Nine years, nine months, and twenty-five days after the Battle of Yavin… Or forty-four years, nine months, and twenty-five days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and ten days since the arrival).
The cargo shuttle, documented to deliver a load of electronics to the flagship of Rendili StarDrive's shipyards, was tracked immediately upon entering the system.
Dawn was breaking on Rendili, but by Coruscant time, it was sunset. The day was drawing to a close, and midnight was soon to usher in a new day, bringing sentients closer to the end of the current year.
Lieutenant Page, commander of a Republic commando squad, stood on the auxiliary bridge, studying a white-and-blue holographic projection of the approaching transport.
"Are your men ready, Lieutenant?" a quiet voice asked from behind.
The recent Dominion prisoner turned around.
Ransomed along with his comrades by their families using funds provided by the New Republic, he harbored no resentment toward his superiors.
Not for the prolonged release, not for the vetting process, not for anything at all.
Like other commandos, Page understood the concept of "operational necessity." He firmly believed the New Republic never abandoned its own.
Nor did it negotiate with those who plotted harm against the cause that defined Page's life.
"Every one of them, General Madine," he reported. "Per the plan, they're distributed across compartments with technical crews. Weapons are positioned throughout the ship. We will do our duty."
"The technicians must not be harmed," stated the Director of New Republic Intelligence. "Among them are high-level specialists, defectors from Kuat, familiar with these systems. Thanks to them, we brought the ship online ahead of schedule."
"Precisely, sir," confirmed the lieutenant, glancing again at the approaching Brail-class freighter. "The ruse about the faulty main engine worked, since they've moved to seize it."
The Sullustan-built starship, delivering specialized electronics to the vessel, had entered the firing range of Lusankya's weapons. A single salvo could resolve all issues, but the leadership intended to secure definitive confirmation of eliminating the primary threat to the New Republic's stability.
Capture.
Trial.
Death.
In that exact order.
"Sir, isn't it foolish of the Imperials to try smuggling dual-purpose chips onto a starship?" asked Page.
"They're desperate, Lieutenant," explained Madine. "For Isard, Lusankya is a gift from the Emperor. A symbol of her power and status. She cannot allow this super star destroyer to remain in our hands. Isard must reclaim it or die trying. Moreover, Thrawn and Kaine each already possess an Executor-class, though we haven't determined whether they built it or if we overlooked one previously constructed. Similar rumors have surely reached Isard and the Imperial Ruling Council. They won't miss their chance to snatch a fully repaired ship from under our noses. That's why we allowed them to deliver and install the automation chips, so as not to alert Isard. Let her believe she's outsmarting us until the cuffs snap around her wrists and a blaster freezes at her temple, held by our commandos. I hope none of them hesitate, and Iceheart's sadistic nature doesn't lose its brains prematurely. We need her for the trial, and the fact that she'll personally arrive to lead the attack and witness her triumph will be her undoing. Though, I doubt she'll have much time to realize her predicament—the case files against her are ready for the court's verdict to deliver a death sentence."
Page remained silent for a few seconds, mulling over a thought that had troubled him since his first encounter with Dominion counterintelligence during captivity, listening to their claims.
"Do you believe he survived, sir?" asked the lieutenant, glancing sidelong at General Madine.
Feeling the intrigued gaze of the Director of Intelligence, the commando squad leader clarified:
"Palpatine, General. My men and I were fed propaganda in the Dominion about the old man surviving and hiding in the Deep Core."
Madine didn't respond immediately.
He stood silently, watching the freighter approach.
"The Emperor is dead, Lieutenant," he said firmly. "And he will never rise again. Nothing Grand Admiral Thrawn tries to plant in our minds will work. The transition period will end. The Empire will face defeat once more. We're ready for elections, for the Senate to function normally… All we need is a push, an idea, the understanding that we can fight. No matter what wild rumors enemy commanders and propagandists spread."
Page, who knew the Director well, nodded silently.
Bound by duty to state secrets, the commando understood that even if the opposite were true, the Director of Intelligence wouldn't admit it.
Some knowledge was best kept from subordinates to avoid panic.
On the other hand, what did it matter whether Palpatine was alive or not?
They killed him once—they'd kill him again, as many times as needed, until the galaxy could finally breathe in peace.
"Understood, sir."
"There shouldn't be a single ship on Lusankya at this point," Madine said suddenly, pointing to the port side.
"Correct, sir," frowned Page, using a macrobinocular.
The commando observed for a few seconds as a battered Lambda-class shuttle, which had seen extensive service during the Rebel Alliance days, detached from the airlock.
"That's the forty-second shuttle, sir," he explained. "They delivered ammunition for us under the guise of another cargo batch. The hydraulics and life support systems failed—it's not a new ship. They were stuck with us for two days while technicians repaired that junk heap. Now they're clearing out, having been patched up enough."
"Was the cargo scanned?" Madine asked quickly.
"Yes, sir," said Page. "Ammunition. No life signs. The empty containers were already delivered by technicians to the storage compartment at the stern of Lusankya."
"Was the crew checked?" Madine pressed.
"Of course," replied the commando leader. "The pilots are regular hired Ithorians. They've been with us since the Alliance to Restore the Republic, with a certain reputation among the logistics service. Reliable, and they hate the Empire so much it's almost enviable."
"Good," said Madine. "Signal your men to prepare for the attack. There could be a significant number of enemy fighters on that freighter."
"We're not just five men here," smirked Page. "And each of us has a score to settle with the Imperials."
The comlink on the Director's belt chirped.
Madine activated the cylinder:
"General, this is Admiral Duplex reporting. The enemy fleet has been pulled out of hyperspace. Twenty-three Imperial-class Star Destroyers of both variants and six support ships."
And that was against nearly fifty Mon Calamari star cruisers, not counting the New Republic's smaller ships lying in wait in the same ambush.
As planned, the enemy fleet was intercepted from hyperspace a day before reaching Rendili.
The Imperials were likely fuming with rage, but they had no choice—surrender or death.
"Good, Admiral, deal with them," wished Madine. "Things are about to start here too."
***
Lusankya loomed closer with every moment.
Its silhouette, resembling a narrow dagger, grew nearer, revealing nineteen kilometers of power and indestructibility in all its glory.
Like an ancient blade drawn from its sheath, this weapon awaited only the moment to plunge into the heart (or hearts) of its enemy, crushing them in their final gasps.
Colonel Wessiri noted that the ship's hull had been restored, and the repairs after the Battle of Thyferra were done meticulously.
The New Republic emblems on both sides of the ventral and dorsal decks irritated him, fueling unquenched fury, wounded pride, and a desire for immediate retribution.
But the colonel had to restrain himself.
Not yet.
Not the time.
He observed the massive ship's hull, capable of housing a small city's population, twinkling with the lights of viewports and running lights.
Familiar with the ship's original design, he noted that the rebels had reinforced the armor during repairs.
As far as the eye could see, the starship was in combat-ready condition, waiting only for a decisive hand to detach it from the docking clamps and lead it into space toward glorious victories.
Almost immediately after the ship became New Republic property, rumors spread from Coruscant that the super star destroyer would be dismantled for parts, melted down, and that the symbol of terror and fear would never again see the stars.
As always, the democrats lied.
They merely dragged the wounded giant away, hid it in the deepest hole they could find, and slowly restored it.
The Republicans could claim all they wanted that the Imperials needed such ships to demonstrate their power, but the fact remained—they hid Lusankya with the same intentions.
This ship, like any of its class, could single-handedly defeat an entire fleet, making it an excellent asset for galactic conquest.
The New Republic, having lost ground in battles against Grand Admiral Thrawn, would never let such a weapon slip from its grasp.
Especially after losing dozens of line-class ships, being repeatedly humiliated by Thrawn, and practically handing him a fully operational Bellator-class dreadnought.
Which had already been spotted in the galaxy, repaired and combat-ready.
The officer seated next to the colonel transmitted access codes, which the Republicans themselves had provided.
The rebels were letting the ship's true owners aboard.
Amateurs who merely got lucky.
"Rendili OCC to Brail freighter, you are cleared to dock with Lusankya. Proceed on course four-two-point-seven-two to the main hangar."
"Brail to Rendili OCC, course four-two-point-seven-two received, proceeding to the main hangar."
"End transmission, Brail. Don't forget to obtain new recognition codes for your next visit."
"Acknowledged, OCC. We won't forget. End transmission."
After the officer disabled the transmission device, Wessiri looked at him.
"No changes compared to the last visit," the colonel remarked with a mocking tone.
"None whatsoever, sir," confirmed the comms officer.
"Excellent," smiled Wessiri. "Have we scanned the ship?"
"Affirmative, Colonel," replied the second pilot. "As before, most of the sentients aboard are concentrated in the stern compartments. Currently, just over three hundred signatures."
"Ten times fewer than during the last delivery," noted the first pilot suspiciously.
"They're playing us," smirked Wessiri. "The ship is nearly ready. The Director calculated everything perfectly—they're expecting an attack from the Imperial Remnants, and the Orinda fleet has already mobilized. The ship is in full combat readiness a day and a half ahead of schedule, meaning the data on crew movements is accurate too. In two hours, the system will be swarming with liners carrying crew members under Admiral Argentis Duplex's command. When the Orinda fleet arrives, they'll be met by Lusankya's guns."
"We have an entire company of elite stormtroopers on board," shivered the second pilot. "And only fifty specialists. Will that be enough to seize and operate the ship?"
"The ship is heavily automated," stated Wessiri. "Once the Director uploads the codes to the central computer, Lusankya will jump to the rendezvous point, and we'll have a sufficient crew to escape to the Deep Core. Besides," he glanced at the scanner data monitor, "the Republicans aren't wasteful. Artificial gravity and life support are active in only a quarter of the ship—the superstructure, central sectors, and stern. The engines are on standby, the weapons and launchers inactive. No fighter cover. This will be a straightforward boarding. We'll make the technicians work the consoles—it's not hard when a blaster's breathing down your neck. We'll secure the superstructure, input the codes, and vanish before those wrecks," he pointed at two Mon Calamari star cruisers patrolling the perimeter, "can do anything. The Republicans follow Imperial protocols, so the ship is already loaded with ammunition. A few clusters of anti-ship missiles will be enough to break through. And both squadrons of TIE Defenders will cover us while Brail rams one of them and detonates as a farewell."
"I'd love to see the Republicans' faces when they realize how we outsmarted them," grinned the first pilot.
"You said it," chuckled Wessiri, heading for the cockpit exit. "Proceed to the main hangar as instructed. I'll inform the Director of the operation's start and issue orders to the pilots and stormtroopers…"
***
The planet Brentaal IV, as its name suggests, was the fourth world from its star, located in the eponymous star system in the Bormea sector of quadrant L-9.
It was a unique planet in the galaxy, situated at the intersection of two major hyperspace routes—the Hydian Way and the Perlemian Trade Route.
This navigational fact transformed Brentaal IV, often simply called Brentaal, from a mere arid planet with two massive polar ice caps into a highly valuable asset in this part of the Core Worlds.
Nearly all usable surface was covered with warehouses, storage facilities, trade exchanges, and other structures tied to commerce, which had enriched and developed the planet's government for millennia.
However, its strategically advantageous trade position also made Brentaal IV a prime military target.
No large-scale armed conflict passed without one side or another attempting to seize Brentaal.
It changed hands as a legitimate and valuable trophy.
Blood flowed like rivers in Brentaal's orbit, and after the fiercest battles, the orbit was so littered with debris that it was hard to imagine how traders managed, risking their ships to navigate past battlefields.
And today, at the close of the ninth year since the Battle of Yavin IV, another slaughter was destined to unfold in Brentaal IV's orbit.
Argentis Duplex calmly observed the events unfolding beyond his MC80a's bridge.
Interdictor cruisers, captured by the New Republic from the Galactic Empire, were retreating under the protection of forty-eight Mon Calamari star cruisers arranged in a semicircle.
Twenty-three Imperial-class Star Destroyers—"ones" and "twos"—escorted by six Ton-Falk-class escort carriers.
The Ton-Falk-class escort carrier.
Named after the Empire's humiliating defeat at the Battle of Ton-Falk, these ships posed significant challenges to the New Republic fleet.
This type of escort carrier was well-armed and protected. Its ten twin laser cannons could threaten both fighters and light enemy ships, like corvettes and frigates, supporting Admiral Duplex's fleet operations.
Beyond their armament and defenses, these five-hundred-meter ships carried six full squadrons, five of which were TIE fighters. The remaining dozen were TIE Interceptors—essentially a full Imperial Star Destroyer's starfighter complement on a ship a third of the size.
Moreover, escort carriers had extensive repair crews and were sometimes used by Imperials as mobile workshops. Their technical staff could repair both fighters and light transports based on the carrier. Unlike the repair facilities on Imperial Star Destroyers, Ton-Falk repair crews could nearly rebuild a damaged TIE from scratch, provided it still had a cockpit and engines.
Additionally, the ship could carry a large number of passengers.
Undoubtedly, as with Star Destroyers, the Orinda forces were using escort carriers to deliver at least part of the crew to Lusankya.
"The enemy is reforming into an attack formation," reported the flagship's commander.
"Launch the fighters," ordered Argentis.
Yes, the Empire had brought a significant number of ships to this unexpected battle. Their starfighter wings were larger than those of the MC80 and MC80a cruisers under Admiral Duplex's command.
But unlike the Imperials, New Republic commanders had one undeniable advantage—their fighters could travel through hyperspace independently.
"Open a channel to the Imperials," said the Zeltron.
The order was executed, and the man spoke into the microphone from the command center:
"Imperial fleet, this is Admiral Argentis Duplex, New Republic Defense Forces. You have illegally entered our sovereign space. Surrender, or you will be destroyed."
The response came swiftly.
"You'd better get out of our way, Republican," appeared a hologram of an Imperial Guard, whose face, unusually, was not hidden by a sealed helmet. Instead, the sharp-cheeked, relatively young face stared at Argentis with a gaze that regretted it couldn't kill from afar. "My name is Carnor Jax. Bow before me, surrender Lusankya, or be destroyed."
"I regret your disappointment, Carnor Jax," replied Argentis calmly, almost phlegmatically, "but neither we nor our ships are going anywhere. Surrender…"
"Then I'll step over your corpses," the previously unknown Imperial practically growled. "And take what is rightfully ours."
"As you wish," Argentis replied politely.
He disconnected the holographic link, then switched the comlink to the frequency of his fleet's ship commanders and said:
"Begin. Destroy them all."
In the next moment, dozens of new Mon Calamari star cruisers emerged from hyperspace, halted by the gravity wells of cruisers once serving the Empire.
Accompanied by elite New Republic squadrons.
Admiral Argentis Duplex noted that the scanners displayed every New Republic starship selected by General Bel Iblis for this operation.
The number of line ships under Admiral Duplex's command was four times that of the Imperial vessels, leaving no doubt about the victor.
The Republican commanders had orchestrated a brilliant ambush, using tactics employed by Grand Admiral Thrawn against the Imperials.
There was a certain irony in defeating the Imperials with their own tactics.
The latest slaughter in Brentaal IV's orbit began two minutes before the twenty-fifth standard day of the month transitioned into the twenty-sixth.
On Coruscant, deep night had taken hold, while near Brentaal, the first dwarf supernovae began to bloom.
***
Sergius, whistling a catchy tune he'd picked up while working on Lusankya, leisurely exited the turbolift and strolled down the corridor toward the small cargo bay.
This area stored equipment meant to supply spare parts for panels and systems on this deck, specifically for the ship's central computer.
But the Republicans had opted to fill this storage with weapon containers.
Dozens of massive containers, filled to the brim with blaster rifles, light repeating blasters, armor, and other gear needed by Republican commandos for resistance.
Enough to arm two hundred men. The same commandos who had arrived on Lusankya days ago, replacing most of the technicians.
And now, they were armed and ready to repel an attack.
Armed to the teeth—like the two standing guard.
Ten meters away.
"Hey, technician!" called one of the guards, seeing Sergius approach, scratching his back through his jumpsuit with a hydrospanner. "Didn't you hear Lieutenant Page's orders?"
"Nope," Sergius replied casually, closing the distance by a couple of meters. "What's up?"
"Comms are down," explained the second guard, waving to the agent. He recognized the worker they'd seen in nearly every corner of Lusankya, likely recalling that Sergius had handled the delivery and unloading of the weapon crates two days ago from the old Lambda-class shuttle. "You and the other technicians should be in the engine room now."
"What the kriff are you doing here anyway?" the second guard eyed the Dominion agent suspiciously.
A Zabrak.
Tough skull.
But slow on the uptake.
Five meters.
The agent shifted his weapon in front of him.
"I was fixing mouse droids," explained Sergius, taking a couple more steps and turning slightly to the left, pointing toward the turbolift with his heavy tool. "Deck below."
Three meters.
"Oh, happens," nodded the first guard. "Get to the stern; the superstructure's about to become a battlefield."
"Maybe I can help?" asked Sergius, turning his head toward the guards while continuing to approach. "Your comms are down…"
One and a half meters.
Sergius gripped the heavy tool more comfortably, still pointing it toward the turbolift.
"No need," waved the first guard. "We've got this."
"Been stuck here since unloading that rusty bucket," grumbled the second, glancing toward the turbolift. "While the guys are probably fighting those bastards out there…"
"Yup," snorted the first. "And we're guarding half-empty weapon containers."
"Happens," agreed Sergius. "Won't let me in? I left my jacket inside during yesterday's unloading. Wanted to grab it."
A swing of the hydrospanner, despite the helmet, crushed the Zabrak's temporal bone.
Before he fell, the second guard raised his weapon, but Sergius was already close.
A strike with an open palm to the throat damaged the human's larynx.
In the next motion, he yanked the weapon from the Republican's hands, grabbed his head with both palms, and slammed his face into his knee.
As the choking Republican struggled with the pain, Sergius seized his head and snapped his neck.
The body slumped to the floor, and the agent picked up the blaster, firing a shot through the first guard's head.
The control shot burned through the occipital bone, leaving a molten hole.
Sergius quickly searched both bodies, took their weapons, and accessed the storage's code panel.
Short-circuiting the wires with a makeshift lockpick, the agent forced the metal bulkhead to slide open, revealing a spacious room with two rows of two-meter-high transport containers, delivered by the old Lambda under the guise of equipment transport.
Sergius smirked, recalling how thoroughly every ship and its cargo arriving at Lusankya had been searched over the past week. Oddly, the crates remained in place, and the paranoid Republican commander hadn't moved or dismantled them.
A pity.
The Republican intelligence was hunting for potential spies and saboteurs, expecting the Empire to inevitably send its forces to seize the ship.
Bravo-II approached the first container and knocked.
No response.
He had to knock on each container until he got the desired result.
A responding knock in the designated sequence came from inside seventeen containers.
Exactly as agreed with command.
Sergius waited a few minutes as nineteen fighters removed the false walls separating part of the crate's interior from the real ones.
Bravo-II calmly watched as two storm commandos and fifteen naval special forces emerged, leaving behind human silhouettes in massive carbonite plates.
Knowing how life-form scanners worked meant knowing how to bypass them. And how to remotely activate the thawing system for the hidden troops, who were now stretching and checking their weapons, while some continued to open false crate bottoms, awakening commando droids and droidekas also concealed behind fake panels.
The advantage of patented weapon transport containers was that manufacturers ensured the cargo's safety, incorporating complex compensatory mechanisms, which the Dominion replaced with decoys and frozen saboteurs behind decorative false panels.
Two approached Sergius—one storm commando and one in naval special forces armor.
"Sergeant THX-0297?" Sergius asked the black-armored fighter, receiving an affirmative nod.
"Yes, sir."
"Captain Orsan Makeno?" The special forces operative stretched his limbs, munching on a high-calorie ration bar. Probably starving after days in carbonite, though it was just a trick of the mind.
"That's me."
"I'm Agent Bravo-II, commanding this part of Operation Deceive the Deceiver," introduced Sergius. "Once all droids are activated, proceed as planned. I've mechanically disabled long-range communications—Isard's forces won't contact Emperor's Will, and they can't recall fighters. The central computer is locked, all airlocks sealed, and without serious slicing, neither Republicans nor Imperials can access it."
"We're ready to storm the navigation bay," declared the storm commando.
"And we're just ready for anything," added Makeno.
"Then proceed," ordered Sergius. "But first, two conditions. One: Lusankya must leave Rendili only in the direction we designate," both commanders nodded understandingly. "Two: The ship's commander on Isard's side, Colonel Wessiri, must be taken alive under any circumstances. That's my personal request."
"It will be done, sir," if the squad leaders were surprised by this approach to mission orders, they chose to stay silent.
***
The Brail slowed, aligning with the main hangar's entrance.
The ship reduced its main engines to minimum power, maneuvering with thrusters as the tractor beam operator guided it into the internal bay as required by the Imperials.
The aft cargo hatch remained within the main hangar's magnetic field projection, allowing technicians to fire the pyrotechnic bolts, and the ramp crashed onto the deck, startling several commandos disguised as workers nearby.
They were about to verbally and blaster-fire berate the freighter's crew when a familiar screech erupted from the ship.
Covering their ears to avoid ruptured eardrums from the echo effects amplified by the cramped cargo bay acting as an unwitting megaphone, the Republican commandos fell to the deck, witnessing twenty-four TIE Defenders swoop out one after another.
The Imperial ships exited the main hangar at lightning speed, encircling the massive vessel and, with sniper-like precision, obliterating docking clamps, umbilical corridors, and service shuttles, ruthlessly clearing the area around the giant blade and freeing it from its anchored captivity.
The recovering "workers" began to rise, realizing with horror what had happened and rushing toward the hangar exit to sound the alarm.
They fired their blasters at the opening passenger hatch, hoping to slow the emerging assault.
Other commandos rushing to their aid supported them with blaster rifle fire.
But it was futile.
Heavy boots in standard uniforms clattered down the passenger ramp of the Sullustan Brail-class freighter as stormtroopers took position, ready to seize the ship.
Their task was to eliminate all resistance on board, clearing the path to the bridge for a small group of naval specialists and officers, selected from the crew of the Victory-class Star Destroyer Emperor's Will, trained to operate a super star destroyer.
They began their work immediately upon leaving the Brail.
With short, precise bursts, the stormtroopers mowed down the unfortunate commandos caught in the hangar.
One reached a comm panel and activated the alarm—but the emergency systems didn't activate.
The fighter, along with the fifty others in the hangar, died in the first minutes of the Imperial assault, failing to warn their comrades.
Meanwhile, the freighter, having disgorged its passengers, including a notable figure in sealed dark-gray armor, exited the hangar without issue to fulfill its final purpose. Programmed pilot droids sat in its cockpit, and detonators on warheads inside were primed.
The ship fled Lusankya, broadcasting distress calls on all frequencies, reporting malfunctions and a threat to the crew.
The nearest star cruiser rushed to intercept, intending to aid the beleaguered vessel.
Naive Republicans.
"The alarm didn't trigger," noted Colonel Wessiri, approaching the designated panel.
Behind him, the ship's armored shutters slammed shut.
That was new to the plan.
He'd heard nothing of this.
"Our slicer already tried accessing the central computer," explained the stormtrooper company commander. "No luck. Peripheral systems are on manual control. Communications are down—both external and internal. External airlocks are locked, hangar doors sealed. Compartments are isolated, and controls are locked. The ship is fully under our control."
Wessiri cast an approving glance toward the Brail, where the slicing had been executed.
But he couldn't determine the reason for the plan's alteration—the figure in sealed armor, a key part of the plan, had already vanished with a stormtrooper squad to the opposite side of the hangar, using a separate exit toward Ysanne Isard's coveted target aboard the ship.
Iceheart intended to reach her secret quarters, offering the best view of the chaos Lusankya was about to unleash on Rendili before departing.
There were likely other reasons for deviating from the plan, but now wasn't the time to ask.
To kriff with it.
If Isard decided they should disable the computer and cut communications, so be it.
But a nagging doubt lingered.
It seemed the Director trusted no one.
"The Director did her job," said the officer. "Move to the bridge."
The troops sprang into action.
They met little resistance, advancing deck by deck, compartment by compartment toward their goal.
The few Republican commandos armed with light weapons were swept aside by the heavy armament of Isard's stormtroopers.
Not without losses, sometimes engaging in bloody firefights, the Imperials pressed toward their objective.
Wessiri smiled, noting the enthusiasm with which naval specialists wielded their standard weapons, cutting down New Republic fighters.
The naive Republicans truly believed the Director wouldn't anticipate their pitiful attempt to capture her.
As if they had a chance.
The stormtroopers mercilessly eliminated every living thing in their path.
No mercy, no hesitation.
In this operation, every second counted, and delay was akin to death.
Bursting into the combat bridge, Colonel Wessiri was surprised to find it empty.
Naval specialists rushed to the consoles, their faces showing confusion.
"Sir, controls have been rerouted to the auxiliary bridge," reported the senior specialist. "The Republicans covered their bases…"
The colonel breathed heavily, trying to fill his lungs with oxygen in the bridge's thin atmosphere.
"Of course," he muttered. "As if we can't get them there too. Can we restore internal communications?"
"Yes, sir, we'll connect through the intercom system," replied a specialist.
Within minutes, Wessiri had a full report on his troops' actions aboard Lusankya.
"Reactor compartment fully under our control."
"Batteries secured and sealed."
"Republican commandos pushed back to the stern and engine room."
"Fierce resistance at the auxiliary command bridge…"
"Contact the second squad," ordered Wessiri. "We need full control of the ship."
As he understood, Isard could directly access the central computer from her personal quarters, restoring control over all systems.
"No response, sir."
"Are they being jammed?" frowned Wessiri.
"No, sir, they're just not answering."
"This is bad," snarled the colonel. "Four stormtroopers, with me! We're heading to the Director's residence. The rest, to the auxiliary bridge. I want this ship under my command in ten minutes. Move!"
***
The holographic projector showed the wreckage of the Brail-class ship, blasted apart by a Mon Calamari star cruiser's full armament.
The cruiser's commander didn't fall for the proximity ruse—and judging by the explosion's radius, acted correctly.
Unfortunately, neither he nor the second cruiser could penetrate Lusankya's thick defenses or force it to slow.
Their guns couldn't breach the deflectors, and the two dozen TIE Defenders turned several New Republic fighters into debris when they attempted to attack the massive ship.
General Madine felt the deck tremble beneath his feet, a deeply unsettling sensation.
"The hyperdrive's activated," confirmed Lieutenant Page, stepping away from the nearest console. "We can't do anything—the enemy disconnected us from the central computer, and jump coordinates were entered manually. Someone's also manually controlling the deflectors and main engines."
"That shouldn't have happened," Madine said, stunned. "I was assured that option was disabled on Lusankya!"
"Plus, my best men are in the hyperdrive compartment," growled Lieutenant Page, gripping his blaster tightly.
The Director of New Republic Intelligence drew his weapon from its holster.
"Assemble a squad, Lieutenant," he ordered. "Everyone, except the Lusankya OCC specialists. Leave them ten men for cover. The rest, to the hyperdrive compartment. Whoever's directing Lusankya and wherever they're taking it, we can't let it reach its destination. Even if it costs our lives, Lieutenant, we must not let this ship fall into enemy hands."
"No need to explain, sir," assured Page, issuing orders to his men.
***
The hologram above my desk strained to appear calm.
But it was clear Lando Calrissian wasn't handling his role well.
"So, you claim to act in the interests of Han Solo and Leia Organa-Solo," I said slowly.
"How else would I have this comlink?" asked the former Republic general, hinting at the device I'd given the Rebellion heroes to contact me with Lusankya's coordinates during our last meeting.
"Knowing your talents, I could guess anywhere from twenty to two hundred ways you might have acquired that communicator," I said indifferently.
"How many?" Calrissian was genuinely surprised but quickly regained composure. "You flatter me, Grand Admiral. Regardless of what you think, I'm acting with my friends' consent and in their interests. But they have their own duties and can't speak with you personally."
"Let's say I believe you," I said. "So, trading Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker for Lusankya… Quite an intriguing separate deal, don't you think?"
"As if you didn't capture Luke for that exact purpose," grumbled Calrissian.
"You might be surprised to hear it was an accident," I said. "You're free to believe me or not, but that's the truth. Skywalker's capture wasn't part of my plans."
"Why's that?"
"I explained it during our last meeting," I reminded him. It seems the Alliance heroes either have poor memories or so skillfully ignore my words that it's no surprise I must hammer basic truths into their thick skulls.
"Yes, Palpatine," Calrissian's hologram shivered. "I'm sure Luke shouldn't tangle with him or meet him personally."
"At the moment, Skywalker's fate doesn't concern me," I said.
"Then why not just let him go?" Calrissian lit up. "Broadcast on the HoloNet in your usual style, talk about the noble act of freeing a prominent Rebel Alliance figure. I'm sure it'd earn you significant public approval."
"Tempting offer," I acknowledged. "In that case, perhaps you could convince the Provisional Council to hand over all captured Imperial ships as a gesture of goodwill. That would stop my fleet from senselessly thrashing your forces."
"Senseless?" Calrissian was surprised. "I thought you enjoyed it. From what I know of grand admirals, most of you never do anything without a reason."
"High praise from you," I noted. "I see no point in repeating myself—my goals were openly stated during our last rendezvous. Since I must achieve them the simpler way, by fighting you, you clearly don't trust me."
"You call openly crushing the New Republic Defense Forces across the galaxy a 'simpler way'?" Calrissian was stunned.
"Until I turned my attention to the New Republic, diplomacy and negotiations seemed the simplest way to avoid conflict," I remarked. "But you don't understand talk. I must speak to you in the language of force. Judging by your decision to accept my offer to hand over Lusankya, your views have progressed somewhat, despite the circumstances."
"I can't tell if you're praising us or subtly humiliating us…" admitted Calrissian.
"I'll leave that intrigue to your conscience," I said. "I'm confident that, unlike most of your acquaintances, you still have one, and it's in decent shape. As I recall, your past as a professional conman and gambler no longer dominates your life, replaced by a business reputation. That's significant personal growth. Future generations of New Republic servicemen could take you as an example if you chose to stay in their Defense Forces."
The hologram's face twitched—whether due to interference or Lando Calrissian reacting to the jab was unclear.
"Business reputation," my interlocutor grimaced. "You're one to talk. Thanks to you, my life's work was destroyed. Capital, the efforts of many sentients… all literally burned because of your actions, Thrawn!"
"Don't exaggerate my role in your life, Mr. Calrissian," I advised. "The attack on Nomad City on Nkllon had purely military objectives. You supplied metals to the New Republic's shipbuilding industry, which I'm fighting. Don't insult me by pretending you didn't know your business was at risk under those circumstances."
"You practically robbed me," reminded Lando.
"Yes, but my subordinates only disabled your complex," I countered. "And stripped it of ore reserves. The destruction or salvation of Nomad City was entirely in the New Republic's hands."
Now, Calrissian's sharpened features clearly showed our thoughts aligned.
"However, Mr. Calrissian, since we're having a candid conversation, I must note that the destruction of your facility saddened me," I continued my game.
If Calrissian, and those out of the hologram's view, thought this banter was merely to waste time, they were gravely mistaken.
This was probing the ground and laying a foundation. Whether construction would proceed or this talk would become another episode of "defrauded investors" remained to be seen.
"Really?" Calrissian asked, not hiding his surprise. "Why's that?"
"Unlike many of your acquaintances, in my eyes, you're the only one with a worthy goal," I explained. "Building your own enterprise, rather than serving someone else, is commendable."
"Now you'll say we're alike because you love your work too," smirked Lando.
"You're mistaken," I said. "We're not alike. At all. But that doesn't stop me from respecting you as a person. Frankly, I'd like to make amends for the harm caused by Nomad City's destruction."
Calrissian blinked silently for a few seconds.
"I'm not sure I follow," he said.
"As you may have noticed, my forces target only military objectives," I reminded him. "Nkllon and other strikes on dual-purpose facilities were necessary measures for strategic interests. I assume you understand long-term perspectives."
"Let's say I do," said Calrissian slowly.
"I don't make a habit of annihilating sentients unless they plot against me," Calrissian's eyes narrowed slightly, wrinkles forming on his face. "I'd like to say I'd fund the restoration of Nomad City and its infrastructure, but my people found that even the New Republic failed to revive the project. Instead, they lost the remaining shieldships and Nomad City's capacities, and their plans fell apart."
"Yeah, someone clever stole the last shieldships," said Calrissian, staring into my eyes.
"Since even my people couldn't find them, they were likely melted down for scrap," I continued. "Building new ones would cost colossal sums…"
"I know that without your economics lecture," declared Calrissian. "Where are you going with this, Thrawn?"
I allowed myself a faint smile.
"You have no idea, Mr. Calrissian, how refreshing it is to deal with someone with true entrepreneurial spirit. Straight to negotiations, no unnecessary preamble."
"Time is money," reminded Lando. "And judging by your hints, you have an offer for me."
"Of course, if you're willing to hear it," I said diplomatically. "And if you have no other pressing duties."
Mmm, would he notice my hint that the conversation had veered far from its original purpose?
"Talking to you is my duty," said Calrissian. "But back to your offer. What's the gist?"
"As you may know, the Kwelli sector recently joined the Dominion," I said.
"Heard something like that," muttered the dark-skinned man.
"The sector is quite promising, as are other parts of the Dominion," I stated. "Mining plays a key role in our economy."
"With your militaristic focus, no surprise," smirked Calrissian.
"It's not just about weapons," I corrected. "Natural resources are used in construction, exploration, and colonization of new worlds. To efficiently supply Dominion industries, I need experienced entrepreneurs whose businesses the Dominion is ready to support with preferential loans, reduced taxes, and other economic incentives."
Calrissian blinked, realizing how different this was from the galaxy's norm. In the New Republic, a young entrepreneur could only hope to pay hefty bribes before struggling to make ends meet.
But let's not single out the New Republic.
Such schemes operated in most galactic sectors, regardless of the governing regime. It was true under the Empire, the Galactic Republic… and, honestly, the larger the Dominion's territory, the greater the risk we'd face the same bureaucratic corruption.
"I recently received information about the planet Varn in the Kwelli sector," I continued. "Ever heard of it?"
"Barely," said Lando. "An oceanic planet with archipelagos and ocean farmers who vanished from galactic markets a decade ago."
"That may be true galaxy-wide," I agreed. "In the Dominion, their business is recovering."
"I haven't dabbled in fisheries," chuckled Calrissian. "Not sure I want to."
"That's not what I'm suggesting," I cautioned. "Beneath Varn's ocean floor lie resource deposits. Given Varn's stunning terrain and pristine waters, an enterprising person like you could turn simple mining into something greater—say, an entertainment complex on the ocean floor. Varn isn't Pantolomin with its reef beauty, but it's a start for entrepreneurial expansion. As compensation for past inconveniences, I'm willing to fund the project's construction—if you work for the Dominion's benefit. In time, as tensions with the New Republic ease, you could export goods beyond my state and allied sectors. I'm not pressing or rushing you, but I wouldn't delay your answer. Promising projects don't stay unrealized long in the Dominion."
Calrissian's hologram visibly bit its lower lip.
A true battle between capitalist and friend raged within him.
A few seconds of glancing aside, toward somewhere in the room on Sluis Van where he stood, and the enlightenment on his face faded.
"Tempting offer, Grand Admiral," he said in a defeated tone. "Maybe we'll discuss it someday. But let's return to the exchange for Luke."
"Oh, that," I nodded understandingly, glancing at the personal datapad Pellaeon deftly handed me, avoiding the projector's view built into my chair's armrest on the Chimaera's bridge. "The issue, Mr. Calrissian, is that such an exchange is impossible."
A shadow crossed my interlocutor's face.
But that wasn't the only sign of the moment.
The starlines before my eyes collapsed into distant points, revealing only a massive, glowing orb resembling Mustafar.
Those unfamiliar with space travel might confuse them, but our navigation computer wasn't fooled.
The world, framed by fifty asteroids and two moons, appeared before me in all its infernal splendor.
As did the ships hastily repositioning in orbit.
"Why not?" Calrissian asked quickly. "Is Skywalker alright?"
"As far as I know, he's in good health," I confirmed. "Though disappointed I denied him a personal meeting. That's your side's problem."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Calrissian tensed.
"You have nothing to offer me in exchange," I explained.
"That's nonsense," my interlocutor protested. "We want to give you Lusankya."
"A slight clarification," I said. "You wanted to trade Lusankya for Skywalker. But the problem is, Lusankya is no longer at Rendili—it's en route to rendezvous with my fleet under my officers' control. Forgive me, but you won't catch me or Isard."
Either the projector's contrast settings were off, or Calrissian paled. Probably the device—never seen that with dark-skinned individuals.
"Perhaps," I continued, "I should overlook that this operation aimed to lure and destroy me using the New Republic's youngest general, Wedge Antilles. I'm not mistaken in saying you planned to propose a meeting near the Sarapin system in quadrant M-10. Not far from the planet Ruun, about twelve hours from Rendili."
Lando stood, mouth agape, processing what I'd just said.
His eyes darted, betraying extreme shock.
"I… I don't know what to say…"
"No need, Mr. Calrissian," I said. "No need to lie and ruin my impression of you. But you'd do me a favor if you asked General Solo, nearby, to stop trying to contact General Antilles, whose fleet awaits me in Sarapin's orbit."
"Kriff you, Thrawn!" roared Solo, appearing in the projection. "How did you know?!"
"Quite simple, General Solo," I said phlegmatically, nodding to Pellaeon to begin the operation. "To not keep General Antilles waiting, I arrived at Sarapin's orbit myself. How many times will you and your wife's schemes pit Antilles against me? Should I pass on your family's regards? Or is he no longer your friend, and you're just eager to be rid of him?"
To see such a mix of emotions—from confusion to uncontrollable rage—on the faces of Solo, Calrissian, and Organa-Solo, who appeared behind them, was worth indulging in this small childishness.
The hologram flickered out.
Such ill-mannered sentients, not even saying goodbye.
Judging by Pellaeon's smile and Rukh's whistling laugh from behind the nearest console, the jest found its audience.
Let's see how Antilles and his Rogue Squadron laugh now.
"Black Wing, take off," I ordered. "Lieutenant Creb is authorized for a free hunt on Rogue Squadron pilots. I'm sure the Rogues will be thrilled to face a dozen TIE Avengers led by Creb and his clones."
***
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