Grand Admiral

As expected, the enemy chose to engage in battle rather than surrender.

This principle applied to both the Republicans and nearly two squadrons of ARC-170 starfighters, adorned with the black "gears" of the Empire on their fuselages.

Home One focused solely on defense.

The starship, barraged by turbolasers, lasers, concussion missiles, proton torpedoes, and ion cannons from all directions, surged forward like an immense torpedo launched from an equally massive launcher.

Captain Von Schneider, squinting, observed as the New Republic's forward-deployed starfighters vainly attempted their favored tactic—disabling the flagship through an aerial assault.

Nemesis withstood the enemy starfighters' onslaught, generously returning fire with its laser cannons and medium turbolasers against the X-wings, A-wings, and, unexpectedly, the Imperial ARC-170s supporting the Republicans.

The Star Destroyer Nemesis under enemy fire.

TIE Interceptors, engaging the enemy's fighter-bombers, successfully eliminated them, preventing any significant strikes against the Star Destroyer.

TIE fighters from the heavy cruisers conducted a relentless hunt for the enemy, while the latter, with manic determination, aimed to destroy the Star Destroyer.

Admittedly, the Republicans managed to inflict some damage, but the heavily armored triangular hull of Nemesis was impervious to the numerous concussion missiles from the X-wings and A-wings.

The enemy evidently intended to use these craft solely against ships of their own class, but they lacked the time to rotate their forces.

— Sir, — the watch officer approached Von Schneider. — Distance to the enemy: fifty units. The enemy is successfully deflecting our attacks on their shields.

— Have the bombers reached their positions? — Von Schneider clarified.

— Affirmative, sir, — the officer confirmed. — However, the velocity differential between the ship and the proton torpedoes is such that…

— I want the core of the issue, Lieutenant, — Von Schneider ordered.

— Affirmative, sir, — the officer responded promptly. — The enemy's speed is too great for the proton torpedoes to strike from a safe distance…

— Then let them attack from an unsafe one, — the commander of Nemesis ordered. — Has the New Republic ship altered its trajectory?

— Negative, sir. It's still heading straight for us.

Fish-faced bastard.

— The enemy is now at forty units, sir. Shall we initiate evasive maneuvers?

— No, — Von Schneider ordered. — We hold position. Begin evacuation of the bridge and superstructure. Transfer ship control to the auxiliary command center.

— Sir, but…

— Execute!

For the first time on the ship, the watch crew carried out an order they did not understand. But efficiently, without panic or hesitation, they transferred control to the secondary auxiliary terminals, abandoning the bridge and leaving the ship's commander alone.

The procedure seemed routine, but there was one nuance, revealed only after the Battle of Endor.

If the primary control systems were not deactivated and control was not transferred to the reserve systems, the destruction of the bridge would cause a systemic failure, requiring significant time to restore control from the auxiliary command center. Thus, it had to be done preemptively. It was a gamble on the razor's edge…

But it was better than doing nothing.

Two minutes later, the commander's comlink crackled with confirmation from the senior officer that all compartments above the ship's triangular hull had been evacuated by the crew.

— Good, — Von Schneider said. — Executive officer, listen to my orders.

— Affirmative, sir, — a hint of uncertainty crept into the deputy's voice.

But Captain Von Schneider no longer paid it any mind.

He had already deduced the enemy's tactic.

And realized they had lost.

Admiral Ackbar had utilized all available energy resources of his starship to reinforce shields and engines, preventing his ship from being halted. He deliberately sacrificed weaponry to render his ship impervious to energy-based attacks.

If he wasn't stopped, the ambush would become ineffective, and the blockade would be broken.

At this moment, at a distance of twenty-five units, enveloped in a fiery cocoon of explosions, Home One absorbed proton torpedoes from the bomber squadron.

Kinetic projectiles tore through the armor and ravaged the ship's hull, even damaging several engines. But it wasn't enough to stop the star cruiser.

Captain Von Schneider cursed himself for not deciphering the enemy's intent sooner, now finding himself in a stalemate.

Ackbar threatened to ram Nemesis, potentially destroying both the ship and its crew.

The distance and disposition of the standard trap prevented Von Schneider from moving his ship out of the Mon Calamari's path—otherwise, Home One would break the blockade, unleash its firepower on Black Asp, or bypass it entirely and escape the battlefield.

A concentrated bomber strike was meant to damage Home One enough to force Ackbar to abandon his maneuver or halt his advance.

Neither happened.

The sequence of proton torpedo launches against the rapidly moving ship failed to deliver a concentrated strike at a single point—while the torpedoes undoubtedly caused significant damage, sparking fires and localized explosions within, turning the hangar deck into a localized branch of hell…

The Hutt-damned engines remained intact.

Home One continued its advance.

Von Schneider lacked data on the capabilities of this specific star cruiser model, but he was keenly aware that the enemy ship could withstand far more damage.

Of course, a collision with a Star Destroyer would leave nothing but scrap metal of the star cruiser, but Ackbar was no suicide case.

Thus, at the last moment, he would adjust Home One's trajectory to scrape its "belly" across Nemesis's bridge.

This ship lacked proton torpedo launchers; otherwise, Ackbar would have simply bombarded Nemesis with the Rebels' favorite weapon.

But escaping the trap required neutralizing Nemesis's command structure.

And a choice had to be made.

Von Schneider swiftly reached the primary pilot's chair of the Star Destroyer. Settling into it, he restored control to the console.

— Executive officer, follow my commands, — he said quickly, switching several systems to manual control. — Begin recording in the ship's log. I am initiating protocol forty-four slash eleven. I am transferring command of Nemesis and the operational group to the executive officer. I am taking direct control of the Star Destroyer. Control station one is under my command. Responsibility for all subsequent actions rests solely with me.

— Sir, what's happening? — the executive officer said, bewildered.

"I'm saving us all from a tribunal and the mission from failure," Von Schneider thought. But aloud, as often happens, he said something entirely different:

— The enemy intends to force Nemesis off its trajectory by threatening a ramming maneuver and escape into hyperspace. Black Asp cannot reposition its gravity well projectors in time. Energy weapons cannot penetrate the enemy's shields. Proton torpedoes cannot stop the enemy starship. I believe Home One will ram our superstructure to disable the formation and escape.

— Sir, the superstructure is cleared, there's no one there… — the executive officer paused. — Except you. Sir, get out of there!

Fifteen units.

— I cannot entrust correcting my own miscalculation to anyone else, — Von Schneider declared. — I should have ordered the bombers to attack the moment they appeared. My mistake—my responsibility. When Thrawn arrives, transmit the ship's log to him. My plan is as follows…

***

— Admiral, sir! — the commander of Home One exclaimed enthusiastically. — Nemesis is moving to the lower echelon!

— Distance to the enemy?!

— Three units, sir! At their current maneuver speed, the Imperials will clear our trajectory by one unit!

Gial Ackbar studied the hologram of the unfolding events.

Home One was burning, falling apart, yet charging forward.

The enemy bombers had inflicted colossal damage, destroying escape pods and any ships on the hangar deck capable of aiding crew evacuation.

Now, they had only one option—press on to the end.

The enemy commander had seen through Gial's plan to threaten a ramming maneuver, doing everything to disable the engines, hyperdrive, and evacuation systems, hoping to force the Mon Calamari to abandon his plan.

But that would not happen.

Gial fully understood that he had just devised a tactic to break through standard enemy ambushes, but unfortunately, he could neither relay it to headquarters nor to the dwindling number of starfighters.

His only option was to break through alone. But in this state, reaching Coruscant was unthinkable. They would have to jump to Elom—the base of the New Republic's Third Military Fleet. Repair there, and only then…

— Sir, we're experiencing multiple hyperdrive system failures, — the commander reported. — It seems the enemy hit us hard. The navigation computer is offline. The database is lost…

Oh, what ill tidings!

— Continue the breakthrough, — Admiral Ackbar confirmed his order.

— Sir! — a voice from the scanner operator. — We're detecting multiple interferences… It seems warships have arrived… We can't identify them…

— Don't bother, — the commander advised. — That's Thrawn closing his trap.

By Gial's estimates, the Grand Admiral's ships were approximately seventy units away. Thus, all they could do now was test the shields' resilience. But, as this battle demonstrated, turbolasers wouldn't suffice.

And for proton torpedoes, anti-ship missiles, and other kinetic weapons, Home One was too far.

— We're above Nemesis, sir! — the captain announced. — Sir, we've nearly broken through…

The impact on Home One's lower hemisphere was so devastating that Admiral Ackbar was literally thrown from his chair.

The Mon Calamari struck his bulbous head against the upper bulkhead, then sprawled across the deck with a thud.

— Ramming! — the ship's commander roared.

— Extensive depressurization of the lower decks!

— Decks one through three are unresponsive!

— Fuel supply to the lower engine cluster is disrupted!

— Decompression!

— We're losing air!

— Over three hundred crew members are overboard!

The impact momentarily disoriented the Mon Calamari admiral, but grasping the armrest of his chair, he rose to his feet.

Nearly collapsing, he slumped back into his seat.

— What's the status of the shields?! — he asked, unaware that he was shouting.

— The lower hemisphere is vulnerable to attacks!

— Our entire belly is torn open!

— Can the fighters cover us? — Ackbar asked, struggling against the colorful circles swimming before his eyes.

— Sir, they're gone! Destroyed!

— We've lost twenty percent of our speed!

— Disable the shields! — Ackbar ordered. His vision was gradually returning. — Divert all power to the engines. How far to Black Asp?

— Two units, sir!

— Speed restored! Engines at maximum!

"They'll hold," Gial thought. Just a little more…

— We've passed Black Asp!

— We're beyond the artificial gravity zone!

— The interdictor cruiser has disabled its generators and is turning…

Time to decide.

— Navigator, — Ackbar said in a strained voice. — Set hyperspace coordinates manually!

— Y-yes, sir, — the officer stammered. — But the database…

— Triple zero! — Admiral Ackbar ordered. The easiest coordinates to remember. No navigation database required. — Jump to Coruscant!

— Aye, sir!

Within seconds, the stars before Home One stretched into familiar white-blue streaks.

***

Pushing through the viscous, swamp-like darkness, she followed the call.

She didn't understand how or why she was doing it.

She felt no movement of her limbs, yet somehow believed her legs were taking steps. When the darkness grew too thick, she began to swim through it.

Several times, she wondered how she endured submersion in this slimy, dense darkness without needing to breathe, but found no answer.

She only heard the call, though she couldn't discern words or intonations. Honestly, she wasn't even sure if it was a voice or merely a collection of sounds…

But suddenly, she reached the source of the call.

It stood in the midst of the viscous darkness, formless, without personality, nothing she could define.

Then she was abruptly torn from the viscous darkness.

And found herself in oblivion.

How long she remained there Dolores, she didn't know.

She simply opened her eyes one day.

And stared at the gray, tasteless ceiling looming above her like a tombstone.

Shira tasted medicine and bacta in her mouth. She realized she was in a semi-reclined position, unable to move her arms or legs.

Glancing to the side, she saw numerous IV tubes connected to her body, delivering medications and nutrients—as a cyberneticist, she was well-versed in such substances. Medical equipment surrounded her head and bed, their purpose clear at a glance.

They enabled her to breathe—an artificial ventilator fed two catheters through the tight sheet, likely piercing her skin and integrated directly into her lungs to supply oxygen. She didn't even feel the reflex to inhale or exhale… Her chest rose and fell, but it wasn't her doing.

Her mouth tasted sour, no longer from bacta but from something else—chemical, sharp, repulsive…

Ah, saliva.

Of course.

— You're awake, — a voice beside her said. Something familiar stirred in her memory, but…

When the source of the voice emerged from behind the equipment and sat on a chair beside her bed, she recognized him.

— You! — Her own voice sounded like a metal scraper on glass, laced with metallic shavings clogging her throat.

The moment she spoke, her body's reflexes forced her lungs to deflate in an exhale…

The ventilator equipment beeped, and a medical droid appeared as if from nowhere.

— Calm yourself, — the droid said emotionlessly. — Only calm. You've regained consciousness, and I can disconnect some of the equipment. Describe your sensations.

She wanted to tell the maddening machine exactly what she thought, but she held back, knowing it wouldn't solve her problems.

For now, if she wanted to resolve this quickly, she needed to follow the medical droid's instructions.

— I'll come back later, — Torin stood and left without farewell.

Hours later, after dozens of catheters were removed and faint sensitivity returned to her limbs, following endless reflex and sensitivity tests, he returned.

— You have a visitor, — the medical droid informed her, rolling away most of the equipment.

— The same one as before? — she asked, her voice still raspy. Speaking was painful, her throat felt torn, and her vocal cords seemed to resist. The droid explained the reason—before her body was found and evacuated, that damned swamp creature had torn her throat, trachea, and part of her lekku.

It was so bad that no one could guarantee her motor functions would recover. Bacta could work miracles, and they'd practically pulled her from death's door, but no one dared offer hopeful prognoses. One could claim Twi'leks were physiologically similar to humans, but that was never truly the case.

— No one else has visited you, — the medical droid replied, offering a pleasantly scented solution to her lips. — Take this. It will reduce strain on your vocal organs and aid recovery.

— What does he want? — she asked after drinking the solution.

— My programming does not include ascertaining such matters, — the droid admitted. — However, I note that a sentient spending considerable time with you likely has an attachment to you.

— What, he's been here a lot? — she asked, skeptical of the droid's words.

— From the moment of your hospitalization until you awoke, he was here, — the droid explained, pointing to a nearby bed.

— Uh-huh, — Shira glared at the bed. If it had ever been used, it showed no signs of someone sleeping there. Everything was neatly made, as expected on Imperial ships.

Oh yes, she realized almost immediately where she was. This was definitely not the ship Reom planned to raise from the surface of Raxus Prime. That Star Destroyer's medical droids and medbay had long been looted and sold, possibly right beside the crashed ship itself.

— Let him in, — her voice softened slightly, and the pain in her throat eased with each word.

And he entered.

Shira studied the man who had stood up for her on the Wheel, unafraid to confront Rodian thugs.

Her guess was correct—he was clearly in uniform. He'd dispatched those brutes too easily. In her life, Shira had seen plenty of fights and brawls, but this was the first time she'd witnessed Rodians being "broken." Usually, it was the other way around.

— The first time, dressed as a common smuggler, I liked you better, — she remarked.

— That was field attire, — he replied readily. — This, — he gestured to his uniform, — is, let's say, my home clothes. More comfortable.

— The Empire, — she said quietly. So, it all added up—they tracked her, she led a spy to Reom's base, and then the Imperial called in a Star Destroyer.

— No, — he sat in the same chair, his posture rigid, as if his shoulders were welded to a plate. Clear eyes, confident movements. Clearly a professional. A storm commando or…

— Dominion Intelligence, — he clarified.

Of course, what else…

— That's your name? — she smirked. She'd suspected as much, but hoped… Hutt's blood, what had she even hoped for when she dragged an Imperial spy to Reom's base?

It was embarrassing to admit, but she'd hoped she was wrong, that this guy wasn't the Gammorean she thought he was.

— They don't call me, — a smirk played on his lips. — I show up on my own.

— I liked you better when you were serious, — she shot back, hoping to sting him.

— Bravo-One, if that's easier for you, — he said with the same smirk. — I heard you're feeling better.

— Maybe stop pretending you care? — Shira asked. — You're not sending me to Kessel—I probably can't even move on my own.

— Yes, I know your motor functions are impaired, — Bravo-One admitted. — I'm sorry I didn't kill that swamp creature sooner.

— Stopped by for a bite? — she asked.

— I was dodging droid patrols, — he corrected her assumption. — I must admit, you're a very skilled mechanic.

— Got a multitool? I could tighten a few screws to make it easier to bow to your new master, — she scoffed.

— Master? — Bravo-One's eyebrow rose. — No, friend, I don't need slaves, maids, or aides. But you, I take it, need freedom, don't you?

— You can't pin anything on me, — Shira noted.

— You talk like anyone here cares about a trial, — the Dominion agent chuckled. — No, friend, it's much simpler.

— Care to fill in the gaps for me? — she suggested. — You know that swamp creature pecked at my spinal cord. I remember this, — she glanced at the right side of her head, where her damaged lekku lay, — but not that, — she gestured toward her left lekku, wrapped in bandages from tip to base.

— It's simple, — he switched to a dry, official tone. — Your father founded IsoTech to sell cybernetic prosthetics and products on the black market, supplied by Captain HarSol of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. HarSol later disappeared, but he evidently contacted either your father or you and your brother for evacuation. Your brother hired that Rodian clan to do the dirty work, promising huge payments. I'm certain the first team from the Yiiar clan on Rodia found Rel HarSol's Sa Nalaor and its cargo. Given the cargo's vast wealth of jewels and technology, the Rodians likely demanded a cut, so they were eliminated. Your task was to restore the Red Dragon on Raxus Prime to retrieve both the cargo and the surviving passengers. But your brother wasn't satisfied with his foolish plan's infeasibility.

— Why's that? — Shira asked, surprised. This Bravo-One knew far too much. Almost everything.

— Because no one would ever allow a Star Destroyer in private hands, — the agent replied.

— It worked for Booster Terrik, — she pointed out.

— Not for long, — he countered. — The former Errant Venture is now under Dominion control, as is your ship. But you can thank us—our attack saved you from instant vaporization. To activate the main hyperdrive, you'd have needed the solar ionization reactor, which, as it turns out, was critically damaged and would have exploded an hour after launch. Don't worry, our technicians fixed it.

— So what do you want from me? — she asked. — I'm practically an invalid.

— True, but you're also a certified cyberneticist, — Bravo-One noted. — Would I be wrong to say you were on Sa Nalaor? You likely know there are ways in the galaxy to get you back on your feet. The best of them are on Sa Nalaor.

She paused for a moment, then let out a hollow laugh.

But a second later, she stopped as her throat seized with spasms, and a choking cough nearly forced her to expel her lung alveoli. Well, so much for laughing.

Another intervention by the medical droid alleviated the symptoms, but it took several minutes to recover.

— Nice try, — she said. — So, Reom didn't tell you anything?

— He's having some issues with verbal communication, — Bravo-One replied evasively.

— Oh? — She raised an eyebrow. — What happened?

— I knocked out his teeth and broke his jaw, — the agent said calmly, as if discussing a new speeder bike model.

— Upper or lower? — she asked.

— One at a time.

— Why? — she pressed, indulging her curiosity.

— That guy clearly enjoys hurting those weaker than him, those who can't fight back, — Bravo-One stated. — The medical droid says you have numerous old fractures. That was him, wasn't it?

— We're not exactly a loving family, — she said. — Childhood… everyone's is different.

— Yours was filled with broken bones, — he concluded.

— If I need a psychologist, I'll know who to call, — she said with a strained smile.

— I get it, it's a defense mechanism, — he nodded patronizingly. — I understand and accept it. But what's the point of acting so belligerent? Believe me, no one wishes you harm—otherwise, I wouldn't have bothered saving you.

— You needed someone more cooperative than my brother, — Shira said. — And here's a classic "damsel in distress" situation. Thought I'd spill everything if you saved me?

A flicker of surprise crossed the agent's eyes.

— I saved you first, then realized you could be a source of information, — he admitted.

— How convenient, right? — Shira forced a smile. — My brain is damaged, I can feel my body but can't move it. And here comes my savior, Bravo-One, reminding me that far, far away, Sa Nalaor holds prosthetics that could get me out of bed. Great option, thanks for the alternative. But unlike you, I know my anatomy. If that damned creature damaged the part of my spinal cord controlling motor functions, it's irreparable. So you're wasting your time, Bravo-One—no prosthetics or implants will help. Thanks for saving me, but it would've been kinder to let the swamp creature finish me than to bring me back as a prisoner in my own body.

— That's anger and pain talking, — the Dominion agent stood, adjusting his uniform. — I understand. Believe what you want, but what's done is done. I'm sorry you were indirectly harmed because of me. If I'd known about your brother, I might've done things differently.

— Are you apologizing or mocking me? — she asked, stunned by his candor. Apologies were rare, especially in this context.

— I'm a man of duty and service, — he said firmly. — I have a mission, and I'll complete it. I'm offering you a chance to help me in exchange for…

— A cushy retirement with the best doctors until my body finally gives out, and my greatest dream becomes finding someone to euthanize me? — She hoped her bravado sounded proud, but her words were laced with bitterness and pain.

She knew her future all too well.

Disability, confined to a bed. At best, neural implants connected to an exoskeleton. But she'd never walk on her own again, not without prosthetics or machines mimicking her movements.

— On the other hand, — Bravo-One said softly, — would you rather spend the rest of your life unwanted? You know no one will care if you refuse to cooperate.

— And there's the ultimatum, — she noted. — If I don't talk about Sa Nalaor and its crash site, you'll dump me in some backwater invalid home, scraping by on donations, where I'll waste away even faster…

— Are you suggesting I take you home and spoon-feed you? — Bravo-One asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

— Oh, — Shira laced her voice with venom, aiming to wound him. If he hadn't entered her life… Hutt's blood, who knows how it would've turned out. But it would've been better than this. Far better. — I'm not as pretty as you said I was on that junk heap of yours, am I?

— No, — he answered honestly. — You're cute, even after what the swamp creature did. That's undeniable for your species. But I've never been attracted to non-human women, especially those who…

— Spare me the lecture, okay? — Shira grimaced. — You've done enough to ruin my life. I have no interest in hearing about your personal preferences or cooperating.

— That's a shame, — genuine sadness crossed Bravo-One's face. — You're an expert in your field, but you don't know what I know. Though… my command only recently shared this information with me. If you're willing to help us find Sa Nalaor in exchange for a chance to return to a full life, plus protection from the Rodians and a well-paid job, we have something to talk about.

— Like what? — she asked.

— For starters, I know your brain is undamaged, — he continued calmly. — And I know, with enough effort, it can be extracted and placed in another vessel, bypassing a life as a vegetable…

Shira paled.

— Are you concussed or something? — she asked, wide-eyed.

— A couple of times, — he replied in a mentor-like tone. — But not recently.

— For your information, I know about the B'omarr Order, — she said. — And I have no desire to let a bunch of fanatics cut out my brain, stick it in a nutrient jar, and have me scuttle around in a spider droid's body pondering the mysteries of the universe. Just shoot me instead.

Bravo-One smiled. He approached the bedridden girl, his gaze sweeping over her bandaged body.

He leaned in slowly, their faces nearly touching.

— Try anything, and I'll scream, — Shira warned.

— You've got a thing about that, don't you? — Bravo-One frowned. — No, I'm this close for a different reason.

— I'm not kissing you either, — she said. — I may be helpless, but I didn't find myself in a trash heap…

— Technically, I pulled you from a galactic trash heap, — he chuckled, looking into her eyes.

Shira had no retort.

— Back to the B'omarr Order, — he said, lowering his voice. Shira's heart raced. — You'd be less of a pain in a spider droid, but I think you'll be interested in this.

— Tell me you're my Jedi in shining armor who'll love me forever while my organs fail, and you'll have to empty my bedpan, — she batted her eyes. If she couldn't get even, she'd make his life hell. Get ready, human, for a bombardment of your psyche.

— No, — Bravo-One smirked. — I'm not a fan of those temple-dwellers. But I'm authorized to tell you a couple of things that'll change your mind.

— Tell me your command is punishing you by forcing you to marry me, — Shira said with mock adoration. — I promise to love you dearly…

He laughed.

— Not bad, not bad at all, — he praised. — What if I told you the B'omarr monks can not only extract brains into jars but also transplant them into another body?

The smile vanished from Shira's face as quickly as her urge to taunt the Dominion agent.

— You're lying, — she said. — I'm a prostheticist. I'd have heard about it. News spreads fast in our circles.

— Believe me or don't, — Bravo-One continued. — But it's a fact. We can transfer your mind to another body. It'll cost a fortune, though.

— Which I don't have…

— But the Dominion does, — he reminded her softly. — Help us find Sa Nalaor, and we'll fund your… let's call it "resurrection."

— Smells like a setup, — she admitted. — It'd be easier to torture Reom until he spills the planet's coordinates. Why this elaborate scheme?

— Everything Grand Admiral Thrawn does is part of a plan, — Bravo-One said. — Help us, and you'll get a new body, a new job, protection from the Rodians. If you want, I'll even stop torturing your brother.

— Ah, — Shira grinned. — That's it. You're working both angles. Whoever talks first—you or Reom.

— I think when we break his legs and move to his upper spine, he'll talk, — the agent mused. — So, friend, you've got a chance to agree while the offer stands.

— No time to think it over, right? — she asked.

— Reom's got one intact femur left, — Bravo-One admitted. — So, if you think—

— Has anyone told you you're a prime piece of bantha poodoo? — she interrupted.

— It's in my file, — he nodded.

— Fine, — Shira sighed. — I hear you. But I have a condition. I want assurance you won't kill some poor Twi'lek girl for her body. I don't want anyone hurt because of me.

— Relax, — Bravo-One chuckled. — Your new "skin" will be obtained legally. They say you won't even notice the difference.

— I doubt I'll get used to a green or orange body quickly…

— Oh, right, — he flicked her nose. — Newsflash number two. Your brain won't go into a stranger's body. It'll be your own.

— I don't get it, — she admitted. — Why extract my brain if I'll still be paralyzed after the transfer?

— Your new body will be a clone of your old one, — he explained.

Shira blinked once, twice…

— You're saying the Kaminoans are working with you?

He gave a crooked smile.

— There are other cloning methods besides the Kaminoans. At least, we have them.

It felt… unsettling.

These people were after Sa Nalaor, clearly targeting its advanced cybernetic technology.

Plus, they knew how to negotiate with the B'omarr Order monks to transfer brains between bodies…

And they had cloning equipment…

And for some reason, they wanted to clone her, transfer her brain into a new body, offer protection, and provide a job in her field.

All she had to do was give them the coordinates of Sa Nalaor, letting the Dominion seize not just the aurodium-filled holds of the old Separatist frigate but also cybernetic projects unmatched in the galaxy.

The alternative—spending her short life bedridden, a prisoner in her own body, feeling but unable to move…

— Well… — Shira said, frantically trying to discern the Dominion's true interest in her. She couldn't. — Suppose I agree. What happens to my brother and the sentients on Sa Nalaor?

— I'm authorized to offer them jobs and Dominion citizenship, — Bravo-One said. — Competent sentients are always valuable.

— Maybe, — Shira said coldly. — But if I agree, Reom must pay for what he did to me.

— I didn't peg you for bloodthirsty, — the agent remarked. — But I don't think that'll be an issue. That guy's only talent is causing trouble. So, shall I confirm the deal with my command?

— Confirm it, — Shira said. — But first, I want to see Reom spaced and dead.

The agent was silent for a moment.

Then he shook his head.

— And you seemed like such a quiet, calm Twi'lek…

***

The bridge of Chimaera was deathly silent.

— Sir, — Lieutenant Tschel said quietly. — Home One has entered hyperspace.

As if I didn't see it myself.

That Mon Calamari bastard…

It took immense effort to maintain composure—so immense I could feel my left hand's fingers digging into the armrest. Even my gloves didn't shield the pain…

Strange.

I looked at my white-gloved hand, wondering why it had a bluish tint. And why the chair's plastic felt like it was under my nails…

Then I realized.

When the ysalamiri sensed I wasn't petting it but gripping its head, risking its tiny skull, the creature—unaware of its offense—did what nature demanded.

It bit me.

Not painfully, but enough to snap me out of my tense stupor and clarify the situation.

First—I wasn't wearing gloves.

Second—I miscalculated.

Third—I nearly broke the left armrest and crushed the ysalamiri's skull with my right hand.

— Grand Admiral? — Lieutenant Tschel repeated.

— Dispatch rescue teams to Nemesis, — I said, regaining control of my emotions. — Take all measures to preserve the ship and crew. I also want to know who ordered the ramming of Home One's lower hull with the Star Destroyer's superstructure.

— Aye, aye, sir, — Tschel replied, his voice trembling.

— I'll be in my quarters, — I said. The ysalamiri, clearly wary of me after nearly meeting its end, wisely leapt into the arms of Tierce, who approached.

In silence, accompanied by Rukh and the Major, I reached my quarters. I stepped inside impassively. The moment the door closed behind me…

I struck the metal shelf of datacards with all my strength.

The pain was sobering. But not enough.

I struck with my other hand.

Good.

Not enough.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again…

***

I don't know how much time passed when the chime signaled a visitor.

I sat silently in my chair, reviewing the transmitted files from Nemesis's ship log.

A sense of inner emptiness mingled with an urge to chase Home One, rip it from hyperspace, and turn its mostly Mon Calamari crew into crab sticks.

— Enter, — I ordered.

As expected, Tierce arrived with a report.

The Major glanced briefly at the dents and warped shelf but wisely said nothing.

— Preliminary reports are ready, sir, — he handed me a personal datapad, cleverly offering it to my hands.

— Place it on the table, Major, — I ordered, staring at the computer screen. Both hands, bloodied and bandaged, were hidden under the table to avoid leaving a mess. — Report on the situation.

— Nemesis lost its superstructure, sir, — Tierce began with the obvious. — No casualties—except the ship's commander. Sensors from Black Asp indicate Home One sustained damage to its lower hemisphere, disabling shields and some engines. Ackbar diverted shields and pushed the engines to their limit to escape the ambush. According to the latest data, Captain Von Schneider transferred control from the primary station to the auxiliary before the collision, preventing loss of control. He sacrificed himself.

— I hear you, Major.

I could rage at Von Schneider for essentially killing himself. I could rage that he wasn't a Jedi to foresee Ackbar's maneuver.

Or I could use my head—pain clears the mind.

First, Von Schneider couldn't predict Ackbar's move. A new tactical maneuver was born before his eyes, and he did everything to complete the mission.

He couldn't order corvettes or heavy cruisers to ram Home One—the distance and speed of the star cruiser were against us.

He tried attacking with bombers and achieved results. The ship is damaged, with no means of evacuation—buzz droids provide real-time data.

I have no interdictor-equipped units to intercept Ackbar en route to Coruscant. Buzz droids, tasked with sabotaging the navigation database to trap him, confirmed his destination.

It didn't work.

Von Schneider acted bravely and… correctly.

He personally controlled the ship to execute a maneuver that could have stopped Ackbar—disrupting the engine power conduits should have worked.

But Mon Calamari technology, with its damned backup power sources, worked against us.

I could blame Von Schneider for sacrificing himself—there was an auxiliary command center.

But there's a problem.

Lira Wessex, designing the ship, cut corners where possible. Otherwise, it wouldn't have been purchased.

The primary control system is universal and optimal. The secondary and tertiary systems involve numerous operator stations, making coordination a nightmare. That's why Von Schneider controlled the ship himself and transferred command at the last moment.

Post-Endor, another flaw in Wessex's ships emerged—if primary control isn't transferred before the bridge's destruction, the central computer fails to redirect signals, sending them to the destroyed bridge.

That's how Executor was lost.

The inefficient backup control system is why Imperial Star Destroyers have massive crews. Someone cheaped out, installing an effective primary system but a cumbersome secondary one. Auxiliary command centers were often empty—there was little to do.

Shipbuilder Zion addressed this in the "Triad" project, installing duplicate secondary and tertiary systems matching the primary. Costly but effective.

Thus, Admiral Ackbar not only escaped capture but also disabled Nemesis for a time and dealt a significant strategic blow.

The question of tactical and strategic gains (and losses) is paramount.

Gains:

The Bothans effectively handed over their remaining fleet, bolstering my military-transport forces.

I acquired Guardian, most of its crew, tens of thousands of stormtroopers, skilled army specialists, and armored vehicles from the Super Star Destroyer.

Six Raider-class corvettes, two Gladiator-class Star Destroyers, dozens of damaged enemy fighters, and, potentially, the coordinates of Warlord Ennix Devian's base and fifteen naval commandos under Captain Makeno.

Nine MC80 Mon Calamari star cruisers in various configurations, nearly fully crewed and relatively intact, plus escort frigates and gunships.

The battle incurred minimal losses—several heavy cruisers with serious damage, a few minor hull breaches. Chimaera is unscathed, as expected.

Nemesis lost its superstructure—essentially the primary control center. Losses among the air wings of the operational-tactical group are minimal, and among the flagship's crew, only one: the commander.

Tactically, the Battle of Fardon was won.

Strategically…

The enemy now knows I possess a Guardian-class Star Destroyer. With the New Republic leaking secrets like a defrosting Ocean refrigerator, this will soon be known on Coruscant, the Imperial Remnants, and by Palpatine.

Ackbar knows about the Red Dragon. Though buzz droids confirmed no battle data remains in Home One's computers, the Republicans have eyes and brains.

The plan to lure the enemy to Soullex, deploying Red Dragon and Guardian for a swift victory, no longer seems sound.

Letting Ackbar and the Republican and Imperial fighters escape to avoid a system-wide search was a mistake.

The double-layered ambush failed—Ackbar escaped, disabling a Star Destroyer.

Worse, he devised a tactic to break standardized convoy ambushes, which have been effective until now. It won't take a week for this tactic to spread across the Republican fleet after Ackbar reaches Coruscant.

Something must be done.

The plan—let them escape Soullex, let Von Schneider intercept, with Chimaera, Crusader, and Steel Aurora capturing them—failed.

I miscalculated.

People died because of it.

A skilled Star Destroyer commander, scanned long ago as a clone donor for our fleet. But losing the original… I'm no expert, but cloning clones likely leads to genetic degradation.

In short—a Pyrrhic victory.

The entire strategy of ambushes and raids must be rethought from scratch.

I must prepare for questions about Guardian's origin and attempts to destroy or capture it. The ship is less than half operational, unable to perform its primary functions, and thus useless. It must be hidden and repaired far from the Dominion, as spies and saboteurs will target my sectors.

Isolating from the galaxy isn't an option—the Dominion lacks self-sufficiency. Cutting off borders would cripple exports and imports, devastating the economy.

Yes, territorial defense requires attention, but isolationism is a fire in current conditions. The economy, barely functioning, would collapse, sparking civil unrest. Internal dissent is the last thing I need after "liberating" sectors from prior tyranny. A "durasteel" curtain, blocking all entry with fleet, army, battle stations, and interdictors, would enrage the population, deprived of their accustomed goods and services. Repression might quell unrest, but Hutt's blood, how would I differ from Palpatine? I've distanced myself from his policies—draconian measures would align me with him.

A strategic defeat must be turned into at least a draw.

Thus, a counterstrike is needed.

One that forces the New Republic to deal with problems I create, dissuading them from troubling me.

It must occupy them long enough to fortify Dominion defenses.

This means deploying ships to support outer colonies, far from the metropolitan state, in sufficient numbers to counter threats.

Anti-space defense systems must be strengthened.

But this must be done thoughtfully, as many planets are near the Dominion…

Enough rashness.

One defeat isn't a rout.

Any slap can be countered with a vengeance.

The alternative plan, with adjustments, must be accelerated. If the New Republic is acting, why give them preparation time?

No, I won't play such games.

— Major Tierce, — I addressed my aide. — Notify the Tangrene shipyard to prepare for fleet repairs. Suspend operations against the New Republic outside Dominion borders. Raise troop and fleet readiness levels. Take temporary command of Nemesis—escort it to Tangrene with the task force under Steel Aurora and Crusader's protection. Upon completion, transfer command to the executive officer. Inform shipbuilder Zion that Nemesis joins the "Triad" project for modernization. He's had enough time to address prototype flaws. Make Nemesis the second ship of this type.

— Aye, sir, — the guardsman replied. — Permission to ask a question?

— Go ahead.

— What are your orders regarding honoring Captain Von Schneider's memory? — Grodin asked. — Under normal circumstances, Home One's ramming would have destroyed Nemesis. Von Schneider saved the crew and prevented the enemy's victory.

— I know, Major, — I nodded. — Officially, we'll report Nemesis's destruction due to Admiral Ackbar's actions. The crew will transfer to another Star Destroyer.

They can't sit idle at the shipyards during repairs and upgrades. Concealing Nemesis's survival opens possibilities for more "interesting" uses.

— Aye, aye, sir, — the guardsman replied impassively. — Any further orders?

— Of course, Major, — I confirmed. — I need the estimated arrival time of Home One at its destination and data from the Morrt project droids on Ackbar's flagship.

— It will be done, Grand Admiral. Permission to proceed?

— Proceed, — the trembling in my fingers had nearly subsided. Good, I could use the medkit…

— Not my place, sir, forgive me, but the ysalamiri bit you, — Tierce said, producing a bacta spray canister from his pockets and placing it on the table. A joke? The creature's teeth aren't sharp enough to break skin. — I happened to have this. It heals abrasions and knuckle wounds in hours. Thought it might be useful.

— Because of the ysalamiri bite? — I clarified.

— Affirmative, sir, — Tierce said without blinking, glancing at the shelf. — I have no other reason to offer bacta spray. Forgive my initiative if it was misplaced.

— Your initiative is appropriate, Major, — I said as he headed for the door. As it opened, I added:

— Thank you… Grodin.

The guardsman stumbled but turned it into a smooth pivot on his left shoulder.

— I live to serve, sir, — he saluted and left.

I unwrapped the bandages, plotting how to turn a Pyrrhic victory into a devastating blow to the New Republic.

By the time Chimaera returned to Soullex to oversee repairs and fleet preparations, the plan was fully formed.

Alright, New Republic, the games are over.

I.

Am.

Mad.