taking a datapad with the latest reports from the watch officer, scanned them quickly. Yes, everything was in order.
As it should be.
Looking up from the device, he handed it to the white-gloved hands, then stole a glance at the commander-in-chief.
In all the time Thrawn spent on the *Chimaera*'s bridge, the destroyer's commander had never grown accustomed to the Grand Admiral's lack of visible emotion.
Always detached, always contemplative, yet utterly focused. His red, glowing ember-like eyes fixed on the instruments could easily inspire nightmares.
And, to be entirely honest, after first meeting Thrawn, then a senior captain, Gilad had struggled to sleep soundly for a long time. Now, he had grown used to it, had been tempered…
Now, nightmares haunted their enemies. Relentlessly.
Surely some of them, despite their age, were wetting their pants…
Ten minutes had passed since Gilad handed Thrawn the reports from the operational formations that struck the first blow.
Per the plan, this was to trigger the attack…
But Thrawn had not yet given the order. That would have been strange six months ago.
Now, no one was surprised that the Grand Admiral occasionally adjusted his plans based on incoming operational data.
It seemed that was happening now.
Whatever the reason for delaying the attack, the Grand Admiral had compelling arguments. Pellaeon had no doubt of that.
— Questions, Captain? — Thrawn asked suddenly.
Posed in a soft, pleasant voice brimming with authority and control, those two words instantly sharpened the attention of the entire bridge watch.
To think—just three months ago, Gilad had considered his crew a bunch of clumsy conscripts.
Now, they were seasoned space wolves, forged in the crucible of dozens of battles.
As were the crews of every ship in the Dominion's regular fleet, without exception.
— None, sir, — Pellaeon met Thrawn's gaze.
For a brief moment, those blazing eyes studied the *Chimaera*'s captain intently. Gilad felt his heart skip a beat. Then another…
— Start breathing, Captain, — Thrawn said in his impeccably refined tone. — I'd hate for you to miss the upcoming battle.
— Yes, sir, — In moments like these, staring into the Grand Admiral's eyes, it felt as though he was dissecting you down to your DNA. He just didn't deem it necessary to mention.
— I presume you're wondering about the reason for the delay? — Thrawn handed him back the datapad.
— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon admitted. — The first phase is complete. Strikes on targets have been executed. All the Republic's lackeys who were supposed to inform the First Fleet of their dire situation have done so. The operation on Bespin is in full swing, as is Kril'Dor… The fleet is ready to strike the primary target!
— The fleet has already struck the primary target of this campaign's first phase, — Thrawn replied impassively. — By the time the New Republic realizes its largest and closest tibanna suppliers have gone silent, we'll have completed this part of the third phase and moved on to strikes against the Zann Consortium.
Pellaeon couldn't help but blink in surprise.
— A two-front campaign, sir?
— Yes, — Thrawn answered simply. — But technically, our fronts of operation are far more numerous.
— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon repeated, processing the statement.
— Despite the restoration and growth of the fleet, we must consider future prospects, Captain, — the Grand Admiral continued. — I need the production capacities of Hypori and Salucami for the third phase to conclude as I've planned.
If only he knew what that plan entailed…
— So you're not planning to attack immediately? — Gilad asked absently.
The faint smile on Thrawn's face hardened, like durasteel after tempering.
— I didn't order the revival of the *Morrts* project to forgo using it to maximum effect in this situation.
Pellaeon glanced at the distant yellow star and sighed resignedly; once again, he didn't understand.
— In that case… why did we arrive here so early?
— For three reasons, Captain. Our enemy was foolish enough to repeat their mistakes. A disciplinary thrashing is required—that's the first. We need time for the New Republic's First Fleet to adequately respond to the attacks on Reecee, Chandrila, Kril'Dor, and Roxuli. They're rather slow in decision-making, as it turns out—that's the second. And finally, not all actors are close enough to reach the point of interest at the necessary moment—that's the third. And the last.
Pellaeon felt the Grand Admiral's blazing eyes could melt metal in that moment.
After Soulless, Thrawn had hardened.
The failure with the damaged *Nemesis* and Ackbar's escape had evidently disrupted his plans, so…
So what?
It wasn't clear. Not even a hint of clarity.
— Never forget, Captain, — his voice flowed like a river across a plain. Calm, measured, as if well-rehearsed. — Our goal is not to defend the interests of the rotting Imperial Remnants. At this moment, we must deliver a blow to the New Republic so severe they won't dare interfere in our affairs for some time. By the time they recover and devise a strategy to defeat me once and for all, we'll be ready to ensure the Dominion's security. And the normal functioning of its economy and military-industrial complex. Without those two pillars, the Dominion will fall. I have no intention of letting my creation meet that fate. We must free our hands and force the New Republic into a defensive posture temporarily. Then, executing the delayed offensives will suffice to complete the plan.
Pellaeon remained silent.
He didn't grasp the deeper meaning of Thrawn's monologue, but clearly, he wasn't meant to.
— Inform the fleet to begin final preparations, — the Grand Admiral ordered.
— Aye, aye, sir!