Nine years, seven months, and thirty-first days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and thirty-first days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and sixteenth days since the arrival).
By the time Crimson Dawn, five Star Destroyers, and a dozen Nebulon-B escort frigates emerged back into realspace, completing their jump into the Scaross system, General Willard already understood that the battle was not starting on his initiative.
The First Division of the New Republic's Fourth Military Fleet didn't reach its destination—instead, it was unceremoniously yanked out of hyperspace by starships appearing within direct line of sight. Three Interdictor-class Star Destroyers and two Immobilizer 418 cruiser interdictors.
There was no point in requesting call signs—their allegiance to the Empire was clear enough.
— Battle stations, — he commanded. Sirens blared across the ships of the First Division in response. — Get me a line to Coruscant command!
A moment later, the communications officer replied:
— Long-range communication channels are being jammed, sir.
— So, we've been lured into an ambush and cut off from reporting it, — Willard concluded.
What's done is done. If they survived, they'd ask Counselor Fey'lya how his orders led them straight into an ambush against a numerically superior enemy with a fleet the ever-present Bothan intelligence somehow missed.
The enemy had arranged their ships in a formation resembling two bowls—a smaller one, formed by twelve Imperial-class Star Destroyers, evenly split into squads flanking a Torpedo Sphere positioned ahead of Willard's fleet, and a larger one, consisting of nearly a hundred Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers, cutting off the Republic division's retreat.
Willard felt a sinking feeling in his gut. An entire armada had been deployed against his division. No need to calculate the odds—none of the New Republic ships would survive this engagement. All they could do now was take as many enemy ships down with them as possible.
Glancing at the tactical screen, he identified the culprits behind their interrupted journey—three Interdictors lingered just behind the flanking Dreadnoughts, while the two Immobilizers mirrored their position behind the Destroyers. For now, only the gravity well projectors of the interdictor cruisers were active, creating a small patch of space in front of the New Republic ships where hyperdrives couldn't function. But the primary coverage of the artificial gravity vectors was behind the First Division's stern. Turning around and escaping was no longer an option. Charging forward was equally foolish—the Interdictors would activate their own projectors, creating another massive field to block hyperdrive functionality ahead of Willard's ships.
A perfect trap—his fleet was completely surrounded, forced to become targets for the enemy's guns and swarming fighters. Near each Star Destroyer, a pair of Corellian-built corvettes or frigates held position... Close to the Interdictors, a couple of Quasar Fire carriers lingered, and among the heavy cruisers, he spotted half a dozen outdated Venator-class Star Destroyers.
Willard studied the enemy's formation closely. His ships were being rapidly identified by the onboard computers. The sheer numerical advantage was enough to confirm one simple fact—the Imperials knew perfectly well that Fey'lya had altered his plan at the last moment.
There was no way out. They had to fight.
— Prepare to launch fighters, raise deflectors, — Willard ordered. — Begin target allocation. Load missile launchers and aim at enemy ships within range...
— General, we're being hailed, — the ship's commander reported.
— The Imperials? — Willard asked rhetorically, though he received an affirmative nod. — Patch them through.
Within seconds, a holographic projection of a middle-aged man with aristocratic features, leaning on a cane, appeared above the nearest holoprojector. His non-standard Imperial uniform jacket immediately caught the eye. But Willard, a general of the New Republic, recognized both the jacket and the man quickly.
— That Alderaanian jacket suits you as always, Erik, — Willard remarked.
— Thank you, General Willard, — replied the "Butcher of Atoan" in a calm tone. Out of the corner of his eye, the Republic commander noticed one of the twelve Star Destroyers beginning to move forward. He wasn't surprised when he recognized Imperious—the ship of Shohashi himself. — Don't tell me you're happy to see me, because that wouldn't be true. Surrender now, order your subordinates to hand over your ships to Imperial control, and I promise each of you will be spared and given comfortable conditions in captivity.
— You know that won't happen, Erik, — Willard replied amicably. — No one's going to surrender an entire division. I won't do it. We're fighting.
— You'll be crushed, General, — Shohashi warned.
— Perhaps, — the gray-haired Alderaanian conceded. — But I'll take most of the fleet here with me to the grave.
— Don't flatter yourself, General, — the Imperial officer advised. — Having a fast dreadnought doesn't mean you can win. On the contrary, I'd say your ships make for a perfect, convenient target. One that's impossible to miss.
— So be it, — Willard glanced at another tactical monitor, where his fleet's ships, now shrouded in the faint glow of deflector shields, were surrounded by squadrons of fighters and interceptors preparing for the coming battle. — But we won't run from a fight.
— Neither will I, old mentor, — Shohashi's voice lost its friendliness. — I'm not accustomed to repeating myself, but out of respect for you, I will—surrender. Save your subordinates' lives.
— Sorry, Erik, — the Republic general shook his head. — Your offer is declined.
— You know there won't be a third, — Shohashi noted. — I'll take your ships by force and eliminate anyone who resists. No mercy, no leniency for those who fight back.
— Erik, — Willard smiled warmly. — You're wasting your breath trying to convince me to surrender. I taught you everything you know, but not everything I know.
— Oh, that aristocratic Alderaanian rhetoric, — Shohashi laughed. — It's always irritated me and sparked burning hatred. Words that never match deeds.
— In that case, I suggest we move to the battle, — Willard raised his already-gray eyebrows.
— I don't object, General, — Shohashi laughed. — I won't wish you luck in the fight, you understand why.
— I do, — Willard nodded. — It would look very, very foolish.
— Exactly, — Shohashi pulled an antique chronometer from his jacket pocket and glanced at it. — Well then, let's begin, General.
Willard didn't have time to respond—the hologram of the "Butcher of Atoan" dissolved.
The Republic general noted how swarms of Imperial fighters and interceptors began moving, preparing to clash in a bloody battle with Republic pilots.
— Here we go, — Willard intoned, watching the first sparks of destroyed fighters from both sides flare up as hundreds of turbolaser bolts sliced through space, racing toward their targets to bring death and chaos.
— Sir! — the voice of the Crimson Dawn's commander cut through the working hum of the bridge. — Imperious has jumped!
"What kind of trick is this, Shohashi?" Willard frowned. He could clearly see the Destroyer's vector—it was aimed directly at the Bellator, which was within the hyperdrive suppression zone. A jump outside the system was impossible...
— General! — the hysterical voice of a tracking system operator bordered on ultrasonic. — Imperious, it's...!
— Helm! — Willard snapped, ignoring the panic. — Turn the ship, we're closing in on Shohashi's flagship...
— That's impossible, sir! — the ship's commander said in a defeated tone.
— Why not? — the Republic general asked, stunned.
— It's under our belly, sir, — the Crimson Dawn's commander replied. — I've ordered the lower hemisphere artillery to target the enemy Star Destroyer...
The next moment, five Venator-class Star Destroyers, upgraded under the Sunburn program, unleashed a unified salvo that obliterated the deflector shields of the fast dreadnought, exposing its hull to both energy and kinetic attacks.
And a second later, a series of internal explosions rocked the massive starship.
* * *
Captain Pellaeon couldn't suppress the smile that spread across his face the moment yellow-orange flames erupted from the underbelly of the fast dreadnought.
— Crimson Dawn has lost one of its two reactors, — he commented. — The dreadnought's combat capability is reduced.
— Undoubtedly, Captain, — I agreed, watching as proton torpedoes, launched from five hundred launchers on the two-kilometer durasteel Torpedo Sphere, surged in unison toward the nearly eight-kilometer giant. — However, the starship is still more than half combat-capable.
Gilad fell silent for a few seconds before saying:
— Shohashi's having a rough time—the lower hemisphere artillery of Crimson Dawn is practically stripping Imperious of its deflector shields.
— War is never without risk, Captain, — I reminded him. — Request the recharge time for the ion cannons from the Venator commanders.
— Yes, sir! — the Chimaera's commander responded, stepping aside.
Meanwhile, I, stroking the shamelessly napping ysalamiri on my lap, observed the effectiveness of Crimson Dawn's anti-aircraft guns.
In my memory, such a vast quantity of this type of artillery—over a thousand units on the Bellator—was excessive. Especially in the Imperial fleet, where anti-aircraft artillery isn't always prioritized. But those who built the Bellators clearly put in exceptional effort.
The starship is equipped with an immense array of heavy and light artillery, "intermediate calibers," and even missile launchers. It can engage multiple types of spacecraft simultaneously, a rather innovative approach.
What I also admire about this undeniably beautiful ship is its near absence of design flaws. An exceptional command ship, created as such from the design phase. This alone proves that Kuat Drive Yards' engineers can build balanced ships. I wonder if the renowned Lira Blissex, responsible for the Venators, Imperials, and Executors—among others I can recall—had a hand in designing this class. It's possible her work extends to other starships in this galaxy. But something tells me Lira Blissex wasn't involved in the Bellator's creation. After the Old Republic transformed into the Galactic Empire, Lady Blissex seemed to lose her fondness for anti-aircraft defenses. A curious contradiction.
— Ten minutes, sir, — Pellaeon announced, returning to me.
— A long interval, — I noted.
— It seems Zion's "optimization and modernization" reduced the ion cannons' rate of fire, — Pellaeon said irritably. — On Hast, we could fire every five minutes.
— The time you mentioned is the difference between the first and second shots of the Red Dragon, — I reminded him. — After that, the interval only grew due to the system's incomplete functionality. It's possible that only at this rate of fire do the Venators' power systems avoid failure.
— But in that case, these ships are hardly effective in modern combat, — Pellaeon mused. — Their firing speed is slower than a turbolaser's, meaning a fast, maneuverable target could evade their shots.
— Like, for example, — I pointed to the dots forming around the enemy division, meeting incoming fighters and interceptors with barrage fire, — Nebulon-B escort frigates.
— Exactly my point, sir, — Pellaeon nodded.
— Well, — I said, — no one planned to use these ships against fast starships. Captain, take a look at Crimson Dawn, — I suggested. — It destroyed over half the proton torpedoes in the outer defensive perimeter and the rest in the inner.
— Yes, — Pellaeon grimaced, watching the Torpedo Sphere fire another salvo at the enemy. The massive metal sphere was positioned twenty units closer to the enemy and in the "upper" echelon compared to the Star Destroyers. Unfortunately, this was necessary, as the range of turbolasers and missile/torpedo launchers differed by fifteen units—not in the latter's favor. — The sphere has over sixty thousand crew members. We could've staffed two Destroyers with them... Attacking a ship like the Bellator with torpedoes is pointless.
— Is that so, Captain? — I asked.
— We're not trying to destroy it, — the Chimaera's commander reminded me of one of the battle's conditions.
— Of course, — I confirmed. — This starship is needed in maximum combat-ready condition to join our fleet in the future.
— Then, sir, I don't understand why we're bombarding it with the Torpedo Sphere, — Pellaeon threw up his hands. — It's a siege weapon, ineffective against a fleet—at least while the dreadnought still has anti-aircraft cover.
— The purpose of this exercise, Captain, — I said, — is to test the Torpedo Sphere's gunners and crew. They've already proven they can remain undetected in border territories for extended periods—an impressive feat. However, this ship's crew has been in the rear, serving as a guard post for too long. Without regular drills, skills degrade. We're diligently restoring them now.
— While spending enormous resources, — Pellaeon grumbled. — Five hundred proton torpedoes per salvo!
— Drills and war are never economically surplus until they're over, — I said, watching the sphere's second salvo get repelled by the enemy's gunners. — But we must understand that the more anti-aircraft artillery and missile launchers the enemy uses to counter our proton torpedoes, the less attention they can spare for our fighters approaching their targets. This means fewer losses for us and valuable experience for our pilots in operating large formations and neutralizing enemy artillery on capital ships.
Pellaeon glanced at the unfolding battle. Meanwhile, the fast dreadnought, unable to deal fatal damage to Imperious, which sat under its belly, blasting its lower hemisphere fire points and the second solar ionization reactor's hull, shifted to exchanging fire at extreme ranges with our Destroyers and cruisers. General Willard broke his division's formation, throwing his ships into battle against the right flank of our Star Destroyers.
An attempt to break the blockade and clear a path to escape.
— I've noticed Shohashi has been exceptionally effective in carrying out orders lately, — Pellaeon remarked. — Not every Imperial Star Destroyer commander would agree to play bait in front of such a monster.
— Captain Shohashi's bravery is undeniable, — I agreed. The Alderaanian is a highly calculated and cold-blooded ship commander. Of course, there are questions about his fanatical desire to kill Baron Fel and eradicate Alderaanians from their planet's former command who were involved in attacks or planning against the Galactic Empire. Honestly, that's why I haven't used him for cloning yet.
Moreover, he's clever and cunning enough to see through my straightforward plan to use him as bait to capture Crimson Dawn. Well, today I've given him a chance to prove himself as a formation commander—to see if he can handle such a role in the future. So far, I've been impressed by his swiftness, aggression, and ruthlessness.
— Something else worries me, sir, — Pellaeon admitted. — The Scaross system is practically undefended. If we stick to Shohashi's plan, we'll end up with a nearly combat-incapable dreadnought, stripped of its power systems. In our time, acquiring two solar ionization reactors isn't exactly easy.
— That's why I've already ordered General Covell to dismantle two of the three reactors in Mount Tantiss as soon as the current batch of clones in production is complete.
— Can the mountain function fully on just one reactor? — Pellaeon asked, surprised. — The cloning facility alone requires at least two such reactors.
— It's a matter of the number of active cloning cylinders, Captain, — I explained. — Each ten thousand requires one solar ionization reactor. If we reduce the number of active cylinders, the remaining reactors can be repurposed.
— But that would disrupt the clone supply chain, — Pellaeon noted.
— Not at all, — I countered. — Let me remind you, Captain—the more cloning cylinders, the more energy they require. If we break the cloning facility into independent subunits, the need for high-efficiency reactors will be resolved.
— You're evacuating Mount Tantiss? — the Chimaera commander's eyes widened.
— Yes, Captain, — I confirmed. — My plan is nearing its climax. We must ensure all equipment and valuables from the facility are evacuated to our base on Tangrene. After we complete the second phase of the operation, Crimson Dawn will escort them in one large convoy to Lok. You may have noticed that our captured fleet of freighters and Star Galleons isn't currently involved in our operations.
— I thought they were transporting cargo from the RZ7-6113-23 military base, — Gilad admitted.
— That's being handled by Acclamator-class ships and other vessels free from patrolling the Morshdine sector, — I clarified. — There's not much left, but we still need to expand our cargo fleet with bulk freighters capable of carrying far greater volumes than medium transports or Star Galleons. Fortunately, Captain Tiberos will resolve this and other issues soon.
— Understood, — Pellaeon said. After a brief pause, the Chimaera's commander asked:
— Sir, am I correct in assuming that after capturing Crimson Dawn, you'll use it as your flagship?
— No, Captain, — I refuted his assumption. — Chimaera suits me perfectly in that role. Crimson Dawn, along with the future raiding formation Red Star, will be commanded by Captain Shohashi.
— Raiding formation? — Pellaeon echoed. — Do we even have one?
— We'll create it as soon as we acquire the ships of the First Division of the New Republic's Fourth Fleet, — I explained. — Captain Shohashi will lead it. A curious fact, Captain. He requested permission to name the raiding formation, led by Crimson Dawn, after his late beloved—Iran Ryad, known as Red Star. Symbolism and posthumous loyalty. Fascinating qualities in the future commander of Crimson Dawn.
— I wish he'd come up with ideas for staffing that monster's crew with the same enthusiasm. A dreadnought needs nearly a hundred thousand crew members! — the Chimaera commander exclaimed quietly. — To fully staff that giant, we'd need five full batches of clones! That's months of continuous cloning just for one ship, sir! I strongly urge you to consider my proposal—don't waste vast resources on repairing and maintaining Crimson Dawn. Use what's left of it after this battle to salvage parts for ships under repair. It's getting harder every month to procure necessary equipment without drawing attention!
— Soon, Captain, we'll have ample time to staff the crews of the ships we need and set up production lines for the required equipment, — I declared. — Resources will also be plentiful. We just need to wait. Notice, — Pellaeon followed my gaze to the tactical screen. — Our fighters and interceptors have cleared a large volume of open space at the front. That means it's time for another test. I suggest we observe how Captain Tomax Bren demonstrates the effectiveness of the new Scimitar assault bomber. I'm certain it'll be a spectacle like no other.
Pellaeon cast a cautious glance my way but then turned his attention to the central viewport, watching as Chimaera, alongside the other Star Destroyers, maintained course fire on the enemy division, which had grouped tightly to bolster deflector shields by overlapping energy screens, desperately fending off the relentless assault from my fleet's ships.
Soon, without their flagship, they'll scatter, hoping to break the blockade.
And then our Star Destroyers will go on a free hunt, while the 501st Legion conducts another merciless boarding operation.
* * *
Lifting his machine off the hangar deck, the bomber unit commander, Captain Tomax Bren, confidently piloted the Scimitar out of the Star Destroyer's hangar.
— Systems are functioning normally, — Alex, seated in the weapons operator's chair, reported. — Shields activated, PLAE in order. Power flow, — he glanced at the control monitor, — also normal. Engines running smoothly, reaching eighty percent speed.
— We're about to make a dash, — Tomax warned. — Inertial compensators active?
— At one hundred percent, — the technician assured him. The only sentient who'd agreed to participate in a test that might not see them return.
— Proton torpedoes in order?
— Both magazines, — Alex replied. — Hutt!
— What's wrong? — Tomax tensed. If the reverse valve coupling failed again, it'd be easier to activate the PLAE and crash into Crimson Dawn's bridge than return to Chimaera in disgrace. — Mechanical? Electrical? Hydraulic?
— I just remembered I'm a technician, not a pilot, — Alex joked. — I'll have to ask for double pay for these hours!
Tomax slammed the back of his helmet against the headrest, making the cockpit's interior resonate, so the weapons operator's headrest, positioned back-to-back with the pilot's, smacked the talkative technician's nape.
— No time for jokes! — Tomax growled. — This mission determines the project's fate!
— There's always time for jokes, even at a funeral, — Alex countered.
Tomax ignored his partner's quip. Before his eyes were the dead faces of his Y-wing boys. Once a full wing, now reduced to a single bomber squadron during the Imperial Civil War.
— Reached ninety megasuns speed, — he said, watching the experimental craft surge forward at a respectable pace, leaving more empty space behind. — Ready for acceleration?
Despite the tactical data requested from the OCC and the view through the Scimitar's cockpit being less than encouraging, the mission had to be completed. Only then could he honor his fallen unit's name in history and make a request to the Grand Admiral.
A pair of Nebulon-B escort frigates were moving to intercept the air wing launched from Chimaera, clearly intent on roughing up the Imperial fighters to ease pressure on their flagship. Though it still looked intact, Crimson Dawn was far from comfortable, under fire from a dozen Imperials and now joined by Interdictors. Not to mention the regular proton torpedo explosions showering it from the Torpedo Sphere's launchers. The Republic ship moved intriguingly, keeping its plane perpendicular to the ships it was firing on. Given its armament, mostly concentrated in the upper hemisphere, it could deal significant "disappointment" to its foes. But with its deflector shields gone, the fleet of Star Destroyers' enfilading fire wasn't going unanswered.
Thus, Thrawn's guns were already tearing into the upper decks' plating. The accompanying Star Destroyers—four Imperial Is and a "shorty" Procursator-class, named for its compact hull—worked to ensure the fast dreadnought's stern wasn't shredded by the textbook ambush and crossfire from Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers. Judging by the Republic's fierce resistance, they'd realized the double-layered "bowl" of heavy cruisers holding steady wasn't exactly eager to blow them all to Hutt. With their numbers, they could've done so without much trouble.
But instead, they chose to tie up the escort Destroyers' fighters with their TIEs, sending some of their craft to clear the space around the Destroyers of excess fighters.
Why bother with such nonsense?
Simple. When an ion cannon fires, it's best if nothing extraneous is between it and the target—otherwise, you might waste a shot hitting a fighter instead of a Star Destroyer.
Tomax dropped the Scimitar three echelons lower to gain ample space for a high-speed dash.
The Y-wing bomber wing had once earned fame for using TIE bombers in diving operations. A straightforward task with experienced pilots and plenty of practice time. But after losing nearly all his men and receiving green recruits in their place, the attack on Bpfassh taught him the problem needed a radical solution. There was no more time for honing precision dive-bombing skills on TIE bombers.
They needed a dedicated dive bomber. And the Scimitar project was the craft to elevate Imperial bomber aviation to a new level.
— Systems ready, all green lights, — Alex reminded him. — Are we diving, or just sitting here?
Tomax shook his head. "Diving" in space... what a joke, the ultimate joke.
— Dash, — he warned, activating the PLAE.
Despite the inertial compensator, he still felt the acceleration's effects.
His body pressed into the seat, though not so much that he couldn't control the craft.
But the captain had no intention of doing so—any movement of the control yoke could veer them off course, turning the ship into an unsightly decoration on the nearest starship's hull.
Caught by the accelerator, the Scimitar closed the distance to Crimson Dawn's underbelly at twenty-one megasuns per second. In less than four seconds—an eternity to the pilot—it reached its target. Intact, with a crew ready to—
The black-gloved hand deactivated the PLAE.
The unpleasant pressure he'd endured for the last four seconds eased. Nausea set in, along with a dry mouth...
But he had no time to dwell on these minor issues.
The Scimitar banked, its laser cannons slashing at a bewildered X-wing that had foolishly attempted a head-on attack, disregarding logic. Common sense dictates: see an unknown vessel barreling toward you, step aside and observe. It might not become your death.
But the Incom pilot was skilled—he managed to fire at the Scimitar, his red bolts splashing across the deflector field. Not the strongest, but effective.
— Surprise, — a sardonic smirk crossed Tomax's lips. — We've got deflectors now too.
The bomber slipped past the X-wing's wreckage, heading for the midsection of Crimson Dawn's underbelly, where a brutal melee raged.
— Your... coupling! — Alex blurted.
— What? — Tomax snapped, turning his craft belly-up toward the dreadnought's lower hemisphere.
— Imperious!
— What about Imperious? — Tomax growled, blasting a nearby wishbone into oblivion with his cannons.
— It's just ruins! — Alex's voice carried undisguised fear.
Tomax, setting the targeting computer and gaining a few seconds, turned his head to glimpse the Destroyer.
— Your coupling... — was all he could muster.
The fast dreadnought—one of the few Imperial fleet ships with not only paired hangars but heavy artillery in its lower hemisphere. Per its schematics, Crimson Dawn's underbelly boasted dozens of heavy turbolasers and ion cannons, not to mention missile launchers...
The lower hemisphere of the Bellator-class fast dreadnought.
And Imperious had learned firsthand what they were capable of.
From bow to stern, the ship resembled a charred, plasma-scorched lump of metal, punctured in dozens of places, its hull geometry shattered, gutted by artillery, with gaping wounds and a halo of debris surrounding what looked more like a corpse than a ship battered in fierce combat.
Now it was clear why Crimson Dawn and Imperious held position, barely maneuvering. The Scimitar's sensors detected tractor beam activity.
Outclassing the Imperial by nearly five times in size, the dreadnought had latched onto its prey like a predator, pummeling it with its guns, heedless of its surroundings. Imperious fought back with its remaining mid-caliber turrets, while a single turbolaser turret on its port side stubbornly chipped away at the second, larger solar ionization reactor "bubble" on Crimson Dawn's belly.
The ship's air wing, heavily depleted, struggled to fend off persistent fighters, but they were overwhelmed by numbers. By the time other ships' squadrons reached the target, the Imperial I would likely cease to exist...
And only ten minutes had passed since the battle began!
— Your blasted coupling! — Alex yelled. — Fleet! You're lunatics! I nearly...
Tomax tuned him out. The Scimitar sped toward its target, flashing past debris that once formed a few TIE bombers. Clearly, Captain Shohashi, unable to continue targeting the enemy reactor with ship artillery, had deployed bombers...
Which the enemy's fighters swiftly dispatched.
The same fate would've awaited TIE bombers attacking immediately after exiting hyperspace.
Tomax understood Alex's reaction—near Imperious, absorbing some of the Republic's wrathful artillery, Judicator fired its guns, its sensors and defenses still offline, turning the Bellator's armor into a meteor-pocked moonscape.
— They won't succeed, — Alex muttered. — Crimson Dawn will tear them both apart! Look, they've knocked out Judicator's shield generators!
— They won't have time, — Tomax said grimly, baring his teeth as the targeting computer locked onto both targets. One for each of the Scimitar's magazines.
But, realizing Alex was right, the pilot halved the ordnance expenditure.
And pulled the trigger.
The Scimitar was a resilient machine, capable of carrying up to thirty-two proton torpedoes or missiles, depending on the payload.
Today's menu featured proton torpedoes.
Sixteen crimson, self-guided projectiles launched from the racks, guided by the targeting computer, splitting into two streams of deadly, man-made fire.
— Captain Bren to Imperial pilots, — he opened the shared Imperial channel. — Stay clear of Crimson Dawn's hangars.
Clicking the comlink, he switched to Alex's channel.
— Now, let's deal with the second reactor, — he said vengefully, dodging enemy ships. The roaring engine pulled the Scimitar under Crimson Dawn's stern, where Tomax turned the craft, swiftly downing a Republic interceptor that had dared approach. Reeling from the unexpectedly rapid and intense fire, the A-wing veered upward...
And burned in the exhaust plumes of Crimson Dawn's engines.
— A scum's death for scum, — Tomax muttered, locking onto the target.
In the Republic fleet, RZ-1 interceptors, or "A-wings," had a notorious habit of exploiting their speed to hunt sluggish TIE bombers, especially during retreats.
— Plot an escape course! — he ordered Alex.
— Have you lost it? — Alex shot back. — I'm a technician, not a navigator!
Tomax growled something profanely unprintable.
He slammed the firing stud, sending sixteen torpedoes toward the Republic interceptors charging him. They scattered, using their favored tactic—accelerating to outrun the homing projectiles.
Twelve proton torpedoes chased the fleeing enemy craft...
But the remaining four closed in on the main solar ionization reactor's hemisphere with every fraction of a second...
* * *
Unable to hide my fascination with the events unfolding, I leaned forward to better observe the chaos beneath Crimson Dawn.
Two streams of flame erupted from under the ship, littering space with vast amounts of debris.
Some undoubtedly belonged to the ship's hull; others were the mangled, disfigured remains of Republic fighters caught in the blast wave of proton torpedoes detonating within both main hangar bays of the fast dreadnought.
— Bren did it! — Captain Pellaeon exclaimed in a surge of emotion, sweeping off his cap. — Hutt's drool! He actually did it!
— Prepare my flagship for a jump, — I ordered, watching as the gray hull of Captain Brandei's Star Destroyer turned into a scorched, mangled hunk of metal.
— Course, sir?
— Straight ahead, Captain, — I said simply. — And inform the Torpedo Sphere commander to cease fire. In a few seconds, Crimson Dawn will be ninety percent combat-incapable. Tell the other Destroyers: 'Be ready to jump and attack the dreadnought's escort ships.'
— Aren't we using Sunburn? — Gilad asked, surprised.
— Circumstances are shaping up far better than planned, Captain, — I replied. — No need to give our future prisoners insight into how rapid our upgraded Venators' main caliber is. We'll resolve the issue of reclaiming Imperial property the old fleet way: 'First to die, loses.'
— Yes, sir! — Pellaeon reported.
The battle for control of the First Division of the New Republic's Fourth Military Fleet was entering its climactic phase.
* * *
General Willard, rising from the central platform, touched the right side of his face, which felt inexplicably hot. Pulling his hand away, he saw it covered in blood.
— Sir, are you alright? — the dreadnought's senior aide appeared beside him.
— Alive, — the Alderaanian replied curtly. — Where's the captain?
— Dead, sir, — came the reply. — One of the terminals exploded right in his face. No chance...
Leaning on his subordinate's arm, the aging strategist stood and looked at the holographic display, wanting to assess the unfolding battle.
It didn't take long to evaluate the situation.
— Helm, the Imperials will keep hitting us from below. Turn us to bring our starboard guns to bear.
— General, sir, but that'll expose our belly to their fighters and blockade Destroyers...
— I know, Acting Captain.
— Sir, they'll destroy us!
Willard glanced at the chief gunnery officer, a burly figure barely squeezed into an officer's uniform, as if one wrong move would split it at the seams. Fitting, since this sentient was a Bothan. A blatantly cowardly Bothan.
— Continue firing on Imperious. Ignore other targets in the same firing sector!
— Understood, General, but perhaps you'll reconsider? We need to escape! The hangar's destroyed, massive internal damage! Shields are only just recovering! If they hit us with ion cannons again, we'll just become dead weight...
Willard closed his eyes for a moment, calming himself. A durasteel heaviness spread through his head. He must've hit it hard when the Imperials landed a gut punch on Crimson Dawn. A serious, potentially lethal blow under the right circumstances.
— We have more guns than Shohashi and the second Destroyer combined, — General Willard replied. — They've already outmaneuvered us, knocking out the smaller solar ionization reactor and cutting power to most of our launchers. We must destroy Imperious to turn perpendicular to our current plane and take out at least one Star Destroyer. The second will inevitably pull back.
— And the enemy fighters? — the senior aide inquired.
— Use small cumulative missiles, — he replied patiently. — We have enough power to fend them off. Check the hangar's status and the deck crew...
— Sir, it's all destroyed, — the senior aide reported. — I just checked. We've lost the ability to rotate our air wing, and now all our fighters and interceptors must rely on escort ships...
— Order...
A new explosion rocked Crimson Dawn like a massive kick to the rear. Everything on the bridge was swept up by the shockwave from the stern. Equipment exploded, shattered by sentient bodies, shrapnel whistled across the bridge, and the screams of the wounded mixed with the agony of the dying...
— Main reactor power lost! — the acting dreadnought commander reported immediately. — Power disruptions across decks! Proton torpedoes damaged the reactor! I've ordered it shut down to prevent an explosion...
Willard knew it was over.
Without its main and backup power sources, Crimson Dawn was just a massive, sluggish "toy" that could neither flee, retreat, nor defend itself. The heavily armed ship instantly ceased actively engaging the enemy. Its firing rate dropped drastically... With a few simple moves, Shohashi had disabled a fast dreadnought built to annihilate capital ships.
How he did it no longer mattered.
Defeat was inevitable.
They had to ensure it didn't turn into a rout.
— Order to the division, — Willard rasped. — Abandon Crimson Dawn, break formation, breach the blockade, and leave the system.
As the First Division's ships began to scatter, signaling their intent, the trio of Immobilizer 418 cruisers, which the Republic had objectively forgotten about, reminded them of their presence.
Twelve additional artificial gravity well vectors appeared as suddenly as two Victory-class Star Destroyers and a pair of Providence-class carrier Destroyers materialized above the Republic formation.
Then, executing microjumps interrupted by multidirectional gravity projectors, every single Star Destroyer in Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet appeared around the helpless giant and its escorts, unexpectedly closing to within ten to twenty units of the Republic ships.
Erik Shohashi and the crew of Imperious performed a heroic feat, drawing the fast dreadnought's attention and enabling Grand Admiral Thrawn's plan to render it helpless.
Three seconds later, a merciless barrage erupted from their broadsides.
* * *
Forked blue lightning, leaping from K'baoth's claw-like fingers, pierced Corran Horn's body, instantly enveloping him.
The familiar smell of ozone and singed hair filled the air.
Horn screamed, writhing under the electric assault.
Luke lunged to help but was halted by a second stream of white-blue energy, which he absorbed by angling his emerald blade correctly.
The Force lightning that the Emperor had used to torture him aboard the second Death Star no longer frightened the young Jedi.
It didn't last long—K'baoth, for some reason, ceased attacking both of them.
His eyes, burning with the same amber as the Emperor's, studied the young Skywalker with barely concealed interest.
— So that's how it is? — he asked. — The mutt knows a few tricks?
Luke let the insult slide.
Past encounters with Dark Side adepts had taught him one simple rule: Sith or dark Jedi never start a conversation unless they're plotting something. Most likely, something deadly.
So...
The emerald blade in the Jedi's hands traced a gleaming arc, followed by the crack of a stone split in two. Both halves crashed beside the Jedi. Judging by its size, the rock was no smaller than his head. K'baoth had intended to crush his skull without hesitation.
Laughing suddenly, K'baoth raised his hands to unleash another barrage of white-blue lightning on the two young men.
But Luke was no longer in the strike zone.
With a single leap, he moved aside, reaching Corran just as K'baoth unleashed another Force lightning strike.
Skywalker instinctively deflected with his saber, and for a moment, a spectacular sight unfolded: the bright green blade wreathed in a blinding white coronal discharge. The second bolt, harmless, melted the sand into a pool of liquid silicon. The third clashed with the lightsaber again.
The duration of the lightning strikes shortened, but their frequency increased. The cloned Jedi Master had switched to firing in bursts.
— Pathetic underachiever! — K'baoth roared, striking with Force lightning from both hands. The power of the next attack was so intense that Luke nearly fell to his knees. Only by flexing his legs did he manage to brace against the blow and stand firm. The blade tugged sideways, threatening to wrench it from his grasp.
— Hold on, — he barely heard Horn's quiet plea through the crackling discharges. Glancing at the Corellian, the young Jedi was surprised to see him largely unharmed—save for the thoroughly scorched pilot's jumpsuit.
— The Jedi are MINE! — the madman's voice thundered. Luke felt his fingers numbing, unable to withstand the clone's onslaught.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Horn rise to one knee, squinting as he aimed his blaster...
Then a blinding flash robbed Skywalker of his spatial awareness.
Undaunted, he maintained his defensive stance but no longer felt pressure on his weapon. Something had forced K'baoth to relent...
— You okay? — Horn's voice came through.
— Seems like it, — Luke replied, struggling to blink away the red haze before his eyes. Failing to clear it on his own, he called on the Force.
It helped almost instantly.
Looking around, he saw K'baoth was no longer in his previous spot.
Nor was Horn.
Peering closer, he spotted the tattered orange jumpsuit of the Republic pilot, along with its Corellian occupant from Rogue Squadron, now standing hunched over a pile of rags by a tree, the grass around it scorched for meters.
— Corran, you alright?
— I think so, — came a less-than-confident reply from the battered jumpsuit. — K'baoth too.
Luke, deactivating his weapon, approached them, not forgetting to salute the X-wing hovering on its repulsor cushion. The little astromech bleeped back, as if saying it was ready to blast someone's feet anytime, just ask.
Reaching the tree, he saw K'baoth lying on his back, unconscious but breathing evenly. Horn knelt beside the fallen clone, studying him with a mix of suspicion and curiosity, like a biologist discovering an unknown species.
— Not even a scratch, — he said with a clear note of astonishment tinged with frustration. — You should've taught that droid to aim better.
— R2 wasn't trying to kill anyone, — Luke defended his old friend. Crouching beside the still body, he placed a hand on the madman's forehead, listening to the Force's whispers... — He's fine. Just stunned, nothing more.
— Sonic shock or blast wave, — Horn deduced. — Well, time to finish the job. Scoot over...
Skywalker looked up.
— We're not killing him, — he said firmly. — If he's guilty, he should face trial.
— Are you kidding? — Horn gaped. — This lunatic's responsible for thousands of deaths across the Dufilvian sector. He nearly killed us both, and you want to spare him, ship him to Coruscant?
— Justice must come from a court, — Luke held firm. — Jedi aren't executioners to pass and enact their own sentences.
— You're downright saintly, — Horn shook his head. — Luke, wake up! This is a mini-Emperor who can control people, read minds, shoot lightning from his hands, and do who-knows-what else! It's dangerous to let him live!
— We're not killing him, period, — the stubborn Jedi insisted. — We just need to fix the long-range comm antenna and call for backup. The New Republic will take him and interrogate him. He might know something important...
— Or he'll brainwash the entire crew of the ship that comes for him, escape to some backwater, and then you, me, Rogue Squadron, and half the New Republic fleet will spend years rooting him out, all while he enslaves a few sectors and sows discord among us. Luke, I was here! I heard his speeches! You saw what he's capable of—he has no moral qualms. If needed, he'll brainwash everyone. Who'll answer for the innocent lives he sends to slaughter against us?
— K'baoth isn't necessarily an enemy, — Skywalker declared with infuriating conviction. — I spoke with the one who used him against us. It's possible Grand Admiral Thrawn somehow controlled or coerced him into this...
— Do you hear yourself? — Horn asked. — How do you control a psychopath like that?
— I don't know, — Luke admitted. — But when I met Thrawn, it was like he didn't exist in the Force. And he managed to keep it away from my location somehow.
— Great, — the Corellian threw up his hands. — I step away for a moment, and the galaxy spawns an Imperial, clearly unfriendly Grand Admiral who knows more about the Force's mysteries than the great Jedi Knight Skywalker.
Skywalker didn't budge.
— He'll live, Corran, — he said firmly.
— Don't want to lose your future employer? — Horn smirked.
A muscle twitched on Skywalker's cheek.
— Darth Vader served the Dark Side for decades but rejected it and returned to the Light. Maybe K'baoth can too?
— From what I've heard, Vader wasn't a completely unhinged egomaniac, — Horn scratched his chin. — Based on fleet scuttlebutt, K'baoth's more like the Emperor. He won't turn to the Light Side. He'll bide his time, gather strength, and drag as many people as he can under his influence.
— Corran, — Luke said patiently. — Clone or not, K'baoth, — the young man pointed at the figure on the ground, — is a Jedi. He may possess knowledge I don't have. Or that others don't...
— Uh-huh, — the Corellian nodded. — Want to learn how to crawl into people's heads?
Luke faltered.
— Let me clarify something, — Horn requested. — Tell me, if Vader or the Emperor had survived, would you rush to study under either of them?
— No, — Skywalker admitted. — I doubt I'd be interested in Dark Side knowledge...
— Double standards—is that a special Jedi art or what?
— Corran...
The Corellian waved at the Jedi.
— Do what you want. It's your back that'll get stabbed if you're wrong. Got any rope or cable in the X-wing?
— Probably, but why? — Luke asked, intrigued.
— To tie him up, — Horn nudged the peacefully lying K'baoth with his boot tip. — Or let him roam, putting on his exotic fireworks for the locals?
— I'll grab it, — Luke promised, stepping away. Turning back, he glanced at the Corellian again. — Did K'baoth teach you to absorb energy?
— What? — Horn looked at him, stunned, then down at his body. — No, he never mentioned anything like that.
— So how'd it happen? — Luke asked.
— How should I know? — Horn shrugged. — When you're getting zapped by lightning, you just pray you don't die.
— Got it, — Skywalker muttered, resuming his trek for the needed supplies.
Though the X-wing was only ten meters away, Luke didn't make it.
Refocusing on his sole objective, he belatedly sensed danger. Or rather, heard it...
— Corran, no! — he shouted, turning and taking a few steps toward the Corellian. But it was too late.
A lightsaber with a white-silver blade made a single motion—springing from its hilt.
Luke felt a powerful spark of life extinguish nearby—the white-silver blade of Corran Horn's saber deactivated, leaving a slash across the cloned Jedi's head.
— You executed him! — Skywalker accused, reaching his side.
— I neutralized a threat, — Horn said sharply. — You can prance around with your principles all you want, but if you don't squash lunatics like him while they're small, you'll get a whole brood of mad dictators like this one!
— Corran, that's not right, — Luke shook his head. — Jedi don't do this...
— Well, I'm not a Jedi!
— He would've been tried and...
— Oh, really? — Horn asked skeptically. — Based on what evidence? A confession from Grand Admiral Thrawn? Or a heartfelt admission? No, wait, — he smirked, — you'll fly to him, explain that war is bad, and he should surrender, serve a decade on Kessel, or get a lethal injection...
Skywalker fell silent. He had no response.
In the moonlight, a glint of metal shone through the old man's gray hair.
Luke gently reached for it, pulling a curious medallion from his neck.
Turning it over in his hands, he asked Horn:
— Any idea what this is?
— A medallion, — Horn shrugged. — K'baoth always held it when he wanted to calm down. Why?
— We need to fix the comm system, — the young Jedi redirected the conversation. — And get out of here.
— I've got parts of my X-wing's comm unit and bits of Whistler stashed in the local settlement, — the Corellian said, heading toward the village Luke had noticed on approach. — I'll be back in a couple of hours. Hutt, it's freezing...
Watching him go, Skywalker felt a pang of unease.
— Corran, — the young Jedi called, looking aside and slipping the medallion into his pocket. — There's a spare jumpsuit in the X-wing. Take it—yours is missing its back. Completely...
— Ohhh! — Horn drawled. — No wonder it's so drafty...