Nine years, nine months, and twenty-six days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, nine months, and twenty-six days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and eleven days since the insertion).
The distinct crack of cervical vertebrae echoed as the Republic commando went limp, sliding to the floor, no longer supported by the hands clad in black armor.
Storm commandos had reached the backup command center of the Lusankya, leaving behind a trail of ten Republic commando corpses and a few technicians who had tried to fire at the Dominion soldiers from behind.
THX-0297 and THX-0333 reassessed the situation.
A T-shaped corridor ended at its wide base with the heavy doors of the backup command center of the Super Star Destroyer.
The thickness of these doors reached half a meter, capable of withstanding a direct shot from a turbolaser.
The refractory material would take days to cut through. Even the high-intensity flame of THX-0333's flamethrower would be insufficient— there simply wasn't enough fuel mixture.
The storm commandos didn't have that kind of time.
Thus, both abandoned the idea of breaching the room through the main entrance.
Fortunately, during the capture of the Guardian and the still-unnamed Super Star Destroyer of the H1 faction, the 501st Legion had gained invaluable practical experience in assaulting such vessels— not just in simulators.
Still, there was always a way inside.
Obtaining the ship's layout data after the Republic's refit was not possible at this stage.
However, Agent Bravo-II had taken care of this when he disconnected the supercomputer from the peripheral systems of the Super Star Destroyer.
The emergency entrance to the backup command center had a manual opening mechanism, operable only from the inside.
Entry here was impossible.
The backup bridge was located deep within the starship, so assaulting it through the main viewport after the Lusankya exited hyperspace was also not an option.
Breaking through from below was equally unfeasible— the monolithic deck plating was as thick as the entrance door.
In essence, the backup command center was now a fortified capsule from which the enemy could attempt to regain control over several systems, especially if they managed to retake the engine and navigation compartments.
Control of the hermetic doors was also managed from within— for the security of the ship's final command hub. A clever move by the Republic engineers.
The ventilation shafts had been redesigned by the Republic to a much smaller diameter.
No human could fit through them.
But the storm commandos had no intention of entering personally.
Capturing a mouse droid didn't take long. It was simply a matter of activating its recall through a dedicated service console.
The MSE-6 was a geometric box, twenty-five centimeters tall, swiftly moving on four wheels across the decks of Imperial ships.
This model of helper droid was programmed for a variety of tasks aboard ships: delivering messages, small cargo, infiltrating damaged sections to assess conditions, searching for survivors, and more.
However, due to budget constraints, equipping these droids with advanced intelligence was deemed unnecessary. Each droid was designed for a single, specific purpose. One skill per droid.
In this case, THX-0297 had summoned a courier droid.
The cargo compartment occupied roughly half the droid's internal space, so large items like a turret or a powerful explosive charge couldn't fit.
But that wasn't necessary.
This little droid would carry a very different payload.
As would the other mechanical couriers summoned by the soldier.
While THX-0297 worked on the droids, THX-0333 used his flamethrower to burn through a ceiling panel near the ventilation duct.
The materials used for such critical systems as life support were top-notch, so the metal only gave way when the first of five fuel canisters was nearly depleted.
No matter.
It took half an hour to outfit all the mouse droids with thermal detonators, makeshift explosives crafted from tibanna cartridges and energy cells collected from the dead, as well as flash-bang and thermobaric grenades.
Everything that could explode— and do so effectively— was put to use.
Then it required some finesse to place each mouse droid into the scorched ventilation duct and issue the command to move forward.
The only destination these droids could reach was the ventilation grille of the Lusankya's backup command center.
The Republic had decided that an autonomous life support system for the backup command center was too costly, and the two reserve reactors powering the capsule were better used elsewhere.
Thus, this segment of the life support system was created.
The first droid slid through the duct toward the grille leading to the backup command center, swift and purposeful.
The tiny brains of these simple couriers lacked the capacity to understand they were following orders from someone other than the ship's crew.
THX-0297 approached the communication panel designated for contacting the backup command center.
Activating the key, he waited for the brief static to clear and spoke:
"Surrender, or you will be destroyed."
He wasn't one for verbosity and saw no point in introducing himself or elaborating further.
Especially since the enemy could likely see who was speaking through the small camera during the connection.
"We won't open the doors," came the reply from a short man with the insignia of a fleet navigator. "You can't get in here, and our comrades are about to regain control of the navigation system. We outnumber you, and you're the ones trapped."
"Error," stated THX-0297, activating the detonator of the first explosive device. "You are the ones trapped."
The first droid, having reached the ventilation grille by then, exploded into pieces, destroying the oxygen supply system and turning part of the metal into tiny shrapnel.
Now nothing prevented the remaining droids from traveling directly into the backup command center.
THX-0297 could have told the Republic forces that the hole in the ventilation duct had reduced the incoming breathable air to five percent, and in half an hour, they would have nothing left to breathe.
The ship's automation would inevitably open the doors once the oxygen levels in the compartment dropped to critical levels.
But he chose to let the enemy figure that out for themselves.
The Republic forces tried their best.
They attempted to shoot the mouse droids, but this did nothing to prevent the detonations.
The capsule's armor held firm against explosion after explosion, showing no signs of damage or risk to the equipment's connections.
When thermobaric grenades followed the initial explosives into the backup command center, flash-bang grenades came next, disorienting the personnel THX-0297 could see through the intercom screen.
The disoriented and deafened Republic forces tried to hide behind damaged, shrapnel-riddled control panels, which were now useless since the central computer's disconnection had shifted systems to manual control.
In other words, the ship was controlled by those with their hands on the controls in the reactor, engine, and navigation compartments. Thanks to droidekas and saboteur droids, all three critical areas were under the control of the fleet's special forces.
The storm commandos merely ensured that the backup command center could not be used to regain command.
Only when gray clouds of choking smoke from smoke grenades began to swell in the room did the surviving sentients finally realize they could no longer breathe.
The minuscule amount of oxygen still entering through the breached duct was so negligible that panic set in among the survivors, shrouded in fog and sweating from the lack of breathable air.
They scrambled, trying to rid themselves of the smoke grenades, but it was futile.
The irritating fumes of tear gas clouded their thoughts and stung their eyes and mucous membranes.
There weren't many military personnel among them. Specialists weren't as well-prepared to face death head-on, their service typically confined to control panels.
But to their credit, not one rushed to the door-opening mechanism.
Not one faltered.
The Republic forces chose to die rather than surrender the backup command center.
THX-0297 and THX-0333, watching as the automation of the backup command center opened the massive gates, merely switched their visor modes to better locate the bodies of their enemies amid the smoke and small fires sparked in several places by the insulation.
After performing a control sweep of the brave bridge crew, the storm commandos reported the completion of their task to Agent Bravo-II. Then, using fire extinguishers, they began tackling the small fires.
***
Neither the Republic forces attacking the navigation compartment nor the Dominion forces defending it were fools.
Thus, blasters or grenades were not used in the fight.
Only stun weapons and melee combat.
In the first case, no damage would be done to the fragile equipment in case of a miss, and in the second…
Combat knives and their vibroblade variants were used far from the control panels and the navigation computer block, given the defenders' dispersed positioning.
Orsan deflected the arm of a Republic soldier who had drawn a blaster, aiming to shoot the special forces operative in the chest.
Whether the weapon was set to stun or kill remained a mystery at that moment.
Makeno simply twisted the enemy's arm, redirecting the weapon away.
The Republic soldier's fingers, cramped by the maneuver, released the weapon, and a follow-up punch to the side left him gasping in pain, losing control of his limb. This allowed the captain to execute a throw, flipping the enemy over his back.
An obsidian blade flashed, and the opponent lay on the deck with a slit throat.
Hearing the approach of another enemy, Makeno smoothly sidestepped, kicking the fallen commando's blaster away.
The new opponent was tall, well-built, and clearly more experienced than the one Makeno had just dispatched.
The captain glanced at the insignia on the Republic soldier's chest plate.
"Lieutenant Page," Orsan smirked. "So, we meet at last, rebel. Your boys are poorly trained."
"Yours aren't exactly shining either," the Republic soldier retorted, drawing something resembling a machete from his belt.
A jungle knife.
Half a meter of tempered durasteel, sharpened to cut through thin metal.
In the hands of this particular commando, the weapon looked like a child's toy— so effortlessly did he wield it.
Orsan quickly surveyed the battlefield.
The commando droids operating at the compartment's approaches had been almost entirely destroyed.
If the enemy was here, then the droideka guarding the entrance, programmed to shoot anyone not affiliated with the storm commandos or fleet special forces, had also been defeated.
Of the five operatives, including the captain himself, two were dead.
The other two had shifted to defense, firing blue stun bolts at the Republic forces.
Of the fifty Republic soldiers who had stormed the compartment, only ten remained.
A decent exchange.
Especially since General Madine was now in cover, bandaging a penetrating wound in his right thigh that Makeno had inflicted during their initial clash.
That rancor of special operations could single-handedly turn the tide of the confrontation.
But as long as even one special forces operative remained alive, there was still a chance.
Ten against three.
That's all…
The jungle knife's blade flashed before the operative's face, but he dodged in time, simultaneously blocking Page's kick.
Ducking low, Orsan swept the commando's supporting leg, sending him crashing to the deck.
Page blocked a vibroblade strike to his throat.
Not giving the enemy a chance to recover, Orsan brought his legs into play, delivering blows to the commando's torso, ignoring the pain in his foot from striking the armor.
Page rolled aside and sprang to his feet as if made of springs.
He immediately went on the offensive, aiming a slash at the operative's left clavicle.
Orsan leaped back.
And again, dodging a wide swing across his torso.
And once more, evading a thrust toward his head.
This time, he stepped forward, locking the arm wielding the jungle knife against his own clavicle with his forearm, limiting Page's maneuverability to wrist movements.
Holding the muscular arm of the burly commando with both hands, Makeno executed a scissor kick, cutting Page down at the knees.
As the enemy began to fall backward, Makeno slammed his arm against the deck, forcing the jungle knife to slip from his grasp.
Orsan caught a glimpse of Page reaching for a blaster in his thigh holster and, without hesitation, delivered a punch to his throat, crushing his trachea.
While the enemy reflexively clutched his neck, Orsan grabbed the fallen weapon and drove the jungle knife into the chest of the New Republic commando.
Choking on blood-flecked foam, Page departed for a better world.
Wasting no time, Orsan hurled the weapon at the exposed back of the nearest Republic soldier.
The trophy blade struck precisely in the lower back, and the commando collapsed, ceasing to fire his stun weapon.
Makeno dove behind a nearby terminal, dodging a blue ring of a stun blast.
Rolling to the side as he landed, he drew his blaster from its belt holster.
His thumb flicked the fire selector, and a blue flash struck the shooting Republic officer in the chest.
The Rodian crumpled to the deck.
Realizing he was now behind the enemy, near the entrance, Makeno grabbed a vibroblade from one of the saboteur droids and charged at another Republic shooter, eagerly firing at the last surviving member of Makeno's team.
It was unclear how the other two special forces squads were faring elsewhere on the Lusankya, but here, the battle was clearly turning in the Dominion's favor.
Pulling the vibroblade from the commando's chest, Makeno saw two enemies flanking his remaining operative while another kept him under fire.
This was the end— he was too far to provide covering fire.
But…
He could win this battle.
General Madine tried to shoot him with a blaster as Orsan vaulted over the terminal where the general007
"General Madine," Orsan maneuvered the blade to touch the general's chin. "I believe you understand what needs to be done."
"We have more men," Kriggs replied, his gaze cold and indifferent. "We won't surrender the Lusankya. Even if you kill me, you won't win. The jump vector has already been calculated, and finding you is only a matter of time."
"Order your men to stand down," Orsan commanded.
"Never," the general rejected the offer. "You can execute me now."
"Hey, you lot," Makeno shouted, drawing the attention of the surviving Republic forces. "Drop your weapons now, or I'll put your general's head on my sword!"
The surviving Republic soldiers froze, glancing at each other, wisely staying in cover.
"I'll count to three," Makeno warned. "Then your general will increase in number, but not in quality."
The Republic forces hesitated, weighing their options.
"One!"
One soldier obediently raised his hands and emerged from cover.
In that instant, he was struck down by a stun blast from the last surviving special forces operative.
Naturally, with the enemy's numerical advantage, no one was taking risks.
"Two!"
Madine, realizing victory was slipping away, swiftly pulled a small blaster from his pocket.
But he wasn't aiming at Orsan— he pressed the weapon to his own temple.
His finger pulled the trigger…
And the vibroblade shifted, slicing through the general's forearm like it was the softest soufflé.
Madine gasped in pain, letting out a hoarse, quiet cry through clenched teeth.
"No need, General," the special forces commander advised. "The Dominion has already seen through that general's self-destruct trick."
The Republic general didn't respond, too busy bandaging his stump.
"I'm giving you one more second, or he'll lose more than just an arm!" Makeno warned.
The remaining Republic forces reluctantly pushed their weapons away and rose from cover.
A few blue flashes resolved the issue of their combat effectiveness.
"Your training methods haven't changed, General," Makeno sneered with contempt. "Still raising weaklings."
Kriggs, teeth clenched, glared at his captor with hatred.
"Nothing personal, Madine," Orsan said. "Just business."
He didn't wait for a response, firing a blue stun charge at the general.
***
When Luke was escorted by two guards in blue-black uniforms to the bridge of the Chimaera, he could observe the unfolding battle through the central viewport.
Dozens of Dominion Star Destroyers and fifty Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers, supported by nearly a hundred Corellian corvettes, formed a wide semicircle, enveloping a fleet of Mon Calamari star cruisers that had completed their formation and opened hurricane-like fire on the enemy.
As he crossed the walkway separating the turbolift from the central platform where the grand admiral's chair stood, the Jedi Knight glanced at the tactical monitor.
Four Interdictor-class Star Destroyers, positioned in the rear under the protection of an equal number of Venators, maintained an artificial gravity zone sufficient to prevent any Republic ships from escaping the orbit of Sarapin and its nearby space.
A classic trap, executed by the New Republic's most dangerous enemy, who had turned such tactics into an art form.
The star cruisers, leveraging their deflector shield enhancements, held their orbit under the protection of half a dozen Golan platforms, which supported the Republic forces with fire from all their guns.
The distance between the opponents was seventy units, and judging by the fact that the Dominion fleet hadn't shifted position in the minute it took Luke to reach Thrawn, the grand admiral was satisfied with the situation.
Luke felt a chill, recalling that four Venators were held in reserve behind the Dominion fleet.
Thrawn had already demonstrated his creativity and willingness to give outdated starships a new purpose.
One didn't need to be a Jedi Grand Master to confidently say: each of those ships was equipped with a planetary ion cannon. When Thrawn deemed it necessary, he would order them to fire on the New Republic ships, easily allowing their crews to suffocate or detonate during system restarts.
The rest, he would simply capture…
"Thank you, Jedi Skywalker, for agreeing to join me," Thrawn said without even glancing at Luke.
Instead, a nearby Noghri bodyguard fixed Luke with an unfriendly stare.
The son of Darth Vader briefly tried to call on the Force, but it remained as unresponsive as ever.
Luke scanned the bridge, noticing cages with brown lizards— whose name he didn't know— positioned around the perimeter.
The same creatures were carried by his escorting guards.
And every time he couldn't use the Force in Thrawn's presence, those lizards were nearby…
It was now clear how the grand admiral shielded himself and his forces from the Force.
"I didn't exactly have a choice," Luke replied.
"On the contrary," Thrawn countered, "you insisted on meeting me. Well, I've granted your request. Speak."
If only he knew what to say…
Despite his determination to confront Thrawn, Luke hadn't figured out what they would discuss.
"I see you're at a loss for words," Thrawn said without looking at him. "Quite literally."
"Is it pointless to ask you to spare the New Republic fleet and return to the Dominion?" Luke asked without much hope.
Surprisingly, Thrawn graced him with a glance.
"You're an optimist, Jedi Skywalker," he commented, turning back to the battlefield. "Captain Pellaeon, order the Adjudicator to redirect fire to the escort frigate at point three-three-nine. It must not escape the kill zone."
"Yes, Grand Admiral," the gray-haired man in a uniform cap responded briskly.
"At our last meeting, you said you had no intention of attacking New Republic civilian targets," Luke reminded him.
"And I've kept my word," Thrawn nodded.
"I won't bring up Coruscant, but Sarapin is a peaceful planet," the Jedi said. "It produces energy."
"Indeed, Sarapin's geothermal plants supply eighty percent of the Core Worlds' energy needs," Thrawn confirmed his knowledge.
"So you've moved to attacking peaceful worlds?" Luke pressed.
"If I wanted to conquer Sarapin, it would already be part of the Dominion," Thrawn replied.
"Then why are you besieging the planet?"
"The planet?" Thrawn looked at Luke as if he'd uttered something indecent in high society. "Honestly, Jedi Skywalker. I'm willing to believe your moral compass is faltering, but your eyes failing you is news to me."
Luke understood the verbal jab— his actions on Ossus.
"My fleet came to the Sarapin system not for the planet itself," Thrawn continued. "The Provisional Council and General Bel Iblis chose this place to stage a fleet meant to ambush me during a false deal involving the exchange of the Lusankya for you, Jedi Skywalker. I decided the circumstances were ideal for conducting exercises for my forces and testing the fleet's material capabilities. Recent changes necessitated such experience."
"They wanted to trade me?" Luke asked, surprised, ignoring the rest of Thrawn's words.
"They did," Thrawn confirmed, tilting his head to observe a series of detonations that tore a New Republic cruiser apart from bow to stern. "But they failed."
"The Lusankya is a valuable ship," Luke said. "I doubt the New Republic seriously intended such an exchange…"
"A trap was undoubtedly prepared for me," Thrawn agreed. "I chose not to fall into it."
Just like that.
He didn't want to, so he didn't.
Thrawn spoke as if he controlled the galaxy's events.
Given the past six months, Luke suspected that might be true.
"What happens next?" the Jedi asked.
"First, I will destroy General Antilles' fleet, which you see before you," Thrawn said. "Ship by ship. One by one."
Luke felt his insides tighten.
So Wedge was commanding this fleet?!
"Just like that?" Luke asked.
"Yes," Thrawn nodded slightly. "Just like that."
"You've positioned yourself as an opponent of senseless bloodshed," Luke said.
"Views can change, Jedi Skywalker," Thrawn explained. "When they refuse to listen, extreme measures are required. You're familiar with this stance. You demonstrated it vividly on Ossus, killing my subordinate and his apprentice."
"You intend to create a perverse version of the Jedi Order," Luke said. "To corrupt its teachings, defiling what Jedi have sacrificed for over millennia. I couldn't allow that."
"I understand," Thrawn agreed, watching as two Star Destroyers' turbolasers reduced a Nebulon-B2 on the left flank to rubble. "Tell me, how are your efforts progressing?"
Luke felt his face flush.
"I'm working on it," he said.
"Which aligns perfectly with my conclusions," Thrawn confirmed. "Would you like a free piece of advice, Knight Skywalker?"
"Free?" Luke raised an eyebrow. "Do you charge others for your wisdom?"
"Everything has a price," Thrawn said. "And you're correct. I charge for the lessons I teach— usually in Star Destroyers. But since my forces will soon seize control of the Lusankya, I'm willing to share an observation for free."
"Especially since I have nothing to pay you with," Luke said grimly, pained by watching two more Republic ships explode into flashes of light.
"Oh, you underestimate yourself, Jedi Skywalker," Thrawn's address echoed how the late clone of Master K'both referred to him and Horn. "Your droid, your ship, your fighter, your lightsaber… To some degree, they all hold value, don't you think?"
"Undoubtedly for me," Luke replied.
Thrawn gestured to draw his attention.
The Jedi silently watched as the grand admiral revealed a small compartment in his chair's armrest.
To Luke's astonishment, his lightsaber's hilt was inside!
"During the Clone Wars, a cyborg named General Grievous fought for the Separatists," Thrawn said, closing the compartment, shocking Luke further. Why show it at all? Boasting wasn't Thrawn's style. "He had a tragic fate, but that's not the point. General Grievous was known for hunting Jedi, relishing their sadistic deaths in personal combat and taking their lightsabers as trophies. I have no penchant for sadism or excessive bloodshed. My subordinates don't collect such archaic weapons for more civilized times," Luke flinched, recalling Obi-Wan Kenobi's similar words. Thrawn had repeatedly shown knowledge of events he couldn't have witnessed. "I won't engage you in single combat, Jedi Skywalker. I'll only say that your lightsaber told me much about you."
"You've studied me?" Luke frowned.
"As I do anyone who stands between me and my goal," Thrawn confirmed. "I have big plans for you, Jedi Skywalker. Since you've crossed the line, you're one step away from directly participating in the proper completion of my plan. Captain Pellaeon, inform Captain Reder that I'd prefer the enemy not succeed in deploying their bombers on our right flank."
"Yes, sir!"
They fell silent for several minutes.
Luke watched as more New Republic star cruisers turned into flashes of light.
It was happening too often, given the distance between the combatants.
Something was clearly wrong.
Star cruisers couldn't explode on command as if a bomber had slipped unnoticed and unleashed a full salvo of proton torpedoes or bombs into vulnerable spots.
"So what's your plan?" Luke asked hoarsely, tormented by his inability to help his comrades, just as at Endor, forced only to watch.
"Ah, yes, the advice," Thrawn said, as if recalling their conversation. "It's quite simple, Jedi Skywalker. It concerns actions to take against an enemy who won't relent."
A bad feeling stirred within Luke.
Thrawn was hinting at something…
Or rather, someone.
"And what's the advice?" Luke asked, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.
"Oddly enough, it's concise," Thrawn turned from the battle, his burning eyes capturing Luke's gaze. "Kill, no matter the cost."
Luke felt phantom pain in his artificial right hand.
A shiver ran through his body.
Palpatine's laughing face appeared before him, urging him to kill the Emperor to save the rebels at Endor from destruction.
Luke stared into Thrawn's fiery eyes, feeling infernal flames consume him from within.
It took immense effort to look away.
"As I thought," Thrawn said, losing interest and returning to the battle. "A Jedi's blade is for defense, not attack… A dangerous philosophy that completely ignores that one strike could kill a single sentient but save billions. Make yourself comfortable, Jedi Skywalker. Your actions have determined your future. In the upcoming conclusion of my campaign, you have a front-row seat."
Luke's guards seated him at a nearby deactivated panel, offering a heart-wrenching view of Wedge Antilles' fleet's destruction.
***
Colonel Wessiri, accompanied by a squad of stormtroopers, made his way from the combat bridge to a room absent from the Lusankya's plans in mere minutes.
Located several levels above the bridge, it beckoned with the red trim of its double doors. In the dimly lit corridor, the doors seemed stained with blood.
What puzzled the colonel most was that the doors parted as he approached, though they were programmed to respond only to the Iceheart.
The identification system for the mistress was so deeply embedded in the Super Star Destroyer's core systems that not every slicer could even discover its existence.
Yet, it seemed the electronics had been hacked…
The thought crossed his mind that after the central computer was disabled, such a security system might have failed.
The Director didn't elaborate on how these systems worked. No one liked sharing secrets.
Iceheart, even less so.
"Maximum vigilance," he ordered the stormtroopers.
"Yes, sir," the sergeant gestured for most of the squad to remain on guard.
A couple of men would suffice inside.
Blaster raised, the colonel stepped into a vast room, larger even than the bridge.
Its walls were lined with exotic wood from a distant past. Golden light poured from the ceiling, visually warming the compartment, a stark contrast to the cold artificial lighting of the corridors and the rest of the Lusankya.
The first thing that caught his eye was a wooden New Republic crest.
As repulsive as those adorning the belly and upper deck of the Super Star Destroyer.
Sleek and curved, it was the antithesis of the sharp, angular, starkly contrasting Galactic Empire crest. No soft transitions or warm colors— the "gear" embodied power, indestructibility, precision, and no compromise.
This rebel "bird" was mere scribble.
He noticed the passage to an adjacent room was open, leading to two discoveries.
First, the rebels had clearly reached this place during the ship's refit. Only a complete fool would ignore large red doors.
Second, dead stormtroopers from the cover squad lay on the floor. The absence of scorch marks on the walls, floor, or ceiling suggested it was done quickly and precisely. A closer look at the neat burns on the back of their helmets indicated the killer had been behind the elite Imperial soldiers.
The fact that the attacker dispatched them all without extraneous gunfire pointed to high professionalism.
In a high-backed chair at the room's center sat the one he'd come for: a figure in sealed gray armor.
Imperials were familiar with this angular chair design— beloved by the Galactic Empire's ruler.
His loyal servants followed the trend.
But something else concerned him now.
A massive combat knife's hilt protruded from the center of the figure's light chest plate. Judging by the absence of blood trickling down the armor, the woman had been dead for some time.
Perhaps the moment she sat in the chair.
His thoughts raced.
What was happening?
Who killed everyone here? Where was the Lusankya heading? What to do next? Who was responsible?
He found no answers.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a hand gripping a powerful blaster pistol emerge from the doorway to the adjacent room.
The stormtroopers raised their weapons but were too slow.
There'd be no questions about their sluggish reaction if they were fresh recruits. But no, the best soldiers trained on Carida in recent years had been sent to storm the Lusankya.
Those available on the Emperor's Wisdom.
Then he noticed a young woman in a light combat suit standing in the doorway.
Judging by the cold fury in her eyes, she was no ally.
He had to admit the obvious— the Republican was better than the stormtroopers.
The man fired, but as she dodged, the shot only grazed her shoulder instead of piercing her neck.
Before he could correct his aim, her return shot burned his hand, and his weapon fell to the floor.
"Hands," she said, jerking her blaster upward, signaling to raise his hands and not resist.
Colonel Broal Wessiri only laughed.
"That's not how it works, Agent Wessiri," he explained. "There are simply more of us on this ship. And we're all armed. My death changes nothing."
"Yes, these guys didn't come here with toys either," the Republican slid behind the chair's back, gaining a slight but significant advantage. "And as you can see, it's over."
"Really?" Broal smirked. "I'm just a pilot, but something tells me these corpses we found here aren't your doing."
"Nor yours," Iella Wessiri said.
"Anything's possible," he replied indifferently. "Perhaps we had a covert agent. Like your husband, Diric…"
"Shut up," she ordered.
Her tone, contrary to the pilot's expectations, wasn't hysterical, angry, or even sarcastic, as Iceheart had predicted when discussing the agent's determination to find the Lusankya's prisoners.
The woman spoke calmly, measuredly, as if Broal wasn't talking about her beloved, whose mind Iceheart had twisted, but about something mundane like brushing teeth or polishing an airspeeder's hull.
However, serving Iceheart had taught the colonel a few things.
Like recognizing when people only pretended indifference in front of others.
If talk of her late husband didn't affect Wessiri, she wouldn't have cut him off so sharply. No, she was simply accustomed to her pain, not that she'd overcome it.
And that could be exploited.
He just needed to distract her.
"You know, we're alike," Broal declared.
Wessiri shook her head.
"Aside from the same surname, nothing connects us, Colonel Wessiri," she said.
"Oh, so you know who I am," he chuckled.
"Yes, the Rogues told me everything," Iella said. "About you, your attempts to recruit them to create confusion, Iceheart, and tales of a clone. I'm afraid you miscalculated, Colonel."
She pointed at the closed helmet of the dead woman lounging in the chair.
"Your boss is dead, Colonel. The Lusankya is crawling with Republic commandos. No need to spill blood and die in vain."
"In vain?!" Broal flared. "What do you know about what's happening in this galaxy, Agent Wessiri? What do you know about loyalty to a cause and ideals? You, a CorSec operative who defected to the rebels and got a cozy spot for your loyalty."
"I fight for freedom," Iella said firmly.
"Tell that fairy tale to someone else," the pilot laughed. "You, Corran Horn, and a few of your dead friends served CorSec when it was just an arm of Imperial intelligence. You were ruled by Imperial Center appointees, and your work followed orders from those who answered to the Emperor. You, me, Iceheart— we all did what the Emperor wanted."
"We served the law," Iella countered. "You served your ambitions."
"We served IMPERIAL law," Broal corrected. "And I still do. You switched sides because it got too hot. You couldn't handle the circumstances. You're like an ancient weathervane— whichever way the wind blows, you turn. Like your friend Antilles. Like Corran Horn. The moment power shifts on Corellia, you'll all rush to defend it, pounding your chests and proclaiming your heroism. You rebels are just opportunists— doing what suits you. And when your priorities shift, you'll ditch your Rebel Alliance and run to wherever's convenient."
"Not all of us are human," Iella replied coldly. "And we're no longer the Alliance."
"Call yourselves whatever, it changes nothing," Wessiri scoffed. "Even the lowliest Imperial warlord has more loyalty and sense of duty than all of you combined. When the Empire fell, the Imperial Remnants got their own rulers, but the law— Imperial law— remained. Order remained."
"You tore each other apart, and half your warlords were blasted apart on their own ships."
"We fought for power," Wessiri admitted. "But we didn't touch society's foundations. And you? What did you do when you took the Imperial Center? You rushed to restore democratic laws, preaching how great life would be without the Empire. I won't mention the slaughter in the Imperial Palace by your troopers. Hutt-spawned democrats! We Imperials, flawed as we are, did more for the galaxy under the Emperor than you can imagine."
"If you think you'll get my pity, Colonel, you won't," Iella said, turning the corpse in the chair to face her and fumbling with the helmet's clasp, occasionally glancing at Broal.
Perfect, just what he needed.
"I don't need your pity," he scoffed, slowly moving his right hand behind his back. "I'm just pointing out the difference between us. We're not afraid to get our hands dirty when necessary, without hiding behind props or excuses. We do what we must. You lot navigate public opinion and rules. That's why your New Republic is cracking the moment Thrawn tugs at you. How did it feel knowing countless sentients fled Coruscant after Thrawn's blockade to live under the Dominion? How pathetic is your power when they'd rather live under someone indirectly responsible for asteroids crashing on their heads than stay democrats?"
"We respect sentient choice," Wessiri replied, working on the helmet's chinstrap. "Honestly, I dreamed of killing Iceheart myself, but if I meet who did it, I'll buy them a drink for the right choice. Want to see her face when she saw her killer? It'll be quite a sight. You'll like it, Colonel, since Iceheart was a pillar of your past. It'll be useful to see how your revered authority met her end."
Broal smirked, feeling the spare blaster and drawing it from behind his belt, keeping it hidden behind his thigh for now.
The colonel wanted to savor the moment.
"So you're wrong, Wessiri," the woman said. "What you call betrayal is just civilian choice. If a sentient wants to live and serve where it's more comfortable, they're free to do so. That's freedom of choice. But you Imperials have your brains washed in academies. You know nothing beyond serving the Empire, as you understand it. That's our difference. You're a fanatic; I'm a realist."
Wessiri lowered her eyes as she removed the gray helmet and tossed it aside.
From her stunned expression, the colonel knew she'd finally realized.
How easily and cheaply Iceheart had played them.
The man raised his blaster and fired without hiding.
A crimson bolt struck the right side of the young agent's chest.
With a cry, she collapsed, dropping her weapon.
The colonel took exactly three seconds to cross the space between them and reach his victim.
He grabbed the Republican by her hair, striking her face with the blaster's grip to quell her resistance. Then he stepped on her left arm, snapping her wrist with one motion. He repeated the move on her right arm, accompanied by her cries of pain.
With a sadistic smile, he shot both her thighs, fully robbing her of mobility.
Ignoring her sobs, he yanked the helpless Iella from the floor and dragged her to the shocked and horrified face of the young woman in gray armor.
"See this face, Agent? Her name was Alex, a slicer, twenty-three years old. She served the Empire, though born beyond its borders. This girl agreed to impersonate Iceheart in this operation, so you, useless rebel scum, would think you had a chance. You were outplayed long ago and will soon be crushed like cheap gangsters on the Imperial Center's Lower Levels. General Madine probably just realized things aren't going his way. No matter, there's still time. Soon we'll regain control of the Lusankya, take her to Iceheart's rendezvous point, where I'll tie a bow on your Director of Intelligence and hand the traitor to the Iceheart."
"You planned this," Wessiri croaked.
"Some things surprised us," Broal admitted, kneeing her in the stomach, then relishing slamming her face into the chair's angular armrest. "But while you tried to catch Iceheart for a spectacle to show your strength, she set a trap for you. And your Madine, unlike Kraken, will be taken alive. I'm sure Iceheart, during her wanderings, has devised a way to restore her program for breaking sentients and turning them into sleeper agents, replacing the equipment you fools destroyed when the Lusankya fell into your hands."
The colonel dropped her to the floor, straddling her with relish.
He set the blaster aside and began strangling her, savoring her final agony.
The captive tried to speak, but Wessiri's strong hands were already on her throat. The blaster at—
"Unlike you, Republic trash, I'll live to see you "heroes" "find" Madine and reintegrate him. And at some parade, he'll blow Mon Mothma's brains out, proclaiming this ship's name across the New Republic, marking how Iceheart outplayed you all again."
Incoherent gurgling came from the woman's throat.
She landed weak blows with her broken hands, but the colonel, smelling the kill, was unstoppable.
His eyes burned with fanatical fire, his feigned calm giving way to his true sadistic nature.
He watched as Iella Wessiri's gaze grew foggy, her resistance fading.
For a moment, he was puzzled when hope flickered in her eyes, and something dark reflected in them.
The colonel turned his head and was shocked to see a middle-aged man standing behind him.
Dressed in a standard technician's jumpsuit, he was no technician— armor contours showed beneath the fabric.
And with the ventilation grille missing from the ceiling, it was clear where he'd come from.
"What the Hutt?!" The colonel released the victim's throat, who gasped for air.
Broal reached for the blaster, but the man seized his hands, twisted them, and with one sharp motion broke his elbow and radius bones.
Wessiri howled as he saw creamy-white bone fragments protruding from his skin.
But that was just the beginning.
***
Iella managed to roll onto her side, enduring the pain, remaining a silent witness.
She watched as the "technician" with the precision and economy of a professional hand-to-hand combatant turned the colonel bearing her surname into a pulp.
Strikes with hands and feet landed on every part of his body, accompanied by the sounds of battered organs and breaking bones.
Gasping for precious air, the woman tried not to draw attention, hoping her broken wrists wouldn't prevent her from grabbing the pilot's dropped blaster.
She'd seen many fights and conflicts involving martial arts, and now she recognized the technique used by the unexpected guest.
Teräs Käsi.
A notoriously difficult martial art to master, shrouded in legend. Few could claim to have met a Teräs Käsi master and lived.
Suddenly, the Corellian realized she'd read about its deadly application.
While with CorSec, investigating a street brawl with seven corpses— none with a single intact bone— she found a witness who described the killer's actions.
A jackhammer delivering bone-shattering blows at blaster-shot speed.
When she'd neared identifying the killer, an Imperial intelligence agent confiscated the case.
The perpetrator was never found, and the spice traders' deaths were quickly forgotten.
CorSec believed Imperial agents were responsible and covered their tracks.
Watching this unassuming man turn the sturdy colonel into a pulp, Iella was inclined to agree with her former colleagues.
Within minutes, Colonel Broal Wessiri's body was a shapeless sack, devoid of contours.
Just a mass of organic matter in a bruised shell.
But judging by the movement of his eyes, he hadn't died.
Nor could he move.
"You remember Molo Himron, don't you, Colonel Wessiri?" the stranger asked quietly, kneeling beside the battered pilot.
Iella felt a chill run down her spine.
Even the pain of her fractures and burns faded to the background.
A pitiful moan came from the pilot.
"I see you do," the stranger nodded. "You and Iceheart tortured him to learn Thrawn's plans. Turned him into a pulp. But he didn't break. I wasn't there to stop him— Molo chose not to risk becoming Iceheart's puppet. He took his own life, fearing memory gaps indicated sleeper agent conditioning. A correct but hasty decision."
The colonel's head, inexplicably unbroken unlike the rest of his skeleton, trembled.
"I have one question," the stranger continued. "Did you make him a sleeper agent or not? Your answer will decide whether you die quickly or in agony."
The colonel's sack-like body shook, barely held together by torn fabric.
Iella, holding her breath, watched as Colonel Wessiri nodded affirmatively.
"So Molo made the right choice," the stranger said, licking his lips.
Then his right hand clenched into a fist…
The next thing Iella could discern was the stranger pulling his hand, smeared with gray-brown matter and blood, from the colonel's shattered skull.
"For Molo Himron and his team," the stranger said. "And all those you processed and sent to their deaths."
Iella lay frozen in shock.
Her eyes nearly bulged as she watched the stranger rise and shake brain matter and blood from his hand with one sharp motion.
The Republican met the man's gaze.
"Now," the Dominion operative said, squinting as if aiming through a sight, "let's deal with you, Agent Wessiri."
Iella's body did the only thing it could.
She screamed in terror and lost consciousness.
***
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