Grand Admiral

Captain Makeno endeavored to appear unflappable.

Even now, cut off from his ship, his allies, and his equipment, surrounded by guards who could transform from stoic sentinels into executioners in an instant, he strove to "maintain his composure." Such self-possession could not fail to inspire respect.

Yet, it would be gravely detrimental to overlook who this man truly was. Among the long list of his "achievements," transforming his naval special forces comrades into a band of mercenary hijackers was, in truth, but a minor fraction of his "exploits."

— I am grateful to you for delivering my people safely to their destination, Captain Makeno, — we were conversing in the conference room, not far from the main hangar.

All communication frequencies were currently jammed, so even if he possessed undetected electronics, they would be of little use. This included matters of intelligence-gathering.

— I was promised payment, — Orsan stated in a calm tone.

— You will receive your compensation, — I confirmed the terms of our prior agreement. — Immediately.

Major Tierce, standing behind me, approached the table and placed a small, gleaming ingot upon it. It weighed little—perhaps one hundred grams, no more, if the engraving on its upper surface was to be believed.

But this was aurodium, meaning the value of even such a small piece of treasure from the depths of the Guardian could fetch millions at any galactic exchange.

The captain's pupils widened in astonishment.

— This must be worth twenty million, — he murmured, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

— This is a small aurodium ingot, smelted to all standards of the Imperial Treasury, — I explained. — Its value on the black market ranges from fifty to one hundred million. Judging by your reaction, this is the first time you've seen such a sum for your services.

Orsan swallowed audibly.

By liquidating such an ingot at even the midpoint of my stated price in Hutt Space, he and each of his fourteen accomplices could net five million apiece. This would allow each to become the owner of a top-tier starship overnight or to avail themselves of banking services for investments and deposits, living comfortably for years on a resort planet without significant financial concerns.

The man's face reflected a struggle of emotions—greed clashing with honor and duty.

Of course, I could have spent time "breaking" him to verify Rederick's coded message, which suggested Makeno was working for someone eager to know my whereabouts.

But why bother when I could resolve all issues with credits in an instant?

Yes, it was extravagant, perhaps even foolish—but time was of the essence. Only time mattered.

For if I failed to act swiftly, the consequences would be dire.

Possibly fatally so.

— I didn't realize those two were so important to you, — Makeno muttered. — I imagined a generous reward, but this generous…

— This is not only payment for saving my people but also for betrayal, — I clarified, casually sliding the ingot across the table toward the special forces officer.

Makeno, who had begun reaching for the ingot, froze. The aurodium halted a few centimeters from the edge of his side of the table.

The officer lifted his gaze from the precious metal and glared at me darkly.

— Say that again, — he demanded, hinting that an explanation was in order.

— As you wish, — I replied indifferently, stroking the ysalamiri sprawled across my lap. — You traded a distinguished career as an Imperial officer for the life of a raider, mercenary, and, in essence, pirate. You persuaded fourteen of your colleagues to follow suit. You broke the oath you swore when you donned the command insignia of an Imperial officer.

— Planning to lecture me? — the man narrowed his eyes.

— Merely stating facts, — I corrected.

— In that case, we're in similar positions, — Makeno retorted. — You were the Supreme Commander of Imperial Space, the official successor to the Galactic Empire. Now you lead the Dominion—a supposedly pro-Imperial state, but it's your personal fiefdom, isn't it?

— Correct, — I did not deny. — The Dominion is my creation.

— Then you're as much a traitor as I am, — Makeno declared boldly.

Rukh emerged like a gray shadow behind the mercenary's chair.

— Stand down, — I ordered, preempting the obsidian dagger's plunge into Orsan's neck. — This man has rendered us invaluable services. Moreover, he is our guest, and it is unforgivable—not to mention immoral—to harm those who come to us willingly, offering hospitality and shelter to their brothers-in-arms. Wouldn't you agree, Captain Makeno?

The officer glanced at Rukh, who was sheathing his weapon, then slowly turned to me, licking his lips nervously.

— Correct, — he rasped.

— The Dominion values skilled personnel, Captain, — I continued my persuasion. — You and your team could serve as an elite unit in our fleet. Especially since, as you mentioned, your contract with your previous employer ended in failure. Does this mean you are currently seeking new employment?

The special forces officer eyed the aurodium.

Then looked back at me.

— We have certain obligations that preclude working for you, — he said, his voice trembling slightly.

— I see, — I replied knowingly.

A few seconds of silence passed before I broke it again.

— Tell me, Captain, what are your and your team's rates?

— Depends on the nature of the task, — he answered evasively.

— So, you always require your client to disclose their intentions upfront? — I clarified.

— Yes, — the man replied.

— And you receive full payment in advance? — I pressed further.

— After completing the job, — he answered. His expression suggested he was beginning to suspect my line of questioning.

Good. I appreciate perceptive sentients.

— In that case, would it breach your contract to tell me how much Warlord Ennix Devian valued my head? — The question hit the special forces officer like a blow to the gut.

He began breathing rapidly, his eyes bulging, his hands clenching into fists involuntarily.

— I'd advise against sudden movements, — I cautioned, stroking the ysalamiri, which, for the first time since our acquaintance, bared its teeth at the naval operative. — Rukh would kill you before you could harm me or anyone present. I'd hate to lose such a promising asset.

— What do you want? — Makeno asked quickly.

— Your honesty, — I replied. — The fact that you didn't deny being hired by Devian is already encouraging. I appreciate your candor. Still, would you indulge my curiosity regarding the price?

The officer remained silent for a few seconds.

— Two million, — he finally admitted. — In Hutt currency.

— If I recall the exchange rate correctly, that's six million in New Republic credits. Ten million in Dominion currency. Not bad for a single assassination.

The mercenary said nothing.

— I assume I needn't tell you that your team is currently under arrest, and my specialists are already working on your corvette, — I continued. Mentioning that we initially did this to conceal Pelleon's and several pilots' transfer to the Guardian was unnecessary at this juncture. — Including Mr. Pent, whom you know.

— I take it he's a skilled slicer if he cracked the encryption algorithms of the Raider's communication systems, — Orsan said through gritted teeth.

— One of the best, — I acknowledged. — But that's not the point. Have you ever asked your employer why he wants to eliminate one of the most effective Imperial warlords who've clashed with the New Republic over the past decade?

— My employer's motives don't concern me, — Makeno replied. — Few would share them anyway.

— On the contrary, I'll tell you, — my statement piqued the special forces officer's genuine interest. — Have you ever visited Warlord Devian's base in the Ghost Nebula?

— A couple of times, — he answered vaguely. Wise—why resist when your game is lost? Cooperation could prolong his life and offer a chance to preserve it.

Especially since I'd demonstrated my knowledge of a matter most sentients in the galaxy considered a secret. A truthful answer would only help him build rapport with me to gain more information. Mercenary or not, one doesn't shed their past so easily—the urge to fill informational gaps is always strong.

— Ever wondered why much of his fleet consists of Clone Wars-era ships from the Old Republic? — I inquired.

Truthfully, I wasn't certain—surely the former assassin of Palpatine had other, more modern starships than those veterans of a conflict that ended nearly thirty years ago.

— He has plenty of modern destroyers too, — the special forces officer replied cautiously, studying me with his gaze.

— Correct, — I confirmed. — However, most of his forces came from a secret fleet preservation base. I recently claimed the remaining assets there. Deprived of a source to replenish his fleet and equipment, the former assassin decided to eliminate me. A simple, even primitive, logic—decapitate the leadership to seize control of the remaining forces.

— But it's worked before, — Makeno countered.

— I won't argue, — I agreed. — However, consider why Devian, a professional assassin himself, didn't undertake this mission personally.

— Thinks a warlord shouldn't be on the front lines? — Makeno suggested. — He is the leader of his faction, after all.

— I believe you noticed, as you approached our destroyer, that we recently engaged in battle, — I remarked.

— Naval commanders, unlike ground officers, don't hide in the rear, — Makeno recalled a well-known adage.

— And combat officers know the value of allies, — I continued. — Time and again, an enemy on the battlefield can become a friend.

— And vice versa, — oh, I was waiting for you to say that.

— Precisely, — I confirmed. — An assassin's logic doesn't allow for leaving witnesses alive. Especially those to whom Devian owes significant sums.

From the perspective of the Dominion's ruler, ten million—or even a hundred million—might not seem substantial. Not long ago, we struggled with credit shortages, so we still spend wisely. I could pay a small sum, kick Makeno and his team out with a proverbial boot, thank them for safeguarding our specialists, and declare them surplus to requirements.

Or I could kill them all, seize the Raider, and proceed with the operation.

Or I could spend a hundred million to gain something far more valuable than an aurodium ingot. Especially since I control a deposit already. Upon my return, it will be mined far more rapidly and extensively. Not to mention prospecting for precious materials in other Dominion-controlled territories. Oh, the asteroid field around Lok awaits many new "visitors."

— He's never tried to dispose of us before, — Orsan declared. — And he always honored the contract terms.

So, the story of executed comrades was a fabrication. No one doubted it, but confirmation doesn't hurt.

— In that case, I propose you remain aboard the Chimaera, — I said. — And personally observe how events unfold. I suspect Warlord Devian's fleet will visit us soon.

Orsan shuddered again.

What does he know that makes a seasoned soldier and saboteur feel so uneasy?

— I don't have a choice, do I? — he clarified.

— None whatsoever, — I agreed.

The naval special forces captain pondered for a few seconds before saying:

— In that case, I agree…

As if anyone cared about your objections.

On the contrary, you and your team are destined for front-row seats at the upcoming spectacle.

— …though, — the special forces officer continued, — I'd like to return to my ship. You know, we hunted for it for quite a while. It's the perfect machine for our group's raids.

— I'm afraid I must deny you that small request, — I objected. — You see, the Raider will be needed for a certain demonstration—for you and your subordinates. Don't worry, — I reassured, noting the concern on the captain's face. — Your people won't be harmed. Provided, of course, we reach an understanding.

— And if we don't? — he asked warily.

— Then they'll fall victim to your employer's treachery, — I replied simply. — And yes, take the aurodium ingot already. It's yours regardless. As I said, services rendered in betrayal must be rewarded.

— I don't consider this betrayal, — Makeno declared. — I'm doing the job I'm best at.

— As are we all, — I agreed. — In that case, consider that I've purchased the Raider from you.

— Interesting, — Makeno chuckled, twirling the ingot in his hands before slipping it into his trouser pocket. — Do you often pay mercenaries such generous sums?

— More often than you might imagine, — I replied, glancing at my chronometer. Yes, it's about to begin. Assuming the analytical department correctly correlated the data from the Raider's onboard computer with the information from Delta Source. — But in this specific case, it may turn out that the Raider won't survive the day.

Makeno's face paled, as if it could be used as a canvas for painting with lime.

***

— Detecting uglies, — reported the officer responsible for the scanning systems.

— Number? — inquired Captain Stormaer.

— Up to three squadrons, — came the immediate reply.

— Deploy two squadrons of TIE Interceptors and a support corvette from our escort group to counter them, — ordered the task force commander.

— Yes, sir.

The Abyssal Fury was ascending to a high geostationary orbit above the "galactic junkyard"—the surface of Raxus Prime.

Once, this world (and others like it, though less notorious) was used by the Galactic Empire to recycle metal delivered to the planet over millennia. Nearby, one of the Empire's most renowned shipyards produced large starships, primarily Imperial-class vessels, which naval officers dubbed "junkers." The derogatory nickname referred primarily to the source of the metal, melted down at the shipyard to craft essential hull and armor components.

In quality, ships built at this yard were no different from those constructed at Kuat Drive Yards, Fondor, Foerost, or dozens of other major and minor facilities across the galaxy.

For instance, the Imperial-I-class Star Destroyer once named Loyalty was built here—until a mysterious incident on the planet led to the shipyard's destruction.

Now, Loyalty was gone. The same Star Destroyer existed, but it bore the name Abyssal Fury. Antonias had only recently learned of its "birthplace." Typically, ship commanders paid little attention to such details, but upon receiving orders to deploy to this planet, the destroyer's captain decided to test his hunch…

And so, he discovered he commanded one of those "junker" Star Destroyers…

Was it galling?

Not in the least.

In the Dominion's fleet, no one cared where your Star Destroyer was built. Among captains of such vessels, a growing desire emerged to rush to a shipyard and have craftsmen convert their "ones" or "twos" into "threes."

Rumors of a new Imperial-class variant—cautious at first, then increasingly evident—surfaced almost immediately after the Oplovis sector joined the Dominion.

This suggested the "three" or "threes" had seen their combat debut there. Likely, the ship was now undergoing refinements to address design or operational flaws identified during initial deployment—a standard practice—before mass conversions began. Logic dictated that the first ships to receive such upgrades would be the numerous destroyers captured in recent operations, including those in Oplovis.

It was costly to take a fully intact, undamaged ship and send it to a shipyard for a month or more to gut its combat-ready internals and transform it into something far deadlier. Economically, it made more sense to upgrade damaged ships requiring medium or major repairs.

Thus, Antonias harbored no illusions about the speed of upgrading Abyssal Fury. For one, no official announcements from command confirmed the existence of this ship type. That meant the prototype still needed work.

Thoughts of ship upgrades vanished as soon as forward fighters engaged the enemy's uglies.

The abundance of damaged and discarded fighters, interceptors, and bombers littering galactic scrapyards gave pirates, scavengers, and other criminal or near-criminal scum the means to create the most unimaginable monstrosities of engineering in metal.

These hideous hybrids were called uglies, though no strict criteria defined them. See a fighter's fuselage welded with parts from another? Don't waste time identifying the ship type—just call it an ugly. You won't be wrong.

— Task force ships have begun establishing a blockade, — reported the watch officer.

— Maximum vigilance, — Stormaer ordered. — Monitor vectors from Raxus Secundus and system entry points. The last thing we need is a clash with Tion ships.

Hearing confirmation of his order, the Abyssal Fury's commander glanced at the tactical display.

His Star Destroyer had reached the sector of space designated by Dominion intelligence agents. Scanners had already detected the operation's primary target—an Imperial Star Destroyer believed destroyed when it crashed onto the planet.

However, data from Viper probe droids launched from a flagship not participating in the current engagement suggested otherwise.

Yes, the hull showed significant damage and torn plating in many areas, but signs of makeshift repairs were evident. Scanners indicated the hull lacked critical structural damage. Thus, the main support beams were intact, not deformed to the point where the starship would disintegrate under Raxus Prime's gravitational forces.

Fine, let's acknowledge the repairs weren't entirely makeshift.

— Radiation scan! — Antonias ordered.

— Readings within normal limits, sir!

This meant the enemy starship's solar ionization reactor was either undamaged during the crash or had been restored.

A third possibility—that the primary power plant was offline—wasn't even considered. If the ship was fighting and firing all its weapons, its main energy source was operational. Otherwise, it could never function in such a state.

This, by the way, was a key distinction and one of the greatest shortcomings when comparing this type of Star Destroyer to Mon Calamari star cruisers. The latter, despite a relatively weak main reactor, had multiple secondary power plants, enabling movement and combat even with the primary system offline, without significant loss of firepower.

If only the "three" addressed this flaw. It would greatly enhance the tactical flexibility of Dominion commanders of such ships in battles against New Republic or other adversaries' line-class vessels.

Massive engines bolted to the damaged ship's flanks indicated its current owners intended to lift the Star Destroyer from the surface. If the droids correctly identified the type and make of the makeshift additions, the enemy had a good chance of succeeding.

But they wouldn't escape from here.

— Detecting warmup of improvised launch engines! — reported the watch officer. — Four additional squadrons of uglies are launching from the surface. Correction, — the same officer added a second later. — Enemy is deploying seven more squadrons of droid fighters and Hyena-class bombers… Correction! Twelve additional squadrons of droid fighters! Launching from camouflaged hangars on the surface.

It was easier to believe the Separatist machines had simply lain dormant in the scrap, masquerading as abandoned junk.

— Detecting liftoff of the enemy ship from the surface! Gaining altitude! Barrage fire from turret artillery!

— Our corvette has sustained damage! It's maneuvering, evading the attack vector!

Antonias licked his lips discreetly.

Oh, how he longed to open fire on that destroyer and send it crashing back to the planet's surface.

But that was absolutely forbidden, as the operation's primary objective was to capture the ship, not return it to the crater it had languished in.

— Enemy destroyer has reached the atmosphere's edge!

— Detecting explosions in three launch engines!

— Brief altitude loss!

— They're stabilizing! Continuing to gain altitude!

— Enemy at low geostationary orbit!

— Using a massive screen of droid fighters to counter our interceptors and corvette! Uglies are staying close to the enemy ship!

The Abyssal Fury, positioned in the path of the once-damaged ship, soon felt the full weight of its turbolasers and ion cannons. But with deflector shields reinforced by a SEAL system salvaged from a wrecked Republic MC80 star cruiser, the shields held firm.

Antonias glanced at the tactical display. A diagram showed data on the enemy ship. The Abyssal Fury's onboard computer, based on scanner readings, drew an unambiguous conclusion—the enemy ship had an extremely low number of organic crew members. No more than two dozen.

Yet, the minimum crew required for a Star Destroyer to even move was five thousand sentients.

Stormaer refused to believe the enemy could have modernized the ship so effectively since its crash as to operate with such a skeleton crew. It was simply impossible.

It was far more plausible that, having restored Vulture and Hyena droids, the enemy had requisitioned and reprogrammed Separatist droids to serve as the missing crew members.

Soon, the Abyssal Fury's assault boarding teams would confirm this with certainty.

— Sir, — the watch officer approached. — Scanners indicate the enemy destroyer is jettisoning its launch engines. They're preparing for a breakout.

— They won't make it, — Captain Stormaer assured, observing the massive cylinders of sublight engines—once belonging to Providence-class carrier/destroyers—dangling chaotically along the enemy's flanks.

What a wealth of resources lies buried under tons of junk on this planet…

It was a pity the system was controlled by the Tion Hegemony's government, which danced to the tune of Valles Santhe, who harbored no love for Imperials or Dominion forces.

— Order our pilots to fall back and regroup at the Fury, — Antonias said quickly. — Signal the task force—'Jump!'

Six heavy cruisers, an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer, and eight Corellian support corvettes appeared minutes later, as the two triangular ships exchanged probing salvos from their broadside artillery.

Now, Stormaer's lone Star Destroyer and four escort corvettes were joined by the full strength of the task force.

— Deploy gravity well generators, begin jamming. Ensure no ship escapes!

A lone, crudely restored Star Destroyer and twenty-six squadrons of equally shoddy fighters faced an Imperial-I, a dozen Corellian corvettes, six Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers, and a destroyer that had just used its gravity wells to deny anyone the chance to flee the impending slaughter for control of Imperial legacy.

Oh, and the Dominion task force had seven squadrons of TIE Interceptors, one of bombers, delivered by both destroyers, and one hundred and four TIE Fighters already launched from the heavy cruisers' hangars.

Twenty Dominion fighter squadrons, backed by a dozen Corellian corvettes—veterans of eliminating enemy aviation—against twenty-seven enemy squadrons, most of which were droids?

Please, don't make me laugh. The only enemy fighters capable of delivering "surprises" or a relatively even fight were the uglies, unpredictable by nature.

The droids? Junk. Rightly relegated to the scrapheap, where they'd soon return.

The Empire hadn't spurned unmanned fighter technology for nothing.

Droids were dumb, fighting according to templates programmed into their electronic brains.

Dominion's cloned ace pilots, operating at breakneck speeds, had already smashed into the enemy droid fighter formations.

On the Abyssal Fury's tactical display, enemy droid markers began vanishing at a staggering rate…

Smiling, Antonias listened to a report confirming no distress signals had been sent from the system requesting Tion fleet intervention.

All the better—time to fully savor the process of "trophy-hunting" another Star Destroyer.

— Stormtrooper boarding units, take positions in assault shuttles, — Stormaer ordered. — Helm, close with the enemy. Laser cannon and medium-caliber gunnery crews, stay sharp—the enemy has fighter superiority. Ion cannons… — He paused briefly. — Stand by. Tractor beam operators and ion cannon gunners, collect trophies from the uglies and Hyenas.

In the fiery maelstrom orbiting Raxus Prime, the Fury began reaping its bloody harvest.

The battle for the "junker" Imperial-I-class Star Destroyer had begun.

***

— Data decryption complete, — Mr. Pent announced, stepping back from the computer. A satisfied smile played on his youthful face as he looked at me. Likely expecting praise.

Truthfully, I still strongly object to using the GeNod program, but under current circumstances, it was necessary.

The internal data network of Kuat Drive Yards is heavily protected against external slicing, meaning access is impossible except from terminals at Kuat facilities themselves.

Thus, I had to create a slicer clone, purging from its memory everything the original learned while working for me alongside Mara Jade. The risk of capture is too great—unlike Rederick, this clone would "sing like a songbird." Even loyalty programming couldn't guarantee immunity to enemy methods of overriding such directives.

Of course, the scout was instructed to destroy the slicer—unaware of its cloned nature—if capture was imminent. This was a safeguard to prevent the clone from falling into enemy hands and revealing its true origin. I'm not ready to disclose what I hold "up my sleeve." Palpatine, if he doesn't know for certain, likely suspects someone is eyeing his treasury. But so far, teams stationed on Wayland haven't reported any attempts to visit Mount Tantiss.

The key in all this is that Mr. Zakarisz Ghent remains unaware of his clones' existence. For him, it was a routine medical checkup aboard one of the Acclamators, where cloning facilities were transferred shortly before the Dominion's formation was announced.

The "information warfare" waged by Ghent's clones is remarkable. How effective would they be if permitted to do anything to dismantle the New Republic? Well, we'll see in the distant future.

— Thank you, Mr. Pent. Excellent work, — I said, examining the list of files uploaded to separate data chips.

Judging by the devices' markings, the data volume was substantial, eliminating any doubt that Pent had failed his task.

I opened a few files, skimming the data in one, then another…

Technical specifications, design documentation, development details, even historical chronicles… I don't know who compiles such data in corporate files, but I suspect after this breach, they'll abandon reliance on server security and adopt Palpatine's "library" method of storing critical data—on data chips.

— Those naval specialists are quite clever, — Pent remarked. — They breached the primary encryption layer and accessed the file names.

— So, Captain Makeno and his team know what you and your escort were doing at Kuat Drive Yards? — I inquired.

— They don't know specifics, — the clone clarified. He's increasingly displaying confidence uncharacteristic of the original. Less skittish behavior, more clear, coherent statements. Is this due to his awareness of his origin or the shock of captivity? — I immediately altered the file names, creating duplicates. If someone else had broken the encryption, they'd see 'Technical Specifications for Medium Turbolasers' instead of 'Gravity Shadow Mines.' Based on the data chip logs, the names didn't impress them, and the special forces didn't dig deeper. They likely assumed the operation's goal was technical weapons data for independent production…

Yes, Pent is not Ghent. Working with him is even more pleasant. I wonder if Moff Ferrus isn't cursing me with three layers of profanity for this "gift"?

The idea to send the original away from the Chimaera emerged almost immediately upon learning of Mr. Ghent's successful cloning. And, to be honest, I made a mistake by first assigning him to Palpatine's files before realizing the real Ghent wasn't exactly loyal.

Thus, the boy was reassigned to assist Moff Ferrus, while the clones… Each has their own task. Some work in teams, others solo.

Primarily, they handle vetting volunteers, recruits, and digging into the Ciutric Hegemony's economic underbelly. Things get more intriguing there by the day…

Much rests on these clones' shoulders.

They decrypt data from Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel and his former associates, monitor HoloNet activity, track buzz droid activity across the galaxy, decode their transmitted data to compile lists of New Republic fleet ships and their basing locations. They also track Imperial fleet ship databases, tracing the fate of nearly every vessel. Initially, this was to determine how many ships Palpatine took. The resulting number—nearly half the known fleet—was staggering but inaccurate, so the work continued to filter out ships with confirmed "traces."

Ghent's clones search for New Republic prisons holding Imperial captives, sift through messages passing through our controlled relays to identify enemy ciphers, aiding Lieutenant Colonel Astari in locating and neutralizing enemy agent cells.

Everything slicers can do rests on the clones' shoulders—even securing encryption and secrecy for communications between our bases and ships. With enough skill, military communications can always be isolated in data streams, even if encrypted with top-secret codes, as is currently the case.

However, most of their tasks are known to no one—except me. I could assign them more sensitive data, like Palpatine's secrets, but there's a problem.

Slicers of Ghent's and his clones' caliber are unique. With their obsessiveness and simplicity, they could uncover hidden surveillance devices, expose secrets, or crack what should remain locked.

Their future task is to make our military frequency communications indistinguishable from civilian chatter. Surely enemy specialists can't monitor every housewife's conversation across the galaxy?

They also counter Bothan and Republic slicers' attempts on the HoloNet to gather data on us or breach our systems.

Their workload is immense and grows daily.

But Mr. Pent is needed aboard the Chimaera.

— Your next assignment, — I handed him data chips from Palpatine's personal collection from Mount Tantiss. The real Ghent was told his task had changed, and he was needed to assist Moff Ferrus first. Later, he'll have new work—like developing defenses against the code allowing Mara Jade to access Imperial warship central computers. Currently, he works on this in his spare time from his primary duties.

The slicer took the chips, scanning them briefly.

— Any preference for which should be cracked first?

Honestly, I desperately wanted access to the chip labeled "Hand of Thrawn." I know it referred to the fortress the real Thrawn established in the Unknown Regions on Nirauan. But something tells me the hundreds of files in its root directory contain more than the planet's coordinates. Perhaps detailed data on the future Empire of the Hand's resources, colony numbers, inhabited worlds, alliances, personnel files of Chiss and Imperials who joined Thrawn, and his personal reflections…

Stop.

Enough.

"Real Thrawn," "original Thrawn"… I am Thrawn. It's time to accept that. Yes, I must distinguish what my predecessor achieved in this body from my own deeds, but constantly emphasizing I'm not the rightful owner of this body, merely a "squatter," borders on mental instability.

Perhaps in the events I know, by this time, Thrawn's campaigns had subdued territories rivaling the New Republic's, but the original Thrawn didn't…

No, there it is again.

Fine. For my own clarity, I'll differentiate us—but I am Thrawn. Everything before me was done by Mitth'raw'nuruodo. That's it.

Back to my thoughts.

The real Th… Mitth'raw'nuruodo clearly didn't hide his Unknown Regions activities from Palpatine. He was sent there with a single Star Destroyer (its whereabouts still unknown), but one ship, even with the best crew, couldn't build such an empire. Especially considering that until his return from the Unknown Regions, Mitth'raw'nuruodo battled Warlord Nuso Esva, who controlled nearly all those regions.

The Hand of Thrawn duology explicitly noted Nirauan had its own fighter types, resembling Imperial designs but in large numbers. The fortress itself was heavily armed and fortified. What's the conclusion?

Correct—the Empire of the Hand (is it called that yet?) has its own production. It couldn't have arisen from nothing. Thus, the industry there is either the result of Mitth'raw'nuruodo's fruitful cooperation with local species or Palpatine's support until his death nearly six years ago.

Which is true matters little.

Mitth'raw'nuruodo couldn't have avoided reporting his activities to Palpatine, who wouldn't keep such reports openly accessible. Thus, the data chip likely contains detailed information on Mitth'raw'nuruodo's findings—at least what Palpatine deemed valuable enough to preserve.

But looking at the other chips' titles, it's intriguing. It's as if the Emperor stored data on everything. Without deep analysis, it's hard to say what's outdated.

Most frustratingly, he used different encryption and archiving algorithms for each chip. Cracking one doesn't guarantee success with others…

I was thrilled when I obtained a decryption program that allowed Zakarisz Ghent to unlock the chip with the Caamas Document. But that joy was short-lived.

Conducting such work aboard the Chimaera, constantly embroiled in conflicts, is unsafe for both the data and the person entrusted with it.

This leads me to consider establishing a "quieter" location for Pent, where he can work securely on slicing without worrying about attacks from Republicans, Imperials, pirates, rogue warlords, or Palpatine's lackeys…

For this and other reasons, my choice fell on…

— The Eye of Palpatine, — I said.

The slicer nodded understandingly, selecting the relevant chip. He returned the others with a sheepish smile.

— After the Kuat raid, I decided not to keep too much original sensitive data on me. Just in case…

A brief pause ensued. Commendable. When Zakarisz Ghent worked on the Chimaera, sensitive data chips were practically strewn underfoot.

— Your intent is clear, Mr. Pent, — I said. — I advise you to gather your equipment and depart for the Guardian promptly.

— Yes, yes, of course, — the slicer said distractedly, glancing at his wrist chronometer. — You remember the first arrival is in just under three hours? And the second in four?

— Thank you for your concern, Mr. Pent, — I replied. No, he's not entirely different from Zakarisz yet. — You're dismissed.

— Yes, sir, Grand Admiral, — the clone said with a smile and the boyish restlessness characteristic of Ghent, saluting before scurrying out of my quarters.

— Well, then, — I sighed, alone in my quarters. — Let's get to it.

Let's see what Mr. Pent and Rederick retrieved from Kuat.

And how close it brings me to unraveling the secret of Rothana's and Kamino's inaccessibility—and ensuring their swift conquest.

Or destruction.

***

The ocean of green turbolaser fire unleashed by the Abyssal Fury on its counterpart was streaked with crimson flashes and laser cannon traces from uglies, fighters, interceptors, and corvettes engaged in a deadly carousel around the clashing destroyers.

Antonias winced as an enemy salvo tore off a triple-barreled medium-caliber turret, leaving blackened scorch marks on the Fury's hull.

— Ion cannons, intensify fire on the enemy's starboard batteries! — Stormaer barked, watching blue lightning reduce the last uglies to heaps of useless metal.

Twenty minutes into the battle, the enemy wasn't yielding—an admirable, yet foolish, resistance.

Maneuvering, Antonias had positioned the enemy destroyer in a crossfire.

While the Fury's gunners pounded the junker's starboard, the port side suffered slightly less, as the Sentinel—an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer—had fewer weapons by design. But Antonias, intimately familiar with his former ship, ordered increased pressure on the enemy's port side with five Corellian corvettes.

Like starving nexu, the CR90s darted around the enemy ship, raking it with turbolaser and laser fire.

Finding identical CR90s in a single task force, even in Imperial times, was rare, as Corellian Engineering Corporation exported them in multiple variants.

But Stormaer commanded a dozen identical CR90s, capable of troubling the enemy with dual-barreled Taim & Bak H9 turbolasers mounted in the upper and lower hemispheres. These inflicted significant damage, preventing the enemy's generators from slowly restoring deflector power.

Four single-barreled laser cannons on the side "half-wings" posed a lethal threat to the remaining enemy droid fighters.

These "Gray Devils," named for the Dominion's pristine gray-white CR90 hulls, bore numerous scorch marks but excelled at their task—steadily reducing enemy fighter numbers every minute.

The enemy, pinned by destroyers on both flanks and Dreadnoughts above and below, struggled with its aviation.

Uglies and Hyenas, shot down by interceptors and destroyer ion cannons, inflicted some damage on Stormaer's task force but met swift ends.

The enemy's numerical fighter advantage was now nonexistent.

The task force lost no more than a dozen pilots, while the enemy lost equivalent squadrons. Remaining Vulture-class droid fighters, despite missile armaments, continued suffering heavy losses to TIE Fighters.

The latter's maneuverability, speed, and ability to perform advanced aerobatics—executed routinely by cloned aces—left Vultures as mere prey.

Droid electronic brains, despite computational power and decision-making speed, couldn't match human reflexes.

Dominion pilots turned droids to dust whenever they got on their tails. Yes, Vultures were nimble and dangerous… for Clone Wars-era tech.

But not for modern machines.

Nor for the Dominion fleet's finest pilots. Why the finest? Because lesser ones didn't make it into the regular fleet.

Debates over unmanned versus piloted craft could rage on, but for the Dominion fleet, the answer was clear.

Each clone was a loyal Dominion citizen, created to fight for the state's interests. They knew their lives were short due to their origins and that they emerged from incubators to fight—and likely die.

Producing droid fighters was cheaper and faster—tens of thousands of credits per unit and billions for factories requiring constant electronics and costly limited intelligence. Droids couldn't have true AI—the Great Droid Revolution, though ancient, wasn't forgotten.

Thus, droid fighters and most galactic droids had their memories wiped after each battle—if they survived. In their next fight, they'd operate with factory-default intellect and experience, preventing personality development and potential rebellions. At best, they'd flee conflict; at worst, they'd kill organic commanders, as Confederacy tactical droids did during the Clone Wars.

No one wanted a repeat.

Nor did they want to spend billions on advanced droid intellect, inflating costs with dubious combat survival rates.

The Confederacy produced droids in quadrillions to offset their endless losses—a massive expense, as few droids survived against organic pilots.

Clone Wars statistics spoke volumes—one clone pilot could down an entire droid fighter squadron per battle. As clones gained experience, their efficiency soared.

Growing a clone pilot took fourteen days, yielding a perfect combat unit needing no training. They flew machines costing no more than fifty thousand Dominion credits. Monthly, they consumed less than a hundred credits' worth of food. Their pay, if they died without kin, went to a fund for wounded or disabled veterans unable to return to service via prosthetics.

Antonias didn't know the cost of producing a Dominion clone, but he saw more of these identical-faced men. This made him doubt the Dominion produced clones with significant financial effort.

Likely, the military, not private contractors, handled the process, suggesting the Dominion treasury didn't fund clone production—only salaries for cloning facility staff and equipment updates, if needed.

Thus, producing one clone pilot cost roughly fifty to fifty-five thousand Dominion credits.

Statistics, unless falsified, were precise.

Antonias could state with striking accuracy that his task force's pilot losses were over ten times lower than the enemy's droid losses.

In economic terms, a clone pilot and their machine cost about fifty thousand Dominion credits. Ten enemy machines they destroyed cost two hundred to four hundred thousand credits.

Which was more effective?

— Sir, — the watch officer approached. — The executive officer reports boarding parties are ready.

— Excellent, — Antonias exclaimed. — Flight controller!

— Here, sir! — an officer in his middle years emerged from the crew pit.

— Order the bomber squadron to target the enemy destroyer's deflectors, — Stormaer directed. — Recall three TIE Interceptor squadrons to cover them. Target: the enemy Star Destroyer's deflector generators. Destroy on my command.

— Yes, sir! — the subordinate reported, stepping aside.

Minutes later, Stormaer watched two fireballs bloom atop the junker destroyer's superstructure, reducing its deflector generators to memories and debris clouds.

Experienced bomber pilots, using the attacked destroyer's stern for cover, slipped beneath its hull, largely safe from enemy gunners' wrath.

The loss of deflector shields showed immediate effects—the enemy hull sprouted black marks. Armor buckled and shattered in places, with geysers of vented air and molten plating erupting…

— Fleet, switch to sniper fire, — Stormaer ordered. — Turbolasers, suppress enemy anti-aircraft artillery. Ion cannons, silence the superstructure and turret batteries. Boarding teams, launch! Third and fifth interceptor squadrons, escort the boarding craft.

The enemy Star Destroyer desperately tried to break free from the gravity well. Its commander, whoever they were, realized no one intended to destroy their ship.

Perhaps they also deduced that Antonias had baited them early on with the Abyssal Fury to avoid a ground assault, luring them into space to escape Raxus Prime's gravity. The hope of breaking through a single destroyer and four corvettes proved a trap the enemy commander fell for.

Now, they'd brought their ship into a Dominion ambush. Surrounded, relentlessly bombarded by ion fire suppressing their weapons, and boarded by shuttles and droidikas flooding their interiors, the junker Star Destroyer's final moments in its owners' hands were ticking away.

The trap had snapped shut—surrender was their only option.

But relinquishing such a prize as a Star Destroyer would be hard. They'd likely spent millions restoring it and building a launch platform. And now…

— Detecting a transmission from the enemy ship, sir, — the communications officer reported. — Via holotransmitter, sir.

Simultaneously, Stormaer noted two things:

First, the enemy ship's weapons fell silent—all at once.

Second, the remaining droid fighters shut down—all at once.

— Has someone finally come to their senses? — Antonias wondered, heading to the comms station. — Open the channel. Let's hear what they want. Gunners, for the love of tibanna, stop shooting! We'll have to repair that ship eventually!

— And tibanna costs credits, you know, — the Abyssal Fury's commander muttered, recalling that the precious gas and fuel reached the Dominion via black-market dealers.

And raids on New Republic supply convoys.

Sure, consumables weren't as costly as they seemed, but… why not save a thousand credits?

Besides, firing could always resume, and he hadn't canceled the assault order.

Seconds later, a hologram of a middle-aged man appeared.

He looked calm, confident, unlike a commander about to lose his ship, which made little sense until…

— Captain Stormaer, I am a Dominion agent, designation Bravo-One, identification code…, — ah, that explains it. Now it's clear who this is. The decryption device flashed green—the information was valid; he was indeed an agent. Likely the one who found the ship. — The destroyer's central computer is physically disconnected from main systems. The droid control relay is offline too. Commence boarding immediately. Start with the hangars and bridge—crew members are scattered there.

— Of course, Agent Bravo-One, — Stormaer replied, noting that subordination could be addressed once the agent was aboard the Fury. As if only intelligence knew how to board destroyers properly. But it was a joint effort, so… — Do you require reinforcements?

— I don't, — Bravo-One said firmly. Interesting—do they even get names, or just numbers like stormtroopers? — Send a medical team to the engineering deck—you'll find the compartment via the beacon, frequency just transmitted, — another flash from the decryptor.

— Information received, boarding team orders will be adjusted, — Stormaer reported. — Where do we evacuate you from?

— No need. Prepare bacta tanks for the wounded on the bridge—seven sentients are there, — Bravo-One's face hardened into a mask of ruthlessness. — Or will be in five minutes—I can't reach them faster.

Why bother with subordination lectures?

He's a capable agent, knows his job…

— It will be done, Bravo-One, — Stormaer assured.

The hologram faded.

Antonias activated his command comlink, relaying the new information to the boarding parties.