Grand Admiral

Nine years, eight months, and thirty-four days after the Battle of Yavin…

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

(Four months and fourteen days since my arrival.)

I stared at the markers glowing on the tactical display of the *Chimaera* and could scarcely believe my eyes.

They say one cannot be so stunningly beautiful in this galaxy.

But, as our deputy political officer at the academy loved to repeat: "There's no place for fools in the active military. That's why I'm tasked with your education."

I'll admit, the phrase carried a double meaning, but back in my cadet days, it was good for a laugh. That is, until the deputy political officer received another "I'm not a snitch, but I know how to report" tip about the "talkers." And then, "Hello, extra duty, we meet again."

But this…

— All systems of the *Chimaera* are at combat readiness, — Gilad announced.

— Thank you, Captain, — I replied. — Are the *Guardian* and *Phoenix* securely concealed from scans by the planet's shadow?

— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon responded. — Unless our adversaries have a high-speed reconnaissance starship to circle Soullex and approach the ships directly, they're invisible to sensors.

The classic trick—hide a ship in low geostationary orbit so the planet's gravitational field interferes with enemy detection until the situation demands otherwise.

This was precisely why we positioned the *Chimaera* between the known hyperspace exit vector and the planet. The sole bastion protecting the battered *Guardian*, whose condition I intended to keep secret, and the *Phoenix*, still brimming with spare parts but with minimal combat capability against the incoming enemy fleet.

Six *Acclamator*-class assault cruisers, supported by two *CR90*-class Corellian corvettes.

Hardly a fleet designed to seize and destroy everything in its path. Frankly, the *Guardian*, even in its deplorable state, could have scattered this squadron across the vacuum of space without breaking a sweat.

But there's a catch.

There's always a catch.

It's simple: "I need those ships."

Eight excellent starships to bolster the Dominion's fleet… Why not, I ask?

Especially since there's no need to worry about the enemy ships escaping the system.

And with the crew of a super star destroyer, we could easily assemble transfer teams. Moreover, we have a splendid opportunity to retreat safely to the Dominion via the Hydian Way.

The planet Soullex lies in Wild Space, in quadrant R-3. For reference, Tangrene—where I planned to send the ship for repairs—is located in quadrant O-4. At a glance, the distance seems short—just one quadrant, no more. It's on the very edge of the Corva sector, one of the regions I was considering, alongside the Meram sector, for covert expansion.

**Location of the planet Soullex (center of the map, second from the top, with Tangrene in the bottom left corner, between the black names of the Nidjun and Meram sectors)**

The catch is that this is the galaxy's frontier, largely uncharted, with virtually no stable hyperlanes. It took us considerable time to reach this place, but the result was worth it.

It's not every day you find a ship—a super star destroyer, no less—stuffed with local "gold" and a crew that's proven loyal to you.

The only thing souring the situation was the fact that Soullex's location had been compromised.

This is a world unknown to galactic astrogation, with no records even in the data we acquired during the information raid on the Obroa-skai system.

For the past "nearly five years," the crew of the *Guardian*, exiled to the surface by the late Admiral Drommel, had been studying the planet.

Located in a yellow star system, this lone habitable planet boasts an oxygen-rich atmosphere, oceans, and continents of familiar hues, posing no significant threat to colonists. This is largely because the local "immigrants" had access to three Imperial-manufactured mobile bases, along with nearly all small arms and heavy weaponry.

This allowed them to fend off local predators and establish a semblance of life, setting up a settlement on the surface. And, I must say, they managed quite well.

Robinson Crusoe would approve.

**The planet Soullex.**

— Are they attempting to contact us? — I inquired.

— Yes, sir, — Gilad replied. — The transmission is coming from the flagship *Acclamator*. They demand immediate surrender and control of our ships. The latter is obviously referring to our corvette.

— Obviously, — I said, mulling over the enemy's words. — I trust our opponent identified themselves?

— Signed by some Bothan admiral with an unpronounceable name… Kre'fey or something, — Gilad grimaced. — Never heard of him.

I had. But I doubt we're dealing with the renowned hero of the Yuuzhan Vong War, Traest Kre'fey. He's likely the only Bothan I respect based on my knowledge of this universe. However, I'm fairly certain we're facing someone from his clan. The "'fey" part of the name unmistakably suggests a distant relation to Borsk Fey'lya.

So, the esteemed councilor didn't dare stick his neck into the same noose twice.

Has he actually learned his lesson?

No, what am I saying? If that were the case, we wouldn't be facing the remnants of the Bothan fleet here.

I was reasonably confident of this—the New Republic would have brought more ships, and they wouldn't be as outdated as the *Acclamator*-class cruisers the Bothans possess. Incidentally, it's entirely possible that studying the specifications of these *Acclamators* later inspired the Bothans to develop their own assault cruiser design.

But that's irrelevant for now.

— Captain, — I addressed Gilad. — Respond to our uninvited guests with the same message they sent us, but under my authorship. Also, add that they've violated Dominion borders.

— Has Soullex become part of the Dominion? — Pellaeon's eyebrows shot up.

— Yes, — I replied calmly.

— I'd like to know when, — the captain muttered.

— Yesterday, — I informed him, recalling when I decided to claim this remarkable planet for myself. It's a shame its location has been exposed. I had considered establishing a new Honoghr here and orchestrating another migration of the Noghri to this planet. Yes, it's not right to "relocate" an entire people like that, but allowing my covert assassins and saboteurs to live alongside the Jensarai… No, by the stars, each group needs its own basket. Otherwise, it's just a henhouse…

— Sir, — the *Chimaera*'s commander interrupted my musings. — They're responding.

I'd bet it's with profanity.

— They're furious and intend to wash away the shame we inflicted on their people during the Battle for the Ciutric Hegemony with blood.

— Is that so? — I glanced at Gilad. He nodded silently. — Well, we must acknowledge that the enemy isn't lacking in confidence in their own superiority.

— As practice shows, numbers aren't always the deciding factor, — Pellaeon noted. — So, no need to inform the fleet to join us?

— Correct, — I nodded in agreement. — We don't even need an interdictor cruiser to prevent the enemy from escaping the system. These are Bothans, here to settle personal scores and defend their people's honor. They won't leave until they're defeated.

— Unless they realize their operation is at risk of annihilation and even greater dishonor, — Pellaeon said unexpectedly. — Sir, what if this is just an advance reconnaissance unit meant to inflict maximum damage and render us combat-ineffective?

I didn't show it, but I was intrigued by the star destroyer commander's words. Progress is evident. Where we, like the Empire, once relied on the doctrine of the assault line—based on qualitative and/or quantitative superiority over the enemy—we now fully employ tactical maneuvers to gain an advantage in battle and secure the most favorable position.

— In that case, we'll have an even greater selection of trophy starships, Captain.

Pellaeon twitched his mustache, smiling.

— Affirmative, sir, — he said firmly. — Orders?

— To battle, Captain Pellaeon, — I declared. — Let's show the Bothans they've crossed us in vain once again. Take command, Captain. It is, after all, your ship.

Let's see what other lessons you've learned from past engagements, Gilad Pellaeon.

— Yes, sir! — Gilad confirmed. Touching his comlink, he activated the *Chimaera*'s intercom:

— Battle stations! All hands to stations, prepare for combat! Raise deflectors, charge weapons. Release the corvette, deploy interceptors. Bombers to pre-launch readiness…

**The *Chimaera* begins its attack.**

***

— *Black Two*, stay close, — Lieutenant Creb gradually increased the speed of his TIE Interceptor, pulling away from the *Chimaera*'s underbelly.

— Copy, — Tia's response was as dry as Tatooine's surface.

Excellent. She's finally getting used to the idea that service isn't about chatter during a mission.

The distance to the enemy ships was too great to guarantee no swarm of *X-wings* was inbound. They had to rely on sensors and the warning system.

No swarm of *X-wings* appeared.

The Bothans deployed one squadron of *A-wings* from each assault cruiser against them.

Creb glanced at the control display—the Operations Control Center had sent target designations.

— *Black Wing*, — he opened the channel to his pilots. — Our target is the left assault cruiser. Confirm receipt of orders.

Eleven clicks on the comlink.

Excellent, everyone understood.

Meanwhile, the *Chimaera* was already beginning its ranging shots.

The star destroyer's triangular form held steady at the center of the enemy's formation, which, frankly, looked odd.

Both Corellian corvettes were positioned at the center, while the assault cruisers, split into two groups of three, approached from the flanks. The distance was steadily closing, clearly indicating that soon the capital ships would test each other's deflector shields.

The onboard computer blinked—the recognition system clarified details.

A single glance at the monitor was enough for Creb to realize the enemy's formation was actually quite solid.

These weren't just *Acclamators*—they were the second modernization, the very ones considered predecessors or cheaper analogs to *Torpedo Spheres*.

— *Black Leader* to *Chimaera* OCC, — Creb felt compelled to contact the mothership. — The *Acclamators* are Mark IIs.

— We know, *Black Leader*, — the dispatcher replied. — Proceed with the mission.

— Copy, — Creb responded.

Well, if the flagship is aware, that's a good sign.

Now it was time to teach those Republic upstarts in their *A-wings* a lesson.

Banking his craft to the side, the lieutenant and his wingman engaged the Bothan squadron's interceptors.

***

It's always useful to consult Imperial military manuals and learn something new.

That way, you don't have to sit and wonder whether it's time to flee from an enemy pinning you in a vice to obliterate your star destroyer with a massive missile-torpedo salvo.

Yes, the *Acclamator II* is the modernization that deemed laser cannons for point-defense "entirely superfluous" while increasing the caliber of its torpedo launch tubes.

But let's take it step by step.

The *Acclamator* performed admirably in the first half of the Clone Wars, earning respect from the troops and attention from shipbuilders. They decided, once again, to cross a snake with a hedgehog, expecting to produce the "ultimate war machine."

It didn't work out.

From a large troop transport, as its predecessor was, the *Acclamator II* became a fire-support ship for landings.

The *Acclamator IIs* are visually indistinguishable from their predecessors (the differences are minor and imperceptible to the naked eye).

The attack systems were radically overhauled, while defense was neglected. Both deflectors and hull armor remained at the *Acclamator I*'s level.

But the weaponry…

The number of torpedo launchers was halved—from four on the *Acclamator I* to two on its successor. However, the caliber increased, and the warheads' power grew.

The number of turbolasers doubled, but the ships were equipped with less effective targeting and fire-control systems. An analytical memo from the early years of the New Order notes that the *Acclamator II*'s weapon efficiency dropped by nearly a third.

Torpedo launcher targeting was done manually with minimal electronic assistance. Yet, Imperial Navy analysts noted that this new generation of ships performed well against "peer" vessels from surviving Separatist forces.

The secret to this parity lay in the proton torpedoes' warheads, designed to penetrate nearly any type of shield, including particle shields meant to deflect kinetic weapons like missiles. Proton torpedoes, due to their nature, could pierce deflectors outright.

Planetary shields, long and successfully used in the galaxy, have a peculiar nature. They're considered energy-based but are also capable of repelling kinetic projectiles. It's no coincidence they're breached by massive missile-torpedo barrages or high-powered energy weapons.

I haven't yet delved deeply into the nature of "planetary shields," but after this mission, I'm determined to acquire them for strategically vital worlds. Anti-space defense systems alone won't suffice to repel a large-scale, well-prepared assault.

Those are the "pros" of the *Acclamator II*.

The "cons" are… numerous.

It's hard to imagine how a ship of this size—over seven hundred meters long—could lose its capacity to carry the same number of troops and equipment as its predecessor after swapping out artillery and missile-torpedo armaments. What they did to the ship is unclear.

But the fact remains: these starships can now only carry one and a half regiments of troops with their full complement of vehicles, whereas the predecessor could carry seven regiments, also fully equipped.

The most significant and frankly baffling "con" is the complete absence of point-defense artillery. This ship was designed in the latter half of the Clone Wars, when the Confederacy was bolstering its massed fighter attacks. Removing light artillery when the enemy can deploy multiple squadrons is unwise.

In other words, these ships are nearly useless in combat without their own fighter wing for cover. Which they lack. In this case, the Bothans' assault cruisers have undergone modernization and can deploy at least one squadron of fast *A-wing* interceptors each.

Based on these specifications, the enemy's attack pattern was clear without any embellishment.

For now, I remained silent, as I'd said, allowing Pellaeon to command the battle himself.

His order to send fighters against their counterparts was entirely logical and justified.

*A-wings* are dangerous, so they must be engaged. The *Chimaera* is covered by the Corellian corvette and a squadron of *Scimitars*. Bombers loaded with homing cumulative missiles are a solid counter to the enemy's fast fighters.

— Portside artillery, — Gilad commanded. — Target the nearest *Acclamator*. Starboard, do the same.

This way, we engaged two of the six major enemies with firepower. The Bothan corvettes were coming head-on but met the suppressing fire of our own corvette and bombers.

After showering us with a fan of red fire, they retreated to preserve their integrity.

The battle threatened to drag into a prolonged conflict, which was decidedly not in our interest.

Gilad was performing admirably, but he didn't know everything.

Under his proposed strategy, we'd win—but it would take time.

— This is Thrawn, — I said quietly into the comlink. — Connect me with Captain Tomax Bren.

Gilad, standing nearby, gave me a scrutinizing look.

I remained silent, waiting to see if he'd grasp my intentions.

— Captain Bren on the line, — the comlink responded.

I kept my eyes locked on Gilad's. Then I shifted my gaze to the corvettes speeding away from us at full thrust…

The *Chimaera*'s commander followed my gaze.

— Captain Bren, this is Captain Pellaeon, — he caught on. Excellent. He understands me. But we need to work on his decision-making speed. — Prepare the *Scimitar* for a strike.

***

— DSB is ready to engage, — Alex reported to him.

Tomax completed the systems check.

The *Scimitar*, currently one of a kind, exited the rectangular maw of the *Chimaera*'s main hangar.

— OCC, we're commencing the mission, — Tomax said into his helmet's microphone.

— Distance to target: forty-three units, — Alex informed him.

Technicians quickly become full-fledged bomber crew members.

— Targets locked, transmitted to the homing warheads, — the technician continued.

On the other hand, when your bombardier doubles as a flight engineer, it's a huge asset for keeping the bomber operational.

A very sensible division of duties. The pilot handles navigation and onboard weaponry, while the bombardier manages the external weapon systems and the craft's condition.

Yes, we should add this point to the *Scimitar* pilot training manual.

— Surge, — Tomax warned, pushing the accelerator lever forward.

The *Scimitar*'s acceleration doesn't compare to a hyperspace jump for one simple reason.

It's too slow. And not nearly as spectacular.

Two seconds after activating the DSB, Tomax returned the lever to its neutral position.

The world around them returned to normal speeds, but the swift craft continued its motion, positioned precisely between the streams of fire from the retreating enemy corvettes preparing for another pass.

— Computer has locked targets, — Alex reported. — Shall we hit them?

— Hit them, — Tomax replied, avoiding unnecessary chatter.

He blasted the stern of one corvette with his cannons, forcing it to veer slightly…

At that moment, homing cumulative missiles launched from the *Scimitar*'s bomb bays.

— Maneuvering, — Tomax warned, fully aware that lingering in the ocean of fire the corvettes' gunners were about to unleash—having noticed the hostile blip on their sensors—was unwise.

Sensors reported the launch of cumulative missiles.

Banking into a turn, he activated the DSB again to evade.

As soon as Tomax disengaged the engines, he relaxed his grip on the control yoke, and in a fraction of a second, the high-speed bomber plunged into the sea of laser fire he'd been avoiding.

They emerged near the stern of an *Acclamator II*, which was being diligently pummeled by the *Grey Wing* squadron.

Lieutenant Krieg Jainer and his team, having lost one craft, forced the *A-wings* to defend—a task they weren't suited for.

A missile passed ten meters from the *Scimitar*, and then the bomber exited the crossfire zone—without a scratch.

Tomax gave a grim smirk. He belatedly realized there were still "gifts" in his bomb bay. Both Bothan corvettes were spinning thirty units away from the bomber's current position, helplessly tumbling in an attempt to recover. Interesting—how did they plan to do that without engines?

— *Chimaera* OCC to *Scimitar Leader*, — came through his helmet's earpiece. — The Grand Admiral expresses his high approval.

He'd rather they delivered more missiles straight to the bomb bay.

Still, the comment warmed his heart.

— New assignment, — the dispatcher continued. — Prepare to strike.

— *Scimitar Leader* to OCC, — Tomax responded, banking the craft to the right, dodging a head-on *A-wing* while shredding it with a burst. — Ready to execute.

***

If this were happening in an atmosphere, one might say Jainer's interceptor dove on its prey with the piercing screech of a predatory bird.

In reality, it's far more mundane.

Sound doesn't travel in a vacuum.

But that doesn't make it any easier for anyone.

The *Grey Wing* leader's guns scorched a black patch on the assault cruiser's armor.

Completing a loop and banking into a turn, Krieg fired a burst into an exposed turret.

No explosion followed, unfortunately, but the turret ceased firing. Zooming past it again, the lieutenant smirked—he'd sheared off the turbolaser barrels clean.

He shifted to pursuing another target.

The *A-wing* fought desperately to survive, repeatedly trying to break away, but who'd let it?

Green and golden-red fire hammered the pilots from both sides.

The *A-wing* veered to avoid a turbolaser shot from the *Chimaera*—and at that moment, Krieg gutted the enemy craft with a short burst.

Immediately after, he dove "down," avoiding damage by passing through a cloud of debris.

Red beams streaked ahead, followed by another *A-wing*. The squadron leader squeezed the trigger but only managed a minor scorch mark on the armor.

The enemy veered off, heading toward its mothership.

It left behind the wreckage of one of Jainer's interceptors.

That made two losses.

He marked it on his scanner.

— Squadron, — he addressed his pilots on the designated channel, — this one's mine.

The deaths of his pilots couldn't go unpunished.

Especially when half his unit consisted of pilots with minimal flight experience. They'd fought in a few battles, but that's it. Not enough to become seasoned.

And now they'd never become aces.

Nor would the scum who shot them down.

Judging by the markings on the hull, he wasn't just chasing an ace pilot who'd downed dozens of Imperial pilots.

He was up against the squadron leader.

His pilots were in "free hunt" mode, attacking in pairs. The rookies—now down to four—led the assaults. The "veterans" guarded the space, letting the younger pilots gain experience.

The enemy pilots seemed poorly trained—standard, textbook maneuvers, as if they had manuals in front of them. Likely fresh at the controls. That made them easier to hunt.

But their commander…

Krieg pursued, firing again, leaving another black mark on the *A-wing*'s armor, almost in the same spot as before. The enemy climbed, using acceleration to attempt a loop and get on Jainer's tail. The *Grey Wing* leader leveled his craft, rolled, and met the completing maneuver with a full salvo.

The *A-wing*'s cockpit cracked like a shattered egg.

Flames erupted inside as the equipment detonated.

The craft continued its trajectory before exploding from system overload.

— You're avenged, pilot, — Jainer said softly to his fallen subordinate. — Eternal flight.

Yes, the dead wouldn't hear.

But it eased the guilt, however slightly, for not giving that pilot everything needed to survive against an enemy ace.

The longer he commanded his unit, the more Krieg understood why Creb never smiled.

Too many pilots had died before *Black Wing* became an elite squadron.

Too many lacked the knowledge and experience to survive their battles.

Krieg banked his craft, dodging a blue-white turbolaser shot from the nearest *Acclamator II*.

— Come here, — Jainer taunted the assault cruiser, accelerating to enter the gunners' blind spot. — Think you can take me?

Slipping under the ship's "belly," he smirked grimly at the invitingly flickering magnetic field of the ship's lone hangar.

— That's too obvious an invitation to pass up, — he muttered, steering his craft into the hangar's entrance.

A second later, he unleashed his fury on the ship's crew.

***

Having taken a heavy hit that tore a chunk from its bow, the starboard target began maneuvering to escape the line of fire…

But it couldn't—a massive white-orange flame bloomed at its stern.

The fireball expanded, nearly engulfing the entire ship.

The viewport polarization systems kicked in, saving our eyes from temporary blindness.

When the glare subsided, the ship's tail "fin" was gone, along with half its engines.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tiny dot appear on the tactical monitor near the *Chimaera*.

— *Scimitar* has returned to the hangar for rotation, — came the report from the "pit."

— Transmit telemetry—next target is the middle cruiser to port, — Gilad ordered. — *Grey Wing* has already eliminated its escort squadron, so…

Pellaeon cut off mid-sentence, watching as internal explosions tore the designated starship apart.

I observed with interest as the shockwave buckled the seven-hundred-meter ship's hull, tearing it like paper, with fountains of fire spilling into the vacuum, where they fizzled out, deprived of fuel and oxidizer.

There's a certain charm in the destruction of starships—as long as it's not your own.

— Sir, we've received clarification, — the duty officer approached. — Lieutenant Jainer flew into that *Acclamator II*'s hangar, — he nodded toward the mangled wreck, — and shot up its fuel tanks and munitions stores.

— Are you joking? — Pellaeon snapped, glaring at the duty officer, who clearly wished he could sink through the deck to the engine room. — What idiot stores those in the hangar? Even during the Clone Wars, that was strictly forbidden…

— We're talking about Bothans, Captain, — I reminded him calmly. — The New Republic isn't bound by the regulations and protocols of the Imperial Starfleet.

Pellaeon fell silent for a moment.

— Well… it's not our ship, — he decided.

"Not anymore, that's for sure."

— Duty officer, — Pellaeon addressed the officer nearby. — Note for after we return to base: have the first officer conduct an inspection for compliance with anti-explosion safety on the *Chimaera*.

— Yes, sir, — the officer replied crisply, turning to leave.

— Correction, — I said quietly. — Across the entire fleet.

A disaster is easier to prevent than to deal with its aftermath.

With a live example before us, why not conduct our own inspection? The fleet is due to return to base by the end of the month—a perfect time for checks.

As practice shows, the sooner you announce a grand overhaul across the fleet, the quicker ship commanders and crews will address even the minor oversights they ignored during campaigns.

— Yes, sir, — the duty officer said, a bit louder. A faint smile crossed his face.

Understandable—it's heartwarming to know your crew won't be the only one scrambling.

The key question remains: did Lieutenant Tschel overlook safety protocols, or not?

It would be a shame if such a promising officer committed such a significant violation.

***

Shira had just finished diagnosing and reprogramming an old Separatist B1 battle droid when the door to the technical bay swung open, shattering her solitude.

— You said you weren't followed? — Before she could look up, pleased that another metal "clanker" would return to service, two strong male hands grabbed her by the jacket collar and yanked her from her chair.

Flying through the air, the girl stared in horror at her brother's rage-contorted face. She barely registered the tools and datapad slipping from her hands.

Reom, of course, was far from the ideal brother, but she'd never seen him in such fury.

**Reom.**

His lekku twitched erratically, betraying the emotions overwhelming him. His pupils were dilated, as if he'd recently taken spice. His hands gripped her so tightly that her clothes dug into her skin.

— What are you talking about? — she blurted out. — I was careful, I lost the tail, and…

— You stupid fool! — Reom roared in her face. — An Imperial star destroyer in orbit! Along with a bunch of other ships! TIE Interceptors are prowling over Raxus! Landing barges are coming in! You led them to us!

— That's impossible, — Shira shook her head vehemently. — It's a mistake! A coincidence!

— Fool! — Reom shouted, hurling her away.

Flying a meter, Shira crashed into a technical cabinet, striking her head painfully.

— Holy prosthetics, what a screw-up! — Reom continued to yell. — Everything was fine for years! The idiots from Clan Yiyar found the ship, saved the crew and cargo! I spent years restoring this wreck! We're on the brink of freedom! And just when I'm ready to lift the ship from the surface and go for the cargo, the Imperials show up?! Right after you, you brainless fool, showed up here uninvited!

— If you wanted me to stay at IsoTech, you should've sent me credits and equipment! — Shira snapped back. — Yav Yiyar nearly tore me apart! Only an idiot would sit and wait for you to execute your grand plans! I've been a target for years to keep anyone from coming to this dump! Enough! I'm done!

— You're done? — Reom bellowed. — All you had to do was sit there and play the grieving sister!

Her brother was at her side again, and before she could raise her hands, he landed a brutal punch to her face.

— Stupid fool! — he kept shouting. — Do you know how much it cost to restore this junker? Millions! Do you know how many Imperial backsides I had to kiss to keep this ship listed as crashed in all reports? Do you?!

Nearly every word was punctuated by a blow from one hand, then the other. Sometimes he added a knee, but Shira, accustomed to beatings since childhood, curled up, shielding her face and head.

It helped little.

Either she'd grown unaccustomed to Reom's regular thrashings, or he'd gotten better at it. Probably the latter, given how long he'd been defending this place, this ship, from Rodian marauders.

— How can we even share a father, you dimwitted… — he spat an insult equivalent to a promiscuous woman, deliberately cutting her, knowing she wasn't that kind of person. — Scum!

He grabbed her lekku, squeezing until she screamed, her guard faltering.

And then he smashed his fist into her jaw, shattering it.

A wave of pain overwhelmed her, and she could only moan, trying to block the next blow, but…

Her brother anticipated it.

He threw her to the floor and kicked her hard in the stomach. Shira rolled aside, trying to rise, but Reom snapped her elbow joint with a sweeping kick from the opposite side of the bend.

A groan of pain escaped her.

Reom followed it with a boot to her face.

Bones crunched audibly.

— Scum! Traitor! Filth! — he kept shouting, striking her. — I raised you, you ungrateful wretch, — a punch to her face. — Gave you an education so you wouldn't shake your tail in clubs, — he grabbed her by the back of the neck and slammed her into the floor. — All you had to do was follow my orders! You can't even imagine the credits at stake! Billions! Hundreds of billions!

He insulted and beat her, beat and insulted. Shira's eyes lost focus. Her mind clouded, and a stray thought crossed her mind that Reom didn't have his beloved bogwing with him. The creature loved tearing flesh with its claws and licking the blood now streaming from her wounds…

After another blow to the back of her head against the floor, when she'd stopped resisting, hoping it would end (this time, forever), Reom stepped back. He kicked her side—she could no longer even groan.

— Daddy was right to call you the weakest link in our family, — she felt something settle on her chest… not too heavy, but… clawed! — It's long past time to cut you loose like ballast. Too bad the Yiyar clan idiots didn't finish you off—I wouldn't have to dirty my hands with your pathetic life. Oh well, that's fixable. Die—and my share grows. Goodbye, fool! May your death be as painful as the last ten minutes of your life…

With that, he strode toward the exit and disappeared into the corridor. Staring at the ceiling, Shira vaguely thought he was probably already in the turbolift heading to the bridge… leaving her to die…

And then a blurred shadow loomed over her.

— Kuuuurrrraaaa!!!! — The blood-curdling cry, familiar from childhood when her brother set his creature on her, made her tremble.

Oh, no, no, no!

How many times as a child had she thought her life would end like this—that after a beating, Reom would let his bogwing eat her, peck out her face, her eyes…

Any other sentient would laugh at such fears—bogwings only ate small animals, despite being able to carry ten times their weight.

But Reom's bogwing was trained differently.

Her vision traitorously cleared, and the blurry green-gray shape took form.

With a scream more like a gurgle, Shira tried to swat the creature with her relatively uninjured hand. It merely flew up, and as she rolled onto her stomach to rise, it landed on her shoulders, digging its claws through her jacket into her skin.

Shira screamed as the creature's beak stabbed her neck. She felt blood trickle down—its beak hadn't pierced her skull, so…

The next peck struck her lekku, making her scream hysterically, rolling on the floor, trying to fend off the creature. But the bogwing, trained to kill, didn't relent.

It tore at her with the claws of all four limbs, leaving painful wounds, pecking at exposed skin, adding more cuts…

Shira screamed, searching for a weapon to strike the creature, but blood pouring into her eyes from forehead wounds blinded her.

She tried to crawl away, but the bogwing grabbed her, dragging her back. For a creature weighing only about five kilograms, her body was no challenge…

She shouldn't have thought that.

The next moment, she felt all four sets of claws dig into her back. She screamed as the bogwing lifted her off the deck.

Circling the workshop, it climbed to the ceiling and dropped her from ten or fifteen meters.

Her body erupted in pain from head to toe upon impact, and Shira, lying on her back, no longer cared that claws and a beak were shredding her limp form.

She felt almost nothing—her spine was likely broken.

Her vision faded, the pain ebbed, and she was indifferent as claws slashed her stomach and the bony beak tore her apart.

As paradoxical as it sounds, she felt a cool breeze filling her body and was glad it was ending with her consciousness fading.

And it ended.

Forever.

***

We were finishing the Bothan rout.

The *Chimaera*'s hurricane of fire was literally sweeping anything protruding from the hull of the last combat-capable *Acclamator II*.

Sporting four hull breaches on its starboard side—gifts from the enemy's anti-ship missiles and proton torpedoes—my flagship burned out the final pockets of resistance on the enemy ship.

In the end, we sustained damage, losing two turrets and one battery. Fourteen TIE Interceptor pilots and two bombers would not return to their launch bays.

But the Bothan fleet was annihilated.

That's not just a pretty phrase.

We destroyed the last major ships of Bothawui.

They have nothing left—only a layered defense of planetary deflector shields and anti-space weaponry.

In practical terms, we could attack and scorch the Bothan homeworld with orbital bombardment tomorrow.

Another in my place might do just that, as retaliation for a personal vendetta against me.

But why give the enemy a reason to cry out as victims of aggression?

No, it'll be far more mundane.

Bothawui has no fleet.

Their career military is either destroyed or in our custody. This opens prospects for exchanging prisoners for "something substantial."

Credits, valuables, technology, leverage…

Among the captured enemies are members of prominent and well-known Bothan clans.

For instance, this Admiral Kre'fey, currently kneeling in a hologram surrounded by Fourth Squad troopers, glaring angrily around. He's clearly displeased that I had three extra legions of stormtroopers, who easily—albeit without droideka support (we don't have enough on the *Chimaera* for such a large assault force)—overwhelmed them. Or perhaps it's because his precious fur was slightly singed by a flamethrower during the assault on the Bothan flagship's bridge?

Either way, it's not particularly important now.

The outcome is clear—we crushed Bothawui's fleet.

The fleet will gain two *CR90* corvettes (after their sterns are rebuilt and engines installed—or they're simply scrapped for parts) and four *Acclamator II* assault cruisers. Two of them will remain here until a ship with engine and hyperdrive parts arrives from Tangrene.

For now, observing the tactical display, I watched as four assault cruisers and several shuttles, using tractor beams to tow the wrecked corvettes, moved toward the zone where the *Guardian* was undergoing repairs. The damaged *CR90s* will be hoisted aboard the super star destroyer, while the cruisers will undergo feasible repairs and temporarily serve as escorts for the wedge-shaped ship.

Once we conclude our business in the system, we'll need to leave a garrison to protect the ships from potential seizure attempts and to maintain the mobile bases on the planet. Why return them to the super star destroyer? It'd be far more useful to establish a permanent outpost and listening station here to monitor the sector and support our upcoming expansion.

The battle reaffirmed a simple truth—we must increase our *Scimitar* numbers. Their mass deployment will allow us to seize control of battles, delivering swift, precise strikes to disable enemy starships.

However, we'll either need a ship with spare parts on standby or avoid targeting hyperdrives.

Our operational groups exceed our ability to equip each with an interdictor cruiser or *Interdictor*-class star destroyer.

Still, there's always a chance we'll gain production capacity to build our own ships of this type. For now, the only way to increase their numbers in the fleet is to follow Robin Hood's rule.

If all goes well, Captain Irv and Captain Tiberos will soon deliver another *Immobilizer 418*.

But those are details.

— Repairs are proceeding at full speed, sir, — Gilad said, approaching my chair and stopping beside me, as was his habit.

— Good, — I replied, issuing an order to Sergeant TNX-0297. — Escort the enemy fleet commander to a cell on my flagship.

— It will be done, Grand Admiral, — the stormtrooper confirmed, and the hologram dissolved.

— Further orders, sir? — Pellaeon inquired.

— Return the *Chimaera* to its starting position, — I directed.

— We're not preparing to withdraw from the system? — Gilad asked, surprised.

— No, Captain, — I confirmed. — You don't think this small, predetermined victory is the culmination of the *Guardian* campaign, do you?

The *Chimaera*'s commander twitched his silver mustache.

— Attention! — the grav-acoustic system announced. — Detecting movement on an incoming vector. Small vessel. Probable class: corvette.

— Battle stations! — Gilad barked.

— Stand down, — I ordered. Our eyes met once more that day. — Not yet, Captain.

A second later, the sleek hull of a *Raider*-class corvette emerged from hyperspace.

— Receiving identification codes, — the duty officer reported. — Codes confirmed. It's Captain Makeno's ship. Presence of two of our personnel confirmed.

— I wouldn't call a blue-haired slicer a serviceman even in a fever dream, — Gilad grumbled.

— And yet, Mr. Pent is part of our cryptographic department, — I reminded him.

— Made up of sentients who all look the same, — Gilad sighed.

— What can you do, Captain, — I said. — Difficult times call for commensurate solutions. Would you do me a favor?

Gilad looked at me with surprise.

— Yes, sir, of course… — he said hesitantly. — How can I assist?

— Have you ever commanded an *Executor*-class super star destroyer?

To say suspicion crossed Gilad's face would be an understatement.