Ten years and the twentieth day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year and the twentieth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months, one month, and the fifth day since the arrival).
Interstellar void, like a soft blanket for an infant, cradled the star destroyer that silently glided toward its designated target.
The only thing dispelling the darkness in this corner of the galaxy were the running lights of the starship, steadily blinking in the surrounding gloom.
The nearest stars were hundreds of light-years away, but the Chimaera's course did not involve visiting those celestial bodies.
The starship followed a trajectory plotted by the navigator on special orders from those on the bridge.
The star destroyer had visited the Skaros system in the Morshdine sector not out of idle curiosity.
Pushing through thousands of kilometers of minefields, escorted by a dozen turbolasers from GolAn-type defensive stations scattered throughout the system, carefully maneuvering between massive asteroids that served as cheap versions of firing points—currently undergoing repair work—it moved toward its goal.
Mechanics and droids were carving passages inside the rocks and installing necessary communications, while on the surface, turret wells for turbolasers and missile launchers were being mounted.
But without a doubt, the "highlight" in this uninhabited system, where the Dominion's regular fleet had once defeated the First Division of the Fourth Fleet of the New Republic Defense Force, was a far more significant and colossal structure.
Recently, a massive, though considerably battered by life, turbolasers, missiles, and internal explosions, former habitable sphere—once belonging to the Emperor Palpatine's hired assassin named Ennix Devian—had been stationed here.
And now this enormous metallic spherical construct, with a diameter of one hundred twenty kilometers, served as the headquarters of the regular fleet of the state known as the Dominion.
Though outwardly, this object could hardly be called anything fitting the status of a headquarters.
A significant portion of the hull was either destroyed, deformed, or covered in scorch marks from an ancient battle.
A trained eye could easily discern that inside the station, there were equally massive problems with filling it.
Once, there had been makeshift shipyards, production buildings, and machines ensuring the operation of numerous factories.
Now, most of that equipment had been dismantled and distributed to shipyards and planets supplying the Dominion's industries with necessary gear.
The headquarters continued to be rebuilt, preparing to become one not just formally, but in fact.
However, the Chimaera was not heading toward the enormous wounded sphere.
Nor even toward the three massive disc-shaped orbital assembly yard structures, placed in high orbits around the system's dead and uninhabitable planets, producing an endless stream of TIE-series flight craft in service with the Dominion.
The star destroyer was heading toward the boundaries of the star system.
There, farther from prying eyes, the headquarters had placed a testing ground for small flying craft undergoing final acceptance tests before being sent into the holds of awaiting star destroyers in the system, ready to depart for missions protecting the state.
The Supreme Commander of the Dominion stood at the central viewport of the famed vessel.
He gazed into the void of space and, indifferent to others' opinions, adjusted his snow-white gloves on his hands without looking.
Though the entire galaxy considered him dead, this Chiss was more alive than many whose heartbeats were officially recorded.
Captain Tschel, one of the few young officers diligently performing their duties over the past six months and rewarded for it, slowly strode across the central dais.
Gripping firmly but not too tightly, trying not to show his nervousness, the young man clutched the datapad with incoming operational summaries he intended to deliver to the Supreme Commander.
His young gaze drilled into everything happening aboard the ship with a trained eye.
The young subordinates, the overwhelming majority of whom were recent recruits transferred to the regular fleet from the metropolitan defense forces, winked cheerfully at each other, clearly buoyed by the fact that on their first voyage—from the Tangrene shipyards to the Skaros system—they were accompanied by the grand admiral himself.
And this did not particularly please the young commander.
The man stopped when his gaze caught something that should not have been happening on a battle station.
"Ensign Mithel," he addressed the officer responsible for preparing and operating the tractor beam operators.
The young man, one of the few veterans remaining on the ship after repairs, snapped to attention, jumping up from behind the console, clutching his personal datapad.
"Sir?" he blinked.
"Why are there unauthorized devices on the battle station?" the young commander jabbed a finger toward the datapad.
The presence of such a device during a watch was a serious violation of security protocols.
And the officers of the relevant department aboard the destroyer could ask many unpleasant questions.
Of everyone, from the ensign himself to the ship's commander.
And they would be absolutely right—an underling's mistake was a failure of the entire chain of command in the department.
"Sir, I'm studying headquarters recommendations on tactics against 'splitting targets,'" the man said sheepishly. "Intelligence reports that in battles with the Empire, the New Republic often uses anti-capture tactics—they launch torpedoes that the sensors lock onto…"
"I don't need explanations, ensign," Tschel cut him off. "The information was disseminated to the crew before departure. You came on watch two hours ago. Did you have time to study the documents during self-preparation hours en route?"
"Yes, sir," the ensign drooped. "I wanted to combine it with practice, work on operational response at the console…"
"Commendable intentions," the ship commander agreed. "But they are devalued by violating security protocols. Two extra duties after watch ends. I reprimand you. The datapad!"
Tschel extended his hand, leaning over the dais railing.
"Yes, sir," the young officer saddened, handing his personal portable computer to the commander. "Aye, sir."
"Return to your duties," the star destroyer commander stated, continuing on his way.
Another officer caught his eye.
This time—a middle-aged man, though dressed in fleet officer uniform and the chevrons on his jacket sleeves indicating affiliation with the Chimaera's crew, the department patch revealed who he truly was.
"Check for leaks," Tschel stated, handing the confiscated device to the counterintelligence officer.
"It will be done, commander," the other replied.
Judging by his presence on the bridge without taking action yet, he knew that Ensign Mithel was clearly not acting in the interests of the Dominion's enemies.
Undoubtedly, the counterintelligence officer had already prepared a report to the ship commander on the violation but hadn't flagged it, as there was no immediate threat in his area, and the report could wait until the watch change.
Tschel did not approve of such an approach.
Better to nip inappropriate behavior in the bud than deal with consequences when the crew's heads had already rooted the idea that "it's okay." After all, they weren't punished right away, were they?
It was strange that Mithel had risked such a violation—he was a veteran, knew it wasn't welcomed.
"Grand Admiral, operational summaries," Tschel stated, saluting and unobtrusively handing the working datapad to the Supreme Commander.
"Thank you, Captain," Thrawn said quietly, taking the device and touching the receptacle with his code cylinder.
For several seconds, he regarded the former executive officer of the star destroyer with an appraising gaze, then took the device and began studying the information displayed on its screen.
The grand admiral's face showed no emotion, but Tschel understood that he was clearly in no hurry to finish reviewing the data.
Thus, what headquarters had sent was more than serious information warranting maximum attention.
It seemed the watchstanders sensed the grand admiral's mood.
In any case, the usual hum from behind, indicating the crew's activity and busyness, became noticeably quieter than before.
Muted.
"As expected," the grand admiral intoned, finishing with the device.
He withdrew the code cylinder, instantly locking the screen, and handed it back to Tschel.
"What will be your orders, sir?" the young star destroyer commander inquired readily.
Tschel was eager to set out on campaign again, as it had been just half a month ago.
To lead an armada into enemy territory and engage in battle, crushing the foe…
Every first crew member awaited that!
Wasn't that why the Chimaera had been brought to combat readiness in such short order?
Yes, she wasn't a "three" yet, but the multiple modifications throughout the ship during the intermediate refit already indicated that the star destroyer was about to become one of the elite in the entire fleet.
But for now, the additional turbolaser artillery had yet to appear on the famed starship.
Aside from antiaircraft laser cannons and additional power generators, along with automation systems, the destroyer had undergone no significant changes.
Well, except that the shield generators were finally hidden under armor, and sensor arrays and hypercomm equipment dispersed to secluded corners.
"The latest orders are not canceled, Captain," Thrawn stated. "Your mission continues."
Tschel nearly groaned, realizing there would be no campaign.
"Basic training"—that's where the Chimaera would head immediately after receiving the necessary craft to complete her air wing.
Which was precisely why they were heading to the polygon—squadrons were conducting combat cohesion alongside testing.
And, perhaps, the gunners, mechanics, and pilots were the best currently aboard the Dominion's most famous ship.
Because they were clones of their originals, who had been transferred… Well, one could call it a clear promotion.
"Yes, sir," Tschel sighed, catching himself pursing his lips in disappointment.
"Unnecessary," Thrawn said unexpectedly.
"What, pardon, sir?" the young commander startled.
"You are quite unnecessarily overexerting yourself, Captain," the grand admiral stated.
"I'm striving to make my crew the best in the fleet again, sir!" the former exec explained.
"And you'll achieve the destruction of the star destroyer and everyone aboard," Thrawn continued calmly. "Haste will lead to nothing good."
"But it should help the crew adapt to combat conditions faster!" the captain insisted stubbornly.
"Indeed?" The grand admiral favored him with a fiery gaze.
"Yes, sir—it's prescribed in the accelerated training manual for fleet personnel," Tschel stated convincedly.
"That is so," the Supreme Commander agreed. "As is the fact that such a course is designed for Academy graduates who have completed full training. Your crew, however, is staffed with far from such competent personnel. They differ little from conscripts, one of whom you yourself were just six months ago."
Tschel, realizing he had overlooked that small but important detail, averted his gaze embarrassedly.
"My fault, sir," he murmured.
"There is nothing terrible in admitting mistakes, Captain," Thrawn stated. "You are one of our most competent and prepared young officers. Brilliantly passed qualification exams—both theoretical and practical—indicate your competence in combat and readiness to command a ship. But do not demand the crew be the best here and now—remember, it took you time and considerable practical work to enter the first graduating class of the fleet Academy and receive command of a star destroyer. Zeal in service is excellent. But do not cross the line of the permissible."
"I understand, sir," Tschel licked his lips. "But… I served under Vice Admiral Pellaeon. And I was confident I could impart the knowledge I gained to my subordinates through an intensive training course."
"It will happen inevitably," Thrawn agreed. "But before demanding flawless obedience to your orders from the crew, recall how much time you spent on extra duties. For reasons that you did not immediately grasp the essence of Pelleaon's orders to you."
"Yes, sir," Tschel uttered strainedly.
The expansion of the Dominion's fleet to truly immense sizes had set the military's social ladder in full motion.
Dominion Armed Forces headquarters organized the recall of top specialists from ships for command courses, to appoint them to bridges of commissioning starships in the future.
Tschel and over two dozen lieutenants and commanders from senior execs on star destroyers had been luckier—they distinguished themselves throughout Thrawn's campaign, Operation Crimson Dawn.
But only he had the honor of becoming the full "master" of a star destroyer bridge.
The other young officers settled for corvettes, rarely cruisers.
Tschel had long struggled to believe his luck—to leap over the personnel ceiling at once, not just gaining command of the Chimaera but skipping ranks.
Rumors swirled that Vice Admiral Pellaeon himself, heading the regular fleet staff of the Dominion Armed Forces, had pulled strings for him.
But Tschel doubted that strongly.
And to ask outright…
"Sir, permission to ask a question?" he ventured.
"Ask, Captain," Thrawn replied.
"Rumors circulate that Vice Admiral Pellaeon lobbied my promotion and assignment to the Chimaera's bridge only because he didn't want his ship commanded by an 'outsider,'" Tschel blurted. "That I was slated for command of a Chimaera escort corvette, but in that case…"
Thrawn gestured for him to stop.
The young officer complied.
"As I already said—you are a worthy officer in your place," the grand admiral pronounced. "In the Dominion, there is no patronage from superiors—for such, the best is life labor on the mines. You were chosen because deemed suitable for this post. However, if you doubt yourself and believe your place is on a corvette bridge, that is easily remedied."
"No, sir, I do not think so," Tschel flushed.
"In that case, cease using rumors as your sole information source," the grand admiral advised. "And engage your head. Imagine for a second that Vice Admiral Pellaeon, chief of the regular fleet staff, the man who exerted maximum effort to make the Chimaera the fleet's best star destroyer, with her crew tempered in a dozen battles and becoming donors for clones of nearly all fleet specialist types, risked his career and life so his former ship would be under a 'Chimaera man' rather than an outsider."
"As you mentioned, it's impossible," Tschel echoed the grand admiral's words. "Just rumors."
"Correct," the Supreme Commander nodded in agreement. "But we both know rumors have a habit of embedding in officers' heads and gaining ground. The only way to combat them is to prove by deeds they are baseless. Draw the conclusion—what is better for you and Pellaeon? That you rush combat cohesion and head into battle where you will almost certainly perish with crew and ship, or demonstrate yourself in the best light, using all allotted training time to properly prepare your crew for the enemy, thereby proving by deed that rumors of your 'patronage' appointment are mere distortions of facts."
For several seconds, the young star destroyer commander digested the information, then nodded affirmatively.
"You are right, sir," he stated. "I will not hurry and ensure the crew is prepared in the allotted time, honoring their predecessors' legacy without allowing the Chimaera's defeat in upcoming battles per assigned combat tasks."
"Commendable," Thrawn agreed, glancing at the nearby adjutant, positioned in the opposite part of the bridge from the gray-skinned bodyguard Rukh. "Since we agree on thorough personnel preparation, be so kind as to report the current authorized strength and composition of your guard star destroyer's air wing in the Dominion's regular fleet?"
Despite the near-total replacement of command, officer, and enlisted personnel from campaign veterans with recruits, the Chimaera retained her guard ship status.
And the Dominion's emblem—a golden "cog" inscribed in a circle—continued adorning the ship's upper and lower hull, emphasizing the star destroyer's status.
Even the ship's aviation had its own designation—Air Wing Scimitar, under the command of Major Tomax Bren, well-known to Tschel.
"TIE Avenger squadron 'Gray Wing,' four TIE interceptor squadrons, Scimitar bomber squadron, Xg-1 Star Wing assault gunboat squadron, two pairs of Dominion ARC-170 reconnaissance craft," the young commander rattled off.
To accommodate all this "wealth," space in the main hangar had been sacrificed.
Now, there was virtually no empty space for receiving shuttles and shuttles on the spacious main hangar deck—now occupied by Xg-1 Star Wings.
They had excelled in the operation against the New Republic fleet at Lianna and associated battles, and, no less, it was they who claimed credit for destroying most of the Republican aviation and ramships during the Battle of Sluis Van.
The Chimaera's guard status called for replacing standard TIE bombers with Scimitars, while "regular" star destroyers were equipped with the former types.
Despite ramped-up Scimitar and Star Wing production, there weren't enough to outfit every star destroyer, so command found this solution.
Likewise, guard ships were allotted Raider-III corvettes for escort and cover, in exchange for transferred Corellian CR90 corvettes and DP20 frigates to the defense fleet.
Equipped with antiaircraft laser turrets like the Crusader II corvettes standard for "regular" destroyers and other regular fleet ships, the Raider-IIIs excellently complemented the Imperial I and II classes with additional antimissile shielding.
But even they weren't plentiful yet—the laying down of new ships was recent, and swift entry into service wasn't expected.
Such starships were primarily intended for pairing with Project Three destroyers, as well as delivering spec-ops teams and storm commandos to operational areas.
And considering that the first and second Raider modifications hadn't taken well in the Dominion regular fleet, and all six existing samples had been hastily upgraded to "threes," the modification number was often omitted in use.
The Raider-III allotted to the Chimaera was currently absent, as was the ship's air wing.
Why—not clear.
Grand Admiral Thrawn, who continued flying his flag on the Chimaera despite the combat-ready superdestroyer Guardian officially the flagship of all Dominion Armed Forces, did not explain the corvette's absence.
And Tschel, naturally, did not inquire, understanding there was information even flagship commanders of the Supreme Commander should not know.
Theories abounded, but the most plausible was that the crew assembled from numerous regular fleet starships for the Guardian needed proper bonding.
Yes, they had engaged Grawn's moff star destroyers, but that was little more than a stroll.
True combat cohesion required substantial training time.
Most likely, that's what Captain Pellaeon—the only known clone of Vice Admiral Gilad Pellaeon—was doing now.
And the grand admiral, to avoid wasting time, decided to "tighten tails" on the Chimaera's crew.
By the Hutt, it was even honorable—the grand admiral himself participating in the star destroyer personnel preparation.
This time must be used fully to glean as many valuable instructions and remarks as possible.
"And precisely these small flying craft you mentioned are what we are now heading to receive," the grand admiral stated.
"Aye, sir," Tschel confirmed, glancing at the bridge tactical monitor.
At the star destroyer's scanner edges, markers of approaching air wing groups had already appeared.
Broken into squadrons, the small starships rapidly closed on the destroyer…
And the vectors they chose for approach did not please Tschel.
"Grand Admiral?" the destroyer captain said quietly. "Aviation is approaching us on attack vectors."
It took considerable effort to say that.
Yes, he might be mistaken, but…
No, he was not mistaken!
Their aviation was indeed approaching the Chimaera with clear intent to attack!
And as commander of a Dominion star destroyer, he was obliged to voice his opinion to the senior officer.
Right or wrong—he was obliged.
A junior reports information to the senior officer.
As it was in the Empire, so it remained after straightening out the Dominion Armed Forces regulations.
"Thank you," Thrawn said, glancing at the tactical monitor. "Correct. The Chimaera is under attack."
With that, the grand admiral slowly turned and settled into the chair installed amid the central dais, favoring his flagship destroyer's commander with a fiery gaze.
"This was not in the exercise program," Tschel noted.
But he had already realized part of the information had been withheld from him.
Thrawn was not aboard idly.
He was clearly here not to chat and dispense advice.
He was evaluating.
***
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