Ten years, the second month, and the twenty-second day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, the second month, and the twenty-second day after the Great ReSynchronization.
(Nine months and seven days since arrival).
Creb walked unhurriedly along the deck plating of the upper-level balcony, from which the infamous "gantry" extended across the width of the launch bay, where the TIE Avengers were positioned.
The man stared straight ahead, stepping precisely as if on parade.
He slipped his right hand into the glove, securely fastening it and adding another element to his flight suit.
Then he repeated the same with the other hand.
As always before takeoff, he glanced at his ship.
The matte-black machine, perfected to ideal condition, gleamed on its hull under the artificial lighting of the launch bay.
No other color, not the slightest extraneous element.
Only the blackness of the paint and the metal it covered.
He slowly climbed the ladder steps, reaching the level needed to enter the TIE Avenger's cockpit.
He cast a grim glance at the other machines in the squadron.
Hatches sealed, engines running at reduced power.
Currently, per regulations, all combat systems of the fighters were being checked—this would confirm the readiness of all squadron machines for launch.
However, no one doubted that there would be no single system failure on any craft.
His squadron had good technicians.
Those who followed regulations and never did anything wrong in repair work or maintenance.
Creb looked at the mechanic hurrying toward him, holding out a datapad.
"Sir, all machines are ready for launch," the man reported. "No issues. No unauthorized personnel approached the machines."
"Unauthorized?" Creb frowned, though it was not visible under the face shield of his helmet. "Why that clarification, mechanic? It is not part of the standard procedure."
"I know, sir," the man replied, smiling nervously. "But last time there was a misunderstanding when a female cadet misled me..."
Good thing he was wearing a helmet.
No one could see his facial expression.
"I understand the situation you are referring to, mechanic," Creb replied, signing the datapad with the stylus. After all, this was not an emergency launch, so the procedure of the mechanic reporting to the squadron commander was followed. "Thank you for your service. Judging by your presence here, the reprimand motivated you to the correct approach in carrying out your duties and implementing protocols?"
"Glad to serve, sir," the man replied. "Yes, that's correct. At first I was offended by you, but then I sorted myself out... Thank you for the lesson, sir. Now I understand how important what I do is. I apologize for that incident. I assure you, it will never happen again."
"It will not happen again," Creb echoed, standing at the edge of the hatch leading into his ship's cockpit. "There is no one to repeat it."
"Sir?" the technician asked quietly.
"She died," Creb explained. "In one of the battles."
"Oh," sadness appeared on the man's face. "I'm sorry for her... I didn't know; they transferred me almost immediately... She was a cheerful girl."
"Yes, she was," unearthly thanks to whoever installed vocoders on pilots' helmets. No one could discern the intonations either. "Do you want advice, technician?"
"Advice?" the man was taken aback. "Y-yes, of course, sir. Hearing advice from a legend like you is a milestone in life!"
"Then live it happily, technician," Creb said. "With someone who opens your eyes to the fact that you are not just a death machine. And besides the control stick and pedals, there is also life beyond the cockpit canopy."
"Oh... Understood, sir," the technician said, embarrassed. "I... I'll try."
"I believe in you," no smile was visible on Creb's phlegmatic face to outsiders either.
But it was enough for him that he himself knew of its existence.
Lowering himself into the seat and sealing the cockpit, the squadron commander automatically secured himself with the safety harnesses, engaged the deflector power, increasing the reactor's output.
Then he looked at the upper edge of the control panel.
A small element not provided for in this starfighter type's design.
A static holophoto.
More precisely, a combined cutout from two photographs taken from the pilots' personnel files.
One—his own, obtained from the personnel service.
The second had to be retrieved from the archive where the files of deceased pilots go.
The man's stern phlegmatic expression, and a light half-smile on the Twi'lek girl's face.
Even in the holophoto for official documents, she smiled.
Creb ran his thumb over Tia's photograph, as always unable to say anything.
Only another barely noticeable guilty smile, telling of understanding his own mistake.
Time lost, the past cannot be returned.
Then he looked at his reflection in the cockpit's transparisteel.
A faceless black helmet in a black flight suit, whose hands were hidden by black gloves.
The smile slid from his face, the emotionless expression returned, freezing like a mask under the pilot helmet's face shield.
The time of the man had passed.
It was the moment for the return of the killing machine.
***
The scene truly impressed with its scale and magnificence.
Sixty-four combat starships.
Of which forty were Vengeance-class frigates, the rest—Agressor-class star destroyers.
Not the slightest hint of transports or escort starships, no convoy with military equipment.
Overhead and slightly behind flashed emergency lights, and the buzzers of battle stations pierced the ears.
But nothing—neither the nervous Captain Tschel nor the preparation of the Chimaera for battle—distracted me from the key moment.
Observing the enemy—that was what I needed now.
From their actions, movements, and maneuvers, one could understand exactly what they knew and had realized about being suddenly yanked from hyperspace in the middle of interstellar void.
After all, nearby there was no object with any gravitational properties capable of such a thing.
No black hole, no wandering planet, no remnant of a huge meteor, not even a tailed comet the size of a small moon.
And no ships with gravity well generators were observed either visually or on scanners.
The question was how they would react further, understanding that they remained in the zone of artificial gravity.
"The spy droids' sensors report that the enemy ships have compensated their main engines and halted forward movement," Tschel reported, trying to control his voice. He partially succeeded. "It seems they figured out they hit a minefield."
"Do not jump to conclusions, Captain," I advised. "The enemy force commander did what he was supposed to do in case of sudden exit from hyperspace. He does not know the facts but is aware of what we did to the New Republic's First Fleet before the attack on Coruscant—he stopped the ships' movement to avoid flying into camouflaged asteroids. For now, they do not know there are none there. And the enemy will soon realize that."
"Damn it," Tschel exhaled. "A single Star Destroyer, plus a defense station against an entire armada..."
"You forget that the Chimaera is not alone here," I reminded him.
"Sir, it's an armada!" the Star Destroyer commander reminded. "I would advise preparing the main engines to full power and readying to cross the light barrier. This battle will be the last in life for us and the support starships, sir!"
"Prepare everything for the jump... as a precaution, Captain," I continued in an icy voice. "Inform the duty pair of ARC-170 scouts to advance along vector six, simulating emergence from hyperspace. And continue movement, reporting to the nearest regular fleet patrol about the violation of Dominion borders until the corresponding order to cancel the previous directive is given. I want their transponders active."
The Chimaera's commander breathed heavily, not understanding what was happening and how just two long-range scouts could turn the situation in our favor.
As I had already said—misconception is the key to defeat.
"Tschel, calm down," I advised. "You are unnerving the crew and the watch officers. Ensure all flagship systems are ready for the start of battle. Considering our position under the cloaking field, activate the deflector shields."
Captain Tschel looked at me first as if I were insane.
Then, reining in his panic, he slowly sighed.
The order to release the scouts was given, and soon on the tactical display we could see two green dots rapidly appearing from behind the Chimaera's stern, breaking through the cloaking field on afterburners and slowing down.
Quite a decent imitation of completing a hyperspace jump.
Which, judging by the lively enemy chatter, did not go unnoticed.
"Note their actions," I pointed out that the Vengeance-class frigates opened fire from their turbolaser cannons. But they fired not at our scouts—the distance of one hundred units made that impossible even in theory—but around their formation. "The enemy commander is taking measures for premature detonation of camouflaged asteroids. I think in a few minutes they will figure it out and continue movement with small forces."
"Yes, sir," Tschel's voice strengthened.
Good.
"My apologies, sir," he said. "I panicked..."
"But you pulled yourself together, did you not?" I clarified. "Before your panic became fatal to the entire plan."
"Yes, sir."
"Then ensure it does not happen again," I ordered. "We are not running. We will accept battle here. And win."
"Grand Admiral, but how?" the voice of my flagship Star Destroyer's commander broke like a teenager's. "Lure them with two ARC-170s under the guns of the Chimaera and the Golan? As far as I recall, our nearest patrol is at the planet Galaanus in the Korva sector. And those are 'greenhorns,' recently transferred from Defense Forces to heavy cruisers. We won't hold!"
Yet he was too young.
He would need to be taught longer than Pellaeon.
Though Gilad also initially faltered before superior enemy forces.
I gestured for Tschel to be silent.
He had potential.
More patience was needed for his training and gaining independent confidence.
"Look at the tactical screen, Captain," I ordered, nodding toward the panel displaying data from the spy droids. "Let us first assess the situation before deciding on engaging in battle or retreating—do you mind?"
"Yes, sir," Tschel said restrainedly, his cheeks pinkening from his lack of restraint.
"So, we see that the enemy, puzzled by the interruption of their flight, chose a waiting tactic," I continued. "They fired into the space ahead and confirmed no camouflaged asteroids were there. And now they have seen our scouts and 'know' for sure that there are observation droids here that reported the border violators. This means very unpleasant consequences for the enemy if one of our Star Dreadnoughts appears here—they are clearly aware of at least one. And soon the enemy will send a reconnaissance detachment to confirm their assumptions—that there are no camouflaged asteroids here. Once they confirm the path is clear, they will proceed further to avoid issues with possible reinforcements. I think they are at least aware of where our patrols are. And presume what the Galaanus system represents."
Two frigates detached from the enemy ship array, accelerating to cruising speed and moving straight, occasionally firing turbolaser shots into the surrounding space.
"Note, Captain, that we have a sufficiently astute enemy," I commented. "If they fired mass drivers, they could not count on hitting conditional targets. Only with high probability could a small projectile damage a cloaking field projector or detonator. With turbolasers, they achieve roughly the same effect but without expending limited mass driver ammunition."
"But they are just metal slugs—why conserve them?" Tschel wondered.
They were exactly copying the Republic's tactic when repelling our asteroid launch in Coruscant orbit.
"Consequently, we can say that the Zann Consortium observed our campaign last year," Tschel said, drawing the absolutely correct conclusion from my words.
"Correct," I confirmed. "That is why, in the gravity distortion zone, they understand that coincidences are anything but random. They believe—and want—there to be a trap here that they can eliminate to advance deeper into our territories. By the way, what do you think about the composition of their flotilla?"
"These are strike ships," Tschel stated unequivocally. "Minimal landing capacity, if any."
"And no transport starships in the convoy," I reminded. "From this, we can assume the first wave's task is breaking our defensive lines and reaching operational space. Note the lively information exchange between enemy starships, indicating coordination and some confusion among ship commanders. Conclusions, Captain?"
"They are panicking," Tschel reported. "In conditions of uncertainty—that is understandable."
"Yes," I nodded. "But we can also conclude that on the enemy ships, at least the commanders are not clones."
"How did you deduce that?" Tschel wondered.
"Why create copies of incompetents with cloning cylinders?" I inquired. "No, the best are cloned. That's what we do, what the Empire did, and certainly the Zann Consortium. But the criminals lacked cloning capacity to place the most combat-effective and competent clones on the bridges. So they assigned individual sentients to command positions. Who are panicking, coordinating all actions with the flotilla commander."
"Yes, I see," Tschel stared at the intercepted enemy radio data for several seconds. "The most exchange occurs with the Aggressor under conditional number 'twenty.'"
"That is the flagship," I confirmed. "And the officer aboard gives real-time instructions to his subordinates. I venture to guess a clone commands the flotilla. Though it hardly matters now. The flotilla ships have begun moving behind their scouts. Curious," my gaze caught that the enemy advanced strictly along the original trajectory, following the scouts, maintaining formation. "I expected them to at least try exiting the artificial gravity zone or send mobile groups to investigate the cause."
"By the way, Captain, did you note that the enemy sent ships without their own fighter wings against us?"
"That bothers me most, sir," Tschel admitted. "Yes, they have many starships with mass drivers, but not enough for all the fighters the Dominion can field against them."
"All because the enemy has not just slugs in arsenal," I explained.
"Meaning?"
"Counter-Admiral Shohashi captured several such frigates from Jandolhuuna," I explained. "It was difficult and dangerous for boarding teams—of three such starships, the enemy destroyed two while our droids boarded their decks. Only one was saved. And in the mass driver arsenal, something interesting was found. Similar data came from the Mandalorians who captured Flintaria. The ship we gave the Mandalorians from Kol Atorn was disabled by a single meter-diameter, five-meter-long projectile."
"Damaged something critical?"
"Mangled the entire stern," I explained. "The point is, as you correctly noted, the Zann Consortium observes our actions and tactics. The idea of stuffing asteroids with explosives led them to create mass driver projectiles with powerful explosive charges. Not standard baradium, as one might think—something rare and highly effective. And surely complex. I think by our counteroffensive, we will know the details."
"They turned their slugs into shrapnel?" Tschel clarified. "Quite... unusual."
"On the captured starship, such projectiles were less than a third," I explained. "I assume this is how they intend to counter our fighters. Given the Zann Consortium lacks many starships capable of overwhelming us with squadrons, the enemy bets on these new weapons. At least the Rottaran, due to such a projectile—though anti-ship class—no longer warrants restoration."
"I recall they had mass drivers on the Keldabe too," Tschel recalled. "Main caliber..."
"Yes, that was so in the past," I agreed. "But against the Zann Consortium, we have nothing to fear from Keldabe-class battleships appearing. They pose no threat to us now."
"Sir, but..."
"Ah, what I was waiting for," my eyes caught the needed line in enemy comms data. "The flagship sent a transmission beyond the sector. We intercepted the vector and will soon know where."
"Obviously reporting gravity distortions," Tschel assumed. "And no asteroid minefields with this anomaly. Scouts have departed."
I saw that myself—two marks identifying the Dominion-upgraded ARC pair vanished from the tactical monitor.
Given the natural chatter in the ether, one short external transmission would not be noticed for some time.
"That is what I count on," my explanation caused puzzlement on the Chimaera commander's face.
"You said there were no asteroids..."
"In their hyperspace exit point—of course," I confirmed, watching the enemy vanguard scouts turn into two fireballs, silently spreading debris across space. "No asteroid barriers were planned along the enemy's entry course into Dominion territory. But I did not say there were no minefields here."
A sarcastic smirk appeared on Captain Tschel's face.
"So they fired turbolasers seeking camouflaged asteroids but could not hit mines?"
"Why not," I said, reclining in the chair, stroking the ysalamiri. "The minefield density is such that they surely destroyed some. Statistically impossible to miss such a densely seeded barrier, even trying hard."
"But... we saw no explosions!"
"Of course," I confirmed. "And never would. The Perimeter system allows Dominion transponder-signaled starships to pass without issue."
"They disable the minefields!" Tschel understood.
"Not exactly," I explained. "The friend-or-foe recognition system signals mines to shut down all systems. While a Dominion ship is here, mines are deactivated. Once it leaves—they activate. We borrowed this from Kuat Drive Yards. They defended the secret hyperspace route to Rothana with it. We adopted and improved it."
All that is new is well-forgotten old.
Given Palpatine's cronies paid attention to this tech, it was more than worthwhile.
So I decided not to reinvent the wheel, knowing it already performed well.
The system works; it is just a matter of good recognition.
That is why the defense station is here.
Our recognition is a computer code embedded in the central computer's root programs.
Each time a starship approaches the metropolitan perimeter control station, the central computer automatically sends its identification code—and crucially—the starship specification—in response to the station's hidden query.
This is a voluminous protocol with over a hundred criteria.
If even one mismatches—mass-shadow mines yank the starship from hyperspace right into the minefield.
Further identification is handled by the nearest patrol.
While the Chimaera or another ship in our area was under the hybridium-based cloaking screen, no signals—including transponders—passed through, and the mine barrier was active, guarding our borders precisely along the artificial gravity area.
The ARCs disabled the mines, allowing the enemy into the minefield center, now fifty units from us—perfect targets.
The Vengeances' numbers dropped to thirty since the first detonations—those ships had advanced armor.
"Now, as outside observers, Captain," I continued, projecting a hologram of events from spy droids, "we can likely assess our defensive structures' effectiveness against various nearest enemy starship types."
Meanwhile, Zann Consortium starships continued detonating.
Aggressors fared poorly against mines compared to Vengeances.
"Note, Captain," I pointed to statistics the Chimaera's central computer compiled. "Our mines with magnetic clamps and short-pulse engines are incredibly effective against destroyers."
Aggressors tore apart as if a huge invisible child ripped "unneeded parts" from the otherwise beautiful starships.
Reinforcement ribs, armor arrays, engines, weapons, frames, bulkheads—all exploded, twisted, deformed.
"Larger hull surface allows more mines to attach," Tschel nodded understandingly.
"Exactly," I continued. "We combined Balmorran developments, Warlord Zsinj's, and Kuati's into absolute metal-ship destruction weapons. An activated mine detects a non-friend starship, rushes with a short engine burst. Vacuum lack of resistance ensures reach—equipped ion charges detonate near the enemy, deactivating engines. The impulse delivers the mine; magnet clamps it irretrievably. Unless we intervene—which we won't."
"Ion charges," Tschel groaned faintly. "I couldn't figure why the enemy barely moves."
"The mine's primary task is immobilizing the enemy starship and denying comms," I explained. "Currently, engines, comm antennas, long-range/active scanners—destroyed. You surely noted the ether silence?" Tschel's raised brows showed his attention lagged. "Rarely do our products detonate singly. Mines set for collective—minimum two or more. This increases shockwave, detonation force, greater internal/hull damage."
"Aggressors destroyed," Tschel said.
"Yes, poor mine opponents," I said. "But note how effective Vengeances' mass drivers are against them."
Indeed—Vengeances held not just from sturdy build but by firing their guns.
"Shrapnel," Tschel pleased me with the correct statement. "Like fighters, it increases enemy damage area."
"So it is," I agreed.
Mass drivers spewed reduced versions of the projectiles that crippled the Mandalorian Rottaran, effectively screening.
"That is why this test, Captain," I explained. "Cannot create a weapon expecting no weaknesses."
"So mass drivers not so useless," Captain Tschel noted. "For breaching minefields or anti-air..."
"Compare energy costs for such installations, magazine volumes versus our anti-air shots in battle, danger of stored explosive projectiles in one bay..."
As if proving my words, several frigates detonated on the hologram.
"Note detonation sites," I said, zooming the detailed hologram. "Mines hit magazines. Ships vaporized."
"While tibanna tanker detonation on turbolaser battery loses only the battery and hull section," I continued. "Vengeances have reactors near Victory-class power. But Zann Consortium engineers powered six mass drivers and two turbolaser batteries. Ours—over a hundred turbolasers and lasers. Such math needs no deeper analysis."
"Yet turbolaser advocates would find positives," Tschel said. "Higher rate of fire than turbolasers, for example."
"To ensure it, reliable barrel cooling needed," I explained. "Zann Consortium uses carbonite. Not cheap or fully effective. Even so, mass drivers have slight higher rate than lasers/turbolasers."
"Twenty percent, sir."
"But projectile speed lower by an order or two," I countered. "Dodging turbolaser shot nearly impossible. Laser—with skill. Mass driver—only if stars align luckily."
Tschel did not reply.
He, like me, watched the Zann Consortium fleet's slaughter, numbers melting.
"Sir, may I ask?"
"Of course, Captain," I responded.
"Should we not take prisoners?" he asked. "Capture trophies?"
"We do not need that, Captain," I replied. "All needed for victory over the enemy we already have. Moreover—the Zann Consortium does not know yet, but their attack has failed. We are doomed to victory—the question is the price: excessively small blood, or simply small."
"Mine numbers decreasing," Captain Tschel said, pointing to the tactical display. "Enemy still has ten relatively combat-capable frigates moving toward the gravity zone side opposite us."
"Correct, Captain," I agreed. "Enemy realized the nearby minefield thins. So movable starships hurry to exit the danger zone and go lightspeed. But there is a nuance."
"What, sir?" Tschel interested.
"The minefield activated; mass-shadow mines expanded artificial gravity," I explained. "Slightly—ten units each direction. But believe me, enough for enemy's total rout."
Tschel looked as if wanting to ask but, thinking, decided not to spoil the surprise.
"An educational day, Captain," I said, watching five abandoned Vengeance frigates without propulsion self-destruct. "We clarified Perimeter system strengths/weaknesses—at least this section. Learned enemy ships can be commanded by ordinary sentients prone to panic. Confirmed guesses enemy strikes shortest-time routes. Now see non-clone-controlled starships still self-destruct to avoid study/trophy. Valuable enemy info. For," I checked the chronometer, "one hour battle without personal firefight participation, huge enemy intelligence gained."
"As they about us, sir," Tschel said, pointing to Zann Consortium starships nearing far gravity zone borders from our position.
"Reminder—enemy lacks comms, Captain," I said. "All they reported to base—artificial gravity zone here. Possibly attacked. But by realization—their scanners, engines, comms disabled."
By the way—important audit fact.
Scanners/comms disabled on all enemy ships.
Engines—not all, as escaping Vengeance frigates show.
Another flaw found.
Work to do.
As one immortal commissar said: "We will turn your ailment into a feat."
"Survivors will report all they know to commanders," the flagship commander explained his obvious thought.
"Yes, of course," I agreed. "That is why they hurry away. Glad to survive. Survival instinct dulled—they see no danger."
"Danger, sir?" Tschel wondered.
"Perimeter not uniformly equipped, Captain," I explained. "Multifaceted. Each Dominion entry blocked differently. Same technologies, varying 'pie' combinations."
"Why complicate?" Tschel baffled.
"So attackers facing no visible barriers/threats report no fear to comrades," I explained, allowing a light smile. "Our enemy recently did so to others. Now attackers on strategic systems learn Dominion metropolitan perimeter security 'overhyped.'"
Tschel frowned so deeply even Master Yoda's pensiveness would honor it.
"When they entered and advanced, you said no camouflaged mined asteroids ahead," he said slowly. "And truthful—minefield there, you lured them into. Now thinned, but no force to continue target attack."
"Correct, Captain," I approved the Chimaera commander's conclusions. "They are sentients gripped by panic. Survived extermination nightmare. Emotionally/physically exhausted. What will they do, in your opinion?"
"Retreat," intrigue sparkled in Tschel's eyes. "But need exit gravity field reverse, cleanest from mines."
"That is what they do," I confirmed.
"But activated mass-shadow mines at illegal border crossing expanded gravity field," excitement sounded in Tschel's voice like a scientist building rigorous theory from scraps.
"Correct," I agreed.
"You said each Perimeter section composed differently," the Chimaera commander continued. "But equipped identically per border section."
No need to clarify Perimeter is a 'pie' of dozens monthly layers, defensive line combinations by border commandant choice—I did not.
After all, today we tested variant where enemy breached all prior defenses, caught only on last.
But Tschel not ready to know yet.
"Correct, Captain," even I interested in young man's conclusion.
"So each section has mines, stations, camouflaged asteroids," Tschel said.
"All correct, Captain."
"Our station left board, minefield ahead, but when enemy came counter-course you said no camouflaged mined asteroids ahead," Tschel looked victoriously, earning my nod. "Because when enemy ships exited hyperspace, camouflaged mined asteroids were behind them!"
"Exactly, Captain," I quietly applauded. "We allowed enemy involuntarily exit hyperspace on territory between minefield and asteroids."
"But minefield activation expanded gravity, now no such territory," Tschel said triumphantly, looking at hologram where enemy ships exited gravity zone. "And now they..."
"Better demonstrate," I said, switching tactical monitor image from armrest.
Instead of diagrams/schemes—strongly zoomed live feed from one spy droid.
First nothing, then...
After gravity zone exit, hyperdrive needs brief charge for next jump.
Very short.
In 1973, Soviet Union released film "The Sannikov Land."
Wonderful composer Alexander Zatsepin wrote music to magnificent lyrics by Leonid Derbenev.
And born was song "There's Only a Moment."
With beautiful words:
"There's only a moment
Between past and future
It is precisely
Called life."
Enemy ships had only a moment of life between gravity zone exit and their battered hulls unwillingly breaching cloaking field shell.
When enemy starship hulls crossed cloaking field borders, ryodonium detonation conditions triggered.
And minefield survivors tore to shreds, turning to interstellar dust.
"That is all, gentlemen," I commented on several flashes briefly revealing asteroid masses, each frigate-sized. "First act of our event complete."
"What are orders, sir?" Tschel asked briskly. "Chimaera to another system?"
"Why?" I raised a brow surprised. "By our efforts, large treacherous enemy group destroyed. Naturally we stay—others will arrive soon."
"Others, sir?" Tschel blinked.
"Of course, Captain," I smiled. "Destroyed flotilla commander did us a favor."
"By contacting other starships beyond this territory?" my flagship commander clarified.
"Exactly, Captain," I smiled. "Trapped, the rodent rushed to bait, missing guillotine blade kissing its neck. And moreover, Captain. Given their failures on other fronts, I foresee the Zann Consortium warlord throwing all forces this direction. Defeats blind people, making them desire planned result—at any cost. Here we will destroy them all."
For some reason, Tschel shuddered fully.
Twice.
***
"Change of plans," Jerid announced, entering his flagship's bridge. "Course for Korva sector. Third smuggler route."
"Received, Admiral," the ship commander replied languidly—a tall Nautolan whose tattooed skin chronicled his terms in galaxy's harshest prisons.
As well as his crimes.
Murders.
Robberies.
Piracy.
Slave trading.
Human trafficking.
Child trafficking.
Organ trafficking.
Child organ trafficking.
Cannibalism.
Anthropophagy...
Remaining tattoos hid under the sleeveless shirt, and Jerid clearly did not want to know more.
Honestly, he did not care—this thug kept the crew in check, controlling every step.
Nothing beyond allowed for Zann Consortium combat wing thugs.
The rest did not concern Sykes.
"Something happened?" his protégé asked, smoothing her exotic weapon hanging at her belt.
"Too much," Sykes snapped. "Flotillas one through three, ten through twelve—destroyed."
"How?" the interlocutor wondered.
"We were expected—what else unclear?" Sykes asked.
"Bantha poodoo," the protégée hissed, habitually gripping her weapon handles. "Zann will be displeased."
"He will be furious," Jerid clarified. "This time, simple educational talk won't suffice."
"This time, for failure he will destroy us," the black-haired woman pursed lips, reflexively touching a nearby scarred body part. "All involved in the failure."
"There is only one option," Jerid said. He thought briefly. "Attack with all forces one direction. I already ordered remaining detachments/flotillas to our direction. Instead of fifteen scattered strikes—one..."
"One?" the woman assumed.
"Two," Sykes shook head. "Mieru'kar—start there first—and Korva. Gather first/second wave forces, concentrate on 'assault' and 'occupation' tasks. Only survival chance—capture both enemy strategic systems and hold. Achieve—and Tyber's wrath quieter than if we achieve nothing."
"But his rage won't spare us," the protégée grimaced.
"I am optimist, so would not count on that," the Zann Consortium combat wing commander stated. "Our losses already exceed planned. If lose remaining forces—he postpones eastern group attack. He already delayed too long. Another failure intolerable. Lose—we shoot each other with disintegrators. Hiding from Zann's wrath—impossible. So do what must, come what may. Contact operational base—twenty-four hours to send all transports here."
"Consider done, Jerid," the woman smiled nervously. "Honestly, I would rather flee."
"Yes," the man nodded. "You—possibly. Not new to you. I have different ideology."
"Victory or death," the interlocutor recited displeased.
"Yes, Maris," the warlord added quieter, looking her in eyes. "First victory. Then death. Best we can hope—not in cards."
The pale-skinned black-haired woman shivered, knowing this outcome displeased her.
Death never in her plans.
But better her mentor, dreaming to make her field commander, not know.
She would always find use for her talents.