Grand Admiral

Nine years, nine months, and eighteen days after the Battle of Yavin…

Or forty-four years, nine months, and eighteen days since the Great Resynchronization.

(Five months and three days since the arrival.)

Commodore Erik Shohashi paused his review of the report, his gaze settling on the semicircle of white-blue holograms glowing before him.

At this moment, only one held his attention.

— Has Esume been pacified? — he asked, studying the hologram of the woman with undisguised interest.

Bald, adorned with tattoos whose meaning eluded the uninitiated, and clad in form-fitting attire that accentuated her athletic physique, Asajj Ventress regarded him with a bored expression, as though his question was of no consequence to her.

"Demonstrative defiance," Shohashi assessed instantly.

Judging by the disapproving shake of the head from Brandei, whose hologram loomed nearby, the commander of the *Red Star* squadron clearly shared his observation.

Operating independently from the main forces had evidently not served the Dathomirian witch well.

Good. Noted. To be addressed and corrected.

If she cannot comply, she will be taught. If she refuses, she will be eliminated.

— Yes, — Ventress replied after a brief silence.

— By what means?

The sentients of Esume were not known for an advanced culture.

Nor were they inherently aggressive. That is, until the Galactic Empire placed their planet under quarantine.

But times in the galaxy change, and with the decline of Imperial prestige and power, Esume was once again open to the wider galaxy. Those aware of this recalled that the three-meter-tall Esumeans were steadfast giants, loyal to their word and duty, who, prior to the quarantine, were among the galaxy's most undemanding and low-paid mercenaries.

As cannon fodder, they were nearly always suitable.

Their forthrightness and loyalty made them exceptionally effective guards.

Of course, this was true only when advanced technology wasn't required, as the Esumeans were at a developmental stage where they could wield blasters—a simple enough task—but could not produce high technology.

Similar to Gamorreans in their utility, but markedly more intelligent.

And they harbored a deep resentment toward the Empire.

And all it represented.

It was anticipated that if the Esumeans refused negotiations, their planet would be placed back under quarantine. No one intended to leave mercenaries who would act against the Dominion's interests unchecked.

— How did you accomplish this? — Brandei inquired.

Shohashi shot his friend a pointed look, reminding him of his subordinate status.

The commander of the *Judicator* feigned complete deference.

"I understand, old friend, you dislike these purges as much as I do. But they are necessary. The fleet must eliminate threats before they become true dangers."

— I challenged their leaders to combat, — Ventress said, feigning interest in her nails. — And killed them all.

Brandei appeared to choke.

At least he had the presence of mind to mute his microphone, so his coughing was visible but inaudible.

In the days of the Empire, such behavior in the presence of a superior would have been fatal. His dear and only friend had been allowing himself too many liberties lately.

This would not do—overlooking such conduct would signal to others that regulations and discipline could be disregarded, undermining the entire squadron and each ship within it.

— Consequences? — Shohashi pressed.

He was unfamiliar with Esumean culture, so he needed to know whether this "pacification" might spark a guerrilla movement in their rear.

— The locals are still scrubbing blood and brains from the arena where I fought, — Ventress continued in an indifferent tone. — The tribal structure on Esume has officially collapsed. I ordered the tribes to abandon their feuds and declared them citizens of the Dominion. If they adhere to Dominion law, they will enjoy all associated rights and privileges. Due to the quarantine, the planet has faced multiple famines from the inability to import fertilizers and pesticides to combat the rampant pests. Tribal representatives accepted my proposal. As outlined in the negotiation agenda, I offered them service as guards for colonization and reconnaissance expeditions. I also recommend considering them as overseers in the penal system. I'm certain even Wookiees would think twice before rebelling against a mob of dim-witted but strong Esumeans who can crush boulders with their fists, — she added with a smirk. — Equip them with heavier armor and unleash them on a battlefield… it would be a bloody spectacle.

"Or deploy them for breakthroughs in the tight corridors of starships," Shohashi mentally refined the idea.

With reliable armor, such warriors could breach enemy defenses, allowing second and third waves to conduct mop-up operations.

Not to mention their potential to protect colonization forces from wild beasts.

Even if armed not with blasters but vibro-axes, like Gamorreans or their ilk.

"Intriguing. What combat prowess did you display to avoid having your head crushed by these giants?" the commodore wondered.

— Well done, — Shohashi approved. — Your report, with remarks and additions, will be forwarded to Grand Moff Ferrus for final review. Leave a garrison and a mobile base to protect our forces, then return to Abafar.

— Why leave a mobile base when the Esumeans are already constructing a stone fortress-citadel for the future planetary governor and garrison? — Ventress inquired.

Shohashi detected a challenge in her words.

It seemed the Dathomirian was deliberately striving to exceed expectations, a tactic to curry favor with superiors.

And clearly not with Shohashi.

— Submit all data omitted from your report, — he ordered. — You were evidently too occupied to prepare a comprehensive official document.

— I was busy cutting down heads like grain in a field, not lounging in orbit around a quiet planet, — she retorted, now openly defiant.

— Complete your mission and return to the *Crimson Dawn*, — he said, his tone unwavering. — In case blood and dirt have clogged your ears, let me clarify: that is an order.

The woman held his gaze for a moment, as if testing him.

Perhaps she attempted to influence him through the Force, but the ysalamiri cage was always nearby.

— Understood, — she finally relented. — I'll order my ship prepared for departure.

Her hologram flickered out.

— Those executions could have plunged us into a civil war with the Esumeans, — Brandei remarked.

— Indeed, — Shohashi agreed, glancing at the chronometer. Noon, Coruscant time. Time to check on the progress of defensive fortifications and the garrison on Abafar. No one intended to leave the sole source of ryll unfortified. — What's your status?

— No issues with Jagridiya, — Brandei sighed. — The locals are adamantly in favor of joining the Dominion. Though… I think they'd align with anyone who leaves them alone.

— With their alcohol that causes human men to grow bellies, there will be questions, — Shohashi stated.

— I explained that, — the *Judicator*'s commander replied. — They're open to discussions, including exclusive export deals, provided the Dominion supplies transport and protection. Their sales have plummeted recently—someone's been intercepting their freighters. The company invested in new ships, which vanished, and frankly, they're one step from bankruptcy…

— Enough, — Shohashi interjected quietly but firmly. — Economics are of little concern to me. My task is to pacify sectors and eliminate pirates and overt enemies. Swiftly and efficiently. Socioeconomic matters are for the Grand Moff and his administration.

— No argument there, — Brandei backtracked. — I thought you might be interested in becoming a shareholder. Their turnover is solid, and Dominion law doesn't prohibit it…

It was clear. Brandei had invested in the enterprise and now sought his friend's support.

— I'm not interested, — Shohashi stated.

He turned his attention to his workstation, adding Esume and Jagridiya to the list of star systems in the Sprizen sector now under Dominion control.

Alongside Abafar, Ashera, Portminia, Priole Danna, Traylia, Salin, and Sprizen…

The only remaining issue was the Ramoa system, whose inhabitants, outwardly resembling Gamorreans, barely understood Galactic Basic and, frankly, weren't far removed in intellect from their porcine counterparts. Blockading the system was unwise—it held valuable resources, but mining under garrison protection was inefficient. A diplomatic agreement was preferable, ideally engaging the locals in the work. They could handle various tasks on Dominion enterprises and planets, but these were secondary concerns.

The *Red Star* squadron represented the state's interests.

Shohashi had made six attempts to negotiate with the Ramoans, to no avail.

By the karking stars, it was expected that New Agamar, populated by descendants of Agamar settlers, would pose the greatest challenge.

Peaceful farmers accustomed to paying tribute to Kavrilhu pirates to protect their crops and avoid slaver markets practically threw themselves at the Dominion stormtroopers' feet.

The terms of their integration into Grand Admiral Thrawn's state were still unclear, but one thing was certain—they joined with unanimous enthusiasm.

No alternatives.

There was one more system in the sector, but it required specialized expertise. A deranged artificial intelligence, deceived by rebels years ago, controlled a planet with promising terraforming technology observed by reconnaissance droids. But fighting an entire planet capable of triggering earthquakes or incinerating with volcanic lava was unappealing.

In essence, most of the work was done.

The remaining task was to locate and destroy the Kavrilhu pirates' stronghold.

Counterintelligence and reconnaissance had promised assistance, but evidently, the pirates' base in this part of the galaxy was well-hidden…

Once the Ramoan issue was resolved, the Sprizen sector, like Nidjun before it, could be handed over to the Grand Moff to manage internal affairs.

— Erik, — Brandei interrupted his thoughts. — I'd like to ask a favor, as both a commander and a friend.

An intriguing development.

— I'm listening, — Shohashi said, facing the hologram directly.

— Approve the transfer of one of my medics, — Brandei's eyes suspiciously darted aside.

— Submit a report of unsuitability, and the staff will find a place for her, — Shohashi replied, though "staff" was more like a personnel office, accountants, analysts, and logisticians. But they handled personnel matters, which was key here.

Unsuitability for a position was essentially the only way a ship commander could remove an unwanted crew member. The process, however, involved an evaluation, and those deemed unsuitable faced issues—reduced pay being the least of them.

— That's the problem, — Brandei's evasiveness confirmed it was personal. — She's a young woman, transferred from the Tangrene hospital. A skilled specialist, she even oversaw Counselor Organa-Solo's pregnancy during her captivity…

— Get to the point, — Shohashi prompted.

— Can you transfer her to the *Crimson Dawn*? — Brandei clarified. — As part of a personnel rotation.

Interesting…

— Care to explain? — Shohashi pressed.

Brandei gave him a sullen look.

The familiar gaze of a man in love.

— I'd rather not say it aloud, — the *Judicator*'s commander said. — Or burden you. But I don't want to violate regulations. We have something, but the prohibition on direct subordination of relatives…

— Send me her personnel number, — Shohashi said coldly. — I'll approve the transfer.

— Thank you, — Brandei exhaled in relief. — Sorry again. I know after Irene, this topic…

— Return to your patrol duties, — Shohashi ordered, his tone devoid of emotion. — The meeting is concluded.

— Yes… — Brandei replied, subdued, — Commodore.

Friendship and duty must remain separate.

Brandei should understand that personal matters must not conflict with professional obligations.

Judging by his use of Shohashi's rank, he understood perfectly.

The commander of the *Red Star* squadron sat for a few minutes before the deactivated holoprojector, reflecting on the exchange.

His old friend's request for help was undoubtedly correct. The mere fact that he was the commander of his beloved was enough to have both dismissed from the fleet without explanation.

That was the way of the Empire.

How Thrawn would react remained uncertain.

However, in the Dominion's fleet, and indeed its entire armed forces, Imperial regulations still applied.

It was best not to set a precedent in such matters.

Enough that he would arrange for his friend's beloved to serve in the *Crimson Dawn*'s medbay. As for Brandei…

With a pang of regret, Shohashi reached for his computer.

He opened a draft order for the promotion of officers distinguished in the campaigns to pacify the sectors.

His eyes landed on his friend's name.

"…promote to the rank of flag-captain…"

He scrolled to the second part of the order, where his gaze caught the same name:

"…relieve from the position of commander of the star destroyer *Judicator*… Appoint as commander of the fast star dreadnought *Crimson Dawn*… Appoint as chief of staff to the commander of the *Red Star* squadron…"

For several agonizing minutes, he pondered whether serving alongside a beloved was worth risking everything—rank, position, career…

No, it was not.

Otherwise, Brandei would not have raised the issue.

One could proclaim the Dominion as the finest incarnation of the Galactic Empire, but unforeseen factors remained insurmountable.

Among a thousand loyal officers and astute counterintelligence agents, there would always be a careerist formalist eager to draw blood and advance by exposing a technical violation.

Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet had grown so vast that it was naive to think he controlled every ship's affairs.

He was a solitary rancor, and who knew how he would react to such infractions by subordinates.

The order would need revision.

The rank of "flag-captain," or "line-captain" as it was known since the Old Republic, was a significant milestone for any naval officer.

It granted authority to command a substantial formation of ships.

Or to serve as a staff officer for a formation commander, such as a squadron…

A pivotal moment, where one could choose to pursue a military or staff career.

For some reason, Thrawn had overlooked promoting most destroyer commanders. Their roles effectively made them line-captains, reflected in their duties—each led a formation.

Yet their insignia remained unchanged… only their salaries saw a substantial increase…

Likely, the makeshift admiralty or headquarters on Ciutric IV had yet to finalize the Dominion's command structure, stalling significant changes.

But drifting with the current was unacceptable.

Since Shohashi had agreed to transfer the medic to his flagship, appointing Brandei as chief of staff or ship commander would be risky, with consequences likely swift to follow.

Yet leaving a comrade who had secured the allegiance of half the Nidjun and Sprizen sectors to the Dominion was equally unjust.

Without false modesty, Brandei was an exemplary officer—competent, responsible, disciplined, tactically astute, a loyal friend, and a true comrade-in-arms.

Such officers should rise in rank to serve as examples for new recruits.

Shohashi grappled with reconciling the irreconcilable.

A promotion while preventing the subordination of his friend and his beloved…

He pondered for a long time.

Until a BX-series droid, doubling as an aide, reminded him to inspect the final construction phase on Abafar.

— Sir, — the droid droned monotonously. — Given that the other squadron formations are on similar assignments, as commander, you must personally verify the construction's completion or delegate it to a subordinate officer and…

— Quiet, — Shohashi snapped his fingers.

After a few more seconds of reflection, he erased the unnecessary parts of the order.

Creating a new file, he began drafting a new document.

This time, addressed to the Supreme Commander.

Thrawn might not be pleased, but he was a reasonable officer. There was always room to negotiate…

***

THX-0297 stepped back from the passage, sparing himself from being pierced by multiple blaster bolts.

The other two storm commandos turned their heads toward their squad leader.

The sergeant signaled to his troopers at the other side of the passage, holding up three fingers.

Then two.

THX-0333 flicked the safety off his handheld flamethrower.

One.

The deadly barrage ceased—the enemy had paused to reload.

The trio of storm commandos emerged simultaneously from both sides of the doorway, opening fire.

Two with blaster rifles.

The flamethrower operator—always the flamethrower.

A jet of relentless flame roared forth like a pack of starving rancors unleashed in a dark space. Filling the corridor, the fire-breathing rancors surged forward, consuming and destroying everything in their path.

By the time the trio returned to cover, the corridors of the super star destroyer resembled a vast, blackened rectangular gut.

Charred and melted walls, sporadically adorned with smoldering plastic and burning thin metal; a floor coated in soot and ash…

And six enemy combatants—ordinary fleet officers in uniforms reduced to deformed belt buckles and insignia that once adorned their caps.

— Forward, — THX-0297 ordered.

The trio moved swiftly, reorganizing on the move to check compartments branching off the scorched corridor.

— Clear, — the sergeant reported.

Switching to the command frequency, he announced:

— Deck seven, from the emergency hatch to the auxiliary command post, is cleared. Resistance suppressed.

— Acknowledged, — came the reply. — Continue your assigned task. Infantry is advancing.

— Acknowledged, — the clone of the long-deceased Colonel Selid confirmed. — Proceeding with the operation.

Of course, this wasn't army infantry.

They had no place aboard a starship.

To secure the captured section of the giant, space marines—stormtroopers once called "naval infantry" in the Empire's tradition—were deployed.

In the Dominion, they were given a designation reflecting their purpose.

For the 501st Legion's Guard, no task was impossible.

On the surface, in the air, underwater, or in space—they would handle any mission.

Because they were the Guard.

A faint beep sounded in the commlink.

THX-0297 halted, glancing at the squad's technician.

The commando-technician signaled—enemies were approaching. He lightly tapped the part of his helmet covering his ear.

Left, at three o'clock, forty meters and closing. Significant movement in the corridor they had just reached.

The enemy was responding to the intrusion, desperate to retain control of the bridge.

A futile effort.

Here were storm commandos, and the mission would be completed.

Hand signals—a universal method to convey information to comrades while moving through enemy territory. An added risk: aboard such a ship, encryption and decryption equipment was inevitable.

Thus, communications could be compromised.

As the technician indicated.

The sergeant silently yielded his position at the squad's head to the commando-technician.

The technician retrieved a device with a fiber-optic probe from his pack, bending its tip at a right angle.

He lowered the camera to floor level and cautiously extended it around the corner.

The sergeant and flamethrower operator silently observed as the technician signaled with his right hand.

Six targets.

Full armor.

Light weaponry.

Thermal detonators present.

Ten meters.

Approaching on foot.

THX-0297, when the technician looked at him, tapped the edge of his hand twice against his neck.

The technician, understanding the need to wrap up, stowed the equipment and took his rifle back from THX-0333.

SoroSuub blaster rifles were ideal for storm commandos and naval special forces.

Flash and sound suppressors often prevented early detection.

The sergeant ordered a retreat and dispersal in the corridor behind them.

How do you hide a black nexu in a corridor?

Simple—burn the corridor; a nexu is already the color of night.

Storm commandos wore armor of the same hue.

The six stormtroopers emerging from the corridor froze for a moment, seeing only a long, dark passage devoid of light, with plastic still smoldering.

"Recruits," THX-0297 realized instantly.

Troopers trained on Carida didn't behave this way.

The enemy's hesitation proved fatal.

THX-0333 unleashed a gout of flame, the technician fired his multi-shot Verpine shatter gun, and the sergeant opened with a barrage of blaster fire.

Four were eliminated immediately.

Two, their armor scorched by intense flames, rolled across the deck, escaping the blasters' line of fire.

The sergeant signaled for cover. Both troopers instantly secured the corridor's branches.

THX-0333, without breaking his watch, drew his blaster pistol with his left hand and, barely aiming, ended the agony of the stormtroopers being burned alive.

The sergeant ejected his spent power cell and replaced the gas cartridge. The other two followed suit in turn.

Weapons reloaded, the squad advanced.

The next attempt to stop them went nearly unnoticed by the trio.

Crew members rushing from a storage compartment froze momentarily, unsure if they faced friend or foe.

THX-0333 resolved their dilemma in two seconds with his flamethrower.

Precise fire from three rifles cut down four bridge guards.

But they couldn't proceed further—the turbolift they intended to take to the bridge level was powered down.

It was deactivated before their eyes.

This ship had a far more sophisticated defense system than they knew.

On the sergeant's gestured order, the technician connected to the data port.

It took three minutes for his equipment to bypass the computer's security and access the ship's database.

They couldn't infiltrate the ship's information network, only retrieving a schematic before the central computer cut power to the panel. A frustrating setback.

Another fact confirmed—this ship was built to an enhanced design.

The technician quickly displayed a holographic schematic of their section.

The bridge was six levels above.

The turbolift, now offline and powered down, was inaccessible. The central computer had locked out the transport system, indicating they were being monitored.

Yet no matter how the technician scanned, he found no surveillance devices.

Strange.

Did the unseen enemy rely on corridor sensors?

It seemed so—no other explanation fit.

Noted. The mission continued.

It took three minutes to find an alternate route.

The turbolift shaft, likely equipped with maintenance ladders, was dismissed—control over the ship's electronics meant the enemy could activate the lift and crush them.

Wasting time inspecting the shaft for alternate routes was not an option.

While THX-0297 encrypted a message to command about the ship's countermeasures, the technician plotted a route avoiding turbolifts.

Three corridors right, through the navigation bay, the workshop, up an emergency ladder to the target level, and to the secondary bridge entrance.

Feasible.

— Forward, — THX-0297 signaled.

The squad moved toward their objective, maintaining a two-meter spread.

Given the enemy's capabilities, other countermeasures couldn't be ruled out…

In the first corridor, the flamethrower incinerated an enemy ambush without breaching stealth. A short burst, then a sustained jet—four enemies reduced to bones and molten metal.

The sergeant calculated the triggers and conditions for the automatic defenses and possible applications.

In the second corridor, they were fired upon almost immediately as the door opened.

The flamethrower operator was hit—a burn wound on his right ankle.

But THX-0333 held firm, treating his wound while the technician identified their opponent.

The answer was unsurprising, yet unusual.

An autoturret.

Essentially, an automated heavy blaster reacting to threat conditions via a sensor network.

A mounted blaster with minimal artificial intelligence.

Countering its fire required protection beyond standard commando armor.

Several options existed.

Sergeant THX-0297 started with the most obvious.

He tossed a thermal detonator, using distance data from the technician's fiber-optic probe.

After the first explosion, the autoturret continued firing, but its shots were interrupted by dry clicks—likely a damaged tibanna gas pump or breech mechanism.

A good sign; the turret's armor wasn't thick.

Three more grenades ended the turret's existence.

The trio pressed on.

They bypassed the navigation bay, avoiding combat.

The compartment was packed with crew and enemy combatants.

Twelve of the former, two squads of the latter.

Lobbing thermal detonators and disabling the door controls, the squad rerouted again.

They passed through the navigation crew's quarters.

Two lurking stormtroopers were swept aside before they could delay the commandos.

The workshop required another detour.

There, they encountered another turret, destroyed by the flamethrower before it could identify them.

It managed a few wild shots.

No one was hit, but the outcome was… surprising.

THX-0297 was rarely caught off guard, but being trapped in projected ray-shields—known as "nullifier beams"—from the ceiling was unexpected.

This technology, known in the galaxy, required significant energy to equip ship decks extensively.

It was unlikely to be installed only here.

Most likely, either the central computer couldn't process all incoming data from the attacked ship, or the commandos had previously bypassed traps in other compartments.

THX-0297, while THX-0333 burned out the ceiling projector, deduced why they had avoided traps before.

In every corridor and compartment they fought, living enemy combatants were present. Where none were, the flamethrower incinerated sensors along with the compartments.

As now, a thin jet of flame melted the projector, freeing the squad leader.

They crossed the remaining corridor without issue.

This suggested the automated defenses activated when corridor sensors were intact but only triggered when Dominion forces were targeted alone, without enemy soldiers present.

An intriguing hypothesis, relayed to command.

The report, along with methods to counter enemy traps by destroying disguised ceiling projectors, was received, processed, and adopted.

As the storm commandos spearheaded the assault, while other 501st Legion units fought elsewhere on the massive ship, traps were destroyed before detection.

But autoturrets and turbolift lockdowns were a common issue in combat zones.

Thus, the ship's designer had ensured assault units were delayed by system shutdowns and automated defenses, with ray-shields for small saboteur groups in unoccupied areas.

The central computer had recognition systems to distinguish crew from invaders.

Impressive.

But it wouldn't save them.

The emergency ladder greeted them with darkness and low temperatures. The central computer was likely diverting power from secondary systems and unused compartments to fuel the ship's defenses, including traps.

Reaching the bridge, the commandos didn't hesitate.

They bombarded the control compartment with thermal detonators and doused it with flames.

Then sealed all entrances and exits.

When the oxygen burned out, along with those inside, the ship's defenses shut down.

The computer—or sentient controlling the security systems—burned out with them.

— Bridge cleared, — Sergeant THX-0297 reported to command, surveying the vast, blackened compartment with scarred control terminals and cremated remains. — Ship control disrupted. Moving to the auxiliary command post.

***

Captain Orsan Makeno, when assaulting enemy starships, especially well-built military vessels, adhered to one principle that consistently spared him a fatal shot.

"Grenade first, then yourself."

He trained his squad in the same harsh reality. Thermal detonators or grenades were cheap, but recovering from wounds was lengthy, costly, and not always effective.

Burial was simpler.

But few favored that option.

Thus, encountering fierce resistance in the crew quarters aboard the enemy star destroyer, the naval special forces, as they had dozens of times before, sent "gifts" to the enemy.

Only after the blasts, screams, and groans merged did the troops advance.

Preceded by a flash-bang grenade.

Once the enemy was disoriented by the blinding flash and excruciating noise, the special forces stormed the compartment.

Blasting with heavy blasters and rifles anything that posed a threat, they crossed the barracks in seconds, claiming a hundred fleet specialists who had naively organized resistance.

Why so many?

When facing a numerically superior enemy, use munitions with shrapnel casings.

Wounded and stunned, the enemy posed little threat, but no one promised to take prisoners here.

They should have surrendered when offered.

Only officers held value for the special forces, as they knew more than rank-and-file crew. But this wasn't universal—it depended on the operation's perspective and nature.

Here, no officers were among those eager to die quickly.

No one intended to spare the crew and specialists.

Those who survived but were doomed to suffer were to be finished off.

A final courtesy for those serving in any fleet.

No one should suffer.

Except fanatics.

No one liked fanatics.

These didn't seem deranged, but they ignored reason.

Thus, two troopers at the rear performed "control," finishing off mortally wounded enemies with single blaster shots.

Better than choking on blood or clawing at spilled entrails on the deck.

War was filth and death.

Those who chose to destroy enemies and protect their state's borders, interests, and security must remember this.

The next compartment—another barracks—was doused with incendiary grenades, avoiding a firefight.

A hastily erected barricade with a heavy repeater at its center was neutralized by the squad's sniper, who put an extra hole in the enemy stormtrooper's helmet.

The white-armored troopers and barricade were obliterated with a grenade launcher.

An old model from the Clone Wars, but its lethality and destructiveness were undiminished.

Finishing off the concussed survivors, the special forces reached their target—the stormtrooper barracks, inexplicably under quarantine and guarded.

Command had informed the boarding parties that hostages—shipyard workers—were aboard the super star destroyer, intended to be taken by the enemy during their escape from the Barpine system.

The destroyer, identified as masquerading under the name *Liquidator*, destroyed nine years ago before the Battle of Yavin, might hold other prisoners.

The Grand Admiral had ordered their safety ensured.

Based on experience with Thrawn, it was likely that liberation would be followed by an offer to join the Dominion.

Politics was for politicians; the special forces had other tasks.

The guarding stormtroopers were dispatched swiftly—few escaped a sniper who didn't want them to.

Organizing a defense took time, coinciding with the technicians' efforts to crack the code locks on the entrance.

But when the bulkhead opened, and the naval special forces peered inside, questions outnumbered answers.

— Who are these people? — one trooper asked in surprise, observing the prisoners.

— Women, — another muttered uncertainly, quickly identifying their primary characteristics.

— Granted, — Orsan said meaningfully. — Not exactly attractive, but… can someone explain why these lunatics needed pale, tattooed human women? And packed like this?

No one ventured an answer to such a pressing question.

Either there were no answers beyond the obvious—and likely incorrect—ones.

Or under the furious glares of the women, confined in strange metal boxes and suspended by ray-shields, enduring painful and disorienting electric shocks, the Dominion's naval special forces felt uneasy.

They reported as much to command.

Let them sort it out.

The naval special forces had completed their objectives.

***

The battle in the Barpine system had ended half a day ago, and now, with the *Inexorable* and its prizes at the orbital repair yard, and all fighting concluded, it was time to analyze the events thoroughly.

There was much to consider and decisions to make swiftly. Slowing the offensive's momentum was unforgivable.

Absolutely unforgivable.

To myself, above all.

As always, I needed a devil's advocate to view the situation from another perspective.

While Captain Pellaeon handled non-standard tasks for a flagship star destroyer commander, like negotiating with the local network's administration, and Major Grodin Tierce organized interrogations, Zakarisz Ghent hacked New Republic intelligence files at my behest. The only sentient familiar with the events and capable of analysis was… Mara Jade.

— That was awkward, — the redheaded woman broke the silence, tearing her gaze from the tactical display showing our losses in the battle.

— Pardon? — I asked.

— My rescue, — she clarified. — I was supposed to operate with autonomy and secrecy, but… several people on that corvette saw my face.

— Indeed, — I agreed. — This situation is manageable.

— Eliminate them? — she asked warily.

— Why would I eliminate clones who have valuable uses? — I countered. — They'll be reassigned to other roles once a plausible cover story is prepared for who you are and what you were doing on that ship.

The story was already crafted and disseminated.

Jade was a crew member who hid on the starship and resisted capture—sufficient explanation.

Events were unfolding too rapidly for anyone to scrutinize minor details.

— Thank you, — she said.

— For what? — I inquired.

— I dislike unnecessary casualties, — Jade grimaced. — Especially if they're due to me.

— I don't execute my people for saving my agent from a derelict starship, even if it slightly compromises secrecy, — I reminded her of the difference between me and Palpatine. — Now, tell me everything from the beginning.

Her account was brief.

Lengthy solo searches, a return to Vohai, disarming a crew, hijacking a ship delivering cargo to the Kveli sector, encountering Lieutenant Lon Donell, hiding, and battling aboard the ship…

Well… condensed into five minutes of detailed narration, but the consequences… who knew what we'd uncovered or how long it would take to unravel.

— Preliminary interrogations confirm your assumptions, — I said. — Lieutenant Donell indeed used route deviations to lure freighters to the Kveli sector, keeping his fleet expansion covert.

— He wasn't doing it for himself, — Jade gestured toward the super star destroyer drifting beside the *Chimaera*. — Nor was he building that behemoth for himself.

— For your acquaintance from the transport? — I clarified.

— No, — she shook her head, red locks spilling across her face. Amusingly… on Earth, I'd assumed red hair came with freckles… Jade had none. But what did it matter now? — During our fight, we had a conversation. He admitted he's just an executor. There's someone more powerful.

— A Force adept? — I asked.

— Yes, — she admitted, shuddering. — I can't imagine what kind of madman could subjugate him.

— Who is he? — I pressed.

— The instructor who trained me when I was the Emperor's Hand, — she explained. — I know nothing of his past, but he always seemed more than he appeared. Arrogant with me, but obsequious in the Emperor's presence. I sensed he feared Palpatine. Not respected—feared. And hated. As if Palpatine had broken him and forced his service…

— Not uncommon, — I noted. — How dangerous do you assess him to be to us?

— I never defeated him before, — she sighed deeply. — Today, I did. But it was more a victory by points than skill. I won't dodge—he's out of my league.

Honest, at least.

I had those capable of dealing with a gifted individual. I could send them all…

But that was another matter.

— Who might he serve? — I asked.

— Anyone, — she replied. — But his master clearly has deep ties to the Dark Side.

— Palpatine? — I probed.

— Unlikely, — she countered. — He didn't even suspect the Emperor was alive.

— But you enlightened him, — I observed.

Jade nodded.

— I hoped to deal with him and take the secret to his grave, — she admitted.

— We all make mistakes, — I replied neutrally.

It took a moment to acknowledge—no analysis would reveal the instructor's master.

I lacked the data.

— What's the instructor's name?

— Instructor, — Jade shrugged. — Those who trained me never had names.

— So we can expect more like him? — I asked.

— Doubtful, — she replied. — He was the only Force-sensitive one who trained me.

That didn't rule out that nearly every one of Palpatine's inner circle had Force connections.

Yet they all pretended otherwise.

— I need his identity to put a bounty on his head, — I said. Simple enough. We had credits—hire Boba Fett and ask questions in person. The question was whether he'd take the job.

After the Noghri and Himron's clones thinned the bounty hunter ranks, targeting anyone who accepted a contract on me, the field was desolate, with only the wind howling and tumbleweeds rolling.

— All I can do is draw his portrait, — Jade offered.

Oh? The Hand had painting skills. Strange… I'd never heard or read of this. Another detail left "off-screen"?

— Very well, — I agreed after consideration.

She approached the table, took the datapad and stylus I offered, and returned to her seat, beginning to sketch…

Another new threat.

Someone—perhaps an Inquisitor, a fallen Jedi, or another—had unearthed the Emperor's Hand's fencing instructor.

Together, they were building their "utopian state," resorting to violence and slavelike labor conditions, as the local shipyard workers attested.

Then there was Lieutenant Donell, who, six months ago, engaged in petty piracy from this system's shipyard, keeping his ships operational by selling captured vessels and forming his own fleet.

Then everything changed.

The priority became constructing a *Executor*-class super star destroyer.

Parts from the *Iron Fist*—Warlord Zsinj's flagship, destroyed months ago over Dathomir in the Kveli sector—were used.

Scrap was insufficient, so as my campaign intensified, the ship's hull was nearly complete—built for over a year, starting soon after its destruction. Donell shifted tactics, acquiring components for the ship.

For some purpose, the instructor's master began collecting *Imperial*-class star destroyers, naming them after ships from Darth Vader's *Death Squadron*.

The ship was to be moved from the shipyard with the workers for completion elsewhere. Where? Only Donell and the instructor knew.

The former was killed by his subordinates; the latter escaped.

According to our navigators' calculations, the trio of TIE Defenders jumped directly to the Kveli sector—likely Dathomir.

I had ample reason to visit that world.

First, Jade's account that the instructor's master mentioned recruiting Dathomirian witches, who were also Force-sensitive.

Now it was clear why the destroyer's barracks, converted for transport, were filled with them.

Immobilized and stripped of their ability to use the Force…

Whoever the instructor's master was, they were building an army. And unlikely out of a love for art.

In summary, I had an unarmed, unfinished super star destroyer requiring restoration.

They also had a fleet…

Confirmation was needed.

— I'm done, — Mara announced.

I gestured for her to approach.

Taking the datapad, I realized how little I knew of this galaxy.

Studying the non-human face, I inquired:

— The instructor isn't human?

— Correct, — she confirmed. — The New Order was a facade for those who wielded it skillfully.

I nodded silently…

Another encrypted message from Ghent arrived, which I reviewed…

Now it all made sense. Fresh intelligence revealed who the starship was built for, who captured the Dathomirian witches, and why. And a crucial piece—reports of severed limbs found on the transport…

— With this, — I set the "sketch" aside, — it's all clear.

— Really? — she asked.

— Yes, — I sighed.

I should have spent more time on the games and comics of this universe. Who knew it would come to this?

— What's clear? — she pressed.

— Your instructor's name, — I said. — And who he serves. We must stop them, and quickly.

With such names, a second super star destroyer was hardly reassuring. Especially since Jade's mentor had been "killed" multiple times before.

— Will I have a mission to track and eliminate them? — Mara asked.

— No, — I replied. — We'll do it together.

She regarded me cautiously.

— You've learned something about who we're facing? — she asked.

— Yes, — I confirmed. — Your instructor's name and New Republic intelligence on destroyed *Executor*-class ships clarified everything.

Better late than never. When I began hunting *Executors*, I lacked the Republic's data.

I didn't know where or when they destroyed these ships. But now, thanks to Ghent and Mara Jade's crude drawing (no wonder it wasn't widely known—I identified him by the tattoos), it all fell into place.

And it wasn't comforting.

I thought these figures were a closed chapter, long destroyed.

Evidently not.

What an intriguing final stage…

— And… — Mara raised an eyebrow questioningly, restraining her defiant nature. — What does my instructor's name give us?

— The key to finding his master's base, — I said, activating my comlink. — Captain Pellaeon, prepare the fleet for an immediate jump to the Dathomir system. Leave one formation to guard our prizes.

— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon replied after a brief pause, disconnecting.

— I know I'm in no position to demand, — Jade said cautiously, — but in gratitude for strengthening the Dominion with such valuable ships… may I know what's so significant about my old fencing instructor's name?

— He's from that planet, — I explained. — A Dathomirian Zabrak. One of many, but this one was once known as Maul…

Her eyes narrowed.

She was beginning to understand.

— Darth Maul, to be precise, — I said. — The first of Darth Sidious's apprentices.