Ten years, two months, and eighteen days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, second month, and eighteenth day after the Great ReSynchronization.
(Nine months and three days since the arrival.)
"Pure sabacc," the lieutenant announced with no small amount of satisfaction and a triumphant grin as he laid his cards on the table.
The other players stared at the lucky bastard with undisguised irritation; the total value of his hand came to the legendary twenty-three.
Not "minus twenty-three," which would have been a mere "sabacc"—ranked just below a pure sabacc in the hierarchy of winning hands—but exactly "plus twenty-three."
Eight, nine, six, ten, eleven—those alone added up to forty-two.
If those had been all the cards he'd dropped, they would simply have laughed him off the table, and the pot would have gone to the senior gunner who held twenty-two—the closest combination to the magic number.
But the battery commander still had negative-value cards in his hand.
The Star, worth minus seventeen.
And the Queen of Air and Darkness, the coveted minus two.
Forty-two plus minus nineteen.
Pure sabacc.
"Third time in a row," the senior gunner said sourly, watching the smug lieutenant rake in a thousand-credit profit. "You're damn lucky, sir."
"Serves in the Pickets long enough, Sergeant," the battery commander snorted, "and when you spend months kicking around aboard some old wreck like our Guarlara, you'll learn to play sabacc a hell of a lot better than I do."
"Uh-huh," the sergeant grunted, shoving his chair back from the table with a screech. His belt comlink chirped; he glanced at it. "Suddenly I've lost the urge to keep playing."
The rest of the group snickered as the gun commander—who'd just been cleaned out of several weeks' pay—stalked off.
The rookie who'd fancied himself a sabacc master had just lost everything to the third battery's commander.
The lieutenant in charge of the third twin turbolaser battery was lucky, charming, possessed enviable charisma—and that was only what you could tell after a few hours of off-duty acquaintance.
In reality, everyone was convinced the man was a cardsharp.
No one could prove it, though.
And for unsubstantiated accusations, the huge lieutenant—who looked like a shaved Wookiee—could (and had) broken jaws.
Upper ones, at that.
More than once.
So no one had been willing to play him for serious money in quite a while.
Still, passing the time while patrolling the back end of the Both system, maintaining the blockade set up by the Corporate Sector Authority fleet, required something.
And sabacc was the perfect game.
The Guarlara—a Venator-class Star Destroyer, one of many such ships still in Corporate Sector service.
Like two dozen of her sisters, she had a long and storied service record: she had fought in the Clone Wars and taken part in the Battle of Coruscant against the Confederacy of Independent Systems.
Later, when the Galactic Empire shed the old "skin" of the Republic and began aggressive rearmament, a great many ships—legacy of the Old Republic—were sold off or gifted to governments loyal to the Empire.
The Corporate Sector Authority, guided by its timeless principle—"We'll buy old junk, but cheaper and in bulk"—gratefully accepted the Empire's gift of a number of famous Venators and written-off Acclamators. Twenty-odd years ago those ships had been the most advanced in the Corporate Sector fleet, supplementing numerous Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers and turning the CSA into a formidable force capable of leisurely chasing pirates and hunting smugglers across every system in the sector.
They had been purchased from the Old Republic first and assigned to defensive units because of their poor hyperspace performance.
But when the Imperial upgrades appeared—trimmed crews and reduced fighter complements—the "corpies" once again went hat in hand to Coruscant and received more modern Dreadnaught variants in quantity.
Naturally, after generously greasing the Empire's budgets and the palms of lobbyists.
The Corporate Sector fleet remained a collection of outdated hardware until Coruscant, from its position of power, gifted its satellites more than five hundred Victory-I-class Star Destroyers.
The "boys in brown"—the derisive nickname ordinary citizens gave Corporate Sector Security operatives—and their naval colleagues were simply delighted with such ships.
Given that the Corporate Sector had not fought any full-scale wars, or even prolonged local conflicts, those ships allowed them to maintain security and protect trade deals galaxy-wide.
At the moment the Corporate Sector Authority was blockading every known hyperspace lane from the Hydian Way to the Both system—an ally-controlled sector that had recently become a problematic investment.
The mining corporation Kabul Industries had unexpectedly halted metal shipments to the Corporate Sector.
Security forces stationed inside the sector had stopped reporting, which seriously unnerved CSA command and Directorate.
Every officer in the Pickets knew—or at least suspected—that full-scale invasion was imminent; more than two dozen convoys, large and small, had already been disrupted.
The Guarlara, like a number of other Venators in the blockade force, was currently patrolling "unofficial" hyperspace routes—smugglers' back doors less favorable for travel than the well-trodden public lanes.
This was to scout every possible attack vector so the fleet could strike every Both system world at once.
As soon as the Guarlara confirmed the route clear, she would report to the flagship and, together with the rest of the force, hit the nearest target.
First—orbital bombardment and destruction of every rust-bucket on the chosen world's orbit.
Then—troop landing supported by fighter squadrons already bored out of their minds in the Guarlara's hangars for months.
The "boys in brown" might be inferior in training to even New Republic troops—let alone Imperial Army soldiers (never mind stormtroopers)—but they would be more than enough to properly terrorize the local natives.
Created as the primary instrument of executive power in the Corporate Sector and the main defender of the interests of the sector's giant corporations against encroachment by other galactic industrial and economic giants outside the CSA economic zone, the "boys in brown" served as police, ground forces, customs, and lately were often used for boarding pirate ships—or any vessel a Security officer deemed suspicious.
The "boys in brown"—whom clones had repeatedly tried to pass off as Imperial stormtroopers by dressing them in appropriate kit—would tear into the locals good and proper, and not one native would dare squeak against Corporate Sector authority again.
Cruel, interpreting laws however it suited them, Security operatives had earned their derogatory nickname honestly—and it had practically become the norm when speaking of them.
In their absence, of course.
Operatives could open fire on a crowd just to catch one criminal. Because of brutality during arrests and torture during interrogation, most citizens preferred never to deal with them under any circumstances.
They always acted harshly, regardless of crowd mood, and for dispersing demonstrations used everything from blasters set to stun to flamethrowers and even grenade launchers. Anyone unlucky enough to fall into CorpSec police hands might end up in one of the galaxy's harshest prisons—the Star's End.
Despite the fact that until recently the "boys in brown" were mostly equipped with outdated gear being phased out by the galaxy's leading armies, in their region—and especially on Outer Rim worlds—such armament and equipment could still be considered modern and sufficiently advanced.
With the emergence of the Dominion next door, the CSA Directorate had become seriously concerned about rearmament.
Now a significant portion of units, especially assault troops, were armed with Clone Wars-era kits.
Morally obsolete, written off by the Empire, but still effective and deadly.
Select assault units were equipped with disintegrators and repeaters whose advantages had been proven galaxy-wide by the late Zann Consortium.
So now Corporate Sector Security and its navy represented a fairly respectable fighting force.
And the planetary assault of the Both system would be their real test of strength.
One they would, of course, pass with flying colors.
Naturally, Security forces did field some domestically produced ships and ground vehicles. But those were so far issued only to elite units—along with the most successful designs captured from the Zann Consortium.
The second sabacc hand was wrapping up when the overhead speakers blared the ship's commander's voice.
"Action stations! All hands to battle posts!"
It took several seconds to process.
Then confusion gave way to frantic dashes to combat stations throughout the ship.
"What's going on?" the cheating lieutenant demanded as he reached the battery command post.
"Ships dropped out of hyperspace," his deputy explained. "One at first, now two. Heading straight for us. Looks like they were traveling clamped together and just separated."
"Then it's definitely our troop and equipment convoy," the battery commander grimaced, realizing the false alarm had cost him another triumph and profit.
"That's what the bridge thought too," the deputy agreed. "But they're running silent—no active transponders, no response to hails. And our transports aren't due for another hour—end of patrol. Until they're in sensor range, we sweat it out at stations. Probably a couple of smugglers running goods into Both and hauling our metals out for sale."
"True enough," the lieutenant scowled. "Fine. We'll give them a proper turbolaser welcome and go back to being bored."
He switched his comlink to the gun commanders' channel.
"Third battery—general attention. Open fire only on my command. Start with ranging shots; if needed, we go to full power."
The Clone Wars-era turbolasers still arming the Guarlara had seven firing modes—more than enough to deal with a small pirate band.
Given they'd likely run into armed freighters, it wouldn't take long.
"All batteries—attention," the ship commander's voice came over the intercom. "Targets identified. Interdictor-class Star Destroyer and Crusader-class corvette. Launching fighters. Stand by to fire at any moment."
"Wait—aren't Crusaders Zann Consortium ships?" the lieutenant asked dumbly. "Looks like we're not the only ones collecting famous old junk. Oh, I've got a feeling things are about to get interesting."
"Did the captain just crack a joke?" the deputy battery commander stared at the lieutenant. "Us against an Interdictor?"
Even considering the latter carried only four gravity-well generators and its armament and fighter wing were an order of magnitude weaker than the feeblest Imperial-class, one such ship was still far stronger than a Venator like the Guarlara.
Trading shots with it was outright suicide.
All hope rested solely on the fighter wing—twenty squadrons aboard CSA Venators.
Yes, obsolete V-19 Torrents from the Clone Wars, but still combat-capable and dangerous.
And though many were pushing thirty years old and had come with the ships handed over by the Empire, they could still give the enemy trouble.
Especially in large numbers.
V-19 Torrent starfighter.
"I don't like this," the lieutenant hissed. "The nearest people who could have ships like that are the Dominion. But we didn't cross into their territory, did we?"
"How would I know?" the deputy shrugged.
Both officers stared fixedly at the duplicate tactical display giving a real-time view of the system.
The lieutenant swore filthily when he realized what the wide red cone meant—with the Guarlara already reversing course at its center—the Dominion ship had activated its gravity well.
The only way out now was to knock out all four projectors.
Or trick the Interdictor's commander.
Or a miracle…
Suddenly, with a howl of static and interference, every intercom aboard the Star Destroyer began broadcasting a completely different voice.
"Star Destroyer Guarlara, this is Captain of the Star Destroyer Spectral, Dominion regular fleet," the battery officers exchanged glances. They hadn't been wrong—definitely Dominion. And they weren't joking if they'd hacked the Guarlara's internal comm net. "The Both system is territory under Dominion protectorate. Violation of state borders will be prosecuted. Immediately power down engines, shields, and weapons and prepare to receive a prize crew. Failure to comply will result in attack and boarding."
"I'll be damned by a Gamorrean stripper," the lieutenant whistled. "Things could definitely get worse."
"Uh-huh," the deputy snorted. "I had a feeling the trouble in Both wasn't random. Now we've got real problems."
"Don't panic," the lieutenant grinned crookedly. "Right now the two captains will talk, remind the Dominion boys that no official annexation of the sector has been announced anywhere, that this is a misunderstanding, no intentional border violation. Our captain will negotiate withdrawal, contact the main blockade force, and we'll give these vague Imperials a proper response."
"Yeah, they'll just let us go," the deputy sneered. "That's why they turned on the gravity well. Save it! The Dominion already said they want to send a prize crew. Not an inspection team, not a negotiation party—a prize crew…"
"Don't be a pessimist!" the battery commander snapped, cutting off his nervous subordinate. "The Corporate Sector has ships for two full Imperial sector fleets—maybe more! And half of those are capital ships. No one in their right mind would tangle with us over some miners."
At that exact moment the Guarlara's captain spoke again:
"Star Destroyer Spectral, we apologize for the border violation and will leave the sector at once," the lieutenant shot his deputy a triumphant look, saluting the correctness of his prediction. "We are recalling our fighters and reversing course. We apologize for the inconvenience."
Indeed, the Guarlara could be seen increasing her turn rate, unwilling to tangle with a superior opponent.
"Star Destroyer Guarlara," came the Dominion captain's reply. "Comply with requirements. Power down engines, shields, weapons, drift, and prepare to receive prize crew. Attempts to leave the sector will be regarded as hostile action."
The lieutenant's eyes widened in panic.
His subordinate, though pleased to be proven right, showed no joy.
Battle was coming—and they clearly weren't going to win.
"Spectral, you are displaying aggression," the Guarlara's captain said with hysterical notes in his voice. "We will immediately report your actions to the nearest Corporate Sector fleet command. Prepare for the most unpleasant consequences!"
The next instant new contacts blossomed on the tactical display—materializing virtually on top of the Guarlara.
The lieutenant swore again.
Two Vindicator-class heavy cruisers escorted by Crusader-class corvettes dropped out of hyperspace fifty kilometers off the Venator's beam, pointedly opening fire with turbolasers across her bow.
"This is your final warning," the Spectral's captain declared. "In case of noncompliance…"
"Go to hell!" the Guarlara's captain shrieked, proving what everyone already knew about him. "Dozens of our ships will be here any moment—let's see who takes whom!"
He had no composure and no command talent whatsoever.
He'd clearly bought his position with a huge bribe and zero military skill.
"They're not coming," a voice said behind the two battery officers.
Turning, they saw the sergeant who'd just lost everything standing in the doorway.
He held a blaster pointed at the lieutenant and his deputy.
"What's going on, Sergeant?" the deputy commander asked in fear.
"The Spectral should have jammed long-range comms by now," the gun commander commented. "No one's hearing you and no one's coming to help."
"Lower your weapon," the battery commander said slowly. "If you're that sore about losing at sabacc…"
"This has nothing to do with it," the sergeant assured him. "Disable computer targeting and fire-control systems," he ordered.
"What the hell are you doing?" the lieutenant screeched. "Security will hang you the cruelest way they know!"
"That's their problem," the sergeant shrugged. "Three seconds. Then I step over your corpses and do it myself. Three…"
"This is mutiny!" the deputy whispered, stepping back to pull his own blaster from the console holster. "Lower your weapon and we forget this ever happened."
"Two."
"You won't get away with this!" the lieutenant shouted, lunging forward.
He knew his chances of survival were slim—the new crewman, only recently transferred aboard, was clearly trained in hand-to-hand and weapons handling.
But it would give the deputy time to shoot the bastard.
Without computers the gunners would only hit the Death Star—maybe—with a huge dose of luck.
Meaning point-blank.
The first shot punched an extra hole in the lieutenant's skull, ending his charge.
The second entered the deputy's neck as he brought his own blaster to bear on the mutineer.
Stepping over the bodies, the man approached the control console and typed rapidly.
A short beep confirmed the targeting automation was offline.
Just as the Guarlara shuddered under crossfire from the destroyer, two heavy cruisers, and three corvets.
From the Guarlara's direction, white-blue turbolaser bolts reached toward the nearest target.
Only six of the port side's eight.
There was a reason for that too.
But their accuracy was nothing to envy—they didn't even come close to the Vindicator.
"Second, third, fourth batteries—why have you disabled computer targeting and fire control?" came the furious voice of the Star Destroyer's chief gunner. "First battery, why no fire at all? What the hell is going on?! Starboard side—why have you gone silent?! Anti-fighter batteries—boarding craft closing!"
The Dominion agent wearing Molo Himron's face didn't bother answering rhetorical questions.
He already knew the other Dominion agents—clones of various operatives—had done their jobs. The Guarlara's main batteries could no longer seriously harm Dominion ships.
Soon this Star Destroyer would cease obeying Corporate Sector command entirely.
Red Star squadron had gone active.
Checking his blaster's charge, the clone left the fire-control station, leaving several trip-mines for whoever came to investigate the silence.
The agent continued his work alongside colleagues—physically eliminating the Guarlara's gunners.
***
The Venator-class Star Destroyer Coruscant Sky was living out its final years in Corporate Sector service.
In the past the ship had taken part in dozens of battles, but the pinnacle of its career was countering the attack on Bothawui during the Clone Wars.
A mere handful of sister ships had successfully repelled the assault on Kothlis, forcing the enemy into disorderly, essentially shameful retreat.
It had stood guard over the New Order for many years until decommissioned, sent first to the periphery, then—like so many of its sisters—awaiting scrapping.
Instead it fell into the hands of Corporate Sector wheeler-dealers and found a second life.
Damaged systems were repaired, a crew came aboard, and V-19 Torrent starfighters took their places in the hangar.
The ship returned to service and had since won numerous engagements, faithfully carrying out combat tasks and repeatedly destroying brazen pirates and smugglers in defense of Corporate Sector interests.
And now here it was—on the western borders of the Both system.
Leading a powerful blockade group against miners who had suddenly gotten too big for their boots.
A mighty guardian in the void, guarding an invisible road into deep space.
Flagship of a task force of ten capital ships crewed by sentients loyal to the Corporate Sector Directorate.
Mostly humans—because only humans, it seemed, could be sufficiently loyal and civilized in this galaxy filled with thousands of diverse and not always pleasant species.
The crew was frankly bored—sentients, not the hyper-loyal clones who once served aboard this very ship.
After Moff Harsh's task group left the sector, Coruscant Sky had been left at the jump-off point solely to monitor suspicious activity and report it to nearby patrols.
Even the ship's commander didn't know the coordinates Harsh had taken, so the crew spent free time inventing theories about the ex-Imperial's mission.
Some said he'd gone prospecting new mineral deposits.
Others—that he'd found a long-hidden Rebel base responsible for sabotaging Kabul Industries mines years ago.
Still others claimed the moff had gone to a secret Imperial facility to expropriate its contents for Corporate Sector needs.
One way or another, Coruscant Sky and its escort waited here for signals from a dozen patrols confirming the routes into the sector were clear.
Then the two groups would converge in the sector's center, marking a triumphant victory for CorpSec.
One group—light forces—would sweep the eastern fringes with fire and sword, driving the enemy toward the main force led by Coruscant Sky.
Both would become their first major purely military victory in the Corporate Sector's entire existence since Warlord Zinj's fall—and they could not fail.
You could talk all you wanted about fighting mere natives who could never dream up anything clever, but remember: ground forces across the sector had gone silent overnight.
According to the few reports from hundreds of agents sent inside, the Bothans had risen in rebellion led by Arista Kabul—niece of Kabul Industries' legitimate director.
So, in the blockade fleet commander's opinion, better to prepare for the coming assault than attack blindly.
The native enemy was clearly not as simple as the "boys in brown" assumed.
They had intelligence—however rudimentary.
Hence the second task force under Coruscant Sky was kept strictly secret.
Only one blocking group was publicly acknowledged—to make the trap perfect.
Victory in one decisive battle instead of prolonged mopping-up—that was the plan for conquering this slice of the galaxy.
The assault on Both would be the prologue to Corporate Sector triumph across the entire galactic northeast.
And those who thought the CSA stayed out of the galactic power struggle because it was weak would instantly be convinced otherwise when dozens of CorpSec capital ships appeared above their worlds.
They only had to wait for the signal.
And the signal came.
But not the one the task force commander expected.
"Interdictor-class Star Destroyer detected!" the gravitic sensor operator reported.
"Who the hell are they?" the commander demanded, staring at his subordinate.
"No idea, sir," the operator admitted, fear creeping into his voice. "Transponders dark!"
"They're launching fighters!"
"TIE interceptors and Xg-1 Star Wing gunboats!"
"Empire or Dominion," the commander thought.
"All four gravity-well vectors active!" came the warning from the starboard crew pit. "Entire task force trapped!"
"We can't jump out," the chief gunner said. "Prepare for battle."
The commander thought fast.
"Immediately inform the operation commander we are under attack!"
Clearly if the enemy knew this group's location and existence, they knew about the rest.
They had to warn…
"Long-range comm jammed! No one will hear us!" the comm officer reported.
"Launch fighters! Action stations fleet-wide!" the commander ordered.
They could definitely handle one Interdictor.
And as if in cruel mockery of his thoughts, the gravitic operator announced:
"More ships dropping out on the edge of the gravity wells!"
"Identify!"
"Imperial-class Star Destroyers, sir!"
"Our ships are cut off from the exit vector!"
"Destroyers launching support corvettes and fighters!"
"Sir, the corvettes are docked to the Destroyers' main hangars—Dominion ships!" the chief gunner reported. "I read about this in operational summaries."
Five Imperial-class and one Interdictor.
Six capital ships and the same number of fast corvettes.
Against eleven obsolete vessels.
The outcome was predetermined.
But they could still try their luck.
"We'll break out," the Star Destroyer commander said grimly. "Engines full—emergency power…"
"Sir, another contact!" the gravitic operator said excitedly. "Venator-class, sir! One of ours returning! They're in the enemy rear!"
"Main hangar doors opening!"
"Now they'll hit the enemy from behind with their full wing," the commander said eagerly. "We'll help. Full ahead! Weapons hot!"
But minutes later, as the six Destroyers and their corvettes opened fire, the Coruscant Sky's commander realized his mistake.
TIE fighters did indeed pour from the newcomer Venator's hangar.
TIEs—virtually unknown in Corporate Sector service, at least in the Pickets blockading Both.
Only pro-Imperial Remnants fielded them in numbers.
"Sir, something huge in the Venator's hangar," the sensor officer reported. "Energy spike."
"Oh no," the chief gunner grimaced. "Ion cannon. I read about this…"
Then the Star Destroyer Dragon-I fired twice, and Coruscant Sky plunged into darkness, drifting on inertia and venting atmosphere through unlocked hangars.
Red Star squadron began a gunnery duel with the Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers.
Hammering shields with turbolasers and hulls with ion cannons, the flagship's commander had no intention of wasting time recharging the Dragon's main battery—he intended to take prizes with his own guns.
***
The first wave of the main assault caught the Pickets' primary force—wandering the interstellar void on Both's eastern borders—completely by surprise.
There were no established hyperspace lanes here; reaching this spot required at least three days from the nearest inhabited Both system.
The staging area for assembling blockade forces and loading troops and supplies for planetary occupation had become a battlefield without its occupants realizing.
The enemy—whose affiliation was obvious from the presence of a fast Bellator-class dreadnought—turned the corpers' own tactics against them.
First to arrive were two Immobilizer 418 cruisers and an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer, emerging so that the Corporate Sector ships were trapped in the center of an improvised triangle.
The Interdictor forming one vertex activated its gravity wells first.
The others followed suit.
Oddly, contrary to logic, they aimed their invisible weapons not inward but only two, forming the triangle's sides.
Thus the enemy not only outlined the hyperspace jump perimeter but created a central anomaly preventing micro-jumps to any other echelon.
A global trap offering the corpers no good options.
Three Recusant-class light destroyers, two Lucrehulk variants—one battleship, one cargo—ten Dimel-class strike ships, and over a dozen Action XI supertransports carrying troops and armor.
All these forces were suddenly attacked from three directions—the triangle's sides.
The Dominion struck without warning, materializing en masse from hyperspace—an almost suicidal maneuver for such a large fleet.
Recusant-class light destroyer.
Before action stations even sounded aboard the corper ships, their crews found themselves under fire from one Bellator and two Vindicator-class heavy cruisers on one side, two Imperial-class and three Vindicators on another, and three more Imperial-class with three heavy cruisers on the third.
There was no doubt who led the assault: the Bellator identified as Crimson Dawn.
Firing hundreds of turbolaser and ion cannon shots in every direction, the super dreadnought carved through the corper formation like a hot knife through butter, destroying everything in its path.
It held course for both Lucrehulks, continuously hosing them with missile barrages.
The dreadnought's commander clearly understood the lumbering Lucrehulks possessed impressive energy shielding.
And their armament was no joke either.
But now, as enemy missiles literally tore chunks from the huge ex-Confederacy ships, onlookers were no longer certain the Trade Federation designs truly deserved their legendary reputation.
The Bellator's absolute domination was indisputable fact.
Ships trying to resist only prolonged the agony of doomed vessels.
***
Aboard the Crimson Dawn, Counter-Admiral Shohashi leaned on his cane and turned his head toward the watch officer.
"Inform Red Dragon and Eviscerator that the Recusants are beginning a breakout maneuver."
"Yes, sir."
The three light destroyers, sporting battered hulls the dreadnought hadn't even scratched, were indeed turning, trying to escape the trap.
They had chosen the side of the triangle they judged—by their thoroughly amateur estimation—to contain Shohashi's weakest units.
Well, disappointment awaited them.
Both Red Dragon and Eviscerator were crewed stem to stern with cloned crews of the finest specialists in the entire Dominion regular fleet.
New to the squadron, but during forced inactivity in the sector Eric had confirmed the crews were superbly selected, formed, and trained.
They were in no way inferior to the rest of the forces assigned to Crimson Dawn.
Anyone trying to break out through that detachment would have to pass through hell.
Eric had few Dragon-class ships, and those were early models.
So he had sent them with raider groups to deal with enemy patrols.
He wasn't interested in every ship the enemy had sent scouting Both space—only those the Dominion could actively use.
Therefore most Corporate Sector scouts would be destroyed.
Only Venators, Acclamators, and Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers were to be captured.
Those ships were needed; they would be repaired, upgraded, and handed to the Defense Forces or regular fleet.
The rest—crumbling Recusants, stunted Dimels—were to be scrapped.
The Lucrehulks were different.
Crimson Dawn could handle both, though not without effort, but per intel from agents embedded in the Pickets, the operation commander was aboard one—the battleship version in particular.
That sentient, identity known only to capital-ship captains and never seen by any agent, clearly needed to be taken alive, interrogated —his knowledge would be a valuable addition to future operations.
At least that was the official version for the boarding action.
The real one was entirely different.
The gap between declared and actual objectives was so wide that advance knowledge would have raised serious questions among senior officers.
Even given their loyalty and faith in Shohashi, Thrawn, and their cause, the reasons the enemy commander must avoid capture could not be explained by logic.
Though neither could any of Grand Admiral Thrawn's plans.
On the transport Lucrehulk was the bulk of the enemy's heavy armor—also of interest.
Especially the Juggernauts.
The Action XI supertransports had capacious holds that would find nobler employment than hauling enemy troops and light armor.
So they were currently being surrounded by ships from the Imperious detachment—Tyrant and Killer.
While the heavy cruisers held the blocking line and guarded the interdictors, the Destroyers did the real work—knocking down shields and mercilessly ion-blasting enemy hulls.
And in all this chaos a deadly dogfight raged between the small craft of both sides.
His personal comlink chirped—just as Red Dragon and Eviscerator split apart, giving the Recusants false hope that three ships could slip between two Destroyers while shooting them up.
In reality it turned out very differently.
The moment one light destroyer entered the gap and the other two flanked the Dominion ships, the tactical incompetence of the Clone Wars relics' commanders revealed itself.
None of them, even with full broadsides, could match a single Imperial-class salvo.
Let alone the latter's defenses, now reinforced with Mon Calamari SEAL generators upgraded by Dominion engineers.
The corpers desperately tried to knock out the command tower globes, believing that would drop the Destroyers' shields.
Their fighters—ancient Republic Torrents—died by the dozen attacking the superstructures, shredded by point-defense and Dominion fighters.
But the enemy "succeeded."
They damaged one globe on Red Dragon and destroyed one on Eviscerator.
Under normal circumstances that would have reduced the shields' overload capacity.
In practice it only caused brief loss of primary sensor systems.
Because on Dominion Imperial-class ships the shield generators had long ago been moved under armor.
Along with the backup generators.
The foolish attack only cost the enemy heavy pilot losses, dozens of hull breaches, and multiple engine hits.
Without inflicting meaningful damage on either Destroyer.
Unlike the gunners of Red Dragon and Eviscerator.
The heavy turbolasers of both ships freely ravaged the three light destroyers' hulls once shields were down.
Plating and bulkheads were holed, melted, cracked, and shattered, littering space around the Dominion ships with debris.
At one point a Recusant simply broke in half—the gunners of Red Dragon and Eviscerator had shot away the connecting spar linking the bow to the engine section.
The doomed ship was finished off with turbolaser fire and proton torpedoes from the bombers.
His comlink chirped again.
"Shohashi," Eric answered.
"Fleet special-forces strike team is in the hangar and loaded aboard shuttles," the detachment commander reported. "Awaiting only General Ventress."
"She's not with you?" Shohashi asked in surprise.
"No, sir. Standing by for her arrival."
"Damn that witch," Eric thought, switching channels.
"General Ventress, where the Sith hell are you?" he demanded.
"My fighter has left the hangar, Counter-Admiral," Lady Ventress informed him. "Heading for the Lucrehulk. Tell the boys in stylish black armor not to dawdle."
"Reckless bitch," Eric thought with a mental snarl.
"Fighter squadrons and decoys will cover you," he warned, signaling the flight director to launch old Republic-era shuttles piloted by droids.
The Lucrehulk had enough firepower that suppressing it battery by battery would take too long.
So the assault would come amid a swarm of expendable antique shuttles—especially cheap when flown by droids.
That would let the two troop-carrying ships reach the Lucrehulk core's emergency locks in relative safety and begin the assault from the ship's center "for fastest capture of the commander."
In reality it would only spook any sensible being into fleeing.
Eric had argued fiercely but still couldn't understand why Thrawn wanted this.
Letting the enemy commander—who at minimum knew of the Dominion attack on Corporate Sector ships and had seen their tactics—escape was wrong.
It would create additional problems.
But so far Thrawn had never been wrong.
The plan had a hidden layer.
Even phlegmatic Shohashi was burning to know what it was.
"Thank you for concern about my safety, Counter-Admiral," Ventress chuckled. "I don't need escort."
Eric frowned.
Why would she say that?
"The plan calls for…"
"No offense, Shohashi, but my fighter launched with the first wave," the Dathomirian witch informed him. "I'm already close to the target."
Eric felt irritation rising.
"What's going on, Ventress?" he asked threateningly. "If you intend to betray the Dominion…"
A laugh came from the other end.
"Dominion above all, Counter-Admiral—remember that?" she asked.
"As any loyal subject…"
"Then don't worry," she advised. "I have no intention of betraying anyone. But the circumstances of the attack have changed."
"How so?" Shohashi pressed.
"Significantly," Asajj said seriously. "With your ysalamiri blocking the Force I didn't sense it at first. But now, farther away, I'm certain."
Eric remained silent, understanding the witch's hint.
"You'd be better off with the strike team," he said. "It's a huge ship and finding the enemy…"
"I spent years aboard such battleships, Counter-Admiral," Ventress reminded him. "I'll manage far better alone. Let spec-ops follow the plan—I'm sure that's what my opponent expects. I'll give him a surprise."
Eric hesitated only a moment.
He couldn't let her ruin everything.
"Ventress, the enemy commander must…"
"No offense, Counter-Admiral, but I know you well enough to spot the double bottom," the Dathomirian declared. "My improvisation will only add intrigue. Besides, duels often come with informative conversation. End transmission."
The comlink went dead.
Eric drew a deep breath, held it, and exhaled to calm himself.
He had seen Ventress do this several times.
Until now he'd thought the exercise useless.
As it turned out, a few repetitions were enough to calm down and return to battle management.
But to thoughts of Grand Admiral Thrawn's true plan was added another.
"Where did the Zann Consortium get its own Force-sensitive?"
***
The program developed by Mr. Ghent worked perfectly despite distance and interference from the stealth field.
Of course he could have entrusted this conversation to the real Pellaeon, but no need—Gilad had better things to do.
My interlocutor's hologram formed, revealing an extremely surprised blue-white image of perhaps the most famous Bothan politician in the galaxy.
"Vice Admiral Pellaeon," Borsk Fey'lya said, narrowing his eyes at my stand-in persona. "I didn't expect the Dominion to finally break its information isolation."
Ironic that last time we'd used this program to pass Pellaeon off as Borsk.
Now—to pass me off as Pellaeon to Borsk.
"And I didn't expect you to still keep the secret comlink Iceheart gave you," I remarked, for the first time since arriving in this galaxy allowing myself an open smile. "That says something. For instance, how deeply her tricking you into several traps at once got under your fur."
"You may gloat all you like," the Bothan snorted. "I have more important matters."
"Of course," Pellaeon's hologram nodded.
Thanks to Mr. Pent's improvements, I could see Gilad's image exactly as my interlocutor saw it.
"In that case—goodbye," Fey'lya said.
"I have a business proposition, President Fey'lya," I declared.
"Do you now, Vice Admiral Pellaeon?" the Bothan said with demonstrative boredom. "And what might that be?"
"I believe you've heard Grand Moff Kaine is nearly finished repairing his Reaper," I said.
"And I don't think you need to know what I do or don't know," the New Republic president bristled.
"Nevertheless. I'm sure you're reinforcing defenses near Balmorra, but given the shift in Imperial offensive vectors you simply lack capital ships for reliable resistance on all fronts…"
"Where are you going with this, Pellaeon?" Fey'lya switched to business tone. "You're not saying all this for nothing."
"Naturally not," I countered. "I believe you recall that last year Grand Admiral Thrawn captured a rather impressive number of New Republic Mon Calamari cruisers."
"As well as Star Destroyers and other ships. Want to give them back?"
"I want to offer you the chance to buy the Mon Cal cruisers we have," I said.
The Bothan's eyes narrowed.
"Of course—what else to expect from Imperials," Fey'lya sneered with open contempt. "All you can do is bleed democratic institutions dry…"
"And steal bones from the Bothan people's bowl," I sighed. "Shall we trade barbs or get down to business?"
"What's the catch?" Fey'lya demanded, his facial fur bristling.
"The longer you fight the Imperials, the easier it is for the Dominion," I answered succinctly. "Especially since you've already seen the combat capability of these ships at Belnar."
"So I thought—that wasn't Alliance or Mon Cal intervention," Fey'lya said triumphantly.
"What can you do," I shrugged. "We had to advertise the goods. Now you know these ships are combat-effective enough to fight your enemies."
The New Republic's desperate need for capital ships was common knowledge.
So there was no doubt they would accept the offer.
Only one question remained.
"And the price of your proposal?" After several long minutes of mutual jabs and verbal sparring, the Bothan finally "ripened" to substantive talk.
"Oh," I allowed myself another smile. "You're going to love it."