Grand Admiral

Nine years, eight months, and twenty-nine days after the Battle of Yavin…

Or forty-four years, eight months, and twenty-nine days since the Great Resynchronization.

(Four months and fourteen days since the arrival).

The officers' mess was deserted, so much so that the four sentients seated at a single table felt as though the weight of the entire universe had descended upon them.

This sensation was strikingly unusual — for they had felt nothing of the sort until the ship emerged from hyperspace.

Or perhaps it was an echo of their own emotions regarding the news conveyed to them by the Mon Calamari following his conversation with the Grand Admiral?

The Jensaraai Order? Seriously? Could there be a more absurd name?

— Something is coming, — Master Jedi Bre'ano Umakk suddenly declared, setting aside his utensils. — I sense a disturbance in the Force.

— It's just a stale midday meal, — Reynar grumbled, mechanically shoveling mashed food into his mouth. From what Fodeum observed, the Inquisitor consumed his meal without even attempting to chew.

— No, I feel it too, — Ahsoka Tano said, rubbing her hands together as if to brush off dust or sweat. — The Force warns of impending bloodshed.

— We're aboard Grand Admiral Thrawn's flagship, — Reynar reminded them. — If there's anywhere that knows bloodshed, it's here.

— I feel nothing, — Fodeum admitted.

— Clear your mind of routine, — Bre'ano Umakk instructed. — Find your inner balance. Listen to your senses…

— Or just get angry, — Obscuro suggested, tossing his spoon onto his plate. The metallic clatter echoed through the mess hall. — Jedi purists.

— We hold you in equally high esteem, — Ahsoka assured him. — But truly, a battle is coming.

— Did Thrawn tell you that himself? — Reynar snorted, rising from the table and adjusting the folds of his night-black attire.

— No, — the Togruta shook her head. She extended a hand, pointing to the monitor behind the former Inquisitor. — If you're so clever, tell me what you see there.

Reynar, snorting again, turned his head to examine the ship's sensor data, which indicated that directly ahead of the Chimaera…

— The Grand Admiral has a task for you, — a gray-skinned alien mewed, as if materializing from beneath the deck. And in such a way that none of the Force-sensitive individuals sensed his approach.

This was standard practice on Dominion ships — in certain areas, the Force seemed to abandon its adepts. The cause of this phenomenon remained unknown, and none dared to ask directly.

— Is it what I think it is? — Obscuro asked, eyeing Thrawn's bodyguard.

— Yes, — the alien replied laconically. — And you are in the vanguard.

With those words, he placed a small bag before the Force-users, the contents of which hinted at the familiar hilts of lightsabers.

— I didn't even get to dessert, — Fodeum sighed wistfully, rising from the table. He unerringly identified his own lightsaber among the others, retrieved it, and clipped it to his belt.

This caught the Togruta's attention…

— I'm dying to hear the story of how that lightsaber came to be in your possession, young one, — the Togruta declared, narrowing her eyes as if he had done something wrong.

— Uh… — the Jensaraai blinked. — Thrawn gave it to me…

— Intriguing, — Tano drawled, arming herself. — Well, shall we head to the hangar? Let's flash some blades…

— If it is the will of the Force, — Bre'ano Umakk stated cryptically, striding swiftly toward the exit.

Only a few minutes remained before the battle alert was sounded…

***

Until this moment, Tiberos had been consumed by impatience to speak with his mother.

But the preparations for the Black Pearl's campaign, combined with his studies at the commanders' school, had devoured all his free time.

Thus, he only heard the story he had yearned to know today.

Now, he desperately wished to erase the last thirty minutes of that conversation from his mind.

Not every truth is worth knowing. Far from it.

— At least I don't have tentacles, — he remarked, glancing at Captain Nym, seated in the corner of the cantina. The Feeorin had remained there throughout his mother's revelations, never once lifting his gaze to his son.

Truthfully, Tiberos barely recognized the leader of the Lok Revenants. It was as if the core of his being had been extracted. Something that made this Feeorin the terror of pirates.

No longer was he the ruthless warrior, raider, or authority among his cutthroats.

Now, he was merely a broken, spineless civilian, unable to even meet the eyes of the one he had sought to kill.

His own son.

— I'm glad for that too, — Aurra Sing said in her characteristic manner, casting a disdainful glance at the Feeorin. He remained motionless. — Son, you have a mission, and…

— Don't call me that, — Tiberos declared, rising from the bar counter. He tossed a few small credits to pay for the drinks. The droid-bartender swiftly collected the currency, stowing it somewhere within its chassis. — Never call me your son again, Aurra Sing.

Astonishment flickered across the bounty hunter's pale face. It seemed as though her reddish-orange ponytail stood on end, but that was surely an illusion.

— Very well, — she said slowly. — I propose we undertake this job together and…

— I'd sooner kiss a rancor than spend another minute near you, — Tiberos stated, clarifying his priorities. — Or you, — he pointed at Nym. — You're both despicable. An idiot and a foolish female too cowardly to admit she carried another's child.

— Tiberos, listen, — he moved to pass her, but the bounty hunter grabbed his arm tightly. — Your father wouldn't have understood, and I needed…

— I don't care what you needed, — the privateer growled, wrenching his arm free. — You're nothing to me. I don't want to know what motives drove you. You lied to me — throughout my entire life. That's not how you treat family. Temporary allies, enemies, random sentients — sure. But not family. That's what my father taught me — the one that this wretch, — he pointed at Nym again, — killed. Because you couldn't keep your mouth shut or your legs closed.

— Tiberos! — the woman grabbed his arm again, only for the mercenary to slap her across the face without hesitation.

— Don't touch me, — he glared into Aurra Sing's eyes, filled with hatred and confusion, seeing only a reflection of his own fury. — If I see you near me again, I'll crack your bald skull with my hammer. Understood?

Yanking his arm from her weakened grip, he stormed toward the exit.

His fingers trembled slightly with rage — it's not every day you learn you were conceived in a drunken haze after a successful raid. Nor do you expect to discover that the sentient who raised you wasn't your true parent.

But what enraged him most was that, because of one bald liar, he had spent years foolishly plotting to kill his biological father.

— Nym! — he heard Aurra's voice. — Stop him! We're not done talking!

— Don't even think about it, old man, — Tiberos threatened, seeing the pathetic wreck stir and block his path. — Don't dare stand in my way. And don't even think about opening your filthy mouth. I'll take your head off with even greater pleasure than before I knew I came from your loins.

— Son, — Nym lifted his gaze from the floor. — We've lost so much…

— Yes, — Tiberos agreed, resting his hand on his hammer. Mere meters separated him from the Feeorin. — Step aside, and you'll live.

— I don't want to fight, — Nym said. — Everything I have is yours, and…

He didn't finish.

With a crunch and a squelch, the hammer smashed through the left side of his head, piercing it clean through. The privateer, planting a foot on the still-twitching body's chest, yanked the weapon free, tearing out facial bones.

The wreck collapsed heavily to the floor as the furious Tiberos, with a practiced flick of his wrist, shook off the remnants of bone, teeth, blood, and brains from his weapon.

Stepping over the corpse, he paused at the cantina's door, sheathing his hammer behind his back. Turning at the sound of the twitching body, he looked at Aurra Sing.

— He was right about one thing, — Tiberos declared. — Everything he had is mine. Or soon will be.

— You're a monster, — the bounty hunter spat with unconcealed contempt on her pale face.

— My finest trait, — Tiberos grinned. He pointed at the corpse. — Look at him closely. I killed Nym because I promised him I would years ago. Next time you feel like reminding me that your egg contributed to my existence, think about what I'll do to you if I see you again.

— I'll remember, — Sing replied venomously.

— Better write it down, — Tiberos advised, turning away from the woman who claimed to be his kin.

Stepping outside, he inhaled the cool night air of Lok deeply.

Tasteless, laced with dust, irritating…

He couldn't wait to go on a raid.

— Looks like the family reunion went as planned, — a voice chirped from an alley.

Tiberos glanced indifferently toward the sound, watching a short shadow emerge from the darkness into the dim glow of the artificial lights of the town that had sprouted near Nym's fortress.

— Not afraid to wander without guards, Tavira? — he asked. — They say in this backwater's heyday, they assaulted a dozen ladies a night.

— Well, if they weren't opposed to strolling at night knowing such grim statistics, who's to judge? — her violet eyes gleamed mischievously. — Besides, I'm sure Thrawn's Noghri are always nearby. Even if you don't see them, it doesn't mean they're not there.

Leonia stepped close, appearing even tinier, barely reaching Tiberos's chest.

— You reek of blood, — she mused, reaching out with her small fingers to pluck a speck of gray matter from his gear. — Looks like Nym really spilled his brains…

— Literally, — Tiberos confirmed, suppressing the urge to grab her black-and-silver-streaked hair and slam her into the cantina wall.

— You broke my gift, — she clucked her tongue. A whip appeared in her hand from nowhere. — You need to be punished!

Her delicate bones nearly cracked as he seized her tiny fist in his powerful grip. His other hand grabbed a fistful of her uniform, effortlessly lifting Tavira a good meter off the ground.

— Try that again, and I'll twist your head off before the Noghri can blink, — the privateer promised.

— I like it! — Leonia exclaimed gleefully. — I… I…

— Hyperdrive motivator, — Tiberos quipped, citing an old Outer Rim jest. — You're not going to let up, are you?

— From a man like you? — Tavira feigned shock. — Never! I nearly wet myself with joy when I learned I'd be governing a planet with you, Tiberos.

— Don't worry, — he promised. — Soon you'll soil yourself with happiness. But we'll chalk it up to your achievements.

— Huh? — she blinked her long lashes.

But the privateer had already hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of vegetables, striding carelessly toward the inn where he'd rented a room.

The Noghri, briefly emerging from the shadows of the buildings, were dismissed with Leonia's satisfied smile.

***

"I'm not as mad as Sair Yonka!" — Captain Pellaeon repeated the thought incessantly, staring through the central viewport as the Chimaera approached its target.

— Your unease is understandable, captain, — Grand Admiral Thrawn's voice sounded, as he approached and stood beside him.

"Really?" — the thought flashed through Pellaeon's mind.

— Few sentients in this galaxy can boast of facing a Bellator-class dreadnought like the Guardian alone, — the Grand Admiral continued, "encouragingly." — And surviving, of course.

"Are we among them?" — nearly slipped from the gray-haired commander of the Chimaera.

But he restrained himself, maintaining decorum.

The Guardian loomed in the Chimaera's main viewport, resplendent in its nineteen-kilometer majesty. Its elegance and power could not be diminished by the scars or scorch marks stretching from bow to stern.

Even in its current half-ruined state, more akin to ruins than the fully operational warship it once was when launched from the shipyards, the super star destroyer was an awe-inspiring sight.

The superstructure, ravaged during the battle near Tantive V, with its lone deflector shield generator dome atop, seemed even more menacing for having endured such extensive damage. To think — a single precise hit to that section had obliterated the Executor, taking hundreds of thousands of fine officers and crew with it.

It was hard to imagine that nightmare unfolding again: an uncontrolled Executor colliding with the incomplete hull of the second Death Star in orbit above Endor's forested moon. Then vanishing in a colossal explosion alongside it.

The loss of such a ship was an irreplaceable blow to the fleet, but it could have been endured, with effort… But the loss of its entire crew, the finest specialists in the galaxy who manned Darth Vader's personal flagship… No, the Imperial Starfleet never recovered from that.

The mighty Imperial warship drifted in orbit around a large blue-green world. One didn't need cybernetic vision enhancements to notice the faint glow at the Guardian's stern — its sublight engines were coming online.

Admiral Gaen Drommel had detected the approach of a new ship to the planet Sollex and was beginning to respond.

— It appears the scanning systems aboard the Guardian are not as useless as the analysts reported, — Thrawn remarked.

— So it seems, — Pellaeon said through gritted teeth.

Based on the volume of purchased spare parts and the testimony of captured pilots from the Guardian, a team of analysts had concluded that the super star destroyer's systems were nonfunctional and unlikely to detect an approaching ship even at fifty units, let alone the standard two hundred.

Gilad glanced at the Grand Admiral.

Thrawn, as ever, was calm and focused.

Yet, there was a hint of… admiration? Fascination? on his face.

Truly? The Grand Admiral gazed at the Guardian as if seeing such a magnificent ship for the first time. This was perplexing, considering they had recently encountered the Reaper, the Guardian's sister ship, twice — and in far better condition.

— Credit must be given to Admiral Drommel, — Thrawn said. — His specialists have worked diligently.

— Sir?

— Observe the starboard side, captain, — the Grand Admiral advised. — Do you notice a slight variation in the hull and armor plating's hue?

Gilad tried earnestly.

— No, sir, — he admitted.

— A curious quirk of vision, — Thrawn remarked, to no one in particular. — Regardless, the Guardian's crew, under such challenging conditions, restored the integrity of the starboard side. Based on the armor's shade, they've rebuilt over two kilometers of hull. Given the lack of deformation, it's reasonable to conclude that internal compartments and bulkheads have also been repaired. Remarkable diligence.

"You'd work just as hard if your life depended on it," — Gilad thought.

— Shall I sound general quarters? — the Chimaera's commander inquired.

— A yellow alert will suffice, — Thrawn assured him. At least the crew had taken their stations per the battle schedule, and the "triangle" was cloaked in its deflector shield. They could withstand one or two salvos. That was something. — And order the Chimaera's bow lowered by three degrees. We don't want the Guardian to know we have a fast corvette tucked beneath us.

— Drommel may order fighters launched, — Gilad reminded him. — I doubt he's pleased by this intrusion.

— Then why hasn't he done so already? — Thrawn asked.

There was no retort.

— Open a channel to the Guardian, — the Grand Admiral ordered. — It's time to discuss their surrender.

Glancing at the super star destroyer, now turning its starboard side toward them, training some twenty batteries on them, Pellaeon couldn't help but wonder:

"Whose surrender are we discussing?"

— Check with the hangar, have our Jensaraai launched? — Thrawn requested.

That's all that concerns him now?!

— Yes, sir, of course…

***

— Sir, the ship has approached close enough for positive visual identification, — the watch officer's voice crackled through the personal comlink.

Gaen Drommel paused his activity — reading a paper copy of an adventure novel — and fixed the major with a grim stare. He tried to recall the officer's name but failed.

— Details, major, — he demanded.

— Sir, it's not our shuttle, — the officer said quickly. — Nor a supply freighter. A star destroyer.

The admiral outwardly remained calm (unlike the raging, conflicting emotions within) as he placed the ancient book on his desk. The leather cover of the heavy tome creaked faintly at the touch.

— Its name, — he demanded.

— Chimaera, sir, — the officer replied hurriedly. — I've already ordered us to turn our starboard guns toward them…

"Because that's the only part of the ship with functioning weapons," — Drommel mentally noted the reason for the order.

— The surface bases are on alert, we're ready to begin transferring crew and…

— Cease these idiotic and utterly unnecessary actions, major, — Drommel advised. — The Chimaera is commanded by Captain Gilad Pellaeon. He lacks the nerve to unleash turbolasers against us.

— Sir, but it's Grand Admiral Thrawn's flagship, — the watch officer reminded, citing the latest HoloNet report. — And they're hailing us!

That's what happens when you take aboard groundside rats instead of disloyal crew members, ready to panic at the first sight of a warship.

Admiral Gaen Drommel.

— Grand admirals don't travel without escorts, — Drommel explained dismissively. — Especially not to confront a super star destroyer. Stop panicking, I'll be on the auxiliary bridge shortly.

He longed to be on the main bridge… but the superstructure was in ruins, making it unsafe even for watch duty.

The stunned major's image flickered briefly on the screen before vanishing. The admiral removed his gloved finger from the control panel and quietly left his quarters.

***

— I'd rather be dead than endure this boarding! — Reynar roared, barely stabilizing himself in space with his jetpack.

Grabbing a handhold used by technicians for external repairs, he pulled himself toward the airlock's doors.

— First time? — Ahsoka inquired, positioned at another nearby handhold. Only a couple of meters separated them, but the Dark Sentinel still felt acutely vulnerable. He loathed being here with every fiber of his being. Why weren't stormtroopers handling this?!

— Yes, — he snapped. — It's not an Inquisitor's job to flit about with jetpacks.

— I knew a Jedi Master who claimed flying was for droids, — the Togruta snorted.

— I hope he died in space, — Reynar retorted, retrieving an electronic lockpick from his pocket and inserting it into the universal port beside the airlock doors. The device immediately began blinking, indicating it had connected to the ship's network and was moments away from fooling the electronics to open the doors undetected by the bridge or anywhere else on the ship.

— Rumor has it, he did, — Ahsoka said, her expression darkening.

An awkward silence followed, accompanied only by the blinking lights…

The semicircular doors parted silently.

— Shouldn't there be a decompression of the airlock? — Reynar asked skeptically.

— This is an external airlock, — Ahsoka reminded him. — It's always in vacuum to prevent oxygen leaks in case of a hull breach. It's a shipbuilding rule — at least one compartment's thickness from the armor is kept airless. Usually technical rooms, storage, or things you can afford to lose in battle. Though often, they're pierced through, reaching the next compartment with atmosphere.

— I don't care, — Reynar said, hauling himself into the airlock. — I hate open space.

— I'm sure it returns the sentiment, — the Togruta smirked, following her partner into the Guardian.

***

On the super star destroyer's auxiliary command center, silence reigned — a remarkable feat given the number of personnel occupying the vast space. Drommel crossed the deck with his usual long, measured strides until he faced a junior officer.

— Well, what does the Chimaera want? — he inquired.

— We don't know, sir, — the watch officer replied. — The message is addressed to you personally, and…

— Idiot, — Drommel declared, assessing the limits of his subordinate's intellect. — A watch officer's duty is to receive the message, identify the sender and purpose, and only then report to the intended recipient.

— My apologies, admiral, — the officer bleated. — I assumed you'd want to speak directly, and…

A hissing, sharp sound rang out. The major collapsed onto the polished floor, a smoldering hole in the center of his tunic.

Drommel holstered his smoking blaster and surveyed the others on the bridge.

— Has everyone learned today's lesson? — he glared at the crew. As always in recent years, they were mostly "ground-pounders," unwaveringly loyal to him. Most of the original crew had been sent planetside to reduce resource consumption, only brought aboard for repairs.

No one spoke.

— Good, — Drommel nodded, stepping over the corpse. — Now, connect me to that Hutt-spawned Chimaera. And be ready to covertly attack if I dislike the conversation.

***

Bre'ano Umakk grunted in surprise as he turned to continue his path.

Instead, he saw Fodeum, already squeezed into stormtrooper armor.

— Efficient, — the Mon Calamari appraised.

The Jensaraai froze, raising his brows in surprise.

He wore the suit, minus the helmet, which was too small. Judging by his reddened ears, the boy had nearly lost them trying to force it onto his head.

— Now I understand why stormtroopers don't ask questions, — he said. — Not much brain in a skull that fits this "bucket."

Bre'ano chuckled, recognizing the slang clone troopers of the Grand Army of the Republic used for their helmets.

Their infiltration through the starboard emergency airlock had gone smoothly.

Eliminating a pair of nearby stormtroopers before they could raise the alarm, both prepared for their next move. Using stormtrooper armor as a disguise was Fodeum's idea, claiming his body matched the size of the headless foe.

Now, Umakk regretted killing "his" stormtrooper by cleaving its head with a lightsaber. That one's helmet was definitely larger.

At that moment, a heavy fireproof door slid open, and a gleaming silver droid peered into the utility room.

Silence reigned for a moment before the droid screeched in alarm, flailing its clumsy arms and attempting to flee: "Alert! Spies! Admi…"

It said no more, as the Mon Calamari's bluish-white lightsaber blade decapitated it. The remains were yanked into the room with the Force, alongside the stormtrooper corpses.

— Let's hope no one heard that, — Fodeum said.

At that moment, the Guardian's corridors erupted with the wail of battle sirens.

***

Drommel observed the impassive face of the Grand Admiral gazing at him via hologram.

His expression remained neutral, though after what he'd just heard, no one would dare approach him closely.

— Again, — he asked the alien, who had just reiterated an ultimatum. Drommelik signaled subtly to sound the ship's alarm. Though inaudible on the bridge, a flashing emergency light confirmed the order. — You want to take my ship?

— And its entire crew, — Thrawn corrected. — As I understand, it consists of personnel from the Oplovis sector, currently under my command as head of the Dominion. To avoid bloodshed, I propose you relinquish the ship and preserve your crew's lives. After years of confinement in the Fardon system under your ineffective leadership, the loss of the sector fleet, and the effective loss of control over the sector, I, as Supreme Commander, strip you of rank, relieve you of duty, and terminate your authority.

The admiral focused on a junior technician frantically attempting to revive the fire control system. The temperamental computer had failed three years ago, and without spare parts, it was irreparable.

Firing with manual targeting… Frankly, anyone who'd seen how army troops — not stormtroopers, but garrisoned army units like those in the Oplovis sector — shot wouldn't trust them with a heavy blaster. Even then, they'd likely miss.

Thus, the technician was now dismantling the main reactor control terminal in the most destructive manner to salvage parts for the more critical system.

— You didn't appoint me, Grand Admiral, — Drommel declared. — You have no authority to remove me.

— I'm well aware of how you earned your promotion and why you commanded a fully equipped sector fleet, which you recklessly lost, — Thrawn said.

He needed to stall — much needed to be done, configured, and then…

How fortunate that this verbose alien was too shortsighted to realize that soon he and his ship would suffer greatly. Ultimately, the Guardian would gain a hefty stockpile of spare parts. They only needed to preserve the Chimaera's main reactor and backup hyperdrive — those would serve the super star destroyer well.

— I don't know how you earned your stripes, Thrawn, — Drommel said, — but I earned mine through loyal service…

— In verbal sparring, currying favor with Grand Moff Tarkin, — Thrawn finished for him. — You were given a full sector fleet solely because Tarkin was your friend, patron, and due to your sector's proximity to the first Death Star's construction site. Yet you never demonstrated even a semblance of competence.

Drommel scowled angrily.

He despised hearing the truth about himself, especially from those he considered subhuman. In short, everyone.

— While the galaxy was torn by civil war, and your sector was occupied by the New Republic, serving as a staging ground for operations against the Empire, you sat here, holding your crew hostage, never attempting to return to the fight, — Thrawn continued his verbal accusations. — Because of you and your ilk, the Empire fell. Today, I will judge you.

— Try it, alien, — Drommel chuckled. — The Guardian is damaged but combat-ready. Your destroyer will be scrap…

The Grand Admiral's expression didn't waver.

— On my homeworld, they say, — he remarked, — "Give an intellectually deficient sentient a transparisteel bust, and they'll shatter it and cut their hands." — Someone from the watch behind Drommel seemed to laugh. They wouldn't live long. — You demonstrated your so-called professionalism at the Battle of Tantive V, losing your destroyers. Fortunately, I've already reclaimed the Wolf's Claw. It eagerly awaits worthy sons of the Oplovis sector to serve in defense of their home. Within the Dominion. But that will be without you, Mr. Drommel, whether you wish it or not.

The admiral cast a suspicious, distrustful glance.

How did this xenos know so much? Even at the Imperial Court, no one dared speak of this aloud.

Drommel couldn't suppress a slight smirk.

Speculation, that's all it was.

It couldn't be more.

The enemy was trying to intimidate him, in the finest tradition of Tarkin's Guardian Doctrine. Hinting at possessing such information.

In reality, the alien had nothing more.

Fear was highly effective in maintaining order; a lesson Drommel learned from Tarkin. He considered himself more than a mere student of humanity. He'd learned from great men, but more importantly, from their mistakes. He certainly wouldn't repeat such foolish errors.

No one would outsmart him.

He glanced at the technician, who signaled with gestures that the surviving artillery was fully combat-ready.

— Oh, Grand Admiral, — Drommel's lips curled into a smile. — You'll soon regret your words bitterly.

***

Fodum nodded at a passing stormtrooper squad, who didn't even notice a lone stormtrooper escorting a "captive" Mon Calamari through the ship's corridors.

In the years spent in this cramped vessel, they'd likely memorized every crew member's number. Even more so for rare non-human visitors. Yet no one questioned him. Strange fellows. On Dominion ships (at least the Chimaera), until he was recognized, every stormtrooper or security crewmember demanded his identification or code cylinder upon meeting.

Even now, things weren't much better.

Still, he needed to focus on the mission.

The armor was hot, the helmet heavy, and he had no desire to play toy soldier. Honestly, he longed for the days of exploring Jedi Enclave ruins or descending into caves…

The Jensaraai shook his head, recalling one of his Order's tenets. Actually, it was his mother's saying, but many comrades quoted it as a great mantra.

Only after venturing into the wider galaxy did he learn it was merely a proverb.

"Spend too much time looking back, and you won't notice the gaping abyss you're about to fall into."

Finally, they approached the blast door leading to the ship's main hold.

— Be cautious, — Bre'ano Umakk warned. — The guards are starting to suspect something.

Fodum said nothing — he was too close to the stormtrooper squad guarding access to the area rumored to hold the ship's greatest treasure.

***

— Deflectors at seventy percent, — Gilad reported, watching the Chimaera continue to roll to starboard per the Grand Admiral's orders.

— Damage on decks seven, eleven, twenty-three… — the watch chief droned like a metronome.

— Continue closing, — Thrawn said, calmly observing the Guardian's artillery methodically chipping away at the star destroyer's shields. The SEAL system's generator steadily fed energy to the defenses, and the "Mark II's" guns fired back fiercely, but against the Guardian's sole generator, a hundred turbolasers were clearly insufficient. After all, four hundred units were more than double what a star destroyer, even a "Mark II," could muster. Of course, that applied to a standard ISD-II.

The Chimaera, with its upgrades, was slightly sturdier.

But no one had informed the two hundred fifty launch tubes of that.

Interceptors and the corvette, distracting enemy gunners, were exhausting themselves shooting down massive anti-ship missiles.

Yet Thrawn insisted the star destroyer, despite damage, position itself directly beneath the Guardian's lower hangar.

And, for some Hutt-forsaken reason, perpendicular to it.

— Sir, — the watch chief said anxiously, — enemy missiles have breached the hangar's armor plating!

— Jettison them, — Gilad ordered.

— Belay that, — Thrawn commanded. — It's too early.

At first, Gilad wanted to object but realized the decision was sound. Damaged armor plating was useless — worse, if the enemy continued targeting the vulnerable spot with anti-ship missiles, retaining some protection was preferable. Even if it created a debris field upon exploding, it was better than taking a pair of missiles into the hangar.

Which would undoubtedly gut the ship.

— Cancel the jettison of armor plating, — Pellaeon confirmed, though he knew it was pointless — the crew had already followed the Grand Admiral's order.

— The Chimaera is in the main hangar's projection, — the watch chief reported.

Great. Now what?

— Commence troop deployment, — Thrawn said with a faint smile, glancing at Gilad. — Droidekas first, naturally, captain.

— Shall I order the air group to suppress the Guardian's launch tubes? — Gilad asked hopefully. — Or strike the deflector shield generator?

— That won't be necessary, captain, — Thrawn said, disconcertingly. — We'll need them intact. Soon, I assure you.

Well… of course.

— Attention, sir! — came a new report from the watch chief. — Another ship has arrived! Combat vessel! Identifying…

Hutt knows what…

— Capturing the Guardian is no longer a dull affair, captain, — Thrawn said with a grim smile.

Who said it was dull?

Executor-class super star destroyer, the Guardian.

In the background, our beloved Chimaera. And…

— An Acclamator?! — Drommel stared at Colonel Niovi, who led the army contingent currently comprising the ship's entire crew. — You're joking, colonel! What's an assault cruiser doing here?

Colonel Gastos Niovi.

— I lack that information, — the officer replied calmly, standing at the nearest sensor station. — I'm far more concerned about the stormtroopers boarding the Guardian. I don't have enough men to repel them. Especially with droidekas supporting them.

— Then destroy them! — Drommel said impatiently. — You have nearly forty thousand troops! Thrawn can deploy at most one or two legions! Crush him!

— Shall we fight the battle or repel boarders? — Gastos asked. — Or perhaps recall shuttles from the surface to bring up a minimal crew?

— Don't get smart with me, — Drommel snapped. — Solve the problem! No enemies aboard my ship. Especially no boarders! Deal with them! Now!

— What do we do when a third, fourth, or fifth ship arrives? — the ground contingent commander asked.

— We fight to the last, — Drommel said menacingly. — The Guardian is mine alone. No one else's. I'd rather die than hand it over. Even to Thrawn, even to the Empire. Clear?

Colonel Niovi silently regarded the admiral's back, with whom he'd stood side by side for nearly five years, before leaving the Guardian's auxiliary command center.

***

The doors to the central computer room, the heart of any ship, opened, eliciting an indifferent glance from the duty officer. The compartment's personnel, clad in black uniforms, didn't even notice the human in all black entering…

But when a Togruta in light attire followed, the duty officer's suspicion skyrocketed.

— Hey, you two! — he reached for his holster. — Freeze!

The blaster refused to budge, forcing the officer to look down and finally yank it free.

He raised his head just as an indistinct hum drew dangerously close.

His eyes caught a spinning energy blade…

A moment later, his severed head hit the deck.

The body followed a fraction of a second later.

Operators leapt from their stations, drawing personal weapons to repel the attack on the ship's core. Only now, as the armored doors began closing, did they see why the intruders had penetrated. The room's hermetic seal had worked against them, preventing them from hearing two sentients armed with lightsabers turn a stormtrooper squad into chunks of flesh and armor.

Reynar Obscuro deflected the first shot with one of his lightsaber blades.

The crimson bolt ricocheted into the ceiling, shattering a lighting panel into a shower of sparks and glass.

— Well, — a mocking smile crossed the Inquisitor's lips, — that was a very bad move, folks…

— Cut, don't talk, — Ahsoka said, connecting to the central computer and disconnecting it from the ship's systems.

Seconds later, she joined the fray, stepping over the body of the officer she'd earlier beheaded.

***

Colonel Gastos Niovi strode briskly through the Guardian's corridors, lost in thought.

Through astonishingly empty corridors, once bustling with crew, technicians, and stormtrooper patrols…

Now, his soldiers were spilling blood, dying without a chance to repel the assault.

Because they faced droidekas — the nightmare of the Clone Wars and subsequent decades.

The Guardian lacked munitions to disable these mechanical killers. Nor did it have powerful enough small arms to penetrate their shields.

His men — army specialists and stormtroopers alike — were dying in vain. They'd lost this battle the moment it began.

Drommel either didn't understand or, more likely, refused to.

That was even sadder.

Not only had they spent years in this galactic backwater, dreaming of returning to civilized space, but now they were to die… For what? Drommel's insatiable ego? His inability to comprehend or accept reality?

Madness.

It began when they arrived here. It continued with purges against crew members who dared protest Drommel's policies, who refused even to contact other Imperials. He so feared losing his last shred of power, the Guardian, that he disregarded his subordinates' opinions.

As a result, the crew was relocated planetside, unable to escape. At least they'd convinced Drommel to establish bases on the wild planet to protect the one hundred seventy-nine thousand survivors of Tantive V and the admiral's purges.

In their place, stormtroopers and army troops had spent years restoring the ship, relying on a single surviving shuttle.

But even that hadn't returned.

Instead, the Chimaera arrived. After the Grand Admiral's words, Gastos had clung to hope that Drommel would seize the offer, negotiate his freedom, and stop holding the crew hostage… Hutt take it! Take this wreck, curse it! Let the people go! You've got a hold full of aurodium — buy slaves, hire mercenaries, free laborers, anyone: let them waste their lives in this nowhere!

But this madness had to end!

Turning into the corridor leading to the central computer, the colonel froze.

Before him stood a stormtrooper squad.

Nine men, clad in armor, weapons at the ready…

The colonel instinctively glanced at their shoulder plates, intending to identify who'd disobeyed his orders and why they were holding position near the auxiliary command center while a battle raged behind them.

The question went unasked.

Instead, two objects rose — the colonel's hands and the flamethrower in the hands of stormtrooper TNX-0333.

The 501st Legion already controlled the Guardian's heart. But no one knew that yet.

**

A blue lightsaber blade pierced a stormtrooper's chest plate, exiting through the back, ending his life.

Yanking the blade free, Fodum twirled the weapon, deflecting a barrage of shots from a group of soldiers rushing toward them, firing at the two Force-users who'd breached the main hold. No need to ponder their intent: the Guardian's stormtroopers aimed to kill them both.

But doing so amid thousands of massive supply containers was no simple task.

Thus, the pair of lightsaber-wielding sentients turned stormtrooper ambushes into localized skirmishes, eliminating foes in small groups in tight spaces.

Where blasters didn't decide your lifespan, but your skill in close combat did.

Unfortunately for the stormtroopers, a Jedi and a Jensaraai could outmatch the "dolls" by a hundred points.

Severed arms, legs, and slashed bodies fell in all directions.

Both Force-users knew they couldn't hold out long, but that wasn't the plan.

They were pushing their limits, but the stormtroopers' assault was weakening. Neither Fodum nor his mentor knew why, but they suspected Grand Admiral Thrawn's actions had somehow disrupted the stormtroopers' attempts to encircle them.

The ship trembled, indicating it was in combat. Taking and dealing blows, fiercely retaliating, striving to destroy the enemy until…

Suddenly, the battle's tide shifted.

The sound of rolling metal echoed across the deck. The melodic hum of deploying deflector shields and…

The unmistakable rapid-fire of blaster cannons.

— Droidekas! — someone among those intent on killing the saboteurs screamed.

But he said no more — the sounds of gunfire and the agonized cries of dying stormtroopers, helpless against the lethal machines, drowned out everything.

The stormtroopers had no time for the pair of Jedi holding near the central cluster of transport containers.

The human and Mon Calamari, exhaling in relief, deactivated their weapons and slid down the wall of an opened crate.

Within its depths, aurodium gleamed…

***

With each microsecond, Drommel grew more irritated.

— Colonel Niovi! — he roared into his comlink. — What in the Hutt's name disabled the central computer? Why are our deflectors down?!

The massive ship shuddered as several breaches appeared amidships — the Chimaera continued its barrage.

Despite evasive maneuvers, Thrawn kept his starship precisely beneath the Guardian's belly. Where only self-guided anti-ship missiles could reach.

But without the central computer, that was impossible! Targeting data came from there, fed by the scanning systems.

Whoever disabled the central computer had forced them to fire "by eye." While turbolaser and ion cannon gunners could still hit the enemy under such conditions, launch tube operators could not. Except perhaps at that assault cruiser… But its captain stayed beyond weapon range, taunting and distracting gunners who occasionally fired at the visible target when no better one presented itself.

If only he hadn't lost his fighters at Tantive V, he'd have…

— Niovi! — Drommel bellowed furiously, demanding any response from his deputy.

Then the colossal ship shuddered beneath his feet, sending several officers sprawling. Drommel himself slammed into a bulkhead, painfully striking his shoulder on a metal control panel.

— What's happening?! — he shouted, grabbing a nearby console to steady himself during the next impact.

— The fifth battery exploded, — a junior technician, back on his feet, reported. — And the seventh too, sir…

— The Chimaera ceased fire but remains under our keel, mirroring our every maneuver, — another reported. — Sir, scanner data just came in — better late than never — they've locked us with tractor beams!

"That's why we can't break free!"

Another ion cannon salvo rocked the Guardian, dimming several bridge monitors.

— Ion cannons, — someone from the crew noted.

What did it matter?

— Launch our fighters! — he ordered.

— Sir, that's dangerous, — the flight chief protested. — The fighters' reactors emit lethal radiation! The pilots will die…

— Better them than me, — Drommel growled.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Turning, he saw Colonel Niovi approaching, a stormtrooper squad trailing him.

— Finally! — Drommel said disapprovingly. — Where have you been?

— I…

— Never mind, — Drommel waved him off. — Are the fighters ready?

— Pilots are in position, — the flight chief said in a sepulchral tone. — Awaiting your orders, sir.

— Launch them!

— I countermand the admiral's order, — Niovi said calmly.

— How dare you? — Gaen's eyes flashed, turning to his deputy. — They'll…

— Die, — Niovi said evenly. — As will we all if we continue this senseless fight.

Drommel let out a strangled cry of rage and frustration. Suddenly, a blaster appeared in his hand, aimed at the colonel.

Niovi flinched, expecting imminent execution.

But the next moment, he heard the roar of flames and screams of pain.

A stream of fire engulfed Admiral Drommel, consuming both the man and his opulent attire.

In seconds, only a small pile of ash remained where the Guardian's commander had stood.

— Open a channel to Grand Admiral Thrawn, — the colonel ordered, heading to the comm station.

As Thrawn's blue-white hologram appeared, he inquired, seemingly unsurprised:

— I am Colonel Gastos Niovi, — the ground contingent commander introduced himself. — As acting commander of the Guardian, I formally declare a ceasefire and place all forces under my command at your disposal. I request you halt the bombardment and spare those aboard the ship and on the planet's surface.

Thrawn listened with interest, then nodded slightly:

— Welcome to the Dominion, colonel. The Guardian's planetside crew has already joined us. Oversee the docking of our auxiliary cruiser and begin ship repairs.

The colonel stood silent for a moment, processing, before a smile crossed his lips for the first time since the super star destroyer became trapped:

— Yes, sir! We're honored to serve under your command!