Nine years, seven months, and twenty-nine days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, seven months, and twenty-nine days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and fourteen days since the arrival).
She was jolted from the sweet embrace of oblivion by a distinctly unfriendly gesture.
The girl opened her eyes, her jaw dropping as she fought the pain searing through the left side of her face.
— Good morning, Defiler, — a voice said, its intonations familiar to her, though she'd previously heard them not in a commanding tone but rather in a whiny, naive one…
Her gaze darted around the compartment of the starship she found herself in. A compartment she knew well, because… THIS WAS HER SHIP!
She blinked rapidly, waiting for the pain in her face to subside and her eyes to adjust to the dim light of the cargo hold.
— You sleep a long time, — the same voice snorted. Squinting, she saw the fool from Taanab sitting by the bulkhead… dressed in an expensive, advanced combat suit. One like that could fetch ten thousand credits on the black market, maybe more.
With an experienced eye, she noted that the armor fit him perfectly. Tight where it needed to be, loose where it didn't. Nothing superfluous—just functionality. This was clearly a professional…
Glancing at herself, she realized she was left in only her fabric undersuit. Judging by the torn seams and padding designed for armor plates, this guy knew exactly where to look for hidden gadgets.
She flexed her legs to test the strength of the cord binding her. No, it was tight against her skin, likely cutting off circulation. Her arms were the same. Her body was numb, unable to move her limbs.
Rubbing the back of her head against the beam she was tied to, she noted that even the hairpins she used to tuck her thick mane under her helmet were gone.
— Want to keep searching for where I might've hidden weapons or lockpicks? — the man asked her. — Just so you know, I also removed the blades from under the skin on your wrists. And thighs. And shoulder blades.
— Did you cop a feel while I was out? — she asked.
— Oh, come on, — the "Taanabian" replied in the same emotionless tone. — It's not perversion if it's just part of the job. But now I get why you were so against hugs. Your body's a weapon, huh?
— None of your business, — she snapped. — Who are you?
— Let me make one thing clear, — the man stepped closer and, with a quick, no-swing slap, struck her face. The pain snapped her fully awake, even invigorating her in a way. — I ask the questions. You answer.
— Go ahead and try, — she leaned forward slightly and spat out the blood filling her mouth from her torn cheek. — If you can, be a bit rougher with me.
— Oh, I will, — said Sergius. If that was even his real name. — Let's start with the formalities. Name, place of birth?
— Princess Leia Organa, Alderaan, — she smirked.
— Honestly, I don't care what I call you, — Sergius replied calmly. — But I think I'll go with Jabba.
— Like the Hutt? — her eyebrows shot up. She felt her subtle hand movements starting to pay off—sensation was returning to her fingers. She immediately clenched them into a fist, trying to gauge…
— Like the slug, — Sergius clarified. — Don't bother. I removed your implanted nails too. And the ones on your feet.
— Could've trimmed them while you were at it, — she snorted, shaking her long hair. — I'm tired of this mane.
— Name of the planet where you were trained, — the man continued the interrogation.
— Wherewookieesdontlive, — she replied with a grin. — You know, you're definitely not a Republican. They're so soft, so emotionally fragile, like Ewoks when they get blown to bits in an explosion.
— Settlement? — he asked, unfazed.
— Whererosesdontgrow, — she replied with the same chuckle. — Mercenary? Yeah, probably. So who's your employer, kid?
— Where are the turbolasers supposed to go? — Persistent guy. Well, fine, she'd seen worse lose their cool.
— Straight into Admiral Ackbar's fishy face, — she sang out. — Come on, kid, share with your friend. Who made you such a grump?
Men have a weakness—even if they're total scum, flirting with "exes" always stirs something in their big, loving hearts.
— Three wrong answers earn you a little extra incentive, — he said cheerfully, peeling himself off the bulkhead and walking to a small workbench where she repaired her gear.
Grabbing something from the table, he turned to her, wisely staying a meter from her legs, knowing that even in this position, she could at least attempt a sweep.
— Know what this is? — he asked, holding up an elongated cylindrical object.
— Oh, darling, if you're so into submitting, you could've just told me, — she said with mocking politeness. — I'm all for full-on relationships and…
He didn't respond.
Instead, he tossed the cylindrical object onto her legs. Attached to it, as it turned out, was a thin power cable…
A ship's high-voltage bus contact, made entirely of superconducting material, touched her body at the bend between her torso and legs…
The shock was so intense her teeth clacked. Her head slammed into the beam, her body writhing like a worm burrowing into soil. A jolt of electricity surged through her nerves, and a scream tore from her throat against her will.
A second later, after a distinct click of the circuit breaker connected to the power cable, the overwhelming physical force ceased its torture.
Her throat was dry. A faint wisp of smoke surrounded her exposed skin. Her muscles twitched involuntarily.
— So, now you've met the wonders of the ship's power system, — Sergius said calmly, pulling a metal stool with magnetic legs closer. — By the way, nice ship. Fast, sturdy, decently armed for a shuttle. You did good work, Defiler.
— T-thanks, — her teeth still chattered, but she was regaining control. Twisting, she managed to make the contact and cord fall to the deck. Fortunately, it was made of dielectric material. — So, you gonna risk coming closer to grab your toy?
— Why would I? — Sergius shrugged. He snapped his fingers, and his index finger… became a pointer. Its direction went above her head…
Tilting her head back, she barely had time to close her eyes before a simple servomotor, with a short buzz, dumped a good ten liters of water on her. The water drained noisily through the deck's perforations, but the insulator—and she herself—were now soaked.
— Just in case you think wet hands and feet will help you slip out of those cords, I'd advise against moving your arms and legs too much, — Sergius said.
— Or what? — she asked mockingly. — You gonna wag your finger at me?
— Try it, — he suggested, putting on a pair of headphones.
She smirked and shifted her legs… only then noticing the thin, translucent filament running from the ropes through the deck…
An acoustic blaster, mounted to her right, fired.
The low-power sonic charge nearly ruptured her eardrums. Yet, the weapon's intensity was calibrated to cause pain without destroying everything around. No, with cumulative effect… this Geonosian gun, taken from her own arsenal, would tear her body apart faster than the beam or the cords holding her.
Suspecting something worse, she squinted and scanned her surroundings.
Just as she thought. He'd rigged sonic and paralyzing weapons so that every movement tugged invisible filaments, pulling their triggers… Hutt-spawned engineer!
— As you can see, I can keep this up all day, — the man declared. — And night. And as long as it takes to get answers from you.
— You're an Imp, — she finally realized. — What are you even doing at a Republican military base?
— You'll laugh, but I was actually trying to find leads on the Zann Consortium, — he smiled. — Word is, you haven't completely collapsed. I want to fix that, finish what was started. And while I'm at it, find out how many turbolasers and other military tech you've stolen, taking advantage of the stupidity of some random Bothan in the New Republic's provisional government that mistakenly took Coruscant.
— The Zann Consortium has no beef with the Empire, — she tried a different tack to defuse the situation.
— Not now, — his voice turned to steel. — And only because your vile gang's been thoroughly thinned out. Me, my comrades, and many others—some of whom died—made sure of that. So you can tell me a hundred times that stolen equipment shouldn't concern the Empire, but I don't buy it.
The girl stopped smiling. Her playful gaze turned to irritation.
— Then strap on my armor and head to Shola, — she snapped. — No one's ever seen a Defiler in the Zann Consortium without armor, so they'll take you for one of their own. No sane person would try it, but that won't stop you, will it? Infiltrate the Defiler ranks and start weaving your Imperial schemes. Drop me off somewhere along the way, and we'll part ways. I haven't crossed your path, and after this fiasco, I'd rather not show my face to command.
— Nice try, — Sergius smiled after a brief pause. — Anyone else in my position might've bought it. But not me.
— And why don't you believe me, Imp? — she pressed.
— The answer lies in numbers, — the "Taanab boy" said cryptically. — Specifically, the number ten.
— And I'm supposed to know what that means? — the captive sneered.
— That's how many Defiler I tracked, tortured, and eliminated before the Zann Consortium was considered destroyed by the Empire, the Rebel Alliance, and other sentients involved in that glorious task, — the girl's smirk vanished. With a simple, effortless motion, the man tossed a tiny beacon chip onto the floor beside her. The very one embedded in the blood-red breastplate of a Defiler's armor, serving as an identifier…
— My last job before being promoted to Imperial Intelligence command was tackling the growing influence of the Zann Consortium, — the man's quiet voice rang like a funeral march. — You were crushed but not finished. You slunk into the shadows, hiding in some rat holes. By the way, thanks for the tip about Shola—I'll definitely convince my superiors to pay it a visit. Unlike some of my colleagues, I always knew that as long as Tyber Zann or any of his gang were alive, the galaxy would never know peace. Destroying a fleet and army isn't enough—you have to eradicate the root. And Intelligence, not to mention the ISB, never found the source of your equipment, weapons, or training grounds. We fought the symptoms, rooting out corruption on planets, but never reached the disease itself. I know your brain's been "washed," and you don't remember your past or anything that could harm the organization. Which means Shola's just a decoy to lure enemies in case your cover's blown.
The girl now glared at him with open hostility. This man knew too much. And he was too well-prepared to blab only about himself without crossing any lines. She'd get nowhere by keeping up this banter.
— Honestly, I even hoped you'd run out of resources for a comeback after your defeat, — Sergius admitted. — But when I realized you were stealing turbolasers and other military supplies for your secret shipyards, I figured—why build new warships if not for a military campaign? I don't know if you worked for the Consortium before the Battle of Yavin IV or if you're "new blood," but your training's the same as those Defiler I had the pleasure of meeting. And from them, I learned a curious trait about your lot in those flashy red armors—after a mission, even if you succeed, you never return to the Zann Consortium. A failsafe in case someone tracks you or your kind. That chip-identifier, which they tell you is for spotting spies, is really just a marker to single out any Defiler who dares disobey orders and return to a Consortium base. That's why, darling, I'm going to torture you and cut you to pieces until I get what I need to unravel your little scheme and help wipe out the Zann Consortium once and for all. So, you've got a small choice—start talking now, or I'll shock you until your pain reflexes override your brainwashing, and before you die, you'll give me answers to a few of my questions. So, what's your positive response?
Well, nothing new. An Imperial agent who's killed Defiler before. Not the first, not the last. But he definitely knows how to extract the information he needs to move the investigation forward. She wouldn't do him that favor.
The Defiler ran the tip of her tongue along the inner surface of her upper teeth. She found the subtle ridge on the last tooth to the left, lifted the small cap to crush the poison ampule when she bit down, and…
Found no capsule in its place.
— Sorry about that, — Sergius smirked, mockingly eyeing the Defiler, stripped of her final hope of keeping her tongue silent.
***
The holoprojector flickered, establishing a connection with the Karthakk system.
A miniature figure of a familiar privateer appeared above the device's plate.
— You were given twelve hours, Captain Tiberos, to prepare the ships assigned to you for combat readiness and move to the designated sector, — I reminded him.
— I've carried out your wishes, Grand Admiral, — the privateer said, without malice but with clear displeasure. — All six combat-ready Mon Calamari star cruisers are currently en route.
— Did I detect dissatisfaction in your voice, Captain? — I inquired.
— You're not wrong, — he replied. — I'm not exactly thrilled about commanding a fleet that's basically cobbled together from scraps in the Karthakk system.
— Do you have any issues with the Mere race? — I clarified.
— Yes, — he didn't hide it. — They make up most of the crews on the ships under my command. But I don't know what they're capable of or how they'll behave in battle. I don't even know my own subordinates.
How familiar…
— You wanted your dream—to command a fleet of privateers, — I reminded him. — By my decision, six star cruisers have been temporarily assigned to you. Your dream's come true.
— Uh-huh, — Tiberos grumbled. — Always dreamed of having loyal-to-the-Empire Wookiees, hundreds of shifty-eyed Noghri, and amphibians who've never seen ship weapons or systems in their lives wandering my ships. I don't know what kind of plan you've cooked up for us, but I want you to know—I'm categorically against it. Any New Republic combat unit will carve us up like a butcher with a carcass!
As if I don't know that.
— Spare me your whining, Captain, — I requested. — Consider this operation a test of your loyalty and ability to command such a large operational-tactical unit.
— With all due respect, Grand Admiral, I'm thrilled with the honor dumped on me, but your praise won't keep me warm if this fleet gets smashed and the ships boarded, — Tiberos admitted.
— Then make sure that doesn't happen, — I suggested.
— I'd feel a lot better if you at least told me the target of our attack, — Tiberos pressed.
— You'll receive the information packet exactly when it's needed, — honestly, this pirate is starting to annoy me slightly. Wanted a fleet? Here it is, command it. Why complain?
— Understood, sir, — he added the last word after a pause. — Sorry, got carried away.
— Good. Now that you've calmed down, report on your unit's readiness to carry out the combat mission, — I said.
— The ships are ready, — he replied. — Sure, the crews didn't train at your Imperial academies, but plenty of seasoned folks answered the recruitment call—guys who know their way around tech and turbolasers. Not your Star Destroyers, but if we pile on together, we can hit hard. The flight decks have X-Wings and Headhunters—pilots aren't newbies either. Eighteen squadrons of experienced pilots, even if they're former bandits and pirates. They're always eager to make a buck, have no love for the New Republic, so… whatever you've got planned for us, I think we'll manage. No promises it'll be without losses, though.
— This is war, not a concert performance, — I reminded him. — Losses are inevitable. Are your crews motivated solely by their salaries?
— What else would motivate the poorest folks in a forgotten sector? — Tiberos said, surprised. — Regular pay, bonuses, a chance to improve their lives. Of course, you've got to understand that the whole system's watching us now—if we get our hides tanned and losses are huge, the number of folks willing to fight and risk not coming back won't exactly grow. But if we win and return with big trophies, it'll be great—recruits will be lining up as soon as the crews step off the ships flashing their earned credits. The key is having somewhere to spend them. But judging by the volume of supply ships, you've got that covered too, right?
— It'll be enough for the initial stage, — I declared. After a pause, I added:
— I think you could use some extra motivation to carry out this task even more effectively.
— Hm, — Tiberos' hologram straightened its shoulders. — Like what?
— As you know, after this mission, you won't continue commanding this unit, — I reminded him.
— Not exactly itching to lead this ragtag bunch, — Tiberos admitted. — When I talked about a fleet, I meant fast raiders, corvettes, frigates… not star cruisers.
— Yet you wanted a carrier Star Destroyer for yourself, — I pointed out.
— A flagship's gotta be impressive, — Tiberos explained. — But I won't see one for a long time—unless this operation makes me a hundred million credits richer.
— You'll be richer by about that amount, — I said calmly.
Tiberos, in shock, removed his mask.
— Is this a joke? — he asked skeptically.
— No, — I refuted. — With the caveat that, if the operation's results satisfy me, your reward will be in material form, not credits.
— How's that? — the pirate frowned.
— You wanted a flagship, — I reminded him. — What's wrong with a Mon Calamari star cruiser for the role?
— You're kidding, — Tiberos whistled. Then, catching himself, added:
— Sir.
— My sense of humor doesn't extend to you, Captain, — I said. — Return with spoils and no ship losses, and I'll transfer one of my Mon Calamari cruisers to you as your flagship.
— What's the catch? — Tiberos grew wary. — Gifts like that don't come for free. You could've easily put one of your dreadnought commanders in charge of this rabble. There's a hundred and ten of them milling about in the Karthakk system now.
— Of course, — I agreed. But those heavy cruisers only have a hundred crew each. The rest went to staffing the already-upgraded dreadnoughts at the shipyards. — However, the offer was made to you.
— That's why I want to know what the double-dealing is, — Tiberos insisted. — You're not some generous altruist handing me a cruiser for my pretty eyes and one completed mission.
— Did the Force tell you that? — I asked.
— And common sense, — he replied. — You squeezed me dry for the Karthakk system's valuables and Captain Nym's troves while leaving me high and dry.
— You were left with your life, Captain Tiberos, — I reminded him. — Considering you led us into a clash with half a dozen pirate gangs in a single star system, I'd say I was very generous.
— Fine, — he said. — Just tell me what you want from me.
— You'll undergo training with the Jenssarai, — I explained.
— Become a Jedi? — Tiberos didn't hide his displeasure. — Grand Admiral, that's never really appealed to me…
— That's no longer your choice, — I noted calmly. — Additionally, you'll take an Imperial officer's course to match your position. If you want to lead a raider fleet, you need to know what you're doing. Jedi Eymand won't help you anymore—only your knowledge and skills will prevent failures in the future.
— I'm fine with the officer courses, but the rest… — Tiberos hesitated. After a moment's thought on whether to voice his opinion, he decided:
— I'm not really into all that Jedi stuff.
— You're an officer in my fleet's auxiliary forces. You receive orders and must carry them out.
— So, if I refuse, the Noghri come for me? — the privateer squinted.
— Precisely, — I confirmed. Come on, when will you finally remember and ask? — Officers who don't follow my orders are of no use to me. Physically no use. I trust you understand.
— Obey or die, — Tiberos nodded. — You're persistent, Grand Admiral. Offering a choice with no options.
— Not at all, — I said. — You can always refuse.
— Sure, — Tiberos snorted. — I seem to recall you promised to return Nym to me. And my mother.
Well, look at that—he remembered. Right after I thought about it. Is the Force helping him?
— You'll get them as soon as you return from your campaign, — I promised. — The interrogators need to clarify a few more details. Once they're done, as promised, you'll have those sentients.
Tiberos stared straight into my eyes.
The defiance of someone who thought himself strong, uncontrollable, but forced to comply. Because otherwise, he'd simply be destroyed.
— Remind me never to borrow from you, Grand Admiral, — the privateer relented. — I'm in.
— I expected nothing less, — I said. — Contact me as soon as you reach the designated point in space. You'll receive further instructions.
— Understood, Grand Admiral.
— Good luck, Captain Tiberos, — I wished him. Though I'm more than certain he won't need it.
The moment the holoprojector dimmed, the comlink trilled.
— Grand Admiral, — came the voice of my flagship's commander. — Mr. Ghent requests I inform you that he's completed the task you assigned.
— Excellent, — the kid managed it in less than a day. But Gilad's tone isn't sitting right with me. He's usually calm on the bridge, but now there's clear irritation he's trying to hide. And failing. — Are you upset about something, Captain Pellaeon?
— Yes, sir, — a heavy sigh came through the comlink's speaker. — It's that kid… Sorry, Mr. Ghent, who decided for some reason that I need to take part in some performance. He's shoving a datapad in my face with charts, some analysis, claiming I can perfectly mimic some object when I'm annoyed. Sir, can I toss him out the airlock?
An irritated Pellaeon playing Counselor Fey'lya? I wonder how Mr. Zakarisz Ghent managed to smuggle spice onto my flagship that's impaired his judgment and reasoning.
— Escort Mr. Ghent to his quarters, — I ordered. — And meet me there yourself, Captain. I'll be there in five minutes.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon's voice carried a hint of resignation.
For a moment, I pictured the commander of the Chimaera with purple eyes, covered in fur…
Hmm.
Perhaps Mr. Zakarisz Ghent is onto something.
***
The Bellator-class dreadnought was a creation of Kuat Drive Yards, an ancient and renowned shipbuilding corporation in the galaxy. Stretching seven thousand two hundred meters, it was only eight hundred meters shorter than its progenitors—the Kuat-built Assertor-class dreadnoughts, which served as the blueprint for this giant.
Though this ship carried less armament compared to other Kuat dreadnoughts, a single Bellator matched the combined firepower of ten Imperial Star Destroyers or their equivalents. Unlike them, powered by two solar ionization reactors—massive armored hemispheres protruding from the hull's underside—this behemoth, equipped with ten large and four smaller engines, boasted dizzying speed, making it one of the fastest ships in the Imperial Navy. It could easily overtake and annihilate any enemy squadron. Of course, in combat against Super Star Destroyers, a Bellator would be less effective and likely lose—but that remained pure theory, as no such clash had ever been recorded in the galaxy.
The Bellator-class Dreadnought
Imperial military doctrine dictated using dreadnoughts and Super Star Destroyers as flagships for key formations or sector fleets of significant importance.
The New Republic didn't alter this well-proven concept, so the operational Bellator, proudly named Crimson Dawn, served as the flagship of the New Republic's Fourth Military Fleet, based in the Bothan sector.
It fell into New Republic hands during a raid on the Valedusia military base, orbiting a classified Imperial world in the star system of the same name, located in the Expansion Region, Bes-Bir-Bikade sector. The Imperial tactical map placed it in grid square L-15.
The Rebel Alliance, learning of the Imperial Valedusia base repairing vast numbers of large enemy starships, couldn't resist the temptation. A well-executed attack destroyed the enemy stronghold, resulting in victory… but not the one the rebels, still calling themselves such shortly after the Battle of Endor, had hoped for.
They captured several ships—a Bellator, a few Imperial Star Destroyers, and a Procursator-class Star Destroyer. For those fighting for freedom on retrofitted Mon Calamari passenger liners, this was a monumental success.
But the victory came with a bitter aftertaste.
The Imperials, it turned out, had known of their arrival in advance. Every ship in decent condition and capable of movement—including massive Super Star Destroyers—along with warehouse stocks, supply ships, repair facilities, and everything else that made Valedusia a base rather than just a collection of durasteel-plated beams, was taken by the Imperials into the unknown. Where dozens of ships, which the rebels had hoped to seize, disappeared remained unanswered.
For years after their victory at Endor and the capture of such trophies, the New Republic spent time and precious resources restoring the ships taken at Valedusia. Billions of credits from the young government's already thin coffers were spent to repair these starships. With significant help from the Bothans, the formation captured at Valedusia (though seasoned soldiers smirked at the term "battle," noting it was hardly a fight when one side was a massive Alliance fleet and the other a battered, disarmed collection of ships so damaged they'd be better scrapped) was restored.
Since then, it has been the core of the New Republic's Fourth Military Fleet. Though many cynics argued it should've been assigned to the First Fleet defending Coruscant and the Core Worlds, the dreadnought's commander understood the young government had made reputational concessions to the Bothans, who had almost single-handedly funded the repairs. And what did it matter? All former Imperial ships now bore the New Republic's emblems, not the Bothan fleet's.
A Bellator-class dreadnought, four Imperial-I-class Star Destroyers, and a Procursator-class Star Destroyer—that was the first division of the New Republic's Fourth Military Fleet. A force capable of pulverizing an Imperial sector fleet, conquering worlds, punishing enemies, and serving as a gentle reminder to feuding New Republic members not to escalate disputes beyond diplomatic resolutions.
Procursator-class Star Destroyer
The Bellator's commander (in defiance of those who thought the Bothans aimed to claim these ships) was an Alderaanian. And not just anyone, but Vanden Willard himself.
New Republic General Vanden Willard
He was no longer young. Even nearly ten years ago, when he joined the Rebel Alliance six months before the Battle of Yavin IV, he wasn't young.
But he continued to serve the cause of his life. The campaign his operational-tactical unit and the rest of the Fourth Fleet were embarking on was deeply personal for Vanden.
It was he who appointed Jan Dodonna as commander of Yavin IV's planetary defense. He was speaking with his good friend and Alliance sponsor, Bail Organa, when the first Death Star destroyed Alderaan.
Together with Dodonna, they devised the plan to attack the first Death Star. And they won. But it seemed he'd lost a friend—until recently, Dodonna was presumed dead. Vanden never said it aloud, but… what the Imperials did to Jan, the horrific death he suffered…
All of it convinced the aging general that his cause was just.
Willard had stepped back from active military service to train officers, captains, and pilots in military strategy, space combat, and tactical decision-making. But a year ago, he returned to active duty when Imperial attacks resumed.
He, along with the New Republic's finest military leaders, helped develop strategies and tactics that aided the New Republic against numerous pirates, but…
It wasn't enough.
Admiral Ackbar, an old friend and ally, had managed to place him aboard Crimson Dawn, appointing him head of the Fourth Military Fleet. Vanden understood why—the Bothans were increasingly trying to control this structure, and the New Republic's military forces, for themselves. And Ackbar didn't like it.
Of Crimson Dawn's nearly one-hundred-thousand-strong crew, seventy-eight thousand were Bothans. A similar percentage applied to the other ships in the Fourth Fleet's first division.
This raised some concerns—no, of course, the Bothans were allies and wouldn't seize an entire fleet; that was just paranoia. But Ackbar wanted someone he could trust implicitly leading such a potent military asset as the Fourth Fleet. Given that Ackbar was effectively arrested a month later, this wasn't surprising.
Vanden stood on Crimson Dawn's bridge, watching as six of his fleet's starships, escorted by a dozen frigates, drifted into position at another rendezvous point. The long, sleek hull of Crimson Dawn gave the Bellator-class dreadnought an air of austerity, grandeur, and menacing swiftness… as its creator intended.
But his thoughts were far from where his gaze rested. Very far.
He recalled all those he'd lost in this war, like Jan Dodonna.
And he especially mourned his fellow Alderaanians.
Bail Organa and his wife, Breha. Princess Leia. General Tyr Tasken… and hundreds, thousands of ordinary Alderaanians who died in this war for freedom. The fight against tyranny and ruthlessness was steeped in the blood of enemies and patriots alike.
He felt no anger, considering it a base trait unworthy of a sentient being.
He felt only sorrow and regret that this prolonged conflict couldn't be resolved peacefully.
Perhaps a strike on the Ciutric Hegemony would finally bring the Imperials to their senses and lead to peace talks. Enough battles had been fought. It was time to stop the tide of deaths.
And the armament of this nearly eight-kilometer-long warship—sixteen twin heavy turbolasers, forty-eight quad heavy turbolaser turrets, forty eight-barreled heavy turbolaser batteries, fourteen quad heavy ion cannons, one hundred eight anti-ship missile launchers, over two hundred eighty light missile launchers grouped in batteries of twenty-four, one hundred forty OUT OF forty-two medium turbolasers in quad turrets, and countless light anti-aircraft guns in quad turrets—would likely serve that purpose. Over a thousand heavy, standard, and medium turbolasers and ion cannons. Three hundred ninety-six missile launchers. Ten squadrons of Republic fighters, interceptors, and bombers… This was a doomsday ship, capable of facing an entire fleet and emerging victorious.
But how many deaths would follow? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands?
— General Willard, — his senior aide addressed him. — Coruscant is on the line. Armed Forces Headquarters.
— Unusual, — the elderly Alderaanian remarked. — I'll be there in a minute.
The Bellator's bridge was two, if not three, times larger than an Imperial Star Destroyer's. But the general layout remained the same. So Vanden could reach the holoprojector with his eyes closed to personally speak with whoever had so brazenly violated Counselor Fey'lya's order for radio silence during the fleet's movement to its starting positions.
However, upon seeing his interlocutor's hologram, the Alderaanian held his tongue.
It was none other than the acting commander-in-chief of the New Republic Armed Forces, Counselor Borsk Fey'lya.
Dressed as if for a public appearance, the Bothan displayed slight impatience.
— General, — his voice carried friendliness tinged with mild arrogance, typical of any Bothan in a superior position. — You have a special assignment.
— Good to see you too, Counselor Fey'lya, — Vanden replied gently. Something was clearly troubling the Bothan—usually, he was excessively polite. It seemed something had rattled him. — I thought you ordered complete radio silence for all groups during deployment until the final point.
— You have a new target, General, — the acting commander-in-chief said with emphasis. — A preliminary one, before the main objective.
It seems the Bothans stumbled upon something that could boost their political standing and influence.
— I'm listening, Counselor, — Vanden said.
— The Scaross system in the Morshdine sector, — Fey'lya stated. — What do you know about it?
— Absolutely nothing, except that it exists, — the aging Alderaanian replied succinctly, offering a condescending smile. Did the Bothan really think military officers kept knowledge of every galactic world in their heads? That's what archives are for.
— An uninhabited star system where our intelligence has identified a suitable target for a rehearsal attack on the Hegemony, — no, Fey'lya wasn't himself. His slow, authoritative tone lacked its usual polish… — We've learned that within the next twenty-four hours, the Imperial Star Destroyer Imperious will be there.
Vanden remained silent. No, he knew exactly what that destroyer was. He knew perfectly well who commanded it. And how much pain his fellow Alderaanian and former protégé, Erik Shohashi, had brought to this galaxy. To Alderaanians, in particular.
But what was Fey'lya hoping for with this rhetoric? That he'd rage like a nexu in a cage, hurling curses at the "Butcher of Atoan"? No, he wouldn't.
— So, we have a new combat mission? — he asked calmly.
— Your combat mission remains the same, General, — Fey'lya snapped. — But first, you'll take your flagship to the Scaross system, where you'll destroy or capture Captain Shohashi and his crew. After that, you'll proceed with the mission.
— Such a delay could affect the speed of the entire division's movement, — the general cautioned. — In that case, we'll definitely be late for Ciutric…
— I'm aware of that, — Fey'lya said irritably. — The detour will be minimal. We'll adjust the attack schedule if needed.
"Interesting how, when the previous order demanded cutting all contacts via HoloNet relays to prevent Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel's agents from getting indirect confirmation of our battle groups' movements?" the aging general thought.
Something was definitely going on.
It seemed Fey'lya had just received this intelligence and was rushing to eliminate Shohashi, one of the Empire's prominent, ruthless commanders. It would undoubtedly be a military success, but there were some thorny issues.
— Commander-in-Chief, allow me to remind you that the Morshdine sector is Imperial territory, independent of the Ciutric Hegemony, — he said. — If we attack an Imperial ship in the Scaross system, we could provoke action from the sector's command or the Imperial Remnant that Morshdine answers to. That risks not only alerting the Prince-Admiral to the battle in Scaross, making him wonder what a Republic fleet is doing near his borders in a neighboring sector, but Tangrene, the Morshdine sector's capital, isn't just some backwater planet—it's a Ubiqtorate base. According to intelligence, six months old, there were at least twelve Star Destroyers there.
— You command the most powerful operational ship in our fleet, — Borsk Fey'lya declared. — If you can't handle a single Star Destroyer with one dreadnought, I suggest you submit your resignation!
— That's not the issue, Commander-in-Chief, — Willard shook his head. — My division has no interdictor cruiser, no Interdictor-class destroyer, no electronic warfare ships. The moment we attack Imperious, Shohashi—if he hasn't completely lost his mind—will call for help or try to flee. From what I know of his actions in the galaxy's south, he's far from insane.
— Do as you're ordered, General! — the Bothan roared. — Proceed to the Scaross system immediately, maintaining full radio silence. After dealing with Imperious and Shohashi, take your division to the next waypoint, then to Ciutric. That's all. End transmission!
Without giving Vanden a chance to respond, Counselor Fey'lya cut the connection.
— Your orders, sir? — the general turned to the approaching commander of Crimson Dawn.
Well, it seems Fey'lya doesn't grasp what kind of bantha he's trying to hunt. A foolish plan that jeopardizes the entire operation.
But it can't be ignored. Nor can the fact that intelligence on the Morshdine sector hasn't been updated in a while. The fact remains—if Shohashi calls for help, ten, maybe all twelve, Star Destroyers will come. And that's slightly more than a Bellator-class dreadnought can destroy without sustaining critical damage. Yes, Crimson Dawn could disable far more enemy ships, but… it risks getting stranded with critical damage in enemy territory, unable to escape or fight back.
And there's still a far larger battle ahead in the Ciutric Hegemony.
General Willard sighed, shaking his gray head.
When politicians take charge of armed forces, it's hard to expect competent, logical, rational, or tactically sound orders. Populism and political gain, bought with the blood of military personnel—that's what interests most politicians.
— Fleet orders, — he said. — Enter radio silence. Cease all external division contacts. Thirty minutes to prepare—then we head to the Scaross system.
— Should we inform the commanders of the division's ships where the flagship is headed? — the ship's commander clarified.
— The division's ships are coming with us, — the general explained. — The more ships we have, the faster we'll complete this updated combat task and return to the plan.
— Counselor Fey'lya won't be pleased, — the dreadnought's captain noted.
— Perhaps, — Vanden agreed. — But I doubt he'll personally rush to the Scaross system or the Ciutric Hegemony to tell me that. And after… I think I'm too old for all this. We'll crush Krennel, and I'll retire. Without Admiral Ackbar, this fleet's becoming a political tool, which is fundamentally wrong and even harmful.
— To everyone's disappointment, — the commander of Crimson Dawn quietly expressed his solidarity.
***
After General Willard's hologram faded, silence hung in the slicer's quarters for a moment.
Zakarisz Ghent sat on the couch, legs tucked under, engrossed in his datapad, as if oblivious to our presence.
Pellaeon, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, returned his uniform cap to his gray hair.
— You have a talent, Captain, — I remarked.
Gilad closed his eyes, taking a deep breath… just like when he was told about the "object" he'd have to "play."
— You command generals superbly, — I clarified, in case my point wasn't clear the first time.
Gilad shot me a suspicious glance, then, seeing no irony or sarcasm from me, nodded resignedly.
— Thank you for everything, sir. I'd rather not repeat this occasion. Willard looked at me like I was a power-hungry nobody with an inflated ego.
— That's exactly how most sentients familiar with him view Counselor Fey'lya, — I commented. — The other half, who have the misfortune of knowing him, dream of flaying him and turning his pelt into rugs.
— I'd happily join the latter.
— A waste, — I noted, still staring at the spot where the Republican general's hologram had been moments ago. — Making gloves and a hat from him would be more practical.
Ghent coughed from the couch. Pellaeon looked at me with interest.
— Good work, Mr. Ghent, — I said. Yes, the kid's against such address, and I respect his preference. I'll honor it in private conversations. But not in front of others. Communication etiquette must be universal.
My grandson once watched a Western holofilm. As a dutiful grandfather, I kept him company. The plot's hazy now—modern films lack soul, ideas, or morals, just "one-watch" fodder. But the line, "Manners are a man's face," stuck with me. Though, in my view, it's wasteful to spend millions to convey such a simple truth to the masses.
— Thanks, — Ghent nodded. — I sent a tracking beacon with the transmission, coded by your specialists. Had to improve it, of course. Long story short, it works. I can confirm they exchanged messages with five ships, then deactivated comm systems and jumped to hyperspace. The passive beacons I used for tracking only work in realspace.
— General Willard disobeyed the commander's orders, — Pellaeon noted. — Though… after what that supposed Bothan told him, I'd disobey too.
— As would any rational sentient, — it's reassuring that my observations of the Republican commander's subtle expressions and movements are backed by objective data. Willard's bringing an entire fleet to meet us. The whole division.
— Sir, — Gilad addressed me. — Should we revise the plan?
— For what reason? — I inquired.
— We're not just dealing with one Bellator dreadnought but an entire division of ships, — the Chimaera's commander explained. — The net's catching more fish than we need.
A fool's dream came true. I once wanted to take Imperial Star Destroyers and other trophies from the New Republic—now I don't know what to do with them.
Especially given the same concerns Willard voiced.
We're about to face a formidable enemy that could deal us serious damage. In light of the upcoming operation, that would be… unfortunate.
Still, we have a reserve—four additional destroyers arriving in a few days. Fresh recruits who may play a larger role in the coming battle in the Ciutric Hegemony than originally planned.
— It changes little, Captain, — I said calmly. — Five Venators from Project Sunburn give us the edge we need.
— If Ryan Zion did everything right and we don't repeat what happened at the Battle of Hast, — Pellaeon said, not hiding his skepticism.
— It'll be enough to see how they perform against the division with Crimson Dawn in the Scaross system, — I noted.
Pellaeon furrowed his brow.
— I thought the battle in ‐the Ciutric Hegemony was aimed at capturing enemy fleet ships—both Krennel's and the Fourth Fleet's…
— You were mistaken, Captain, — I declared. — We'll take only the ships that interest us. Our main goal for the second phase of Operation Crimson Dawn is to kill those who still haven't realized that fighting us is like jumping in front of a Juggernaut to stop it.
— I doubt the Republicans will fear us after that, — Pellaeon remarked. — They'll likely hate us even more.
— You're wrong, Captain, — I replied, already considering which parts of my plan needed tweaking for perfection. — The next time our fleet meets them, the Republicans will be terrified.