As soon as the primary energy sources were disabled by the enemy or by General Willard's orders, the inevitability of an impending attack and boarding became clear.
Republican soldiers raced through the decks toward the docking points of the Imperials' assault ships at emergency airlocks, hoping to organize a defense in time. Even to the untrained and uninformed eyes of ordinary space infantrymen, it was evident that the ship was undergoing the destruction of information that could fall into enemy hands—and would inevitably do so if measures weren't taken to erase data and destroy computer hard drives.
There was no need to panic yet—Crimson Dawn was still firing back at the encircling Imperial Star Destroyers, but no one harbored illusions. With the switch to backup power sources, the dreadnought's defensive capabilities had plummeted significantly. The intensity of turbolaser fire had decreased by half, if not more, and the laser cannons no longer stung the advancing Imperial ships. The space around the Bellator-class dreadnought was filled not only with fighters and interceptors but also with boarding and landing shuttles. Dozens of them had already docked at the numerous emergency airlocks, and soon, streams of Imperial stormtroopers clad in gleaming white armor would flood the decks.
The crew of Crimson Dawn armed themselves, preparing for their final stand. In the eyes of the Republican fighters burned an unyielding resolve. None of them intended to surrender—each knew what awaited them in captivity. Rumors about the prisoners of Lusankya, only recently uncovered thanks to the efforts of Rogue Squadron, circulated through the fleet, growing with ever more vivid details.
No one—neither human, Rodian, Bothan, nor Zabrak—not a single member of the hundreds of species aboard Crimson Dawn entertained the thought of captivity. No one wanted to end up like the late General Dodonna, discovered after a decade in confinement.
The Imperials' desire to capture the dreadnought was understandable, as was the fact that General Willard would not order the ship's self-destruction. There was a slim chance that emergency repair teams could restore the main solar ionization reactor, allowing the dreadnought to regain at least partial power and attempt a breakthrough, much like the escort ships were doing now.
This was precisely why the crew was determined to fight—as soon as the stalled reactor provided energy again, the enemy would no longer have a chance to stop them. Escape, flee without looking back, from this terrifying and merciless trap. Only then could they prevent the fast dreadnought from falling into enemy hands.
The lower ranks didn't know this, but the officers were well aware of the situation. There weren't many super star destroyers left in the galaxy. One, of the Executor-class, named Reaper, was in the hands of the ruler of the Imperial Remnant's Pentastar Alignment. The New Republic could counter this trump card with its own trophy—Lusankya. The possession of Crimson Dawn in the hands of the New Republic government tipped the scales slightly in its favor in the ongoing conflict. After all, the remaining super star destroyers had either been lost by the Imperials in their internecine wars or destroyed by the Rebel Alliance.
If Crimson Dawn fell back into the hands of its original owners, it would shift the balance of power. Emboldened by such a success, the Imperials might well ignite a new phase of the Galactic Civil War, which had recently quieted but was now flaring up again. And judging by recent trends, the Imperials were managing quite well with far fewer starships than the New Republic possessed.
A squad of two dozen sentients took up positions in a corridor leading directly from an emergency airlock to the bridge, from which Crimson Dawn was commanded. Barricading themselves with ubiquitous transport containers and preparing to fire from corridor corners, the Republicans grimly readied for battle.
Heavy weaponry had already been brought up from the armories, and stationary blasters were being deployed in the corridors. If the Imperials thought they could simply seize the bridge without allowing the command to destroy classified data, they were gravely mistaken. To counter such heavy repeaters, one would need to be at least a walker pilot. But the corridor's dimensions wouldn't allow even a light reconnaissance walker to maneuver…
All thoughts of hypothetical enemy plans vanished the moment the sound of thermal explosives burning through the airlock's locking mechanisms echoed from the other side. Once the electromagnets failed, sliding the doors apart would be no trouble. And then the fight would begin.
The central part of the airlock, where the lock was located, began to glow from the inside of the corridor. At first, it was just a small white-orange spot, then it turned crimson. Finally, the metal glowed white and began to melt onto the deck.
With a faint clank, the doors twitched slightly apart—the lock had given way. The heavy armored plates of the doors began to slide open slowly.
The Republican fighters raised their weapons, ready to aim and eliminate targets. All of them—the counterboarding team—were professionals, capable of facing any opponent. They were trained, had fought in dozens of battles—no Imperial stormtrooper could match them!
The airlock doors parted by barely twenty centimeters.
The soldiers tensed. Fingers rested on triggers. Now, following their favored tactic, the stormtroopers would force the doors open and charge…
But instead of soldiers clad in the all-too-familiar white armor, cylindrical ordnance flew into the corridor, spewing clouds of thick smoke.
It seemed the Imperial stormtroopers had finally devised a new tactic. Attacking under the cover of smoke grenades was certainly interesting. But it wouldn't help them.
— Assign firing sectors, — ordered the commander of the Republican counterboarding unit. The corridor was already shrouded in grayish smoke. The metallic clank of the anticipated door-rush echoed…
Now, right now…
But instead of the sound of boots and the red beams of blasters, a metallic, rhythmic clatter rang out. It sent chills down the spines of seasoned veterans who had fought against the mercenaries of the Zann Consortium.
With a distinct musical hum, first one, then a second deflector shield unfurled in the artificial fog… A dry crackle announced the readiness of paired blasters to fire…
The last thing the Republican unit's commander managed to do before he, his subordinates, and their flimsy barricade were shredded by rapid-fire bursts was to issue a warning to all crew members over the open channel:
— Droidekas!
Then came the sounds of blaster fire and the screams of the dying.
Following their Bothan commander's orders, the second unit sprinted forward without hesitation, not looking around. These weren't specially trained soldiers—just ordinary technicians tasked with restoring the reactor. But to do so, they had to reach it. And along the way, the corridor housed an emergency airlock.
The technical team's commander didn't rush, letting his subordinates take the lead.
They were the first to round the corner…
… and the first to take the full brunt of what awaited their targets. A hail of laser fire swept away the Republican specialists, who, to their doom, were brandishing blasters. Their bodies were flung against the opposite wall, ricocheting off, but before they could settle on the floor, each corpse was pierced by another half-dozen shots.
The Bothan, thoroughly shaken, turned and fled, realizing mid-stride that his path might be cut off—another emergency airlock was just a hundred meters away. In the technical zone, there were far too many of them…
He rounded a corner, driven by thoughts of escape pods just one turn away, when he was forcibly stopped against his will.
Nine stormtroopers, clad in the characteristic and painfully familiar armor, were cautiously advancing. And it just so happened that a sly Bothan crossed their path.
— Drop your weapon! — ordered the first of the faceless monstrosities, subtly jerking his blaster rifle to make it clear to the Republican that the conversation would be brief.
The Bothan took a step back. His hand with the blaster began to rise.
Surrender? Ha, as if! He'd rather use the emergency shaft, descend to the hold…
Before his finger could squeeze the trigger's slack, one of the stormtroopers, marked with distinctive red stripes on his armor, turned something toward him that didn't resemble a blaster. Not even a heavy one. And the glow at the device's front hinted at its nature…
Stormtrooper TNX-0333 was faster.
A jet of flame from the flamethrower incinerated the furry wretch in a fraction of a second.
The turbolasers of Chimaera's port side raked green across a battery of Crimson Dawn, which had been methodically pounding the deflectors of Judicator. The space erupted in flames that quickly faded, leaving behind a massive black crater in the hull of the fast dreadnought.
I must admit, it looked quite beautiful from the outside.
— Fourth squad has breached the main reactor hall of Crimson Dawn, — reported Major Tierce. — Clearing of the technical zone has begun.
— Good, — I replied. — How are the droidekas performing?
— As predicted, boarding efficiency has increased significantly, — the guardsman said. With the arrival of clones, he could return to his duties as an adjutant, leaving his copies to lead the Rancor Battalion of the 501st Legion and provide my protection. The second batch of Tierce's clones, numbering five hundred, would be distributed to strategically important sites—specifically, guarding the treasury in the Karthakk system, the factory, and the biolab. And for the safety of Baron D'Asta. — Projected losses have been reduced by seventy percent.
The machines we acquired were still produced by the Confederacy of Independent Systems, which didn't diminish their effectiveness. It's no coincidence that the Galactic Empire, in its early years, used some of the most effective droid models of its defeated and scattered enemy to bolster the newly formed Stormtrooper Corps. Though, as I recall and as confirmed by active data, these combat machines gained the most popularity in ground battles. Which, in my view, is somewhat incorrect—droidekas perform remarkably well in rough terrain. But when operating on flat surfaces, such as a ship's deck, their mobility efficiency increases exponentially. Hitting a droideka rolling toward you, or one shielded, requires more luck than skill. During the Clone Wars, there were algorithms for neutralizing these machines, but due to their infrequent use after the conflict's end, that knowledge became largely obsolete and faded into obscurity.
The Zann Consortium used this type of combat machine, but again—exclusively in ground battles. New Republic forces, and especially Imperial troops, countered them quite effectively. But that was strictly on planetary surfaces.
Thus, I decided to test these machines in shipboard boarding. Reinforce each of the numerous assault teams with a pair of droidekas tasked with breaking through and eliminating entrenched enemies. Yes, this should significantly simplify the work of our boarders.
Because attacking a ship with up to a hundred thousand crew members using just three legions—the 501st from Chimaera, plus troops from Imperious and Judicator—is no small challenge. Yes, stormtroopers are formidable and will never retreat, but it must be understood that in an operation like storming a fleet's flagship, there can be no delays. I was well aware that General Willard would attempt to destroy all classified documentation aboard Crimson Dawn. Using hundreds of droidekas would expedite the ship's capture.
And reduce losses among stormtroopers. Because replenishing the latter, given the significant number of undercrewed starships—which, after this battle, would increase further—places an additional burden on the cloning facility. Which, in the near future, is due for relocation.
I held no great hopes that the population of the Ciutric Hegemony, which is only fifty-six percent human, would rush to enlist in my forces in the first hours of my dominion over the territory. Perhaps in a week or a month, it might happen. But not sooner. Meanwhile, nearly half my fleet is undercrewed. Not to mention that I lack sufficient stormtroopers to fully staff the starships.
Well, since the droidekas, finally out of maintenance and modernization, are performing well, it's time to consider increasing their production. Especially since Coordinator Sergius indicated that the theft of turbolasers at Sluis Van (and, as it turns out, at several other shipyards) was linked to the Zann Consortium, which the galaxy preferred to forget after its glorious victory. Well, if that's the case, I'll have to slightly accelerate my plans regarding Hypori.
The trails of shots twisted into intricate spirals as Chimaera's gunners tried to track a fast-moving target, further proof that Star Destroyers need to reinstate rapid-fire, highly maneuverable anti-aircraft turrets.
A lapse in air wing defense, and a Star Destroyer becomes a large armored box that snaps back but can't bite a maneuverable opponent to death.
This, once again, references shipbuilder Ryan Zion's project, which promised a better modernization option for the Imperial-class Star Destroyer.
Meanwhile, the battle raged on.
And credit must be given to the Republican gunners and missile operators—they knew their craft exceptionally well. As did the interceptor squadron pilots defending our ship.
A supernova bloomed on Chimaera's armor. Crimson Dawn's missile battery, capitalizing on the fact that the Republican flagship's turbolaser fire had weakened our deflectors, managed a full salvo. A distance of fifteen units was practically point-blank. TIE Interceptors managed to shoot down twenty of the two dozen incoming kinetic projectiles, but four anti-ship missiles reached their target.
Imperial Star Destroyer shields are dual-purpose—they effectively deflect energy weapons, but the corpuscular, anti-kinetic protection is designed only for small, slow-moving targets, like micro-asteroids that could severely damage equipment. And better shield generators cannot be made—I've studied the issue. The Galactic Empire spent trillions of credits to achieve even this result.
The shields held for one or two seconds before collapsing. Sirens wailed: the missiles had reached their target, crumpling the bow armor like paper. A pair of internal explosions rocked the ship's bow, warping the structure and deck plating. Though, to the eye, it looked terrifying, in reality, such attacks only destroy one or two compartments, which are relatively easy to handle.
It would have been far worse if we'd faced proton torpedes.
— Artillery, switch to destroying the enemy's launchers! — came Pellaeon's booming order. — Report damages!
— Decks two and three breached! Air leak contained! — Lieutenant Tschel's voice crackled through the intercom. — I've organized repair efforts, sir.
— Send the bomber squadron along Crimson Dawn's flank on our course, — Gilad ordered. I didn't intervene—this was his ship, and he was responsible for it.
Chimaera's gunners repaid their Republican counterparts in full for such an unpleasant "surprise."
Energy bursts from turbolaser batteries shook Crimson Dawn's unprotected flank. Unlike us, its deflector generators couldn't boast robust protection—the dreadnought simply lacked the power for defense, attack, and movement. Thus, eleven Star Destroyers were effectively pummeling it, stripping away its remaining maneuverability while covering Imperious's withdrawal.
The battle's outcome was already taking shape.
While we pinned down the flagship, fighters, interceptors, and bombers relentlessly hammered Crimson Dawn's escort ships. Some heavy cruisers, advancing from their positions, clashed with escort frigates. As a result, the frigates were caught in a crossfire—one side battered by the dreadnought's unshielded flank, the other by a pair of heavy cruisers.
The combat effectiveness of a dozen Nebulon-B frigates, ill-suited for such punishment, was visibly crumbling. Hulls smoked, armor fragments exploded outward.
Three or four frigates were already combat-ineffective—beaten so badly they could only drift, hoping to extinguish fires. But, judging by the number of boarding shuttles, that task would fall to Imperial stormtroopers.
One of the escort Star Destroyers, caught between Death's Head and Bellicose, was fighting with its last strength. Its turret artillery had been stripped by air forces, turbolasers had knocked out deflectors on both sides, and the enemy ship now resembled little more than a charred, broken triangle. It was essentially ruins, barely distinguishable from the state of our Imperious.
There was a strong temptation to ascend to a higher echelon and strike the enemy's exposed bridge, but that would mean failing the plan to capture key prisoners and at least some of the classified information undoubtedly present aboard a fleet's flagship.
One of Crimson Dawn's heavy turbolaser batteries began slowly tracking Chimaera.
Pellaeon spotted the issue in time and issued the appropriate order to our artillery.
Chimaera's starboard ion cannons fired simultaneously. The enemy battery fell silent forever, its formidable but now useless barrels staring helplessly at the unattainable target.
There was a strong urge to order the Venators to strike the enemy's starships—at least those built by the Imperials. But I also understood that after this battle, we'd have a vast number of prisoners of war, who would be handed over to the New Republic on one basis or another, depending on "how things go." And they would undoubtedly provide data on the firing rate of our space ion cannons.
That, in turn, would deprive us of the element of surprise in the future.
The next moment, a massive pillar of flame erupted ahead of Chimaera's course, slicing through the vacuum for ten kilometers as it paraded along Crimson Dawn's starboard.
When the fire stream vanished, so too did a massive chunk of the dreadnought's hull—five hundred meters long and at least thirty meters deep into the enemy ship.
— Captain Bren attacked the proton torpedo launchers, — Grodin Tierce explained, as if I hadn't already understood.
— Thank you, Major, — I said, casting a glance his way. — I'm confident I can follow the battle without assistance.
— Yes, sir, — the guardsman quickly reported.
Returning to observing the battle, I caught the moment when my flagship's gunners finished turning the enemy's flank artillery into scrap metal.
Now, from this side, the enemy ship looked like nothing more than a chewed-up and spat-out hunk of metal.
Meanwhile, all the Star Destroyers without exception—including even Shohashi's recovering Imperious—were engaging their targets.
And winning, which was no small factor.
Lieutenant Creb executed a quick barrel roll to the right, gaining more space for himself and his wingman. Then he spun the craft into a complex spiral with longitudinal rotation around its axis—a maneuver Imperial pilots considered the pinnacle of aerobatics. Only by the annoyed huffing in the commlink, on the frequency reserved for the entire squadron's pilots, did he realize his mistake.
— Black-Two, tighten up, — he ordered, seeing that the interceptor following him couldn't replicate the maneuver.
— Yes, Black-Leader, — came an irritated mutter. A female mutter. And with a tone that suggested he owed her an explanation… or an apology, perhaps. No way. That's ridiculous.
The squadron under his command shifted to attack, having dealt with X-Wings that had tried to protect a lone Procursator, which fancied itself capable of breaking through a blockade of heavy cruisers. Now the pocket Star Destroyer's gunners would struggle to track the darting interceptor. But they could easily hit his wingman.
"She should've been assigned to the bombers," Creb thought grimly, watching his wingman's straightforward maneuvers. Yes, she was decent, but… let's be honest—TIE Interceptors weren't for Tia.
Because hitting him with a single shot would be impossible for enemy gunners, even in their worst nightmares. But Black-Two was another story. One precise laser shot or a stray turbolaser blast, and there'd be nothing left to collect.
Creb unleashed a volley from all four cannons into an oncoming laser turret, incinerating both the emplacement and its sub-turret compartment. Those lucky enough in the crew died instantly in the tibanna detonation. The rest were flung into space.
The lieutenant switched the comm channel to his wingman.
— More maneuvering, Black-Two.
— Uh-huh, — the girl replied.
— That's an order, — Creb reminded, just in case.
— Uh-huh, — the Twi'lek repeated.
Someone was trying to get under his skin.
A futile endeavor.
Guiding his craft across the Star Destroyer's course, the lieutenant approached from the lower hemisphere, keeping an eye to ensure his wingman didn't fall behind.
It was hot down here.
A trio of A-Wings, like a pack of ravenous predators, were tearing into hapless TIE fighters, leveraging their speed and superior fire rate.
— Black-Two, engaging, — he warned his wingman.
— Uh-huh, — the girl replied.
Fine, he'd given her a chance. Took her on the mission, after negotiating with Pellaeon. Who, to put it mildly, wasn't thrilled. Not at all. Sure, she'd helped once, but letting her near interceptors?
He'd had to remind Chimaera's commander that the girl could've easily fled during the attack on the Corellian dreadnought—nobody had thought to remove the hyperdrive from the H-6. But she stayed and did everything right.
So, letting her feel like an interceptor pilot was a small incentive for professional growth. Basic personnel management—reinforce positive actions, punish disobedience. Maybe Pellaeon had simply forgotten what they teach junior officers in command courses.
Either way, Lieutenant Creb was going into battle with a blatantly green cadet whose experience with TIE Interceptors amounted to about thirty hours in a simulator. Hardly Jedi-level prowess, but…
It was a chance to make amends with the girl—at the very least.
At most, to show his favor by letting her participate in a real battle.
And cover his back.
Every pilot knows how crucial a wingman's role is. And he'd chosen to entrust that role to her. If she pulled it off—by the Hutt, he'd go all the way to the Grand Admiral to request she stay in the squadron. Normally, his wingman would've been his own clone, but instead… The clone had bolstered the Greys, a brother squadron of interceptors from Chimaera. Hmm… did that mean he'd already given two wingmen to the Greys? No, the third would stay with him.
The first enemy interceptor was caught in a sharp turn—Creb precisely burned out its cockpit. The decision was instantaneous, the moment he saw what it had done to a poor TIE fighter. A glancing shot to the Imperial craft's canopy. With enough accuracy, you could rip out the entire canopy—and the unfortunate pilot would be ejected into space. If the life support system survived, it'd keep them alive for a few minutes. But given the scale of the battle, no shuttle would come for a downed pilot before it all settled.
In other words, the rebel was toying with the Imperial.
Bastard.
Creb veered his craft aside, avoiding a hit to his right stabilizers. It seemed this pair of New Republic interceptors had abandoned their hunt for TIE fighters and decided to settle the score for their downed pilot. Whom the lieutenant had just vaporized with a precise shot.
Fine.
— Black-Two, be careful, we're up against aces, — it wasn't hard to deduce from how effortlessly the A-Wings evaded locks. And it was dangerous. Because his wingman clearly wasn't ready for opponents of this caliber. — Cover me, I'll handle them.
— Understood, — oh, she knew other words?! Wonderful. She's teachable.
Lieutenant Creb banked aside, tracing four green trails just in front of one opponent's nose. Fast. Good. But an Imperial interceptor is maneuverable.
He glanced at his wingman—sticking to him like glue. Good. Though, if Krieg Jainer were his wingman, those A-Wings would already be space debris. Well, time to fix that.
— A-Wing behind, — Black-Two warned. Uh… and then what?! What are you there for? Fire a burst from all barrels, make it break off!
Creb opened his mouth to respond, but the girl broke the silence:
— Clear now.
Hmm… and indeed.
But she could've only done that in one way.
— Did you put the interceptor on its jets? — he asked, slotting in behind the fleeing craft.
The maneuver involved abruptly cutting the engines and working the stabilizers. The craft practically rears up, flipping "upside down" by physics, and can fatally surprise an opponent with a shot along its course. It's done in a second. But hitting anything during that spin is practically luck. Or years of practice. Except Imperial fighter and interceptor pilots don't live for years. Their lifespan is ten combat missions. And Creb, it seems, was already living on borrowed time.
— Yeah, — Black-Two replied.
He wanted to chew her out. Because in his time, dozens of more skilled pilots died attempting that maneuver—failing to finish the enemy before they returned fire. In her case, it could've killed both her and him.
— Good job, — he said, switching back to the chase. That's why wingmen should be seasoned pairs who've flown together extensively—so they don't have to worry about each other.
Because while he was distracted by thoughts of the girl and her antics, the enemy interceptor vanished. It wasn't on the scanners either.
— Black-Two, I've lost the target, — he admitted. They needed to find and finish it fast before the bastard slipped away. Soon, the landing craft would deploy—no need to add them to the losses.
— I know, — her voice took on a playful tone. — Don't worry, Creb, he's no longer a threat.
— Reason?
— He dropped to the lower echelon, and I blew him up.
Alright, fair enough.
— Good job, — the pilot replied. — Head to the stern. We'll do an ascending loop and take out the deflector field projectors. I go first, then you.
— Understood, — the girl replied. Was it his imagination, or could she actually respond without those intriguing feminine notes in her voice? If so, Creb might yet make a decent TIE Interceptor pilot out of her.
Or they'd both die attacking the Procursator from the rear.
The battered bow of the Republican Star Destroyer was a pleasing sight. Especially when you knew it was the work of your gunners.
Captain Stormaer, standing on the bridge of Abyssal Fury, showed no outward signs of the satisfaction flooding through him.
Commanding an Interdictor-class Star Destroyer typically meant staying in the second line of battle or engaging in slow exchanges with the enemy without the ability to maneuver—your primary task being to prevent enemy ships from escaping into hyperspace. That's what five ships of Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet were doing now, trading shots with Crimson Dawn from maximum range.
But Abyssal Fury was in the thick of it, so to speak. Its crew could witness the results of their actions firsthand.
Air leaked into the vacuum from breaches in the Republican ship's hull, which the Imperial Destroyer's gunners had "smoothed" with their port side. The edges of fresh breaches glowed dimly. The enemy starship was heavily smoking and trying to slip past the Imperial ship blocking its path to open space.
But that wouldn't happen.
The Republican's stern was ablaze—bombers had worked it over. Only half its engines were functional, and even then, only because the ship needed to be used later to tow it out of the system.
— Two frigates approaching from starboard, sir, — the watch officer warned.
— Barrage fire, — Antonias commanded. — Ion cannons, maximum rate of fire on the Nebulons' sterns. Starboard turbolasers, target hull damage. Send two fighter squadrons to the first ship. Interceptor squadron to the second.
Escort frigates were weak alone against a ship like an Imperial Star Destroyer. But in groups, they could inflict serious damage. That's why he intended to force one of the attackers to veer off, ensuring his ship's safety and maneuverability. The second would be fair game.
The space to the right of Abyssal Fury's bridge bloomed with beautiful bluish flame: the ion cannon gunners fired a salvo, then switched to rapid fire.
As expected, the commander of the targeted escort frigate quickly realized the danger if he continued on his original course. Losing engines with a fully operational Imperial Star Destroyer nearby… Yes, there were less reckless ways to commit suicide.
Rapid fire from the port turbolasers bore fruit—the gunners managed to carve a new hole in the enemy Destroyer's hull. Just moments ago, a linear-elevated battery of medium turbolasers had been there.
Gazing at the massive smoking crater, partially affecting the Republican starship's superstructure, Antonias ordered the port ion cannons to redirect their fire there.
The enemy didn't hesitate to retaliate with all its turreted turbolasers. But it managed only one salvo—the next moment, bombers sweeping in from the stern unleashed a massive missile barrage, clearing the Republican ship's superstructure of all valuable components—antennas, sensor clusters, deflector domes…
The enemy ship's remaining defenses melted away.
— Port turbolasers, fire on the enemy's turret emplacements, — Antonias ordered.
No, there was definitely something beautiful about being on the front lines of a space battle.
The captain glanced at Sentinel. His former ship remained obediently in the second line, alongside the withdrawn Torpedo Sphere, whose gunners were halfheartedly adding tibanna to the slaughter.
They had targeted a Republican Star Destroyer that had decided not to retreat along its entry vector but to press forward.
Which would inevitably lead it to both the Torpedo Sphere and the Interdictors.
— Open a channel to Chimaera, — he ordered. Perhaps Grand Admiral Thrawn simply hadn't noticed.
— I'm listening, Captain Stormaer, — the commander's voice, as always, was soft, calm, and measured.
— Sir, one of the enemy Destroyers intends to attack our Interdictors, — the Abyssal Fury's commander reported quickly.
— Yes, I know, — Thrawn replied calmly. — Don't worry about it.
The Grand Admiral's hologram dissolved.
Uh… well, as you say. But a single ISD, even a Type I, could seriously harm the blockers. It outgunned them by nearly an order of magnitude in shipboard artillery.
The next moment, Antonias understood why Grand Admiral Thrawn was so unperturbed.
In the upper echelon, above and slightly behind the Republican Star Destroyer, moved Steel Aurora and Crusader.
And their bow launchers had just fired a salvo.
No, absolutely and unequivocally—returning to the bridge of his Steel Aurora was far more enjoyable than playing privateer on a Mon Calamari bucket.
Kalian still felt like he reeked of fish, the stench that permeated the entire captured ship. No matter how many times a day he declared "all hands on deck" after boarding the MC80, no matter how much he kicked the technicians to fix the life support systems—the smell lingered.
So now, standing on the bridge of his dear Victory-I, he breathed in the tasteless air deeply. And tried to figure out where, by the Jedi, that rotten fish smell was coming from!
Though, that was the least of his problems at the moment.
Thrawn had given them a tricky task.
Given: a Republican (formerly Imperial) Star Destroyer intent on breaking through to the blockers to damage them or force them to abandon their position. If successful, the enemy could escape the system—not entirely, but a portion of it.
Objective: prevent this. But the starship must remain in a relatively repairable condition. Otherwise, they could simply ask the Torpedo Sphere's commander to settle the matter with one salvo. Even if a hundred proton torpedoes reached the target, the Republican ISD would be reduced to memories and a mangled hulk eagerly scavenged by junkers.
Solution: how do you even accomplish this when the Republican has a speed of sixty megalights, while a Victory-I Star Destroyer manages only forty?
Yes, turbolasers were currently polishing the fugitive's stern deflectors, but that could take ages—despite both Victory-class Destroyers working in tandem.
Well… his more experienced colleague from Crusader had a theory on the matter. And a suggestion.
Which Kalian listened to with great enthusiasm.
— I'm sure Thrawn has a spare Imperial stern stashed somewhere, — he remarked.
— Fire half-salvos, fifteen seconds apart, — the Crusader's commander said, his face that of a man who'd been to hell and personally shaken hands with its denizens. Every single one.
Before the forced stay in Linuri's orbit and the subsequent assignment to the auxiliary fleet, Kalian remembered him as a fairly cheerful man.
Something had happened in his absence, and now I-Gor was clearly withdrawn. One could, of course, ask directly, but even in his youth, Kalian had no desire to pry into his comrades' personal lives. Wearing a commander's insignia and holding the position of a warship captain imposed a certain etiquette and behavioral standard.
— Bow launchers ready, — Kalian reported. I-Gor was older and more experienced, so the young officer had no intention of sparking any dispute over leadership in their impromptu task force.
— One through ten—fire, — ordered the Crusader's commander.
Both Victories unleashed ten anti-ship concussion missiles each—their trump card compared to their faster "big brother."
Naturally, the enemy reacted, sending its fighters to intercept. As expected—the Imperial-class Star Destroyer's stern cover was practically nonexistent. A couple of turbolaser turrets capable of rearguard fire and a few laser cannons in certain variants weren't even funny. It was absurd. Which is why—
The second half-salvo bypassed the Republican pilots, who, with their characteristic recklessness and zeal, were playing a game of hunting two dozen missiles. Madmen. What else could you expect from those who genuinely believed chasing a high-speed, self-propelled projectile was a sound idea? Clearly, the New Republic recruited pilots via holonet ads on some backwater like Tierfon. If they'd studied at proper institutions, they'd know that shooting down missiles this way was more luck than skill.
Shipboard laser cannons succeeded in such endeavors because they were powered by ship reactors, with automation boosting fire rates. Plus, target acquisition and tracking were handled by computers the size of half an X-Wing.
The Republicans tried. Honestly.
The problem was, Imperials knew better how to reliably disable an Imperial Star Destroyer.
The enemy managed to shoot down a few missiles on approach. Still, fifteen concussion missiles reached their coveted target.
Clearly, at the last moment, the enemy Star Destroyer's commander tried to evade, rolling the ship to starboard. In addition to the three massive Destroyer-I engines, a quartet of smaller Genon-IVs blazed fiercely as the Republican attempted to overclock.
But who in their right mind would bet on outrunning self-guided missiles with a starship over one-and-a-half kilometers long?
The Republican Star Destroyer's stern erupted in flames as fifteen anti-ship missiles buried themselves in its main engines, permanently extinguishing their thruster glow.
— Approach from opposite flanks and destroy all artillery with missiles, — Captain I-Gor ordered.
— Executing, — Kalian responded. Receiving confirmation from his first officer that the bow launchers were reloaded, the Steel Aurora's commander ordered targeting of the port turbolaser turrets.
By the time they reached direct linear combat range, the main threat from the target's port side would be neutralized for Steel Aurora.
Captain I-Gor, whose hologram remained active, tracked the strike's direction and result, a faint smile creeping onto his lips.
— Nice trick. Mind if I use it for the starboard traverse, Captain Kalian?
— Be my guest, — the Steel Aurora's commander said with a shrug.
— The anti-air artillery on that giant is an absolute monster! — complained Captain Vain's hologram. — We're burning through our third hundred missiles with barely any effect!
— Continue, — I ordered.
— With all due respect, Grand Admiral, — Captain Irv cautiously interjected. — This tactic is only leading to excessive expenditure of anti-ship torpedoes. The number of targets hit is minimal.
As if I didn't know.
Initially, Crimson Dawn's anti-air artillery was kept at bay by proton torpedoes from the namesake spherical starship in vacuum. Now, I was using both Providences for the task.
Though, the order to them wasn't: "I'll use your launchers to save my pilots and occupy the enemy's anti-air guns," but rather, "Use anti-ship torpedoes to destroy Crimson Dawn's turbolaser turrets in the upper hemisphere."
— In that case, I suggest you devise a way to execute the orders given to your ships, — I said, looking at both holograms. — I'm confident you can find an approach that won't require me to dock your bonuses further.
Captain Irv smirked, a grin spreading across his face.
His younger "colleague," however, was clearly displeased.
— So, we could end up owing you? — his eyes practically bulged. — Grand Admiral, I didn't borrow that much to owe anything!
— And yet, your ships are failing the assigned task, — I pointed out. — The enemy's artillery continues to function and inflict significant damage on my starships. That shouldn't be happening if your ships were operating more effectively.
— Yeah, good luck being effective when these "tins" keep running to double-check every order, — Yazuo Vain grumbled. — What am I, a Jedi archive, to know everything?
A joke… probably meant to be funny. But the situation was dire. I was starting to understand Tiberos, who was convinced Vain had no clue what he was doing on a ship's bridge. Meanwhile, a Providence, with certain upgrades, could be far more effective. Yes, we couldn't build starships yet—lacking the production base—but modernization was always an option.
Given their size, large hangars, moderate crew requirements, and over a hundred anti-ship missile launchers, Providences could make excellent frontline missile carriers.
It would've been enough to repurpose some internal compartments, replace outdated Separatist artillery (which we'd bought in bulk for such cases from a Twi'lek clan's scrapyard on Raxus Prime—thanks to Captain Hoffner, who proved somewhat useful) with quad-turret turbolasers used on Victories, and the result would be compelling.
Unfortunately, a tight schedule and breached agreements prevented this project's realization. But during the repairs of Steel Aurora and Black Pearl, shipbuilder Zion managed to develop several promising ideas for further internal modernizations of those starships. And Venators. And Acclamators. He was even ready to start implementing them immediately, had Moff Ferrus not given him a stern reminder that the project to convert Vindicator-class heavy cruisers into something more valuable wouldn't complete itself.
That's Zion for you—a fountain of ideas sprouting like a horn of plenty. But once he creates design blueprints and tests their viability with mathematical and engineering models, his execution stalls. He simply loses interest in the concept.
They call such people "creative types." Their strength lies in the flight of thought and imagination. I don't particularly care, but please, don't just wave digital blueprints in my face—build at least one ship "in metal" under your direct supervision, run it through a series of tests, and if all goes well, the construction or refit of the rest can be handed off to others.
Bridge builders prove their structure's reliability by driving multi-ton vehicles across it and walking it themselves. In my current reality, I can't literally apply this approach to Zion, so he'll have to follow the rule above: I need at least one starship "in metal" under his authorship, the lead of its series. The construction or modernization of the rest can be handed to Chief Engineer Reyes—no apparent issues there. The man isn't prone to inflated ego, is diligent, but… also more pragmatic and rigid when it comes to innovation.
Either way, modernizing the Providences is only feasible if their captains remain in my service.
Or if the ships are captain-less.
— Regardless, in this operation, gentlemen, you're failing to meet the contract's terms, — I noted.
Formally, I was right, though it was a stretch.
They hold privateer patents. They receive dividends from them. But, enlisted for a military operation, they're not only failing to meet the terms but also causing harm to my ships with their actions.
The consequences for the Star Destroyers, frankly, aren't critical—breaches decorate an Imperial Star Destroyer.
— You're setting us impossible tasks, — Yazuo Vain said, offense in his voice.
— And someone's forcing you to agree to them? — I asked calmly.
— The privateer contract, — Vain muttered.
In simpler terms—money. At the very least, the white-haired half-breed was accustomed to every assignment bringing astronomical profits. And those profits were vital for him as the operator of a carrier Destroyer. Otherwise, he'd go bankrupt. But he couldn't just terminate the contract—he didn't have enough credits to cover the penalty.
— Signing it on those terms was entirely your initiative, captains, — I pointed out. — If the terms don't suit you, we can part ways. Per the agreement's conditions.
— Which we can't fulfill, — noted Captain Irv, who'd been silent until now.
Well, I wouldn't say that about him.
Vain's mentor possessed a substantial sum of credits—at least the tens of millions paid to his former protégé for the assault on Errant Venture.
— On the other hand, — I offered amicably. The idea of swapping starships came to me, unfortunately, after I'd spoken with Captain Tiberos and promised him a Mon Calamari star cruiser. — I can always accept one of your starships as a buyout. It's clear, even to the naked eye, that your participation in this operation isn't just unprofitable for you but also damaging to me. I propose we resolve this issue here and now.
While Captain Irv merely smirked knowingly, Yazuo Vain barely managed to pick his jaw up off the floor at such a blatant "business grab." What can you do? Galaxy Far, Far Away. We Slavs are a rather inventive people.
First, we prayed to wooden idols, then burned them with great zeal.
We drowned the invincible German "pig" in a lake.
We overcame the Tatar-Mongol yoke by simply standing on a riverbank and "flexing our muscles."
We survived the nineties in the post-Soviet space. Without abandoning our native fleet, even when ships and submarines were cut up for scrap.
And, most interestingly, through all this chaos, we survived and learned lessons. Not the most noble ones, but who's to judge us? No fools around.
The ability to find the optimal solution in the worst situations is arguably the finest trait of the Slavic people and our brotherly nations.
And if I've come up with a new idea to usefully "place" Mon Calamari star cruisers while giving Captain Tiberos his coveted Black Pearl in exchange—let's try to resolve the issue peacefully.
And where better to do it than under the funeral epitaph of a Republican battle fleet led by a fast star dreadnought?
Is it fair to an ally? No, absolutely not. But these privateers aren't allies. They care only about credits.
— I'm not giving up my Black Pearl! — Vain declared.
— A pity, — I said. — According to maintenance records, it's in far worse condition compared to Colicoid Swarm. Captain Irv knows how to properly maintain his starship.
— Thank you for the praise, — Irv smiled. Looking at his "pupil's" hologram, who had already realized his ship was out of reach, the senior privateer asked:
— Could we, in that case, amend the privateer patent's terms? Including becoming free privateers in your service, with the right to refuse imposed missions. In other words, without the tight leash you're yanking us with.
— Is that so? — I said, intrigued. Irv wants to go freebooting? How curious. — And what's the price of this change? Considering one of your ships will be handed over to cover the damages for failing to meet the current agreement in this battle?
— It's easy for you to dictate terms, Grand Admiral Thrawn, — Irv shook his head. — When we're in the middle of a battle, under the turbolasers of a dozen Star Destroyers, and in an artificial gravity well. But I have something for you. You mentioned rewards for valuable information, didn't you?
— Correct, — I confirmed, not hiding my interest. Truly, I was curious—what could this privateer offer to make me reconsider the patent's terms? — What kind of information are you prepared to provide, Captain Irv, to demand concessions and the patent's termination? Especially since this is your initiative, and such actions carry a penalty of two hundred fifty million.
— Believe me, what I'm about to tell you is valuable enough, — the aging privateer smiled. — For instance, my good acquaintances revealed that Prince-Admiral Krennel, to "greet" the New Republic's fleet in his territories, has taken significant steps to bolster the number of combat-ready starships on his side. I know their numbers and the list of pirate bands planning to join him.
— How intriguing, — I admitted. But even more intriguing was whether this sentient intended to share this preemptively. Well, why not find out?
So, without overcomplicating things, I voiced my question:
— Immediately after this battle, — Irv replied without flinching. — You're not the only one who plans, Grand Admiral. I'm certain that after your starships took a beating in this engagement, you'd have agreed to pay my requested two hundred fifty million to learn the size of the cesspool you're about to wade into.
— Oh, undoubtedly, — I leaned forward. — The battle is nearing its end, Captain Irv. I expect your arrival immediately after Crimson Dawn surrenders. You too, Captain Vain, — the half-breed nodded irritably. — We'll discuss changes to your patents. And you'd better not be mistaken, Captain Irv. I won't forgive betrayal or deceit.
— In that case, — Irv smiled. — I'll bring a copy of the message Prince-Admiral Krennel is sending to pirates across the Outer Rim.
The backup command post of Crimson Dawn was located just around the corner from the corridor where the Fourth Squad currently stood.
And at this moment, it was the only place on the nearly eight-kilometer-long ship where classified data the crew might possess could still be found. Because on the other command consoles, the enemy had managed to wipe them entirely and destroy the drives.
And they were doing the same at the backup command post for the past five seconds.
They had to hurry—if they delayed another twenty-seven seconds, the mission would be a failure.
The same failure that had befallen the Sixth, Tenth, and Fourteenth Squads, whose bodies littered the corridor before the massive door separating the backup command post from the wide hallway.
And that was a problem.
Because all three decimated squads were efficient clones of the GeNod project from the Rancor Battalion, where the Fourth Squad also served.
Meaning they'd made a mistake somewhere. It was impossible, but the evidence was clear.
— Prepare, — he ordered the stormtroopers. Then, edging to the corner, he quickly peeked around it.
And just as swiftly returned to his original position. Because a series of black scorch marks appeared on the corridor's metal wall panels near his head.
— Heavy blasters, — he commented. — And assault shields for cover.
Now it was clear what happened to the other squads. The enemy had managed to set up long-term, well-defended firing points here. Droidekas could resolve this in seconds. But the problem was, the nearest lethal droids were seven minutes away at full speed. By then, the enemy would destroy all the data command needed. And the sacrifices of the three squads, which had tried to storm the corridor as a single unit just moments before the Fourth Squad's arrival, would be in vain.
Still, it was a problem—such an inefficient attack. By twenty-seven stormtroopers of the GeNod program. A flaw that needed to be reported to the commander.
Twenty seconds remained. Time to decide.
And TNX-0297 had one. The simplest. But one the Sixth, Tenth, and Fourteenth Squads unfortunately lacked.
— TNX-0333, flamethrower fuel ready? — he confirmed with the red-marked stormtrooper "incinerator."
— Affirmative, — came the reply.
— Prepare, — TNX-0297 ordered.
They'd have one shot.
None of the fallen squads had an "incinerator" in their ranks.
— Two seconds, — the sergeant emphasized, holding up two fingers for clarity. — One attempt. After that, the attack is ineffective.
— Understood, commander, — the "incinerator" responded.
TNX-0297 scraped his boot across the corridor's metal surface, testing the grip of his soles. Then, pulling the last smoke grenade from his belt, he activated it and ricocheted it down the corridor to hit the opposite wall near his position. Then he sprinted across the passage.
He wasn't charging into an assault.
He was drawing attention.
At the cost of his life. Because he knew full well that his running speed, the corridor's width he had to cross, and the reaction speed of two heavy weapon operators were incompatible. The enemy's bursts would catch him before he reached the other side.
But that no longer mattered. He didn't matter.
Mission success was paramount. Every clone should strive for that.
He heard the hiss of the smoke grenade cloaking the passage. Listened to the whine of stationary blasters snapping at his heels.
Only two meters remained to the opposite side. Both blasters were trying to track him, as his white armor was still visible in the smoke. But the corner where TNX-0333 and the seven other troopers remained was already obscured.
Which meant…
He didn't finish the thought.
Like a battering ram, red beams struck his side, hurling him against the wall opposite the backup command post's entrance.
Pain seared through his left leg, side, chest, and back.
Sergeant TNX-0297 slid down the corridor wall, staring through orange-crimson hues where the clone medic's armor, rushing toward him, seemed blood-red.
The issue with the sergeant's color perception had nothing to do with the stationary blaster burst that struck his vital organs.
It was simply that Private TNX-0333's flamethrower had turned the corridor's dark-gray landscape into a crimson inferno, incinerating the blaster operators and melting the armored door's locking mechanism. An effective lockpick.
On the fifteenth second since the Fourth Squad's arrival at Crimson Dawn's backup command post, the troopers stormed inside, overwhelming the enemy's resistance.
On the sixteenth second, Sergeant TNX-0297's heart stopped beating, and his consciousness sank into darkness.