Grand Admiral

— Filthy non-human, — Delak cursed, fastening his tunic. Despite the fact that he had done this thousands, maybe even tens of thousands of times, today he was clearly failing to look as impeccable as always. The Prince-Admiral was firmly convinced that he was not nervous or worried about the appearance of the Chimaera— Thrawn's flagship — in orbit over Ciutric IV. Yes, it was an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer, one of the most formidable machines of war and destruction conceived by the military-industrial complex of the Galactic Empire. Krennel had no reason to fear this ship — after all, his own Reckoning, a ship of the same class as the exotic vessel, was hanging in orbit. Not to mention that he knew for a fact that the crew of the arriving ship was mostly made up of young sailors and officers who had only started fighting in the last few months. While the Prince-Admiral's own flagship was staffed with a first-class crew that had been through a lot. If a battle were to happen... Yes, Thrawn could certainly try to do something, for example, look at the statues or pictures. But that wouldn't help him in open combat.

Krennel stepped into the gloomy lair of Isard. Not a very accurate definition, but the Prince-Admiral could not imagine living in this room. Lamps hanging from the ceiling barely illuminated the fiberplast boxes, making passage through the labyrinth almost impossible. It looked more like some kind of warehouse, the manager of which had decided to create impassable obstacles from the containers with goods for anyone who tried to get inside, find the only sentient being, and bring him to justice for the embezzlement of valuables.

Isard was found by him behind the next turn, sitting in a huge chair in the middle of a small cleared space. Countless images danced on the two dozen monitors around her, the Iceheart's fingers flitted over the keyboard built into the armrests of the chair. Each press changed the image on the screen or the volume of the sound; as he approached, the woman turned the chair, the images flickered. Krennel mentally cursed himself for not having had time to properly see what had interested the former director of Imperial Intelligence. But at the very least, he suspected that she was watching the newcomer.

She seemed surprised by his appearance (and is there anything in this galaxy that can cause her misunderstanding?), then a polite and slightly arrogant smile returned to her lips; the Iceheart took a more comfortable pose.

Oh, how he wanted to wipe that smile off her face at this moment! Preferably with a fist. Preferably with his right, artificial hand. But one thing the Prince-Admiral could not be denied — he never did anything to harm himself. At least — consciously. Harming Ysanne meant shooting himself in both legs.

The woman's gaze darted to the Prince-Admiral's artificial hand, clenched into a fist.

— I see, meeting your old commander is causing a storm of reaction.

Restraining his anger, Krennel punched a hole in the nearest box with his artificial hand. After looking at what he had done, he pulled the prosthesis back, and then looked into the woman's eyes, after which he clasped his hands behind his back.

— What is he doing here? — he demanded an answer to the question that worried him most of all.

— Waiting for confirmation of landing permission, — the Iceheart purred, continuing to stoke the fire in the Prince-Admiral's soul.

— Really? — Krennel's features twisted into a snarl. — And I, such an idiot, didn't understand that. What in the Hutt is he doing on Ciutric?

— He has business with you, — Ysanne said in a bored tone, gracefully crossing her legs, allowing the fabric of her uniform trousers to stretch over her slender legs. Krennel felt that his tunic had become too tight. — If he wanted war, he would have arrived here as part of his fleet, wouldn't he?

— Yes, except you yourself said that his fleet is wandering somewhere, — Krennel growled. — It is quite possible that he is building a fire behind my nozzles, diluting the fuel in my reactor with water!

Isard laughed briefly and pressed another key on the armrest of her chair. A holographic projector turned on to Krennel's right and showed the planetary defense systems that he had built on the planet. Every gun, every base... No doubt, the Iceheart had shown similar thoroughness to every planet under the Prince-Admiral's command.

— Calm down, — she advised. — The defense system you created is sufficient to withstand a small fleet. This gives you enough time to call for the help of the other ships loyal to you. Thrawn is not an idiot, after all, he perfectly understands what is at stake. He, although a dirty non-human, has an hypertrophied concept of honor, but he will never go back on his word to an ally. Our honorable Grand Admiral is not capable of harming the Empire, an ally who gave him everything.

— Then why did he need to come here personally?

Isard nodded, as if agreeing. But agreeing with what? Does she have voices in her head?

— Now that is the right question, Prince-Admiral, — she said, burning him with one eye and showering him with an icy shiver with the other. And there was no need to clarify which iris was responsible for this. — Think, what is so dear to him that he decided to break away from his favorite pastime — planning?

Krennel also nodded in response, briefly and quickly.

— Technology, — he said confidently. — Or money. He can't get anything else from me anyway. You yourself said that he will not violate the terms of the agreement. So he clearly won't be begging me for any ships.

— That won't be necessary, — Isard chuckled. — I sent you a report - he has a fleet.

— Well, yes, — Krennel chuckled. — Three dozen heavy cruisers that belong in a museum. And not a single one of them beyond that. You know, at first it might have looked like the "Katana Fleet", but now... I'm sure he just went through the Outer Rim, taking from pirates and petty governments what he needed. And all this bravado about discovering the Dark Force...

— Oh, — a smile appeared on Ysanne's lips. — What is it? One of the stages of accepting the inevitable? Bargaining, I presume?

— No, anger, — Krennel growled. — You have been living here for quite a while, thank you for at least leaving my office. You are provided with the best equipment, your agents are paid excessively, and all the success is disinformation regarding the forces at his disposal?!

— My dear Prince-Admiral, — durasteel mixed with weariness appeared in the Iceheart's voice. It was how a parent, returning home after a grueling work shift, would communicate with a rebellious child. Against his will, Krennel felt his own uniform become too small for him. — Thrawn is not in a position to just waste hundreds of millions on junk that he doesn't need. I'm tracking his purchases — and he bought spare parts for exactly two hundred Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers. Unlike you, he has settled in an extremely poor sector, and therefore he is forced to save every credit. Look, — the woman, gracefully arching her back, leaned back in her chair, and then switched the image to one of the screens. — Initially, he and his personal Moff Ferrus were looking for two hundred class-two hyperdrives suitable for "Dreadnoughts". Do you know why?

— Of course I know, — Krennel said irritably. — The hyperdrive standard in the Imperial fleet is class two. On the Rendili junk, it's only class three at best. He decided to optimize the mobility of his flotilla so as not to waste time constantly making adjustments for the difference in speeds in hyperspace. Otherwise, one part of the fleet could be sent into battle, and the second would arrive when the enemy has already left nothing but debris from their predecessors. And the calculations must be done constantly, because that Rendili garbage never wants to work properly.

— Your own pain can be heard in your voice, — Ysanne smiled. Krennel ignored the jab. — And now, look carefully, Prince-Admiral. — Again, barely audible clicks of buttons. — Some time ago, representatives of Rendili StarDrives contacted Moff Ferrus and suggested not to engage in nonsense by buying spare parts on the black market, but to contact the supplier directly. They accept the offer, they are invoiced — Krennel felt his cheek twitch nervously. The Rendilians have become completely brazen?! For such a sum of money, you can build a dozen of the newest heavy cruisers, and of a class and armament even better! — What's curious is something else. They first agree, and then — and again magic of the buttons — refuse the most expensive part of the repair work — replacing the hyperdrives.

— He doesn't have the spare money, — Krennel realized. — Therefore, he decided that it would be most correct to save on something like this, forcing his helmsmen and navigators to wrack their brains every time, coordinating the forces of the fleet.

— That's right, — Ysanne agreed. — But, aren't you curious, dear Prince-Admiral, where did he get those hundreds of millions from?

— Someone is sponsoring him, — Krennel realized. — Because the money we, the Imperial Remnants, gave him would not be enough for such a venture.

— And he would certainly not have purchased such a large number of spare parts if he did not have such a fleet of the specified number of starships, — the Iceheart's voice began to take on a mentor tone. — He has ships, that's a fact. I am more than sure that the rest of their fleet is guarding them somewhere due to their combat ineffectiveness.

The Prince-Admiral was about to say everything he thought about the tactical abilities of the director, but caught himself thinking that she was generally right. How old are these starships? More than half a century? In such a time, any insulation will turn into dust, and the windings in the relays will melt.

— Then what does he need here? — the Prince-Admiral asked impatiently.

Isard slowly shook her head.

— And I thought that you knew how to calculate the moves of your opponent. Don't make me disappointed in you, Krennel. Or should I have placed my bet on the Grand Admiral after all?

The remark broke through the rage and anger.

— And what does that mean?

— Thrawn will be ruined by his self-confidence, — she said. — Because he is not even able to assume that someone might be better than him, that someone might defeat him. The victories have reinforced his mistaken opinion that he is the only hero of this era, and everyone else is a supporting player, — the Iceheart paused. Pictures of a new plan were undoubtedly forming in her head. — The Grand Admiral intends to conclude a new agreement with you. He needs money.

— That non-human won't get another decicred from me! — the irritated Krennel growled.

— You will agree to his offer, Prince-Admiral, — Ysanne Isard said in an icy voice. — Our goal is to destroy the New Republic and subjugate the Imperial Remnants to your power. Thrawn is an excellent tool for this. While you sit in the shadows, he will act on the front lines. Let his people die, let his starships perish. When he fails, his entire fleet — what is left of it — you will subdue. To do this, it is necessary to show goodwill towards his actions. Now Thrawn is the only Imperial commander who has the ability to harm the rebels. So be it. Money... it is nothing compared to what you can get after his death.

— Isard, you're wrong, — Krennel turned away from the monitors, on which it was clearly visible that a Lambda-class shuttle had emerged from the belly of the Chimaera and was slowly descending through the layers of the atmosphere. He looked at the Iceheart and fearlessly met the gaze of her red and blue eyes. — I will not cooperate with this alien!

The Iceheart shrugged.

— I didn't expect anything else from you, Prince-Admiral. But today you have to decide for yourself what is more important — your pride or the ability to benefit from other people's mistakes. Let Thrawn spend your money to strengthen his own fleet and bases, which will then go into your possession. He already has more Star Destroyers than you. He has the Katana Fleet. He has an orbital repair shop capable of building starships. And he is somehow drawing resources to equip his starship crews. There are things, his victories, that can be explained by logic, common sense, and even his supernatural abilities to understand the enemy through his art. But something still doesn't add up. Consequently, he has an ace up his sleeve. And there is an ally who provided him with the money. Maybe even more than one. Xenophobia is not a vice, my dear Prince-Admiral. But today you should leave it outside the upcoming conversation. Note, — she pointed to the screen. — Despite the fact that your people are trained no worse than fighting dogs, but even they were afraid to shoot down Thrawn's shuttle...

— This is easy to fix, — Krennel grinned, taking a comlink out of his pocket. — A couple of volleys and there will be nothing but stardust left of it. No one has the right to invade my personal space...!

— Even the Supreme Commander? — Ysanne asked with a smirk. Krennel opened his mouth to give an answer, but the woman interrupted him:

— Before you answer, think, would you say the same thing if Darth Vader were in Thrawn's place?

— He, — Delak poked his artificial hand at the monitors, which showed an image from a surveillance satellite tracking the shuttle's movement, — is not Vader!

— Well, yes, — Ysanne chuckled. — He doesn't have a fancy armored suit and his breathing isn't that intimidating. But he has done much more to defeat the rebels than any of the Imperial commanders in the last five and a half years. Well, except maybe Zsinj achieved more, but lost everything, including his life and two Super Star Destroyers. Pay attention to how many volunteers are flocking to Thrawn...

— Twenty-seven thousand, — Krennel grimaced, seeing the required number on one of the monitors. — I have more crew on the Reckoning.

— Yes, only you pay your crew three times more than in Imperial times, — the Iceheart remarked. — And you execute them for the slightest offense.

— Incompetence must be punished, — the Prince-Admiral said peremptorily. He already realized that the former director of Imperial Intelligence was right. There are more positive points in her combination than negative ones. You just need to step on your own throat, wait for the traditionally short-sighted Thrawn to make a mistake, and take everything from him.

Only an idiot, unfamiliar with Ysanne's affairs, would believe that this offer is not dictated by her own benefit. What are the odds that she won't turn his head as soon as Thrawn dies? She has repeatedly spoken about the possibility of eliminating him. A disgusting bitch with multi-colored eyes.

— Okay. This might work, — Krennel smiled crookedly. — I'll listen to what this underdeveloped creature needs from me. Maybe I will even finance his next campaign — but he certainly won't get large sums from me. And certainly not without moral revenge. So far — moral. But one day I will kill him.

— The Grand Admiral's appetites are big, — Ysanne noted. — Do you have the necessary amount?

— There is money, — he looked at Isard, — I'll give him what was intended to pay for the services of your agents until the end of the year. I'm sure you'll survive this, won't you, Isard?

— Of course, — she said calmly. — After all, my agents do not receive a salary.

"Bitch!" Krennel cursed to himself. "What did the billions paid to you go to?"

***

While the lambda was breaking through the dense layers of the atmosphere of Ciutric IV, I was examining the interior of the ship. No, although the starship looked like a standard model, inside it was a real work of art. Which, unfortunately, cost a lot of money during its construction.

No, it was not made specifically for me. Judging by the numerous residual traces, the machine was converted from a standard version into a luxurious private yacht, specially commissioned by Palpatine. Inside, where the security personnel were usually located, there was now expensive equipment, scanning and communication systems, protection systems, and much more. The technicians from the Chimaera unanimously claimed that they had never seen so many technological innovations stuffed into one small ship for two hundred million credits.

Two. Hundred. Million.

I wanted to howl with impotent rage. This ship cost the price of an Imperial Star Destroyer plus another cruiser! May your black bones fade in the light, Palpatine! I could have really used that money.

And with all this, I perfectly understood that no one needed this ship at all. Not because it has a deflector field generator in its stern, providing protection that some light cruisers can only dream of. Not because this starship has twice as many weapons as a standard one. Not because it has the most modern encryption, direction finding, jamming, communication, and electronic warfare system. And not even because the hull is made of an alloy that, with a thickness three times less than on a standard ship of this type, provides the same protection. And not even because everything here was created by Imperial engineers on special order and clearly has no even approximate analogues in the galaxy.

Simply, no person in their right mind would buy such a starship for such money. At least — quickly. And at the same time, if you remove all these statues, drapery, disgusting decor made of precious metals, you get a pretty good ship. Damn it, there's even a bedroom here... Well, you can't forbid beautiful Jedi to be exterminated.

For now, I'm seriously considering whether to conduct a proper expropriation operation on this ship and return it to its original appearance. But I still understand that the best thing I can do without unnecessary expenses is to simply remove the excesses of decor. If you move away from unnecessary emotions, the ship is really good. Good enough to be a mobile headquarters for a person who always has their finger on the pulse and controls everyone and everything. Such a starship can be useful. Especially for relatively hidden movements or... retreat.

The fact that, despite entering the atmosphere in violation of the Ciutric IV dispatcher's instructions, it did not cause any consequences, alarmed me.

Something is happening. I didn't believe that Prince-Admiral Krennel simply decided to first flex his muscles, maneuvering his flagship to mine, releasing aircraft, marinating me in orbit for a good half hour, and then not reacting to my unauthorized descent in any way. Who were they afraid of? The Chimaera? No, I'll never believe it. A couple of TIE interceptors? An unlikely fact, of course, if it wasn't for their specific coloring...

Most likely, Krennel had been conducting a kind of "test for a weakling" so far, perfectly understanding that most of his defenses were known on my flagship now. Most, because I didn't believe that in an industrial world that produces military products, there wasn't anyone who could hint to the Prince-Admiral that showing off his defenses was the height of tactical stupidity.

So there's something else here. And for sure — something ultimate, capable of messing up an invasion force. I should keep that in mind so as not to get burned. I think Krennel decided to play it safe after seeing my escort. You need to have an unenviable amount of arrogance to allow yourself something like this. And it's not even about egoism and landing without permission. I called this peculiarity of the thinking of the sentient beings of the Far Far Galaxy "the magic of color". The locals clearly have triggers of fear and respect associated with certain colors. I just hope it doesn't come down to a quality check. I had no doubts about Lieutenant Krebe, who led the escort, as an elite pilot, but something told me that he did not quite reach the high bar set in the memory of the sentient beings by the red TIE Interceptors.

The shuttle was landing. Through the portholes, the roofs of skyscrapers, the attractive curves of buildings, and transport scurrying about the business of their owners could be seen. In the distance, industrial areas were visible, whose futuristic landscape was diluted by massive hangars — storage places for finished products. Judging by the fact that several TIE fighters and TIE interceptors had already passed us, the Prince-Admiral continued to "flex his muscles." Well, you're the boss here, who would forbid you.

As soon as the landing gear touched the permacrete of the spaceport, and the muffled sound of the gas being vented by the ship's systems invaded my ears, I unfastened the safety belts made of expensive materials (okay, I admit here — they are strong and soft, and do not dig into the skin like their standard counterparts). Getting to my feet, I turned my head, taking advantage of the fact that no one could see me. In complete silence, listening to the quiet work process of preparing my escorts for landing, I headed towards the landing ramp.

When my soles touched the surface of the landing pad, the light of the local star hit my eyes, warming my skin with its gentle warmth. Two detachments of stormtroopers in full combat gear, lined up on both sides of me, froze as a guard of honor of snow-white statues. But even this made a weak impression on my greeter — a lieutenant of the fleet infantry. Apparently, he's being kept here on errands, despite the fact that, according to his appearance, a typical stormtrooper was standing in front of me. And only the eyes full of surprise betrayed in him a person who had not undergone the breaking and training on Carida.

And only the massive figure moving to my right made his mouth open. I wonder, did his hand twitch in order to make a sign of the cross, or did he reflexively want to pull a blaster from his hip holster?

— Lieutenant, — I addressed the greeter phlegmatically. We were standing at the edge of the landing pad, and behind this young man, the gray bulk of the main building on the planet — the Prince-Admiral's residence — loomed.

— G-Grand Admiral, sir, — the boy stood at attention. — I am glad to welcome you to the Ciutric Hegemony.

— Let's leave the formalities, — I said. — Is the Prince-Admiral on the planet?

— Y-yes, sir, — the greeter answered, still stammering. — P-permit me to escort you?

Does he stutter from nature, or was he struck by what he saw?

— I permit, — I said. The boy (it's forgivable for me to call him that — he is two or two and a half times younger than me, both current and past) hesitated for a moment, and then walked slightly ahead and to my left. The guard of honor remained in place — not many are allowed to walk in such a crowd around someone else's residence. Well...

As soon as we stepped under the arch of the entrance to the building, the boy stopped near a checkpoint, where a stormtrooper was hiding behind a duracrete box that resembled a pillbox.

— S-sir, — the officer swallowed convulsively, simultaneously wiping large beads of sweat from his forehead with the edge of the sleeve of his tunic. Oh, wow, his armpits are wet all the way to his waist. Wow, are those tears? — I will ask you to surrender your weapons. No one is allowed to walk with blasters on the territory of the residence...

Silently unfastening my blaster pistol along with the holster, I placed them on the table next to the pillbox, from behind which a stormtrooper in snow-white armor emerged.

— A-and... your escort, — the officer mumbled, casting a hopeful look at me. He tried not to look in the direction of Grodin Tierce. And what's more, Krennel's stormtrooper somehow fearfully took a step back. And the thumb of his right hand rested on the safety catch of the blaster rifle, which he was holding too tightly... Is it as dear to him as a gift on his first birthday?

— What about "my escort"? — I clarified, looking at the guy in uniform.

— He... m-must surrender his weapon, — the boy's lower jaw trembled. Even the sound of his teeth knocking against each other could be heard. What was that that just creaked? Ah... Really? What material are the cheek pieces on the handles of the E-11 blaster rifles made of, that they cracked in the hands of Krennel's stormtrooper?

— Do you want him to disarm? — I asked with a slight smile, glancing at the motionless figure in red and black robes standing next to me, who was casually holding his vibroblade in a ceremonial vertical position.

— If it d-does not bother you, — the lieutenant said, swallowing saliva.

— Not me, — I said. — But the Imperial Guardsman has no reason to disarm. It contradicts his essence and everything he was taught on Yinchorr. Your friend, — I nodded towards the stormtrooper, who continued to torment his weapon, — should know who is in front of him and what he is capable of.

— I-I-I... — the lieutenant stuttered. — I... only heard about them, never seen them...

— How long have you been in the armed forces, Lieutenant? — I inquired.

— T-two months, — the guy said. — Accelerated g-graduation...

— Then you can be proud of yourself, Lieutenant, — I said. — You saw an Imperial Guardsman, you tried to disarm him and remained alive. A wet tunic and pants are a small price to pay for the fact that in the future you may be able to prolong your lineage. The soldiers from the 501st Legion would not have stood on ceremony with you in place of my guardsman...

— F-f-f... The five hundred and first legion? — the guy repeated, stammering.

— The problem with accelerated education is that teachers forget to instill in their students respect for the past and knowledge of the symbolism of once foolishly disbanded units. The two detachments lined up in front of my ship are soldiers from the 501st Legion. Also known in the past as "Vader's Fist". I think it is not necessary now to explain why they changed their name?

— A... — the lieutenant smiled tensely. — I thought...

— You shouldn't do what is not natural for you, officer, — I remarked coldly. — For the first five years of your service, your command thinks for you. Or a higher-ranking officer. In this case — me. Escort me and my bodyguard to Prince-Admiral Krennel, before I order an assault on your planet.

— I-I-I... — Krennel's greeter babbled. — Disarm... I...

— Guardsman, — I said quietly. — This lieutenant broke down. We need another one.

Grodin Tierce, stepping forward, unceremoniously pushed the hesitating lieutenant with his shoulder. The stormtrooper, twitching forward, still remained in place — the vibroblade, which had cut his weapon in half, left a long and deep scratch in the middle of his breastplate. Did I hear that, or was there a whimpering sob from under the soldier's helmet?

No, nonsense. He's a stormtrooper. It doesn't happen.

***

After the colorful couple disappeared around the corner, the lieutenant looked at the stormtrooper, like a statue, standing next to the pillbox.

— If anything, — grimacing from the smell of his own sweat, the officer said, — let's say they broke through with a fight.

The stormtrooper, after thinking, silently nodded.

Neither one nor the other knew that the whole event was being filmed by hidden holocameras of the surveillance system.

Fifteen minutes later, their relatives were notified by the secretariat of Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel of the death of the servicemen during training exercises. A standard message that no one is surprised by in the Ciutric Hegemony.

Ysanne Isard couldn't stand cowards.

***

— Reactor compartment on the line. Ready to start the start-up cycle, — a message came over the intercom, breaking the silence of the Steel Aurora's combat bridge.

Captain Kalian, looking in the direction of the watch officer, slowly nodded.

— Proceed.

The watch officer pressed the intercom key on the terminal. The siren wailed briefly.

— Attention crew, — Kalian said into the comlink microphone after the klaxon went silent. — This is the captain speaking. We are starting the solar ionization reactor start-up cycle. Stand by your posts. Radiation alert.

The klaxon sounded twice more in the compartments of the Victory I-class Star Destroyer. And only after that did he look at the tactical screen, which displayed a diagram of the longitudinal section of his ship.

What are the odds that the artificial star will finally work for the third time, without melting the fuses and cooling circuits? Small, but still... Repair by the crew is all they can do now. It was good that the Imperious delivered the necessary spare parts and helped, sending several repair teams to the Steel Aurora. The crew of the Victory, which had thinned out during the battle in the Rugosa system, was grateful for the assistance. Just like the Sentinel, which had to not only patch up holes in the hull, but also practically restore all the equipment of the reactor compartment from scratch. Working around the clock, both crews were exhausted, but tried to put the ships in order. There were no tugs in the Grand Admiral's fleet, and hardly anyone would send a mobile dock for them — even if there was one.

They had to get by on their own. If only it would start up in normal mode. At least fifty percent. Hell, at least thirty — we'll make three short hyperjumps instead of two medium ones. If only we could get out of here. It's like being hunted animals...

It wasn't that the base on Lainuri irritated him. No, there are warehouses, there is a garrison, there are technical specialists (competent only in ground equipment) and who are also working themselves to the bone, equipping the base with captured equipment received by the Grand Admiral a month ago during a raid on the Dafilvean sector. Well, they did install an ion cannon. Although, of course, its generator... either shoot or hold the base's shield. A terrible solution, of course. But the Imperial commandant here did not have another such powerful reactor. This outpost was completely forgotten.

— Ten percent power! — the watch officer reported. — Reaction temperature is stable! There are no deviations in the readings!

Well, that's not a victory yet. But when we get to at least forty-five...

— Twenty-five percent!

— Coolers? — Kalian asked. They were the ones that fused on the very first launch.

— Holding, — the watch officer replied after hesitating. — Thirty percent...

He looked expectantly at the commander:

— The reaction is stable. Fuses are normal, coolers are normal, the radiation shield is functioning at full power. Shall we transmit energy throughout the ship?

It wouldn't hurt. The red color of the emergency lighting had already become quite annoying during all this time. The backup generators would soon simply burn out from constant operation — they had to be turned on one at a time to give time for maintenance on the others. Kalian didn't want to risk turning on all the emergency generators at the same time — it wouldn't be good to lose them too.

— No, — the captain replied. — First, let's check how much we can count on. Continue the test launch. Increase power slowly. I wouldn't want the fuses to blow as they did last time.

Then, due to a power surge, a short circuit blew the radiation shield generator fuses. The malfunction in the reactor's emergency shutdown system was only discovered after they were able to manually shut down the solar ionization reactor. Three volunteers who volunteered for this work were buried as soon as the radiation background in the compartment dropped to a minimum due to emergency purging. Not even the highest-protection suits saved them. Nothing saves you when you are actually walking a couple of meters from a compact star.

Kalian made three more entries in the crew's combat casualty log. And then one more — when they found the slacker who had not checked the emergency shutdown system. A young guy, just out of technical school. All he had to do was open the installation box — he would have seen the fused wires right away. But this... fool was too lazy to go back to the technical workshop for the appropriate tool, having made sure that the unit was working through the ventilation holes.

A day later, he was found wandering near the Star Destroyer. Without a spacesuit. The airlock, which he was sent to check, shorted out and the doors opened to the sides. The guy was blown into space in one and a half milliseconds. A very strange fact, considering that he was checking a working airlock. Well, Kalian understood the chief engineer of the Steel Aurora. The crew is a well-oiled mechanism. It has no right to malfunctions and failures due to one defective element. If you can't turn your back on a comrade in a difficult situation, trusting his work, then there is no point in such a comrade.

— Forty percent, — the watch officer almost whispered.

Kalian felt a trickle of sweat crawl down his back under his technical overalls. Yes, he was one of those commanders who did not put on an important face, saying that there was something on the ship that he should not touch. He should. This is his Star Destroyer. And if extra labor is needed in any part of the ship — then he will be there. And the officers will be. Everyone who needs to be, just so that...

— Fifty-three percent! — the watch officer almost squealed with pleasure. — It worked, Captain, it worked! I'm increasing...

— Hold the power! — Kalian roared, approaching the control panel. — Thirty seconds of reactor idling!

— Sir, what to do with the excess energy? — the watch officer's eyes seemed ready to pop out of their sockets. And Kalian understood his reaction — the energy buffers of the solar ionization reactor cannot accumulate energy constantly. If you don't let it out, the accumulators might explode...

— Connect the systems of the Steel Aurora, — he ordered. If there is an energy surge, a lot of fuses will burn out...

— I'm starting the connection of the lighting systems, — the life support systems operator said. The crimson light in the bridge changed to a familiar one, painfully cutting into the eyes. — I'm switching the heating and air supply systems to the main power...

Cool air flowed through the bridge, driving out the stale and stuffy carbon dioxide. The emergency system, which had been working all this time, was not so effective...

Kalian took a deep breath of fresh air.

— Readings, — he demanded a report.

— The reactor is at fifty-three percent, Captain, — the watch officer replied. — There are no power surges, the radiation shield is holding, the coolers and fuses... are normal.

— Start powering the main systems from the main reactor, — Kalian ordered. — Report to the Imperious and the base commandant on Lainuri. Repairs by the crew are presumably complete. Monitor the operation of the reactor for twenty-four hours. If there are no changes — check the hyperdrive with a short jump, test all the systems and move to Tangren.

After a pause, he activated the intercom.

— This is the Captain speaking. The reactor is running at half power. We are starting a test of all systems. Crew members free from duty, rest. Technicians and specialists from the Imperious... thank you very much. We'll return to Tangren, drinks are on us. A lot of drinks...

***

Krennel's office, to put it mildly, was not impressive.

Too big, too much empty space. Too luxurious decor. What's wrong with these military people?

— Grand Admiral, — Krennel greeted me in a calm tone, waiting for me to take a seat opposite him. Grodien Tierce stood silently behind me. The pair of stormtroopers behind the owner of the office exchanged glances. With a quiet creak, their hands gripped the handles of their blaster rifles tighter. Tierce didn't even flinch.

— Prince-Admiral, — I replied to the greeting.

— Your man crippled seventeen of my soldiers, — Delak said through clenched teeth. His prosthesis, which replaced his right hand, made a barely audible metallic creak when its owner clenched his fingers into a fist. I wonder if it is a fashion in the Far, Far Galaxy to lose the right upper limbs? However, this is a thought for relaxing the psyche, nothing more. Whoever wants, that's how he... lives.

— Your seventeen soldiers were preventing me and my bodyguard from meeting with you, — I clarified. — Imperial Guardsmen do not recognize obstacles. You know this better than anyone else. You put on a show, we participated in it. If you have any complaints, let's discuss them.

Krennel looked at me for a few seconds. I looked him in the eye.

— The purpose of your visit, Grand Admiral? — he averted his gaze, pretending that he was interested in how his artificial fingers were clenching and unclenching.

— To begin with, I would like to know when the fighters, interceptors, and bombers I ordered will be manufactured, — my words brought a slight smile to Krennel's face. — During negotiations with Moff Ferrus, your administrator unobtrusively omitted this important aspect.

— Six standard weeks, — Krennel said, not looking in my direction. — I need forty days to manufacture the two thousand fighters and a thousand other machines you ordered. As a result, the production capacity of the Prince-Admiral is such that he is able to produce seventy-five machines per day. Which is twice and three machines more than the assembly shops produce, the acquisition of which I intended to discuss with Madam Sante. And I would have discussed it, if not for unforeseen expenses, which forced me to make a deal with my conscience: either order machines from Krennel, spending a considerable amount of money, or spend many times more, but acquire a factory. For which I have no resources for the construction of machines, no qualified personnel yet, and, in general, it is not a fact that they will sell it to me. While the Prince-Admiral's assembly line always works. And presumably there are reserves — there can't not be, because almost all the Imperial Remnants "buy" from him. Except for the poorest ones, of course, like the Ante Meridian sector. The Moff of which is eager to talk to me. I have to postpone the meeting, as I already have a lot of "tasks". I didn't want to receive another "loyalty mission" with a deadline of "yesterday."

— Does this include the delivery of those machines that you have in your warehouses, Prince-Admiral? — I inquired.

Krennel tensed up for a moment, slowly turned his head, looking at me.

— My warehouses are none of your business, Grand Admiral, — he said with poorly concealed irritation. It was obvious that he was doing his best to restrain himself. But he was doing a very poor job of it. Was there such a strong feud between him and Thrawn?

— Why all this talking through your teeth? — I inquired. — You supported my endeavors, Prince-Admiral. You supplied me with equipment in the past. Everyone was satisfied with what was happening. What has changed?

— You are an immensely smart ali... sentient, Grand Admiral, — Krennel said. — You were given the opportunity to fight an enemy that we could not defeat. And everyone was satisfied when you had only a small fleet. And now there is an opinion among the leadership of the Imperial Remnants that you have acquired the legendary Katana Fleet.

— I understand what you are driving at, Prince-Admiral, — my calm pronunciation literally irritated Krennel every minute spent in my company. If all the rulers of the Imperial Remnants have such an attitude towards Thrawn, then it is not surprising that he was sent away. — You are concerned about your sovereignty.

— How interesting, — the military leader chuckled. — You made the right conclusion, without even trying to examine my collected art collection...

Mockery. Obvious, undisguised. And probably offensive.

— There is no need to do such a thing in relation to an Imperial, — I said. — When I took command of the troops acting against the New Republic, I promised that I would not violate the principles of sovereignty of the Imperial Remnants and would not consider them as something that needs to be unified. I am used to keeping my word. As long as others adhere to the same point of view.

— Well, yes, — Krennel smirked. — I know that from personal experience.

A hint of a common past? Oh, if only I knew the answer...

— In any case, I heard that your ships are being repaired, — he said. — So you will have to wait anyway until my factories build the necessary number of small aircraft for you.

— But the necessary number of them is in the warehouses, isn't it? — I need my fighters, interceptors, and bombers. And it's not even that my ships are being repaired. The point is that it is necessary to prepare pilots for mastering these machines. Losses among the flight crew do not make me happy. Therefore, it is time to introduce regular training exercises. And how to conduct them while there are no machines for this.

— There are, — Krennel said reluctantly. — But...

— I have already understood that your unwillingness to empty the warehouses is primarily based on the postulate that it will reduce your defense capability, — an affirmative nod of the head from the Prince-Admiral. Well, now let's try to figure out what's going on.

Krennel trades with everyone who uses the Empire's battle starships. He supplies spare parts to them and to a considerable number of semi-legal sentient beings. He has enough money. The question is. Why doesn't he build himself line ships? Because his shipyard is a repair one, not a shipbuilding one. Then why doesn't he buy himself a similar one? Because all manufacturers of this kind of goods are now subordinate to the New Republic or the Imperial Remnants. Shipyards on Yaga Minor, Ord Trasi, Bilbringi are quite capable of building Imperial Star Destroyers. Not to mention other shipyards subordinate to the Imperials. Ideally, Krennel should have a considerable fleet of battleships... But he has only a little more than a dozen. Why?

The Hegemony is formed from territories that once belonged to Seitu Pestage and a number of planets that Krennel managed to tear away from the fat pie of the empire of the military leader Zsinj. And at the same time, his fleet is small. Instead, he builds a planetary defense through which no one can break through. Consequently, there is a certain casuistry — he has money, but he does not order starships.

— You were denied the construction of Star Destroyers at the Imperial shipyards, weren't you? — I inquired, inwardly hoping that I had not blurted out something stupid.

— You could also say that you didn't know about this, — Krennel chuckled. — They are ready to trade with me, but to build a ship, or several — in the Imperial Space, this is considered bad form. Even among those who owe me their own fighters, interceptors, and other things...

Oh, so that's what it is. The murder of the Grand Vizier has not been forgiven him. Interesting internal imperial democracy, I must say.

And these restrictions do not allow him to acquire his own starships. Ubiktorat, sitting on Tangren, prevented him from using pirates and ship hijackers for these purposes — no one would go against the command of Imperial Intelligence in their desire to make money. Actually, there is a suspicion that it was Ubiktorat who turned the others against Krennel. Useful isolation of a source of supply...

— In that case, — I said. — We can help each other, Prince-Admiral.

— Oh, really? — Krennel smirked. — Have you decided to sell me the Katana Fleet?

— Why do you need such a relic? — I inquired. — There is a better offer.

— Your Star Destroyers? — Krennel was still going on. Judging by the sparks in his eyes, the hint interested him. — I heard you have several Victories and Interdictors...

— Something better, — I said. — How long has it been since you last fought the New Republic, Prince-Admiral?

If the mention of the rebels in this context cut Krennel's ears, he didn't show it.

— I can destroy them at any moment, — he said pompously.

— In that case, you will probably need two MC80 Liberty-class Mon Calamari Star Cruisers, — I said phlegmatically. — Two Mark-I-class Assault Frigates. A Neutron Star-class Cruiser...

— Assault frigates and a Neutron Star are garbage for stationary service, — Krennel grimaced. — But Liberties... Yes, good ships.

— Each of them is worth one Imperial, — I said. — One-class, to be more precise. And they cost much less.

— I heard you trade in trophies, Grand Admiral, — Krennel said mockingly. — Have you decided to get rid of this non-liquid item as well?

— Well, why non-liquid, — I inquired. — In skillful hands, these starships are a great force. Not to mention that possessing them will prove your involvement in operations against the New Republic. After all, you adhere to a defensive tactic only because you don't have that many line ships. I'm offering you these ships. Of course, they have been in battles and have been severely damaged...

— In exchange for what? — Krennel stared at me with a piercing look. It seems I guessed right. He needs line ships.

— A trifle, — I said. — Each of them costs one hundred million...

— Seventy — no more, — Krennel interrupted me. Catching the unspoken remark in my eyes, he grinned. — After all, they have been in battles and have been seriously damaged...

— Fair enough, — I noted. — In that case, I ask you to return these one hundred and forty million to me from the sum you paid me. And besides, I advise you to take a closer look at the assault frigates. Excellent ships. And if they are brought up to par, they are capable of fighting cruisers on an equal footing...

— And at what price do you want to transfer them to me? — Krennel smirked. The pose, the movement of his eyes, hands, the smirk on his lips — all this gave the understanding that the Prince-Admiral is not limited in money. But he is bargaining solely for the sake of bargaining. He likes to drink blood. Specifically — mine. So, even on the verge of his own benefit, he is not able to overcome his hatred and old grievances. Okay. You have made your move. Now it's mine. Or rather — mine.

— I will give them to you for free, — the Prince-Admiral's eyebrows came together over the bridge of his nose. — But I will have three requests for you that will not burden the Ciutric Hegemony.

— I'm listening, — the Prince-Admiral said patronizingly.

— First. The small spacecraft that I ordered for my fleet from you are needed in the near future, — I said.

— Well, okay, — the owner of the right-hand prosthesis smirked. — What's the second one?

— I heard you have good prisons, — the Prince-Admiral tensed up. Clearly suspecting that his little secret was exposed. It is exposed, but as long as Ysanne Isard, who has a spy or two in every back end of the galaxy, believes that no one knows about her plans and whereabouts, including me, we don't have to fear her tricks. For the first time. That is why the operation needs to be carried out as quickly as possible. — I have a considerable number of Republican prisoners. And there are no prisons. Keeping them at my main base is wasteful. Since we have found a common language, perhaps you will meet me halfway and agree to accept the captured rebels for detention?

— You will have to pay for their upkeep, — Krennel chuckled, clearly exhaling. He did not catch a single hint of

— I don't see any problems with that, — I said. The act is immoral, but... — I am sure that you will give the enemy soldiers a worthy reception.

— Oh, don't worry, — Delak almost smiled showing all his snow-white teeth. It seems that having become the owner of four excellent ships for next to nothing, he has become kinder to me. Well, that's the point. Because the main thing is ahead...

— And the third favor..., — I meaningfully rubbed the pad of my thumb against the pad of my index and middle fingers. Funny fact. But in this galaxy, this gesture means exactly the same thing as in my past life. True, here it was invented by... the Neimoidians, the creators of the Trade Federation. Or the Muuns, famous traders. However, it does not matter. The gesture is widespread.

— You need more money? — Krennel smirked.

— That too, — I said calmly. — A major operation is planned. With great trophies. The preparation for it requires the appropriate arrangements.

— How big is the operation? — the Prince-Admiral said quickly. I am sure he does not care about the operation. He is interested in the trophies. And only they.

— As a result, you can become the owner of five or seven Mon Calamari star cruisers, — I said indifferently. Am I doing the right thing? Correct. Why do I need them? No unification, no clear plan. Armament... good, but so much money is needed for their restoration and maintenance. And besides, possessing these ships actually turns their owner into a target.

— I'll buy them at the same price, — he said grandly. Well, of course. Practically nine battleships for a pittance...

— I have no doubt about your commercial talents, Prince-Admiral, — I said. — But these ships are virtually in perfect condition, — in fact, there are many times more of them on Sluis Van. But you don't have to know about it. In a couple of months, there will be an attack on the main shipyard of the New Republic in that region and... it will be interesting. — Therefore, I am ready to provide them to you for one hundred and fifty million each.

Judging by Krennel's facial expression, he didn't even realize that I had announced a price almost forty-five million more expensive than if they had bought them directly at the Mon Calamari shipyards. He just didn't care. It feels like this rich Buratino has a family of leprechauns hiding somewhere, who issue credit cards.

— One hundred and forty, — he said. — I'll give half the amount as an advance payment for current expenses. And during the operation, I would like the enemy to have a reminder of my participation.

I really wanted to run my hand over my face. How did this person even become an admiral? Just ambitions and nothing but an inflated ego. I have read his personal file — he is... average. Well, maybe a little better than that Pelleon. I'm not going to compare myself to him — even someone like Krennel has managed to forget more about the fleet than I have learned in all the past weeks. He will surely lose to me in strategy if he is without his quiet, multicolored-eyed partner. But in tactics... I need to think about that. I need more information about him.

— Of course, — I said. — These ships will be yours for the agreed amount. And the enemy will never forget your participation in it. What kind of sign do you prefer to leave as a memory to the New Republic?

God, it sounds like I'm selling him household appliances...

— Burn everything there, — Krennel said maliciously. — Kill everyone, Grand Admiral. No mercy for the Republican scum.

Ah.

You.

Are.

Such.

A.

Bitch.

***

Ysanne Isard, having turned away from the information that had arrived on the central of the ten monitors placed in a semicircle in front of her, felt her back touch the hard back of the chair.

The young woman folded her arms over her chest, thoughtfully looking at the information that was displayed on her equipment.

So, this is how events are unfolding...

Admittedly, she had not noticed political flexibility in Thrawn before. And now, he is just discussing matters with which he was absolutely cold in the past. Since when?

She perfectly remembered the operation that the Emperor and Thrawn himself developed to prepare a suitable excuse that could divert the attention of his colleagues, who were more knowledgeable in the internal affairs of the Galactic Empire, from the talented military leader. The same Rufaan Tigellinus would have "eaten" Thrawn for breakfast, destroying his reputation with every single Imperial Moff. And he wouldn't even have flinched. Rufaan was generally a seasoned politician, subtly feeling the moods of the elite and skillfully adapting to them. He did not direct, but rather adapted. But that was the Emperor — he did not elevate those who could create even a small coalition against the legitimate government. For "tickling nerves", he had Bail Organa and other senators.

But all this is just reasoning about the past.

The future is much more interesting.

Thrawn never deviated from the task set before him. And now he has one — to wage a military campaign against the New Republic. But for some reason, which she failed to figure out, he does not strive for conquests. Only to harm the rebels, destroy their defense network, destabilize logistics... Very, very strange.

And he communicated with Krennel absolutely calmly. As if in front of him was not a former subordinate whom the Chiss got rid of because of "excessive cruelty", but an insignificant little bug that the Supreme Commander tolerates only because he...

Ysanne felt her heart beat faster. Not much, but it is still a sign that she is agitated. The woman ran her palms over the perfect skin of her face, gathering her hair into a ponytail with her thumbs and letting it flow freely down her back and shoulders. A useless gesture, but a soothing one.

In her "almost forty" she continued to be in excellent physical shape. This was due to regular training, a love for which was instilled by a despotic father in childhood. The father, the legendary Armand Isard, the father of the Republican Intelligence, which he created from dozens of spy organizations as a single whole. He was also at the birth of Imperial Intelligence... Until Ysanne got rid of him.

The woman crossed her leg over her leg, smoothing a barely visible crease on her pants.

So, Thrawn.

A dangerous toy, which, for some reason, ceased to perform its functions. A useful, but at the same time dangerous tool, the role of which was supposed to be bright, impressive, shaking the foundations of the statehood of the New Republic, but short.

And yet the last Grand Admiral devoted to the ideals of the Galactic Empire was acting strangely. Instead of continuing his military campaign, relentlessly attacking the rebel planets, he for some reason began to conclude agreements.

He did it stupidly, clumsily, so that it caused nothing but a smile on her face. Baron D'Asta made him like him with feigned friendship and financing, forcing him to attack a military facility of the New Republic. Well, this is acceptable, as it meets long-term prospects. But any fool would understand that the baron does not care about what the Grand Admiral is trying to do. The D'Astan sector is nothing more than a suitable appendage that will never return to the Empire. Unfortunately, Ysanne's agents could not find out the details of the conversation. Only that the baron considered it necessary to inform his daughter — that he had secured the support of a simple and stupid alien, who would do all the work for them to restore control over the transport networks of the sector and beyond. I wonder, does the baron know a curious feature of the one with whom he is candid? No, it's unlikely. Otherwise, he would not have been so frank with her and would have taken appropriate measures to search for it.

Thrawn turned away from Rendili, first luring them with orders, and then refusing to repair ships at their shipyards. A deadly insult for those who, even in the best years of the Empire, were on the back burner of state orders. But they could have become a great help to him in the long term.

The same applies to Brentaal IV. Excellent shipyards, where a considerable number of experimental developments were produced...

The reason why Thrawn concentrates all repair and production facilities in the Morshdine sector is not clear. Is it just ordinary paranoia? He never suffered from it. Like the desire to lay his blue hands on all the trophies without exception... After all, he always relied on the resource base of the Empire...

And now, he has come almost with an outstretched hand to Krennel. An idiot who imagines himself to be a great military leader. He receives money from him, which could be regarded as a good asset — after all, now Thrawn, if we take into account his trophies not yet sold on the black market, actually has a billion Imperial credits in his hands, and this is a huge amount. In cash. What is he going to do with it?

Why didn't the Grand Admiral take advantage of the simplest option — to negotiate with Krennel for the repair of his ships at the shipyards of the Ciutric Hegemony? After all, this would actually allow him to put his ships into service much faster...

What does Thrawn hope for? After all, his style is speed, deception, and pressure. Why is he hesitating? What is he hoping for? If he had really captured the entire Katana Fleet, then he would need huge repair facilities to put the ships into service. According to the information available to Ysanne, the repair of each Dreadnought will take two weeks. The second-type orbital repair shop he has can put no more than three dozen Dreadnoughts into service in this period, given their cardinal alterations. Using Krennel's capacities, he could have repaired and modernized a hundred ships at once in the same period. Each of the ships of the Dark Force he has would be in service in one standard month. And as a result, in this period he will be able to ensure the arrival of only six dozen heavy cruisers and starships captured at Rugosa in his fleet, including those that he has in orbit of the planet Lainuri.

What did the Chiss plan? To attack the Ciutric Hegemony and capture it? No, that's stupid. The population, although they do not like Krennel, however, live very well under him and most people are happy with it. The anthropocentric policy of the New Order, which he continues to cultivate in his possessions, contradicts the alliance with non-humans. Thrawn, if he forcibly captured this territory, would only get millions of people who hate aliens. He understands this perfectly — he himself went through xenophobia during his studies at the Imperial Academy and subsequent service.

Then what is he hoping for? In a month, at most — two, the New Republic will remove decommissioned warships from its logistics circulation, and then he will lose the opportunity to strike where he deems necessary. His attack on Sluis Van will fail — he simply does not have the necessary number of starships to fight such an enemy. And the Imperial Remnants will not support him, as was originally agreed.

Ysanne thoughtfully bit her lower lip. What. Did. This. Alien. Plan?

The words dug into her mind. The question joined those that she could not resolve. What operation is he conducting with asteroids? What are the plasma drills for? What does raydonium have to do with it? For what purposes is he methodically reorganizing pirates into auxiliary troops? How did he manage to move the orbital defense station from the Dafilvean sector to the orbit of Tangren? Why is he wasting resources on restoring this beaten piece of metal when he could easily buy several such? For what purposes is he climbing on Kai Fel, if he can easily purchase hyperdrives for his fleet? Especially now.

And finally, where did this non-human get an IMPERIAL GUARDSMAN?!

Ysanne did not believe that it could be a "clown". She carefully reviewed the videos, noting the progress of this interesting "couple" along the corridors of the Prince-Admiral's residence. She analyzed every action, every technique with which this unknown person eliminated obstacles in his path. And she came to the only correct conclusion — this guardsman is real. The program of their training cannot be copied or repeated. These techniques cannot be learned by chance, and for targeted training it will take many years. Consequently, the guardsman is real. But why did he end up in the subordination of the Grand Admiral? After all, all of them are currently either on Byss or watching the Imperial Ruling Council, guarding the elected politicians...

Ysanne checked her notes. No, the last ones are in place. She also did not consider the option that one of the guardsmen could betray, could survive after any of the battles and decide to serve the Grand Admiral, instead of fulfilling his duty and returning to the base. This is nonsense. Imperial Guardsmen obey only one person — the Emperor. Everything else is a breach of the oath. Even when she ruled Coruscant and several guardsmen were in her entourage, they carried out Palpatine's order — they protected her. Until the very end.

Questions again... To which she could get answers, but... She clearly did not want to come out of the shadows and at least to someone significant to state the fact that she was alive. Not now, not when her plan was just beginning to be implemented.

She will have to wait, or try to find out everything herself. But will it work? Thrawn has established a relatively good counterintelligence service, and his intelligence is also good. The cunning alien has gathered around him either specialists in their field, or those who have somehow been harmed by the actions of the official authorities of the Empire. And now he is a master for them. And not their former leadership.

Isard glanced at the two snow-white strands framing her face.

Gray hair right before her eyes. Gray hair that no one knows about, believing that this hair color is natural. Gray hair, which is in full view of everyone, but no one knows what it really is. Gray hair...

Struck by a sudden guess, the young woman almost burst out laughing.

How simple... And at the same time, it is very curious how this non-human managed to think of such a simple and at the same time effective plan. This is how he intends to increase the repair capacity of his sector. This is why he attracts civilian specialists with high salaries. Oh, how easily he fooled Krennel. He played on the weaknesses and self-esteem of the latter, receiving huge sums of money in return. Oh, she had a higher opinion of the Prince-Admiral. Yes, he has a lot of money — he is reaping the fruits of his almost exclusive work on TIE-type equipment and has huge money from its sale to Imperials, bandits, and criminal communities. Just last month, Grand Moff Ardus Kaine made purchases from him for equipment worth seven billion credits. An order that allowed Krennel to enrich himself and purchase a huge amount of new production equipment and strengthen his defenses.

And as a result, our Grand Admiral, not only has a considerable fleet that he is successfully modernizing, but also receives additional forces. What are these Republican tubs that his Star Destroyers have obtained in battle? He can get much more. And if he also manages to implement his deal with the Sanhte family, then Krennel is left to bite his elbows with envy. And in the end, even Baron D'Asta will owe Thrawn a considerable amount. Of course, the cunning aristocrat will try to get out of it, he will surely merge his outdated ships or rowdy pilots to Thrawn, which he himself no longer needs, and is even harmful. After all, he was able to do this once? He could. And the Grand Admiral only smiled in response, understanding the essence of what was happening. But he didn't say anything. It seems that the Unknown Regions have changed the Chiss so much that he is happy for any help. It is no coincidence that he tried to forge an alliance with Carida and in despair sent the commander of his flagship to complain about the government of the Academy to the Imperial Governing Council...

No. The woman shook her head decisively. Too convenient a version in everything that concerns Thrawn's political game. Too good to be true. He knows too much about the affairs of the New Republic. There is something else here. Something besides the fact that Thrawn, like her, had access to the "Delta Source". Apparently, Thrawn has another source of awareness that allows him to be a couple of steps ahead of his opponents. That is why he has time for all these political games.

Consequently, it is necessary to return his motivation to return to his favorite pastime — war.

Ysanne smiled. She could, loved to, and did it with great pleasure to manipulate sentient beings and cause them pain.