Nine years, seven months, and twenty-four days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and twenty-four days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and nine days since the arrival).
Ysanne Isard looked as majestic and unflappable as she had the first time he met her. And even though her cold beauty had been marred by injury, she was still… magnificent. To someone who didn't realize what kind of rancor they'd be sharing a room with.
Prince-Admiral Krennel stepped into the lair Ysanne Isard had chosen for herself with no small amount of trepidation, for some reason having decided to relocate to another part of his palace. At first, Delak had intended to refuse her, but when he realized she'd be just a bit farther from him in her new location, he agreed.
True, at the time, he hadn't considered that he'd have to traverse nearly a kilometer of floors and countless stairs to reach this demon in the flesh. But the Iceheart, it seemed, had done it on purpose. Because by the time he reached her, practically running, the anger from his latest defeat had almost entirely dissipated.
And now, he was merely struck by the thought that someone could actually live in this… place, for lack of a better word. A dark, almost gloomy room where hanging ceiling lamps barely added any light. In fact, they only illuminated the path into the deepest shadows, where, surrounded by two dozen monitors arranged in a semicircle around the room's sole occupant, sat Isard herself.
Delak moved almost silently, intending to sneak up on Isard and catch her off guard, if only for a moment. Countless images danced across the monitors; Iceheart's fingers fluttered over the keyboard embedded in the armrests of her chair. Each press altered the picture on the screen or adjusted the sound volume. Suddenly, Isard spun her chair around, and the images flickered wildly.
Delak withstood the gaze of her red-blue eyes only by recalling how furious he was with this woman. A smug, polite smile curved her lips; Iceheart shifted into a more comfortable pose, once again flaunting the contours of her body to him. Her gaze flicked to the data chip in the prince-admiral's artificial hand.
— I see you've received my report, Prince-Admiral, — she said calmly, with a hint of mockery.
Krennel, not bothering to hide his irritation, crushed the storage device in the metal plates of his prosthetic.
— Oh, I received it, — he said in a threatening tone. — And I've even reviewed it. I'm furious!
Isard let out a short laugh, full of coarse mockery.
Krennel stepped within a meter of her, when suddenly Iceheart pressed a key on her chair's armrest, and a holoprojector sprang to life on the side. The device displayed a familiar complex to the prince-admiral: an X-Wing on a landing pad between buildings and some figures wandering about. The fighter and figures glowed red and yellow; Krennel reasonably assumed the footage was infrared. And he understood perfectly what this recording meant!
— You handed the complex on Commenor over to the New Republic! — he didn't say it, he roared it, staring into her mocking face.
Isard nodded. Not a trace of remorse.
— The recording was made fourteen hours ago. As expected, after I learned from my agents about Grand Admiral Thrawn's secret base on Linuri and sent a tip to the New Republic, they figured out what our valiant alien was up to there. They followed the lead to Commenor, guided by a device implanted in their celebrated General Dodonna. Though they acted remarkably fast—astonishing efficiency, especially considering the armed forces of the New Republic are led by Bothans, who aren't exactly known for their martial prowess.
— And what's the point of this conversation? — Krennel ground his teeth. — Commenor has their attention now! I'm more than certain the government of that insignificant little planet will tear up any agreements with me! With the complex in the New Republic's hands, we've failed our end of the bargain and didn't destroy the Rogues! As we promised them!
— Yes, you're right, — Isard easily acknowledged the obvious. — According to my intel, the Commenorans sent just four interceptors against the entire Rogue Squadron. The outcome was predictable.
— This doesn't sound like a mistake, — Krennel declared. — You said they'd gladly wipe out the Rogues to demonstrate their independence to the New Republic and keep them away from their borders.
— Clearly, my dear Prince-Admiral, the Commenorans changed their minds, — Isanne said succinctly. — They reasoned, quite fairly, that you and the Hegemony are far away, while the New Republic is practically rubbing elbows at their front door. The choice wasn't hard.
— Then why did they even bother sending interceptors against the Rogues?
— I think it was a test, — Isanne speculated. — Commenor sent four ships to gauge how quickly Wedge Antilles and his pilots would deal with them. The interceptor pilots, of course, weren't in on it. Seeing that nothing was left of them but dust, the Commenorans realized the Rogue Squadron's reputation, even if exaggerated, isn't far off, and it's better to keep pretending they're all friends.
— Since the Rogues were there much earlier than you planned, it means some of the prisoners might've survived, — he pointed out.
— Without a doubt, — Isanne agreed.
— Which means the prisoners will talk! — Krennel pressed on. — And that means only one thing—the New Republic will soon be at the doorstep of the Ciutric Hegemony!
— Most likely, that's the case, — Isanne mused. — Even sooner than you expect.
— Just wonderful! — Krennel trembled with rage. — Do you even realize what you've done! First, those xeno-lovers hijacked my weapons caravan so I couldn't arm the captured ships, and now they'll surely trace where the medical supply truck came from to that blasted clinic on Commenor, and then they'll come crashing in here with the entire Fourth Fleet!
— Don't exaggerate, Prince-Admiral, — Isanne advised. — You're overestimating our enemies.
— Oh, really? — Krennel said sarcastically. — Weren't you the one counting on them finding only corpses, cutting off all leads to the Hegemony? And now I'm supposed to expect the whole Fourth Fleet?!
— Plans exist to be adjusted, — Isard said tersely. — The prisoners will only help us finally and utterly destroy Rogue Squadron.
Krennel eyed the woman suspiciously:
— Living prisoners will just prove to the New Republic that the rest of the captives from Lusankya were moved to one of my planets. That's enough to light a fire under my tail.
— That's exactly what I'm aiming for, — Ysanne Isard smirked. — They'll come to you on their own.
Krennel growled.
— Unacceptable, — he said through gritted teeth. — You might not realize what forces I'll have to contend with! I've explained this to you before…
— And I remember it perfectly, — Isard declared. — But you, my dear Prince-Admiral, underestimate the wound—political and moral—that our enemies are suffering right now, faced with living proof of the hardships endured by the prisoners on Commenor. They'll speak of the horrors they survived in captivity on Lusankya. And the New Republic's political leadership will be forced to send ships here immediately. Every ship they have available right now. Because they'll be eaten alive by guilt for somehow contributing to prolonging the captivity of those 'poor' prisoners. And that means they'll react very quickly…
— But the Fourth Fleet isn't ready, — Krennel quickly countered. — Especially since, according to your data, they've sent part of their ships to scout the Ghost Nebula looking for some Death Star copies.
— Precisely, — she confirmed. — My spies report that the New Republic has obtained evidence suggesting the existence of two such objects. Thrawn's undoubtedly throwing them off, but that works in our favor. Fey'lya has already dispatched a slew of ships to comb the Ghost Nebula, and they're currently unavailable for quick redeployment. According to my intel, the enemy's left with only their flagship and about two dozen battle-ready star cruisers.
— Not counting more than fifty strike frigates, — Krennel squinted. — That's already more than I can hope to match in a fair fight.
— Unless the New Republic gets word that, thanks to their own raiders, most of your ships are currently under repair, — Isanne Isard said cryptically. — It plays into our hands that you so deftly claimed Grand Admiral Thrawn's conquests. Would I be wrong in saying that even among the prisoners, your jailers boast about what a victor you are, and that you and your ships are responsible for all their misfortunes?
— Your people know too much, — Krennel admitted reluctantly.
— That's what they're for, — Isanne noted. — Leave it to me, my dear Prince-Admiral. I'll discreetly feed the New Republic what they're dying to hear—that their prisoners are in your custody, that your ships are battered, and your crews are exhausted from campaigns. They'll throw their operational reserves at you, only to crash into your impenetrable defenses, a fully operational fleet, and the bonus of captured ships Thrawn so foolishly sold you.
— The Fourth Fleet's flagship is worth ten Star Destroyers, — Krennel pointed out. — That's a third of my forces, including the trophies. If they show up here in much greater numbers, then…
— Then you'll make sure they feel your wrath, my dear Prince-Admiral, — Isanne declared. — I seem to recall you telling me your treasury is vast.
"And I regret it now," Krennel thought.
— And so what? — he asked aloud.
— Let's put it to use, — she said with a smile. — You're worried their fleet will be too large—then bolster yours. Just for one decisive battle, after which you'll emerge stronger, claiming whatever's left of the Republic forces that survive your punishment. Need me to tell you how to do it?
— I'll figure it out, — Krennel snorted. — You're hiding something, Isard. You promised me Thrawn's fleet.
— And that will come in time, — she promised. — But let's move to planning. Right now, the New Republic is whispering among themselves, debating where exactly to strike in the Hegemony. We'll nudge them—pick any insignificant planet in your kingdom.
— Losing even one world is unacceptable, — Krennel stated firmly. — If I lose a single planet, everyone will talk about my weakness.
— That's precisely why, my dear Prince-Admiral, I've chosen the most useless of all your planets for the decisive battle, — Isanne smiled. — What's more, we'll now launch a disinformation campaign to stoke their interest in you.
— What kind of games are you playing, Isanne?
— The kind that bring victory, — she said. — As I've already mentioned, rumors about you and the Hegemony in the New Republic are mixed. On one hand, they want to flex their strength and unleash their wrath on you for what you've supposedly done. On the other, they want to hold you accountable for Sate Pestage's murder. Now, they'll also get word that you're holding prisoners—both those captured during the campaign and from Lusankya.
— And disinformation that I'm supposedly weak, — Krennel reminded her.
— Exactly, — Isanne agreed. — But while they seized the first weapons caravan, they didn't know about the second one that reached its destination. Or about the purchases of Strike-class medium cruisers from the Antimeridian sector, — Isanne clearly knew his every move! — The New Republic's armed forces are led by Bothans. Famous for the fact that if you put a pot of food in front of them, enough to feed every downtrodden soul, they'd brawl over who gets to hold the ladle. They'll take rumors of your weakness as genuine vulnerability—I'll ensure the necessary disinformation. And through open channels, you'll send the New Republic an offer to hear the Alderaanians' opinions on what kind of world they'd like as a new home, since living under constant threat is burdensome. We'll hint that our generosity is just a prelude to relations between your kingdom and the New Republic. Maybe even let them think we're considering joining their state.
— Nonsense, — Krennel declared. — Then the other Imperial Remnants will turn away from me. Who'll I sell my tech to?
— Oh, how much you don't know, my dear, — she smiled. — Are you aware that, according to New Republic intel, the second Death Star is supposedly under Lianna's control? The Republic's already hunting its caravans to confirm it. Lady Santhe will soon demand official explanations and cut ties. And here you come in, able to provide the New Republic with the repair facilities they so desperately need for TIE tech. The Bothans will line up for a punitive campaign against you—just to be part of their planned takeover of the Ciutric Hegemony.
— You're planning for them to see my alliance proposal as an excuse to avoid a strike, — Krennel realized.
— Precisely, — Isanne declared. — So they'll rush the attack—to hit before the Senate session where your alliance initiative is raised. That'll force them to plan the operation even faster. Through official and unofficial channels, we'll hint that you're weak. And we'll 'suggest' that the prisoners are being held on the very planet I've chosen as the battlefield.
— Then, when the Republicans strike, we'll announce that the attacked planet was meant for Alderaan's refugees, — Krennel caught on.
— And that'll enrage the peoples of the Republic, — she said. — By crushing their fleet and showcasing your supposed goodwill—which they mocked—you'll earn a name that every downtrodden and doubting soul will flock to. The smaller Remnants will join you, and by the most pessimistic estimates, you'll soon control territories rivaling the Pentastar Alignment or Imperial Space in size and power. The latter are so desperate for a new Emperor that your candidacy will be first in line for the crown. No one will remember Thrawn or Kaine—just as people once ran to the former, they'll rush to you. From one provocation, you'll subjugate the weak, seize a fleet equal to your own, win the hearts of millions, and begin your ascent to galactic dominance. Nothing will stop you.
— This could work, — Krennel grinned crookedly. — In theory. Fine, I'm in. Start the disinformation campaign.
— I knew you'd make the right choice, — Isanne smiled. But she didn't even try to feign the flurry of activity she'd just been preaching about.
— What are you waiting for? — Krennel demanded. — You've got a lot of work ahead.
— I did it all eleven hours ago, — Isanne laughed. Krennel froze. She'd outmaneuvered him! — I'm sure you'll be pleased to know one of the units moving to 'destroy' you is Rogue Squadron, which has caused both of us plenty of trouble in the past.
— It'll be a spectacular battle, — Krennel couldn't help but grin. And then it hit him—how he should act to guarantee victory over his foes. — Smashing the fleet sent to 'punish' me and wiping out the Rogues in one fight… The backbone of New Republic propaganda will snap over my knee.
— I'd be delighted, Prince-Admiral, if you'd approve one request of mine.
— Which one? — he asked, displeased.
— The Rogues, — she said with a smile. — If any survive the ambush you set, I want them for myself.
— Why? — Krennel asked, puzzled. — Their execution would be a great demotivator…
— But it'd serve your cause even better if the survivors stood by your side and spoke of the New Republic's sins, — Isanne added. — I'll break them for you.
"When this is over, I'll need to get rid of you," Krennel thought with a smile.
— Deal, — he agreed.
***
Adjusting his belt and the life-support unit dangling on his chest, Lieutenant Creb, along with eleven other pilots of Black Squadron, arrived at the launch bay assigned to his unit.
Soon—very soon, or rather, in thirty minutes—Chimaera and the rest of the fleet would arrive in an unnamed system where they'd face off against an enemy fleet.
Six Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers, identical to the hundred and ninety-four already in Grand Admiral Thrawn's possession. The part of the Katana fleet that had been out of reach during the initial capture. Today, though, they'd test themselves against an enemy that had outsmarted and humiliated the Ubiqtorate's fleet at Tangrene. And perhaps reclaim the ships. That, at least, was what the briefing had said. Creb agreed with the wing commander relaying the orders to the squadron leaders. No point in letting ships suited for the Grand Admiral's fleet slip away. They needed to be disabled and captured—which was why fighters and interceptors played a major role in the upcoming battle. If the enemy had no fighters of their own—and reports suggested these cruisers hadn't been upgraded—then significant resistance wasn't expected in the first stage of the attack. That didn't rule out the possibility of the enemy using the planet and its ground base to deploy planetary squadrons. Which meant they had to act fast. Very fast.
The clatter of pilots' boots running across the metal catwalks was nearly drowned out by the hum of TIE Interceptor ion engines already being warmed up by technicians. After ensuring every pilot was in their cockpit and the techs reported the ships ready for launch, he approached his own interceptor. And immediately noticed that the mechanic servicing his craft wasn't alone. That wasn't regulation.
He glanced at a figure in a dark jumpsuit sprawled across the ladder, upper body dangling down and obscured by the left wing panels. What was this about?
— Lieutenant Creb, your ship's ready, systems are operational, weapons tuned to your specs, — the mechanic rattled off the standard line. But Creb wasn't interested in that—he was focused on the figure clearly tampering with his ship's left panels.
— What's going on?! — he demanded sharply, pointing at the figure. — Why are unauthorized personnel in the launch zone?
— Lieutenant, that's just… — the tech began, but at that moment, the figure gracefully rose, tossing head-tails back and flashing a radiant smile, waving with a hand clutching a datapad.
— Hey, Lieutenant Creb, — the girl's appearance was unfamiliar, but that voice…
Tia.
— Tia, — he said grimly.
— Cadet Tia, — she corrected, still smiling. Blue skin, a clearly non-regulation jumpsuit studded with armor plates and extra gear… Boots with heels higher than standard…
— Why are you dressed like that? — he asked dourly, attaching the life-support hoses to his helmet.
— There's no cadet uniform on the ship; Captain Pellaeon allowed me to stay like this until we return to base, — she answered simply.
— …stay like this, sir, — Creb prompted the proper ending.
The smile vanished from her face.
— My apologies, sir, — she said in a flat tone.
— By whose authority is Cadet Tia allowed near my interceptor? — Creb fixed his gaze on the mechanic. Sweating, the man darted a panicked glance at the girl, then at the squadron leader.
— She… said… you authorized it… — the mechanic stammered, realizing from Creb's words that the girl had played him. — She showed up twenty minutes ago.
— Inform the senior mechanic of the section that I've ordered a reprimand for you, Junior Mechanic, — Creb said.
— Yes, sir, — the man replied glumly.
— Dismissed, Junior Mechanic, — Creb commanded. The man saluted and, avoiding eye contact, trudged off along the catwalk.
— Harsh, — Tia remarked once the tech was a few meters away. — Why's he so worked up?
— A reprimand in the Imperial fleet isn't a joke, — Creb said sternly. — It means docked pay, stalled career progression, and no chance for skill upgrades while it's active. And if the junior mechanic was in line for a promotion, he can kiss it goodbye. For the next year—the reprimand's duration—and six months after, at least.
The girl's eyes widened.
— Just for letting me near your ship?!
— That's part of it, — Creb said. — A fighter and a Star Destroyer's hangar are restricted zones where nothing unplanned or outside regulations can happen. If you're not a threat, what's to stop someone else from cutting my fuel lines, igniting my cockpit on afterburners, or detonating a bomber's payload?
— So that's what you think of me, — she huffed. — You think I'd harm the person who opened a new path for me? Who let me reach for the stars like I always dreamed?
— Tia, you've got it wrong… — Creb faltered for a moment.
— Cadet Tia, — she said with pointed formality, lifting her chin. — Sorry, Lieutenant, I need to leave this restricted zone. Apologies for distracting you from your flight prep.
Silently, she shoved the personal datapad into his hands—the one a mechanic typically handed a pilot pre-flight to confirm the ship's status.
Without looking back, she strode quickly toward the far end of the catwalk.
Glancing at the datapad's screen, Creb swiftly checked the ship's systems. According to the computer, in the last hour since the techs finished maintenance, no hatches had been opened, and no interventions had occurred—inside or out. Otherwise, the ship's sensitive sensors or the bay's equipment would've logged it.
So what had she been doing here?
Still frowning, Lieutenant Creb moved past the cockpit to get a look at the left wing panels of his TIE Interceptor. His trained eye noted no significant tampering.
Or rather, no tampering at all.
On the metal frames supporting the solar panels were small markings, painted with quick-dry paint from a canister small enough to hide in a hand. Silhouettes of downed fighters—New Republic and pirate alike. At first, Creb frowned, noting only six silhouettes. Then he realized four were larger, symbolizing full squadrons he'd taken out, while the smaller ones represented individual kills outside a dozen.
Creb didn't keep count of his kills. But with his code cylinder, he could access that section of his personnel file and confirm the tally—forty-two ships, not counting the slaughter in the Karthakk system, where the count was still ongoing.
It was like what they did on Rogue Squadron leader Wedge Antilles' ship—an enemy he intended to face one day.
But what struck him most was the laser engraving along the midline support beam of the left panel.
"Ruthless and merciful."
Two opposites he embodied, in her view. Creb himself was skeptical about the second half.
And he certainly wasn't pleased with the new "artwork."
None of it was regulation. In fact, it was explicitly forbidden. Squadron ships weren't to bear any external identifiers the enemy could use to distinguish a veteran from a rookie.
Yet this simple, logical gesture wasn't just a waste of paint and engraving time. It was… a token of gratitude?
She'd spent considerable effort tracking down his kill count. Meaning she'd gotten clearance to access that data. And only the ship's commander could grant that—or approve such liberties with a ship. So… maybe it wasn't entirely illegal.
Perhaps.
But it was, at least, a pleasant surprise. Because even he—
Lieutenant Creb glanced toward the far end of the catwalk, where Tia was descending the ladder. For a moment, she paused, casting him a farewell look. Creb gave her a faint nod of appreciation.
The Twi'lek didn't react, continuing down the steps.
The young lieutenant checked his chrono.
Twenty minutes until the scheduled launch.
He could rush after her now, catch up, apologize for his sharpness, and explain which Pilot Corps regulation she'd unknowingly breached with her noble intentions. Then race back.
But that'd be foolish.
Commanders don't run—it either amuses or panics subordinates. And they certainly don't get distracted by personal matters before a combat mission.
He could always talk to her after returning from the mission. If she'd been approved as a cadet, Captain Pellaeon saw potential in her, and the ISB agents aboard had vetted and deemed her worthy.
No, the girl needed the fleet's strict rules explained—before she hit the academy, where those truths would be drilled into her whether she liked it or not. He could explain it in a way that wouldn't make her resent the upcoming grind and weeks of training ahead.
For some reason, Lieutenant Creb didn't want this Twi'lek to lose her dream.
Whether it was tied to mercy or something more or less, the Black Squadron commander climbed into the cockpit, locked his helmet's collar for a seal, took control, received reports from his subordinates, and signaled the Operations Control Center that his unit was ready for launch and mission execution.
Imperial justice for all of Garm Bel Iblis's actions against lawful authority was about to be served.
And the chrono was already ticking down seven minutes to hyperspace exit.
***
Captain Pellaeon stepped onto Chimaera's bridge, quietly pleased to note the watch was busy with final pre-attack checks.
Such calm coordination and hushed officer chatter were almost unheard of on this ship just six months ago. Truth be told, five months back, he'd been glaring at each of them, teeth gritted in frustration, trying to wring some semblance of obedience to high Imperial standards from the youngsters. But now…
No, they weren't up to the veterans he'd served with a decade ago, but they weren't the green recruits they'd been before Grand Admiral Thrawn's victorious campaign began.
Maybe, in time, they could even surpass the Imperial fleet's elite. But not today or tomorrow.
Unfortunately.
Still, Gilad was glad there were no more untested kids aboard his ship.
Crossing the central catwalk toward the chair where Grand Admiral Thrawn sat, the captain caught himself starting to grumble inwardly. Like anyone who, lacking something long enough, gets it and then dreams of more, better, stronger…
Maybe it was just age creeping in—he wasn't young anymore, sixty years old…
— Captain, — Thrawn greeted him, silently indifferent as he watched the white-blue hyperspace tunnel walls stretch into the cosmic unknown, guiding the Imperial warships to punish those who'd long troubled the Empire. — You seem preoccupied.
Was it that obvious?
— Woke up today thinking we're basically doing the Ubiqtorate and Empire's job for them, — Pellaeon explained. — Even though we're not exactly calling ourselves Imperials anymore…
— The Empire isn't people, flags, or ships, — Thrawn noted. — It's a mindset and philosophy. You can't just abandon what you've served for decades. Even recognizing the New Order's flaws and the dead end fools and bureaucrats led the Empire into, we still carry the best of our past in our minds and strive to build it into our future. So, in a way, even after we officially change flags, anthems, and trappings, the galaxy will see us as Imperials for a long time. Whatever we call ourselves.
— Most likely, sir, — Pellaeon agreed. — But I keep thinking that what Bel Iblis did to you and your forces was that attack by Black Pearl at New Cov.
— Think that's not enough for a return courtesy call, Captain? — Thrawn inquired.
Pellaeon mentally tallied that in a single day, the Grand Admiral had dusted off half a dozen pirate bands and conquered a star system over the loss of a transport that, frankly, never belonged to them. And here, an attack on privateers disrupting biomolecular shipments…
— I think it's a solid enough reason to knock on Bel Iblis's door, — Gilad said.
— You're also forgetting that the Corellian resistance group kidnapped our man, Captain Hoffner, — Thrawn pointed out another reason.
— Of course, sir, but wasn't that why we hired him?
— Without a doubt, — a faint smirk touched Thrawn's lips. — But that doesn't give Bel Iblis the right to abduct someone we deliberately hired for that purpose. It's the principle of live bait, Captain.
— I get it, sir, — Gilad confirmed. — We dangled bait meant to be swallowed, giving us an excuse to thrash them good. Just…
— Speak freely, Captain, — Thrawn encouraged, stroking the ysalamiri. The contented lizard snoozed comfortably on the Grand Admiral's lap. — Share your thoughts.
— Someone's going to steal this victory from us too, — Pellaeon sighed. — Krennel, the Ubiqtorate, some other schemer with big ambitions. They'll tell the Imperial Remnants' populace how great they are.
— A craving for recognition? — Thrawn seemed surprised. — I hadn't noticed that in you before, Captain.
"Definitely getting old," Pellaeon thought.
— If the Empire knew Krennel and the others had nothing to do with the beating the New Republic's taking, we wouldn't have recruitment issues, — Gilad lamented.
— Been reviewing volunteer enlistment stats? — the Grand Admiral asked.
— Yes, sir, — Gilad agreed. — Before Krennel started crowing about how great he is and claiming all our work as his own, we didn't have legions lining up, but we managed to crew medium cruisers with mixed teams, plug holes in the Pilot Corps, and staff ground bases… Another hundred thousand—or better, two hundred—qualified specialists, and every idle starship would be operational.
— Battles aren't won by numbers, — Thrawn declared. — But by quality. Strength means nothing if you don't know how to use it, as our Sergeant TNX-0297 says, 'with maximum efficiency.'
"Well… someone clearly didn't see the carnage of the Clone Wars."
— As for Krennel and his disinformation, — Thrawn reminded him. — It fits the broader strategy. The Prince-Admiral's the type who can't resist grabbing what isn't his. But in the end, his insatiable lust for power and glory paints a giant target on his back for the New Republic to shoot at. And we'll be nearby to slap the shooters' hands.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon agreed. — So… what do we want from Bel Iblis besides ships?
— Wondering if you should prep a rope on Chimaera's antenna to string up the former senator? — Thrawn clarified.
— Sure a blaster shot would be simpler, — Gilad replied dryly.
— Maybe so, — Pellaeon confirmed. — But right now, we need him as a hostage. Him and his people.
— Part of which plan is that?
— It all fits into phase two of Crimson Dawn, — Thrawn assured him. — Debunking myths of Bothan genius and benevolence.
— And Skywalker? — the Chimaera's commander asked. — What about him?
— If we catch him alive, we'll give him a ship and point him where he needs to go, — Thrawn said. — After proper briefing, of course.
Pellaeon shivered.
— Sir, you're not saying you plan to send him to Jomark?
Thrawn was silent for a moment, savoring the view outside the viewport.
— Not just planning—I will send him there.
— To C'baoth, — Pellaeon shuddered.
— To Horn, — Thrawn corrected.
— That's the same thing, — Gilad suddenly felt a bit colder than usual. — I thought you wanted to keep that lunatic's influence off the young Jedi.
— I also wanted to use a mad Jedi to coordinate the fleet and conquer the galaxy for the Empire, — Thrawn reminded him. — Then decided the cost outweighed what I was willing to pay. Same with Skywalker—he's where he belongs. I'm sure he's been investigating Horn's disappearance all this time—Delta Source whispers in the Imperial Palace already mentioned a supposedly surviving Jedi Master, Jorus C'baoth. So their names are known to him. Uncovering the original's past isn't hard. Which means Skywalker has enough info to be wary of C'baoth. I want to gauge his awareness before giving him answers about C'baoth and Horn's whereabouts.
— You don't think Skywalker will fly to Jomark and chop the clone to bits? — Pellaeon tensed. — From what C'baoth's shown, he's incredibly powerful.
— We'll have data today on how strong Skywalker is, — Thrawn noted. — Useful observation, admittedly. Skywalker doesn't craft art, so we need to study him another way—in person.
— To assess his threat level? — the flagship's commander guessed.
— Among other things, — Thrawn confirmed. — Skywalker's a Jedi. Largely self-taught, guided by remnants of honor, reason, and traits of past Jedi. Raised in a simple family, unversed in deceit and intrigue—at least for now. So what he says will largely reflect what he thinks.
— I'm sure you've got a plan if C'baoth manages to control both Horn and Skywalker, — Pellaeon ventured.
— As always, — Thrawn said calmly. Not boasting, just stating a fact. — Ysalamiri, Noghri, Inquisitor Obscuro, Jenssarai, Aurra Sing, or any other hired killer or bounty hunter, Skywalker's sister and nephews as hostages, an orbital bombardment of Jomark—pick any option, and it'll solve the problem.
— If so, why not eliminate all three now? — Pellaeon asked.
— None of them are a threat yet, — Thrawn stated. — Destroying an enemy just because we assume their ill intent is wrong. Words, until they turn into actions, are just words. But sending Skywalker to Jomark will have a far more beneficial effect for us.
— Like what? — Pellaeon pressed.
— Think, Captain, — Thrawn suggested. — By giving Skywalker Jomark's coordinates, I intend to use him the same way I've used Horn and C'baoth in my campaign.
Gilad pondered. Manipulating three Jedi at once was bold, but… Oh! That's it!
— Skywalker won't just start chopping heads there, right? — Gilad clarified.
— Presumably not, — the Grand Admiral agreed. — At least not right after arriving.
— You let Skywalker roam the galaxy, pick up rumors, realize even the original C'baoth was a pain in the— — Pellaeon caught himself. — A thorn. And now, meeting the clone, he definitely won't side with C'baoth. Because he knows he was tied to Palpatine.
— I also account for Jedi metaphysics, Captain, — Thrawn said. — There's intel that Jedi, and those like the late Emperor, differ and can sense it in each other. So they'll sort out who's who. While that's happening, neither Skywalker, Horn, nor C'baoth will meddle in our affairs or disrupt phase two of Crimson Dawn.
It made sense… By the time Skywalker reached Jomark, figured things out, and made a decision, days—maybe weeks—would pass. By then, the Ciutric Hegemony situation might already be in Thrawn's favor.
Pellaeon vividly recalled the Clone Wars. Especially how Jedi threw battlefields into chaos just by showing up. And when a whole group of them assembled, dispensing justice and democracy so fast that clones barely kept up with stacking severed limbs and identifying dead commanders…
Yes, Thrawn was right—keep such an enemy far from your front until their presence couldn't change the outcome. And until Skywalker couldn't call for help…
— Sir, you're giving him back his X-Wing? — Pellaeon asked, recalling a tech report from the hangar deck.
— We're not turning Chimaera into a hover-taxi, are we, Captain? — Thrawn smiled.
As if. Should we start handing out tissues to the Republicans to wipe their tears too?
— But it's got a long-range comm antenna, — Gilad dredged up from memory. He didn't know the Incom T-65's exact specs, but a starfighter built for superiority and hyperspace jumps likely had such gear. — He could easily call in the Republic fleet. They'd take C'baoth alive. And he knows about Tangrene and some of your operations…
— Having an antenna doesn't mean it works flawlessly, dear Captain, — Thrawn remarked philosophically. — Did you know that when activating long-range comms, X-Wing antenna casings build up a massive energy charge?
— No, sir.
— Nor did I, until recently, — Thrawn admitted. — If you strip most of the insulation from the transmitter coil, it'll short-circuit, frying the antenna and rendering it useless. What do you think a Jedi would do, learning his friend and potential Jedi is in the clutches of a mad clone who can brainwash, when every minute's delay could cost that friend not just his life but his sanity?
— Race to Jomark full throttle, — Pellaeon grinned. — Sir, brilliant plan.
— Just physics, — Thrawn replied. — Tell me, Captain, did we get what we wanted from the Terrik father and daughter?
— From what I recall of Lieutenant Colonel Astarion's latest reports, all the warehouses and stashes they knew about have been cracked open, emptied, and the contents shipped to our depots.
— So those two are useless to us now? — Thrawn clarified.
— Completely, sir.
— Did the long-term cloaking screen tests on the asteroids go as planned?
— Yes, sir. Engineers achieved stable projector function for over a month and a half. They're refining the rest of the designs now.
— Were the additional asteroids delivered? — Thrawn asked.
— Yes, sir. Work's underway.
— Excellent, — the Grand Admiral praised. He glanced at the ship's chrono. — Two minutes to go, Captain. Is my flagship battle-ready?
— As is the whole fleet, sir, — Gilad said with no small pride.
— Then let's discuss a few more plans, — the Supreme Commander suggested. Pellaeon eagerly tuned in.
— We have a bio-lab on Lok built to Imperial safety standards, — Thrawn reminded him. — We also have cloning programs that never gained traction in the Old Republic or Galactic Empire. Task our intelligence with finding, recruiting, or hiring experts in this field—I want to understand what's happening with these programs and why they were shut down.
— I thought the GeNod issue was settled, — Pellaeon tensed. — And the only problem was explaining to clones that they're, well, clones…
— Whatever our view of Emperor Palpatine, he wasn't a fool, — Thrawn noted. — If there were a way to fix GeNod's defects as easily as we think, and programmed loyalty was a cure-all, no one would've abandoned clones in the armed forces.
— I heard they ditched them because the Kaminoans rebelled, — Pellaeon recalled.
— But the Kaminoan program isn't the same as GeNod, — Thrawn countered. — Or Spaarti. With the latter, it's clear accelerated growth without ysalamiri made clones mentally unstable—a flaw hard to fix. So what stopped the Empire from seizing Kamino's cloning factories and churning out clones under their own brand?
— Kaminoan clones age out, — Pellaeon frowned. — Their doubled growth rate.
— When you can produce billions of clones to replace the aging ones every decade, that's not an issue, — Thrawn argued. Pellaeon couldn't muster an immediate reply.
— After the Clone Wars, there was a huge patriotic surge among humans, — he recalled. — So many recruits that pricey clones—Kaminoans churned them out with full kit for about a hundred thousand credits each—became unnecessary.
— Fair enough, — Thrawn conceded. — We're using cloning for the opposite reason—we lack specialists. Yet we don't know if Spaarti clones age as fast as Kaminoan ones—that data's simply missing.
— We need experts, — Pellaeon nodded, jotting a note on his datapad. — Otherwise, we're playing with fire we don't understand.
— A necessary measure, sadly, — Thrawn concluded. — We might ditch cloning someday, but I doubt it'll be soon.
Well, damn… The Grand Admiral sure knew how to throw a curveball. Gilad had thought cloning issues were on the back burner—that TNX-0297's success proved GeNod clones' loyalty, and ysalamiri countered Spaarti's side effects. Turns out, not quite. Now it made sense why Thrawn mass-produced Spaarti clones while scattering GeNod copies in small batches across the forces—always under peers' watch. And why he hesitated to clone Octavian Grant en masse—just imagine a few dozen captains with his knowledge going rogue. Made you queasy.
You had to admire Thrawn's nerve, letting Grodin Tierce-based clones guard him. Hmm… Which program were they from? Gilad only knew they were Tierce from Thrawn's word. Spaarti or GeNod? A mystery. But it explained Rukh's constant presence in the Grand Admiral's guard. The Noghri wouldn't fail.
Sure, they could pull the best from the military-med service to study cloning, but that'd be a bad call—experts should handle this. But who? Kaminoans? Arkanians? Ugh, intel would have to sweat for answers.
— We need cells on key planets, — Thrawn continued unfazed. — Observers, informants, pilots. Staff and freelance agents are a big plus, no doubt. But we also need specialized combat units in worlds critical to the next campaign…
Okay, now Thrawn had a campaign after the current one?! Wasn't that a bit much? This one wasn't even over. Or had the Grand Admiral already won it in his head, and this was just a foregone conclusion?
— Understood, sir, — well, the fleet had set up covert pilot and spec ops cells before. Not the best experience, but doable. — Any more tasks, Grand Admiral?
— Without a doubt, Captain, — Thrawn gave a faint nod. — But—later.
— After what, sir? — Pellaeon asked, puzzled.
— After we finish crushing Senator Garm Bel Iblis's group, of course, — Thrawn seemed surprised Pellaeon even asked.
And at that moment, Pellaeon saw the hyperspace streaks collapse into starpoints. The jump was over.
— Stations, stand by! — Gilad barked, annoyed he'd lost track of time talking with Thrawn. — Battle stations! Raise deflectors, target nearest threats, wing—clear the hangar! Defensive formation three!
From the bridge, Pellaeon issued orders, eyeing the blue-green planet below, threaded with clouds, spinning slowly opposite the Star Destroyer's bow. The tactical display lit up with six Dreadnought-class heavy cruiser signatures—clearly aware of their approach and shifting for attack. Yet…
— Note, Captain, — Thrawn said. — After meeting Black Pearl, they still haven't gotten one ship operational.
— Five against one—they like those odds, — Pellaeon smirked.
— Naturally, — Thrawn agreed. — With that ratio, they could board Chimaera after softening her up with ion cannons. A Star Destroyer simply lacks the firepower to fend off five well-armed, armored targets at once.
Gilad glanced at the tactical screen. Soon, the ex-senator's team would hurt.
A lot.
— Sir, — odd not hearing Lieutenant Tschel's omnipresent voice on the bridge. — Black Asp and Eternal Wrath have exited hyperspace and are deploying gravity well projectors.
Gilad checked the tactical display. Positioned fifty units left and right of Chimaera, the cruiser and Star Destroyer with specialized gear began setting a trap no one could escape.
— Tell Eternal Wrath to start jamming comms, — Thrawn reminded. — We don't need uninvited guests at this meeting. We've seen Bel Iblis call in Bothan help before with ground teams.
Pellaeon contacted the Interdictor-class Star Destroyer's commander. After a brief exchange, he replied:
— Eternal Wrath began jamming as soon as they dropped out of hyperspace.
— Impressive foresight, — Thrawn said. — Note that destroyer's commander for potential cloning. His professional profile would make a fine template for Interdictor captains.
— Sir, all our ships of that type except Sentinel are fully crewed, — Chimaera's commander reminded him. Meanwhile, eight projectors combined to form a massive artificial gravity field, enveloping the surrounding space. The trap yawned open, and the prey still thought itself clever enough to slip free.
— Once Mr. Zion finishes his project, we'll have five more upgraded Immobilizer 418 Interdictors, — Thrawn declared. — Why else would I ask Grand Moff Kaine for five Vindicator-class heavy cruisers?
Gilad opened his mouth to reply, but the first salvos from the approaching cruisers grazed Chimaera's forward deflector. The enemy aligned to pound his destroyer, ignoring fire from Black Asp and Eternal Wrath.
Then, thirty units ahead of Chimaera—right on the enemy's left and right flanks, between the five cruisers charging Chimaera and a limping sixth hugging the orbit beyond atmosphere and likely planetary defenses—Inexorable and Stormhawk appeared. Below Chimaera's ventral arc materialized Crusader-2, while near the barrier cruiser and Interdictor, twelve Corellian corvettes announced themselves, blazing past the cruisers at full throttle, raking them with all guns to draw laser artillery fire and keep it off the three Star Destroyer air groups systematically crippling the enemy ships' weapons and engines.
All six of Senator Garm Bel Iblis's starships were pinned in a semicircle of Imperial vessels against the unknown planet's geostationary orbit, held by a vast gravity anomaly zone and mercilessly hammered from multiple angles by weapons of every caliber.
The predator snapped its jaws shut.
The trap slammed closed.
The slaughter began.