Despite its enormous size, the station known as the Trade Federation Center lingered in darkness. Not a single running light, not the faintest glimmer from its viewports. It seemed almost as if it had been abandoned entirely.
But Grand Admiral Thrawn would never send his bodyguard to seize an empty station.
Besides, though Rukh was no soldier, he understood that an object like this—a heavily armored station equipped with two massive hangars—was far too prominent to remain unclaimed by one of the pirate factions that dominated the Karthakk sector. Structures of such magnitude weren't simply left to rot.
Trade Federation Center Station.
The Trade Federation, the very same organization whose ship had once transported a toxic substance that rendered his homeworld of Honoghr effectively sterile, had constructed this center long ago, according to Captain Tiberos—well before the Clone Wars began, a conflict that brought so much suffering to the Noghri. Ten years, perhaps more, before the start of that galaxy-spanning war with its countless participants.
Positioned on the outskirts of the Karthakk system, its nearest neighbor was an Imperial Interdictor-class Star Destroyer, blocking one of the system's exits, stationed thousands of distance units away.
Under normal circumstances, virtually any point beyond the gravitational pull of natural or artificial objects in a star system could serve as a jump point into hyperspace. A handful of starships stationed at its borders wouldn't hinder anyone determined to escape.
But the Karthakk system was far from ordinary. Two nebulae—the Ruby and the Screaming Storm—served as natural barriers to hyperspace jumps in any direction. The first, bathing much of the system's edges in a saturated red glow, was so dense that it disrupted sensors and scanners, allowing entire fleets to hide within it undetected by anything but the naked eye. No tracking or scanning device was powerful enough to penetrate it, and navigation computers couldn't plot a course through such an obstacle. Grand Admiral Thrawn had employed a tactic he'd tested on Honoghr—remote transceivers linked to ships via data cables. It was through these that the ships lurking in the Ruby Nebula received signals from their commander, only because the transceivers were positioned far enough beyond the nebula's interference range.
Rukh, piloting a captured Scurrg H-6 Bomber taken from pirates, had just passed the remnants of this seemingly primitive yet effective communication system. Tens of thousands of kilometers of ultra-thin, ultra-strong cable floated in space, marked only by occasional running lights that allowed him to locate and avoid it, steering clear of becoming ensnared in this vast web.
The nebula known as the Screaming Storm, with its countless asteroids and massive electrical charges stored within them, also jammed equipment. Anyone foolish enough to attempt that route would be instantly obliterated by powerful lightning discharges, for which the ancient asteroids acted as conductors. Dodging even a single one of those cosmic boulders was impossible—they were everywhere. And if you were naive enough to think the electrical surges posed no threat, your life would be measured in seconds the moment you crossed into the Screaming Storm's boundary.
These two nebulae—one a deep red, the other a blinding white-blue—held the Karthakk system in an invisible vice. The few gaps where their grip weakened were now plugged, like the necks of bottles, with cruisers: interdictors and blockaders. Judging by the debris visible against the nebulae's backdrop, these ships had fought their own battles, contributing to the effort to eradicate piracy and slavery in the Karthakk system.
The mere thought of it made Rukh grip the controls tighter, coaxing every ounce of speed from the pirate craft, refurbished by the Chimaera's technicians. The Noghri knew pirates and slavers all too well. Once, the Zann Consortium had come to Honoghr. Many Noghri died fighting them, but some were taken captive, their fates unknown. Yet the death commandos stationed on Hypori spoke of kin still held by the Consortium's enforcers.
Grand Admiral Thrawn had promised them vengeance and justice against those who had stolen Honoghr's youths, raising them as slaves. Soon, it would come to pass—the Noghri would pay a return visit to the Zann Consortium, and their strike would be fearsome. Until then, the Noghri death commandos waited, watched, and hid on Honoghr, biding their time until Thrawn gave the order and Imperial Star Destroyers appeared above Hypori to bring death to the captors and freedom to the captives.
For now, his mission was to seize the Trade Federation Center station.
And so far, he was handling it with ease.
After the H-6 came to a halt, settling onto the deck of one of the operational hangars, Rukh noted that the station still had active atmospheric fields, gravity, and life support systems. No one maintained such features if they intended to abandon a spacefaring object. Even if they did, without proper maintenance, those systems would fail soon enough. That was mechanics and physics—laws that couldn't be cheated. Only the gods who had built the temple on Honoghr in ancient times could craft machines that endured forever, and even those were tended by other machines.
Lowering the bomber's ramp, Rukh crouched in the shadowed interior, waiting.
The arrival of a military ship couldn't go unnoticed in a place where neither hangar held a single vessel. Whoever was here would take the bait—if the station was controlled by Captain Nym's pirates, they'd want to know what had happened to the bomber's crew. Enemies would seek to claim a prize and capture its operators.
He didn't have to wait long. Within minutes, cautious, creeping footsteps echoed from the ramp—steps only someone deluded enough to think shifting from heel to toe made them stealthy could produce. In short, he'd be dealing with two amateurs.
— You sure this is that stuck-up Tia's ship? — came one voice.
— I'm telling you, it's hers, — the other hissed back. — I was supposed to fly this beauty myself; I know every scratch on its hull.
— So why aren't you?
— Because that feral bitch nearly tore my throat out when Nym declared the pilot would be whoever won in a fight. I thought he was joking, pitting me against an ex-slave. Realized I was wrong when she smashed my nose with her forehead. Hope that wretch is still alive—I'll make her pay for kicking me in the kidneys. Tiny foot, but she hits like a laser cannon on full auto!
— Well, I reckon she's lying here wounded, — the first voice speculated again. — Or one of her crew girls. Look, I took your word that this is their ship—otherwise I'd have blasted it with the auto-turrets! The cargo on this station's too valuable to risk like that. Man… I hope it's really those Twi'lek girls, huh? Wouldn't mind 'seeing' all three of them…
— One's enough for me! — the second laughed. — Me first, as 'Obsidian Vault Commandant,' then you, 'Geologist.' Wonder if Nym's really dumb enough to believe you know squat about those black rocks?
— Believed it or not, we've been sitting pretty for five years now, — the first chuckled.
They stood by the ramp, chattering away as if they had no clue what danger they might be inviting. Utter novices. Yet cruel and intent on killing—otherwise, they wouldn't speak so casually about their commander. Rukh no longer doubted the station was under the control of one of the Lok Revenants' lieutenants. Now he just needed to figure out how many foes were aboard and how quickly he could neutralize them.
— Hey, ladies, anyone alive in there? — the second voice finally snapped. — Come on out, no one's gonna hurt you. What'd you fly in for, huh? And who roughed you up?
So Captain Nym hadn't managed to warn this station of the attack—long-range jamming had worked perfectly. Given how vast the Karthakk system was compared to Honoghr, it seemed signals hadn't reached beyond the orbit of the third and final planet.
With a precise flick, Rukh tossed a small piece of metal—something he'd found lodged in the plastic casing of a cable duct—creating a noise deeper inside the bomber.
— Hear that? Maybe they're hurt in there, — the first suggested. — Wounded, probably… Let's go in?
— Yeah, so that Tia witch can break my nose again? — the second sneered. — No way…
Rukh, tightening his grip on his throat, let out a sound resembling a woman's groan.
— Told you, someone's hurt in there, — the first perked up.
— Or they're setting up to break my nose again, — the second grumbled stubbornly.
Rukh groaned again.
— Do what you want, I'm going in, — the first declared. — Rescuers get rewards, right? Hey, girls, don't hit me, I come in peace. Need help, yeah?
The first—the one pretending to be a geologist. The second, likely a guard. Which was more valuable?
— Fine, let's go, — the second relented, and now two pairs of boots clomped up the ramp.
Both. He needed both alive. On military and research sites operated by the Empire, the Rebel Alliance, and other organizations his kin had been sent against by Darth Vader and Grand Admiral Thrawn, information was always split between guards and staff. The former weren't privy to the latter's orders or work, and vice versa. It was a simple way to maintain secrecy.
Having made his decision, Rukh stayed hidden among the shadowed pipes running along the bomber's ceiling, invisible yet all-seeing.
He waited a few more minutes as the two bandits—humans clad in the worn, threadbare clothes typical of the Outer Rim's poorest—spread out through the ship. Only then did he slip down to the deck like a cautious shadow.
In two seconds, he strung a razor-thin, ultra-sharp metal wire across the hatch at ankle height—capable of sawing through a sentient's throat in moments. A precaution in case one escaped. Escape was impossible, of course, but Noghri were trained to account for failure.
— Hey, there's no one here! — the second's voice rang out from the cockpit.
— It didn't fly here on its own, did it? — the first replied from near the turret operator's station. Only two bulkheads separated them…
— Maybe it did, what am I, a pilot? — the second muttered, stepping out of the cockpit. Rukh, clinging to the shadowed ceiling with the lights conveniently disabled, dropped behind his target. The man was bulky—not muscular, just overweight. Perfect.
A strike to the back of the head sent the pirate crashing to the deck like a felled tree, drawing the first pirate toward the cockpit as Rukh intended.
— Hey, what's— Who the hell are you?! — This one was lanky, tall, and awkward. His face bore no trace of intelligence, making it a mystery how he passed as a scientist.
— Run, and you'll lose your legs, — Rukh warned.
As expected, the man tried to shoot first, but a thrown knife shattered the blaster's mechanism. Then the lanky one bolted.
Rukh didn't rush but reached the exit just as the trap severed the man's foot and half his shin. With a melodic twang, the wire snapped alongside the pirate's scream as he collapsed onto the ramp, howling when he realized he'd lost a limb.
A perfect trap. Pity the wire was costly to craft, effective only against flesh, fabric, and bone, and single-use—it couldn't withstand heavy tension, though the damage it dealt was irreversible. Another insidious killing tool taught to the Noghri by Imperial instructors. The Honoghr natives had since devised even more uses for it.
Descending the ramp, careful to avoid the blood, Rukh knocked the "geologist" unconscious with a swift strike. He tied a tourniquet around the wound, dragged the pirate into the shadows beneath the bomber, and shackled him to a landing strut. A search yielded a personal datapad. He similarly immobilized the heavier pirate, binding him so he couldn't free himself, and took a vibroblade, a pack of spice, a blaster, and some odds and ends before returning to the hangar.
Armed with the blaster, the bodyguard of Grand Admiral Thrawn began examining the first pirate's datapad.
Within minutes, he knew he'd complete his master's task within the allotted time—twenty-three minutes remained. He needed only to reach the central control post and disable the command unit, deactivating thousands of reprogrammed B1 battle droids guarding every deck. And he had fifteen minutes before patrols, alerted by the panicking "geologist," arrived from their recharge stations elsewhere.
How to do it without a fight? Simple.
Rukh glanced at the hangar ceiling, quickly spotting the rectangular ventilation shaft that circulated the breathable air mix. It seemed the local pirates had grown tired of restrictions, exploiting the Trade Federation Center's resources to the fullest without a care.
The Noghri had learned much from Imperial instructors, including the quirks of Trade Federation shipbuilding—a program they'd helped dismantle alongside the Confederacy of Independent Systems' remnants.
From a hidden pocket in his tunic, he pulled a coil of thin, strong cable—standard Imperial stormtrooper gear—and attached a grappling hook to one end. Choosing his spot, he spun the device and launched it upward.
Once it wrapped securely around a metal conduit base, the Noghri climbed with practiced ease. Reaching his target, he kicked out the decorative grate blocking the vent and headed for the central control room.
For most sentients, it'd be cramped, but not for one born on Honoghr. Short stature, compact, muscular frame honed by relentless training…
Seven minutes later, he was in position, peering from the vent into the control room. Just three B1 droids. He identified the droid control console immediately.
Silently, he removed another decorative panel. The droids stared dully at the surveillance screens, chattering about the alarm's cause. From their words, he learned that beyond the locked armored doors separating the control room from the main station, over a hundred B1s and several droidekas waited.
Rukh had no desire to tangle with them, so with three precise throws, he sent throwing knives into the droids' sleek heads, eliminating the minor threat.
With acrobatic grace, using the pipes and wiring, he dropped to the control room deck. Consulting the "geologist's" datapad, he entered the codes and shut down the droid control system. The device instantly confirmed the deactivation of all combat units aboard, including the droidekas. It seemed the pirates had tampered with the latter, linking them to the control room too. No droid starfighters or bombers appeared to be present.
Assured of his safety, the Noghri climbed into the chair by the comms console and selected the frequency to contact the Chimaera:
— Mission accomplished, — he said, using the designated phrase. After a few minutes to ensure the signal went through, he was rewarded—far from the station, a Crusader-class corvette emerged from hyperspace, halted by the interdictor's gravity wells, and set a course for the station now fallen to the loyal Noghri servant of Grand Admiral Thrawn.
Awaiting the stormtrooper garrison, Rukh confirmed no one else remained aboard but his two captives. He locked down every compartment, then strode across the deck past the frozen droids toward the hangar.
He wanted to speak with the "geologist" and verify if the datapad's claim was true—that the station had been experimenting with crafting obsidian daggers and knives, as sharp as they were fragile.
If so, perhaps his master wouldn't mind granting such unique weapons to his Noghri servants. Honoghr natives made flawless knives, but throwing darts…
If his master was pleased, the death commandos' arsenal might gain a new, sharper, deadlier—and cheaper—weapon than the wires.
Rukh suspected Grand Admiral Thrawn would be satisfied. He desperately needed droidekas for Operation Crimson Dawn. And his loyal bodyguard had secured over two hundred in a single hour.
***
The Chimaera glided through the vacuum near the planet Lok, leaving behind the fallen station now dubbed Blood Sea after the region it occupied—once a trade outpost in Lok's orbit. During the Imperial garrison's presence, this station, along with the Solar Phoenix-2 outpost we were heading toward, had been under Imperial control. The latter fully, the former intermittently. Military fortune was fickle.
Following the Lok station, the Alliance outpost Red Sea became the third facility wrested from pirates within the planet's orbit and asteroid belt. Combined with reports from destroyer commanders and Rukh's debrief, little remained.
Captured stations received temporary garrisons to restore systems—most damaged by the destroyers' ion cannons—and conducted initial sorting, separating pirates from slaves.
I gazed at the tactical display, admiring Blood Sea. A simple yet elegant design.
Blood Sea Station.
A rest stop for sentients, a sprawling trade hub, and a miniature civilian spaceport all in one. Its repair and restoration would demand significant resources—pirates rarely cared for what they inherited, running tech and machinery into the ground. Unless it was starships vital to their "business," of course.
Blood Sea fell into the latter category. Heavy wear on equipment and systems from unchecked exploitation. Essentially, it was the sole spot for "cultural leisure" for every pirate gang in the system. It also housed a slave market where factions traded with one another, often including debtors.
Lawlessness that sent shivers down the spine. But was it anything extraordinary for someone from Earth?
No, it wasn't. I died in the twenty-first century AD and knew well that a single planet could host advanced digital societies, top-tier services, and tribal communities in third-world nations where women were swapped for goats, thieves lost hands, snitches lost tongues, and debtors or naive fortune-seekers were enslaved to toil on plantations.
What to say of a galaxy with hundreds of thousands of stars, millions of sentient species, each with their own cultures, customs, and traditions? Change it all? Bring everyone under a single legal standard? Please, no one suffered from that kind of idealism here. Except maybe the Jedi, but even they weren't foolish enough to launch crusades against others' beliefs.
You couldn't wage war on foreign cultures or impose your vision of "perfection" when, in just fifteen or sixteen years—a blink in this galaxy far, far away—bloodthirsty monsters would arrive, doing the exact same thing: drowning dissent in blood and enslaving the weak.
All you could do for the peace and prosperity of controlled territories was exterminate the pirates. Everyone hated them. Slavers, though… some sectors and regions saw that as normal. Try interfering, and the slaves themselves wouldn't understand you—they'd fight alongside their masters. The Hutt Space was a glaring example. No one knew how many species were in their debt, enslaved, or labeled "contracted workers" under various euphemisms for the same gut-wrenching reality.
Worse, most of the galaxy—fat and content—didn't care what happened elsewhere. No need for distant comparisons: developed nations ignored the plights of developing ones until resources were at stake. You could claim colonial exploitation was a thing of the past, but it wasn't. Only the form had changed, masked by pretty words.
Those were the thoughts swirling in my head as I mulled over two proposals. First, Moff Ferrus's suggestion to send operatives to Hutt planets to buy slaves for liberation and subsequent employment under us. It'd be costly—very costly. Slave listings were easy to find on the HoloNet. Unskilled ones or those with niche talents sold in bulk, priced from a hundred to a few thousand credits, peggats, or local currency, depending on the seller. Skilled slaves fetched far higher prices and rarely sold in groups—a bespoke commodity. Occasionally, traders sold a specialist and their family as a single lot—valuing the expert while the family alone was near worthless, yet together they could fetch a premium.
For some reason, the most memorable example from the films came to mind: Anakin Skywalker and his mother, slaves to one master. The boy helped in a Toydarian's shop, but his mother… What did Shmi Skywalker do for that swoop-racing enthusiast? I'd never even thought to check. Who cared about "function" characters, created just to pivot the plot or spur a hero into action?
The second proposal was freeing existing slaves and pirates to bolster auxiliary forces, like in the Morshdine sector, where any species could work if they chose and meant no harm. I still had numerous Mon Calamari cruisers either in slow repair or understaffed. B1 droids filled in as makeshift crews, but they were lousy helpers—cheap didn't mean effective. Still, even cheap battle droids with outdated weapons had their uses.
For instance, at Solar Phoenix-2, I planned to test refurbished BX-series commando droids, upgraded with modern gear and software. Grodin Tierce hadn't let me down, leading his clones to storm Nym's treasury. Anticipating that, I'd sent Rukh to seize the station once owned by Neimoidians. Per Tiberos's refined account during his recovery, few pirates remained—Nym was focused on secret obsidian research to profit off the black stones. But droids? They were plentiful.
A direct assault with stormtroopers would've been wasteful—the old station could've been damaged, along with its data. A Noghri, though? A perfect saboteur. Why not try it?
The gamble paid off. Now, just a few issues remained—capturing Solar Phoenix-2, currently Nym's fighter repair base. Oddly, no one had scrambled ships from there to oppose us. Tiberos's intel suggested slaves handled tech maintenance, but that could be years out of date. It warranted investigation.
So did the slave-buying proposal. The second—recruitment on Lok—was already planned but required heavy counterintelligence work. Local pirates were beyond redemption. Though we were slowly drifting from the Empire into something new, blanket amnesty was unwise. Captain Tiberos was right—these "operators" would grab freedom and flee. Screening them for even auxiliary roles, let alone Mon Calamari trophy ships, had to be meticulous.
Or perhaps labor colonies? Public trials to boost local credibility, then send pirates to build houses and roads… A solid idea. Let Moff Ferrus flesh it out—he'd handle civilian oversight and regional life, both in his sector and here. Sharp, proactive, overly cautious at times, but in today's galaxy, that wasn't a flaw.
Still, the slave repurchase needed deeper scrutiny.
Funds for sustaining large crews, clones, and hired labor were tight. Nym's treasury awaited appraisal, and Palpatine's collection remained my untouchable reserve.
There was a chance Agent Inek could locate the Sa Nalaor, boosting our finances. But I pinned most hopes on Operation Crimson Dawn's final phase. The plan was in motion, with backups ready.
— Report from the Relentless, sir, — Captain Pellaeon approached, offering a datapad. — They've reached their assigned point, engaging the Mercenary Ridge outpost. Estimated completion: one hour. The enemy's resisting fiercely, and the outpost has clear Imperial-grade weaponry.
— Send three corvettes from those supporting the Imperious to assist, — I ordered, glancing at the tactical screen.
Frenzied pirate gangs, fresh from crossing the Lok Ridge asteroid field, realized too late they'd been lured into a trap. The allure of Imperial tech proved irresistible to most. I suspected many, drawn from across the Outer Rim, had personal grudges against Shohashi.
That's why the Imperious, not the Chimaera, was the juicy bait they pounced on, exposing their outposts to our strikes. Jamming cut them off from their space bases, and now, with those captured by Imperial forces, the pirates were trapped between the "hammer"—the Imperious, its support corvette, the Black Asp, and their fighter wings—and the "anvil"—the Inexorable, Abyssal Fury, and Stormhawk, which had microjumped within the system. Dorja was slightly late to the pirate saga's endgame, but the Chimaera would soon take his place. Once the BX droids and Tierce's clones were deployed to Solar Phoenix-2, we'd complete our orbital sweep of Lok and seal the trap. With twenty corvettes active—three now redirected to aid Dorja—plus the one from the Imperious, the pirates' annihilation might finish ahead of schedule. Corellian corvettes, though outclassed by better options, excelled here—thanks to hijacker Niles Ferrier's supply.
Ferrier, Leonia Tavira, and others nabbed during the Rugosa Ambush needed sorting too. Killing them was easy; trials could yield political capital. But that'd wait—despite clone reinforcements, Lieutenant Colonel Astarion's counterintelligence was swamped. Housing too many prisoners on Tangrene or with Krennel was problematic, especially as operations demanded more stormtroopers, pulled from Tangrene. I had no doubt Prince-Admiral Krennel was already suspicious about receiving only rank-and-file troops. Surely not every officer vanished in combat? His interrogators were likely breaking captives, uncovering how so many Republic troops ended up prisoners.
Still, we had another target—Prison Station 1138, once Trade Federation property. Building new jails took time; repurposing an existing one was ideal. It could hold those beyond redemption—pirates and scum facing either hard labor or the gallows post-trial.
That was for civil administration. I'd outlined my thoughts and would pass them to Moff Ferrus for handling.
— We're eighty units from Solar Phoenix-2, sir, — Pellaeon announced. — Shall I order the fighters to attack?
— First, — I instructed, — send scouts. This, — I pointed to the massive, segmented metallic sphere, two kilometers wide, with a central residential and repair module inside a protective ring and a spacious hangar for a dozen squadrons, — is a fortified Imperial outpost, armed as well as the Chimaera. I want to know why it hasn't joined the fight for Captain Nym or any pirate faction.
— Understood, sir, — the Star Destroyer's commander replied. He turned to leave but paused as Lieutenant Tschel approached, datapad in hand. The bandages were gone from his hands, and no major injuries remained—unlike his head, still wrapped in a "cap." I nearly reminded Gilad that wounded officers with relief shifts had no place on the bridge, but stopped myself. Pellaeon knew that. If he'd kept the young officer here, he had reasons. Not discipline—Tschel's beaming face ruled that out. Likely, in my absence, they'd found common ground, fostering future collaboration.
It seemed the uncertainty and impulsiveness of youth had left Lieutenant Tschel, replaced by a thirst for knowledge. Regulations barred him from constant contact with me with a direct commander aboard, so I'd bet he and Pellaeon had bonded. Tschel was emulating him, and Pellaeon was asking sharper questions lately.
Was this my initial underestimation of Pellaeon's potential, or had the Chimaera's aging commander overcome the fatalism that, in my timeline, led to spectacular failures against the New Republic and surrender? I hoped for the latter but wouldn't mind the former. As a Republic Navy officer, Gilad had been capable. Perhaps the Empire's setbacks and creeping doubt had eroded his spirit, like much of its youth?
More musings. I'd watch him and draw conclusions. If Pellaeon had truly improved, I'd probe what sparked it. If his resolve had hardened, I'd ease off micromanaging him in battle, letting him command as his rank demanded—not serve as my errand boy or aide on his own ship.
I glanced right, where Major Tierce stood silently near a bulkhead. Despite a concussion, broken arm, and cracked ribs, the guardsman was back at his post.
Hmm… with approved clone guardsmen now at my disposal, should I reinstate him as adjutant? Worth considering.
Amid campaign planning, I'd overlooked the significant, untapped forces under my command that needed purpose.
More musings. Noted for later.
— What've you got, Lieutenant Tschel? — Pellaeon asked.
— A message from Solar Phoenix-2, sir, — he handed the datapad to the Chimaera's commander, who skimmed it and passed it to me.
— Sir, if this is true…
I scanned the Basic text, digesting it.
— We'll assume we've no data contradicting this, — I returned the datapad to Tschel. — But we must verify it. Our course to Station 1138 passes Solar Phoenix-2. We'll watch if their contingent attacks when we announce sending negotiators, — I said. — Recall all squadrons to the Chimaera for rotation and maintenance. By the time we're close enough to deploy a transport, I want interceptors escorting Lieutenant Tschel to negotiate with the slaves who, per the message, have seized the station. Imperial Guardsmen will accompany him.
— Me, a negotiator, sir? — the young officer blinked. After a scrutinizing look that made him squirm, I continued:
— Use my personal Lambda-class shuttle, — the one requisitioned from Mount Tantiss, once Palpatine's own. — If it's a trap, its reinforced shields and armor will prevent instant destruction. Our interceptors will cover a retreat.
— And if it's true? — Pellaeon asked.
I eyed the approaching station—bristling with weapons and shields rivaling ours. What if it was a ruse?
Station Solar Phoenix-2.
— Then they'll pay dearly for misleading us, — I said firmly. — Inform our bombers that if Solar Phoenix attacks the Chimaera, they'll get bombing practice. Precise targets will come once we're within ten units.
— Destroy a fully functional station just to punish a deception? — Pellaeon's eyes widened.
— Not at all, Captain, — I countered. — We'll just send bombers to take out its reactor and let its defenders suffocate as a lesson. Quick, vivid, and it'll deter anyone in the Lok system from trying to confuse us again.
— Aye, sir, — Pellaeon saluted with his cap, heading to the crew pits.
It'd resolve soon. Slow? Yes. But we weren't raiding—we were methodically cleansing a star system. Better to perfect this now, on "cats," than flounder later.
No one thought Karthakk was the only system I'd purge of pirates and claim for my future dominion.
***
Mercenary Ridge.
That's what this region of the Karthakk system was called. Per data Grand Admiral Thrawn obtained from a former Lok Revenants member, this debris-free, asteroid-clear stretch—unaffected by nebulae or navigational hazards—was the prime spot for hyperspace jumps to and from distant Outer Rim systems. Once used by traders and suppliers, its peaceful days ended with the pirates' rise.
Thrawn's fleet arrived via short jumps from nearby systems, bypassing this barrier undetected. Now, the Relentless, backed by four CR90 Corellian corvettes, was making up for that oversight with gusto. A nearby Interdictor sat like a motionless spider, its web of artificial gravity projections trapping foes in the system's favored escape route.
Built during the Old Republic after expelling the Trade Federation and CIS forces, this outpost was meant to repel pirate raids, curb smuggling, and conduct customs checks.
Its armaments and tech were modern and reliable. The Galactic Empire, succeeding the Republic, once garrisoned the system, and some military or civilian official decided to upgrade the outpost's systems to maintain its role.
Captain Dorja didn't know how effective it was under the Empire but guessed it was perfunctory. No nightmare could explain the Imperial fleet abandoning the system without destroying or removing this well-equipped outpost, capable of housing ten fighter squadrons.
Yet here it was, in enemy hands, trading blows evenly with an Imperial Star Destroyer at fifty units' range. The interdictor, twenty units behind the Relentless, chipped away at the outpost's deflector shield—a clear sign to any layman that the battle's outcome was sealed.
Outpost in the Mercenary Ridge Area.
Pirate attempts to overwhelm the interdictor crashed against three TIE Interceptor squadrons from its wing and the fierce fire of its Corellian corvette. Kuat Drive Yards deserved thanks—while cutting the hangar's fighter complement, they kept its size standard, letting Interdictors carry a support ship per Thrawn's orders. Switching to interceptors from fighters made them self-sufficient, despite fewer guns than Imp-I or II models—up to a point. Thrawn knew this, never sending them solo. The Honoghr battle proved it: a trapped foe knew exactly which ship to target first.
That was Captain Dorja's plan—let the enemy's damned X-Wings crash against the interdictor, only to retreat into the fire of the destroyer, its interceptors, corvette, and now two extra CR90s.
The third support corvette, plus the one assigned to the Relentless, stayed with Dorja.
Now, his destroyer shifted left, the need to shield the interdictor fading.
Positioning the destroyers at a forty-five-degree angle, Dorja could pound the outpost's deflectors with turbolaser barrages from both ships' forward arcs, maximizing firepower. Enemy fighters hitting the interdictor, bloodied by its guns, interceptors, and three corvettes, veered right—straight into the Relentless, its two corvettes, and five squadrons.
This fiery trap, bolstered by medium turbolasers and anti-air batteries, was a symphony of death Dorja conducted.
Hands clasped behind his back per regulation, Dorja watched the red-green laser and turbolaser exchange, punctuated by blue ion cannon bursts. X-Wings bearing Lok Revenants markings died every second. In forty-nine minutes, his pilots lost just six craft—all fighters.
"Definite progress," Dorja noted silently. Once, such pilots died by dozens. Now, he pondered which of two factors boosted their skill and survival.
— Contact the interdictor, — he ordered, spotting another enemy move. Once the comms officer confirmed, he tapped his collar comlink. — Eternal Wrath, stay sharp: four more pirates approaching your starboard underside.
The enemy X-Wings had timed their attack when the interdictor's guns—also jamming pirate comms—were busy with their seven remaining squadrons, aiming for a lower-hemisphere torpedo run.
One, two, even three torpedoes the destroyer could take. Hutt, even eight, but Dorja would bet his rank pips their target was the interdictor's gravity well generators blocking escape. Activating all four covered vast space but immobilized the ship, making it a sitting duck.
That's why Imperial commanders often used just two projectors—losing such ships was worse than failing a mission. With Thrawn's scant supply, it was a tribunal-worthy blunder.
— Understood, Relentless, — the Eternal Wrath's commander replied. Dorja didn't know him personally but noted his professionalism. A good partner. — We see them, sir. Waiting till they're closer.
Encrypted comms at this range thwarted enemy intercepts.
Curious. What're you waiting for, unseen colleague?
Seven seconds later, it clicked—six TIE Interceptors roared from between the upper gravity wells, meeting the X-Wings head-on. A brief clash, and four pirate wrecks floated free. Five interceptors pressed on; the sixth, trailing smoke from pierced solar panels, was tractor-beamed back to the hangar. Damaged, not destroyed.
Dorja hadn't fought in the Dufilvian sector but heard plenty. He'd reviewed crew training data before and after a rogue Jedi's mind control. Oddly, survivors of that battle steadily improved—slowly at first, but more with each fight.
He wondered if the dark Jedi had somehow pushed Imperials to their limits.
But he dismissed it. Data from ships absent from that Republic thrashing showed progress too—less pronounced, but there. Luck was relative. Imagine some Jedi scum rifling through your mind…
It chilled him. Mind control was the most common tale about Jedi, fueling fear and hate. No one wanted to be a puppet.
When Pellaeon, during the Chimaera's refit, mentioned the Emperor's Force sensitivity, and Thrawn admitted he likely boosted Imperial victories, few destroyer commanders believed it. Dorja, then skeptical of Thrawn and his lapdog Pellaeon, didn't either.
Then he checked.
He dug into old archives—battles where the Relentless or others fought with the Emperor present, especially Endor.
With Harbid, Brandei, and Aban—fellow destroyer commanders he knew best—Dorja compared his ship's past and present combat stats. Even now, at peak form with veteran crews, they fell short of old benchmarks.
A fleet-wide comparison followed.
During a Wayland base強化, a captain leveraged an old tie with General Covell…
Had Thrawn not kept them busy raiding Republic worlds and bases, the commanders might've exploded over this revelation.
Rage, betrayal, wounded pride—the Emperor had stolen it!
Dorja recalled his own fury when he realized Thrawn was right. The Rebels didn't beat them at Endor because they were stronger.
The Empire had become overconfident cadets drunk on grandeur, losing sectors while the Rebels—now the New Republic—claimed the galaxy.
Their defeats stemmed from weakness without the Emperor, Vader, or lunatics like C'baoth. How many such freaks fed Palpatine's "evil Jedi mind control" narrative?
Plenty, no doubt.
They'd all been pawns for one mad old man to clutch the galaxy in his bony grip. He'd propped up their wins; without him, they crumbled—criminally so.
Dorja watched a corvette shielding the Relentless's lower arc veer from a dozen approaching X-Wings on the tactical display.
— Request damage report from the corvette! — he barked.
— Sir, their main reactor's hit, — came the prompt reply.
Rotten luck. Right-flank cover weakened, facing the enemy head-on.
— Tilt the destroyer seven degrees right, — he ordered. — Pull the damaged corvette into the hangar. Second one takes its place. Batteries—barrage fire on enemy ships. No torpedo launches!
— Aye, Captain Dorja! — his first officer responded.
Not the same first officer he'd started with under Thrawn. Just his clone.
The original died commanding a corvette, lost to a cumulative rocket at Hast's shipyards, wiping out the bridge crew.
The aftertaste of losing that old friend and comrade was… bitter.
Doubly so, since he'd gone to the corvette because Dorja, unwilling to lose a loyal subordinate, blocked his promotions. Defying Thrawn, he'd omitted him from advancement lists.
Foolish pride cost Dorja a brother-in-arms. A clone replaced him, but… mixed feelings. Same face, mannerisms, yet something was gone—the spark, the thrill when the Relentless gutted enemy ships.
That was the last time Dorja crossed Thrawn's orders.
Their early rapport had been rocky, largely due to Dorja's bias against Pellaeon, whom he felt Thrawn unfairly favored as flagship commander. Dorja had felt slighted.
Not anymore.
Not after Thrawn bared all.
Post-Hast, he'd gathered every major ship commander, stunning them with two admissions. First, he'd erred, stifling their tactical freedom—though he explained it as well-intentioned distrust in their autonomy. Hence the petty raids, convoy hits, and base assaults hardly worth notice.
— Damaged corvette secured by manipulators. Repair teams engaged! — the clone of his old friend reported.
— Excellent, — Dorja's pupils dilated as he saw…
— Sir, outpost deflector section down!
— Fire ion cannons into the breach! — he commanded. — They're ours now.
When Thrawn explained the strategy of overwhelming weaker foes with numbers, every destroyer commander flushed. Academy grads, seasoned captains… schooled like junior cadets by one non-human—no, not "exotic," disrespectful to their leader. Thrawn trained them step-by-step. First, superior forces against weaker ones. At Honoghr, they fought equals, even slightly outmatched.
Victories mounted, losses dropped, repair times shrank.
They were learning. Thrawn's cloning of top talent plugged gaps, bolstering the fleet without mobilizing Imperial citizens—impossible when the Imperial Remnants preferred others fought the New Republic.
Thrawn, whom many secretly scorned for his alien nature (or at best tolerated), knew this. Yet he didn't purge, rant, or flaunt his rank. He calmly, almost monotonously, guided them to do their jobs.
Which was?
In old times, his next words would've gotten him shot on the spot. Rebellion against the Empire? Secession, a new state—treason! Recruited from various Remnants, they'd been tossed to Thrawn like meat to a rancor, and none were thrilled.
But they didn't execute him. Because he explained.
— X-Wing squadron scattered, Captain Dorja! — a familiar voice, familiar tone, but… not his friend. Never would be, despite appearances.
— Send interceptors after them, — he ordered. — Scattered isn't enough—destruction only. They had their chance to surrender; they chose battle. Let them face the consequences.
Just as they, the destroyer commanders, faced theirs by siding with Thrawn. Between a returning Palpatine—confirmed by an Imperial Guardsman and that damned Inquisitor—betrayal beat puppetry again. Even if Palpatine returned sane in a clone, they'd be executed for disloyalty. They couldn't think of him without disgust, and a Force-sensitive would sense it easily.
They'd chosen. Backed Thrawn. Some had seen a non-Thrawn-cloned Jedi—those who'd dealt with C'baoth kept their distance. They saw clones in their crews, comparing Palpatine's mad cloning to Thrawn's necessity-driven approach.
None considered defecting to spill Thrawn's sane cloning secrets to Palpatine. No ties to the Empire remained.
They, and those who'd join, were Thrawn's fleet.
The last Grand Admiral of the Galactic Empire. Not human, yet more humane to humans than their lunatic ruler.
Did they have a future, or would Thrawn's plan (shared with someone, hopefully) unravel, dragging them in chains to Palpatine for a fate like C'baoth's with the Rugosa Ambush's Jenssarai defenders? No one knew.
But Thrawn promised victory. As long as they stayed loyal, he'd ensure their survival past the mad Emperor.
Dorja knew not all captains fully bought Thrawn's tale of Palpatine's insanity. They'd watch if his predictions held. Knowing the truth made spotting madness in actions simple.
The Relentless's commander had no doubt the new Palpatine would be mad. He wouldn't risk it. He wanted to live and see Thrawn's new Empire rise—not a human one, maybe not an Empire at all.
But the state Thrawn promised wouldn't be worse than one that used them as pawns in a Force-driven game.
Thrawn said it. Promised it. He'd never lied yet.
Dorja believed him. Despite Brandei's grumbling that Thrawn's Jenssarai were near-Jedi—or Sith, who could tell?
Brandei was a grouch. His stubbornness blinded him to the clear gap between Palpatine's Force-wielding rule and Thrawn's use of Jenssarai to counter Jedi, Sith, and their ilk. "The Empire fights slavery"… sure, when it enslaved sentients as puppets.
Against a super star destroyer, a blaster won't win. You need destroyers or a matching ship.
Watching the Mercenary Ridge outpost's shields fail, Dorja knew he and his crew were among those destroyers facing a greater beast. As his pilots mopped up pirates and ion bolts crawled over the outpost, he pondered old Imperial Space contacts he could trust with the truth to sway to Thrawn.
But every classmate was dead or missing—likely in the Deep Core, serving the madman.
All but one.
Abyss, commander of a destroyer under construction, promised to Thrawn but likely kept by Orinda. Sharp, honorable—not trading integrity for swagger. He'd only just take his bridge, not years ago as rank allowed.
Dorja would contact him. Share everything—Palpatine's powers, betrayals, Thrawn's new state.
Later.
For now…
— First officer, — Dorja eyed the familiar face, twitching as the clone flashed a familiar smirk. — Ready assault craft for the outpost.
— Aye, Captain! — the clone chirped.
Not his friend. Just the face. A new man—artificial.
They'd never bonded with this being. It lacked his friend's merits.
But…
Dorja caught himself clinging to old patterns.
Old face, new man. No old friendship, but nothing stopped a new one.
This time, he'd get it right. Every subordinate would get their due.
Speaking of which:
— First officer! Summon the damaged corvette's commander. I want to know how that fool botched it so childishly!
— Aye, Captain!
— And in four hours, I expect commendation lists for standout crew—pilots, gunners, helmsmen, and anti-air teams especially.
— Will do, sir!