Ten years and the twentieth day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year and the twentieth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months, one month, and the fifth day since the arrival).
Interstellar void, like a soft blanket for an infant, cradled the star destroyer that silently glided toward its designated target.
The only thing dispelling the darkness in this corner of the galaxy were the running lights of the starship, steadily blinking in the surrounding gloom.
The nearest stars were hundreds of light-years away, but the Chimaera's course did not involve visiting those celestial bodies.
The starship followed a trajectory plotted by the navigator on special orders from those on the bridge.
The star destroyer had visited the Skaros system in the Morshdine sector not out of idle curiosity.
Pushing through thousands of kilometers of minefields, escorted by a dozen turbolasers from GolAn-type defensive stations scattered throughout the system, carefully maneuvering between massive asteroids that served as cheap versions of firing points—currently undergoing repair work—it moved toward its goal.
Mechanics and droids were carving passages inside the rocks and installing necessary communications, while on the surface, turret wells for turbolasers and missile launchers were being mounted.
But without a doubt, the "highlight" in this uninhabited system, where the Dominion's regular fleet had once defeated the First Division of the Fourth Fleet of the New Republic Defense Force, was a far more significant and colossal structure.
Recently, a massive, though considerably battered by life, turbolasers, missiles, and internal explosions, former habitable sphere—once belonging to the Emperor Palpatine's hired assassin named Ennix Devian—had been stationed here.
And now this enormous metallic spherical construct, with a diameter of one hundred twenty kilometers, served as the headquarters of the regular fleet of the state known as the Dominion.
Though outwardly, this object could hardly be called anything fitting the status of a headquarters.
A significant portion of the hull was either destroyed, deformed, or covered in scorch marks from an ancient battle.
A trained eye could easily discern that inside the station, there were equally massive problems with filling it.
Once, there had been makeshift shipyards, production buildings, and machines ensuring the operation of numerous factories.
Now, most of that equipment had been dismantled and distributed to shipyards and planets supplying the Dominion's industries with necessary gear.
The headquarters continued to be rebuilt, preparing to become one not just formally, but in fact.
However, the Chimaera was not heading toward the enormous wounded sphere.
Nor even toward the three massive disc-shaped orbital assembly yard structures, placed in high orbits around the system's dead and uninhabitable planets, producing an endless stream of TIE-series flight craft in service with the Dominion.
The star destroyer was heading toward the boundaries of the star system.
There, farther from prying eyes, the headquarters had placed a testing ground for small flying craft undergoing final acceptance tests before being sent into the holds of awaiting star destroyers in the system, ready to depart for missions protecting the state.
The Supreme Commander of the Dominion stood at the central viewport of the famed vessel.
He gazed into the void of space and, indifferent to others' opinions, adjusted his snow-white gloves on his hands without looking.
Though the entire galaxy considered him dead, this Chiss was more alive than many whose heartbeats were officially recorded.
Captain Tschel, one of the few young officers diligently performing their duties over the past six months and rewarded for it, slowly strode across the central dais.
Gripping firmly but not too tightly, trying not to show his nervousness, the young man clutched the datapad with incoming operational summaries he intended to deliver to the Supreme Commander.
His young gaze drilled into everything happening aboard the ship with a trained eye.
The young subordinates, the overwhelming majority of whom were recent recruits transferred to the regular fleet from the metropolitan defense forces, winked cheerfully at each other, clearly buoyed by the fact that on their first voyage—from the Tangrene shipyards to the Skaros system—they were accompanied by the grand admiral himself.
And this did not particularly please the young commander.
The man stopped when his gaze caught something that should not have been happening on a battle station.
"Ensign Mithel," he addressed the officer responsible for preparing and operating the tractor beam operators.
The young man, one of the few veterans remaining on the ship after repairs, snapped to attention, jumping up from behind the console, clutching his personal datapad.
"Sir?" he blinked.
"Why are there unauthorized devices on the battle station?" the young commander jabbed a finger toward the datapad.
The presence of such a device during a watch was a serious violation of security protocols.
And the officers of the relevant department aboard the destroyer could ask many unpleasant questions.
Of everyone, from the ensign himself to the ship's commander.
And they would be absolutely right—an underling's mistake was a failure of the entire chain of command in the department.
"Sir, I'm studying headquarters recommendations on tactics against 'splitting targets,'" the man said sheepishly. "Intelligence reports that in battles with the Empire, the New Republic often uses anti-capture tactics—they launch torpedoes that the sensors lock onto…"
"I don't need explanations, ensign," Tschel cut him off. "The information was disseminated to the crew before departure. You came on watch two hours ago. Did you have time to study the documents during self-preparation hours en route?"
"Yes, sir," the ensign drooped. "I wanted to combine it with practice, work on operational response at the console…"
"Commendable intentions," the ship commander agreed. "But they are devalued by violating security protocols. Two extra duties after watch ends. I reprimand you. The datapad!"
Tschel extended his hand, leaning over the dais railing.
"Yes, sir," the young officer saddened, handing his personal portable computer to the commander. "Aye, sir."
"Return to your duties," the star destroyer commander stated, continuing on his way.
Another officer caught his eye.
This time—a middle-aged man, though dressed in fleet officer uniform and the chevrons on his jacket sleeves indicating affiliation with the Chimaera's crew, the department patch revealed who he truly was.
"Check for leaks," Tschel stated, handing the confiscated device to the counterintelligence officer.
"It will be done, commander," the other replied.
Judging by his presence on the bridge without taking action yet, he knew that Ensign Mithel was clearly not acting in the interests of the Dominion's enemies.
Undoubtedly, the counterintelligence officer had already prepared a report to the ship commander on the violation but hadn't flagged it, as there was no immediate threat in his area, and the report could wait until the watch change.
Tschel did not approve of such an approach.
Better to nip inappropriate behavior in the bud than deal with consequences when the crew's heads had already rooted the idea that "it's okay." After all, they weren't punished right away, were they?
It was strange that Mithel had risked such a violation—he was a veteran, knew it wasn't welcomed.
"Grand Admiral, operational summaries," Tschel stated, saluting and unobtrusively handing the working datapad to the Supreme Commander.
"Thank you, Captain," Thrawn said quietly, taking the device and touching the receptacle with his code cylinder.
For several seconds, he regarded the former executive officer of the star destroyer with an appraising gaze, then took the device and began studying the information displayed on its screen.
The grand admiral's face showed no emotion, but Tschel understood that he was clearly in no hurry to finish reviewing the data.
Thus, what headquarters had sent was more than serious information warranting maximum attention.
It seemed the watchstanders sensed the grand admiral's mood.
In any case, the usual hum from behind, indicating the crew's activity and busyness, became noticeably quieter than before.
Muted.
"As expected," the grand admiral intoned, finishing with the device.
He withdrew the code cylinder, instantly locking the screen, and handed it back to Tschel.
"What will be your orders, sir?" the young star destroyer commander inquired readily.
Tschel was eager to set out on campaign again, as it had been just half a month ago.
To lead an armada into enemy territory and engage in battle, crushing the foe…
Every first crew member awaited that!
Wasn't that why the Chimaera had been brought to combat readiness in such short order?
Yes, she wasn't a "three" yet, but the multiple modifications throughout the ship during the intermediate refit already indicated that the star destroyer was about to become one of the elite in the entire fleet.
But for now, the additional turbolaser artillery had yet to appear on the famed starship.
Aside from antiaircraft laser cannons and additional power generators, along with automation systems, the destroyer had undergone no significant changes.
Well, except that the shield generators were finally hidden under armor, and sensor arrays and hypercomm equipment dispersed to secluded corners.
"The latest orders are not canceled, Captain," Thrawn stated. "Your mission continues."
Tschel nearly groaned, realizing there would be no campaign.
"Basic training"—that's where the Chimaera would head immediately after receiving the necessary craft to complete her air wing.
Which was precisely why they were heading to the polygon—squadrons were conducting combat cohesion alongside testing.
And, perhaps, the gunners, mechanics, and pilots were the best currently aboard the Dominion's most famous ship.
Because they were clones of their originals, who had been transferred… Well, one could call it a clear promotion.
"Yes, sir," Tschel sighed, catching himself pursing his lips in disappointment.
"Unnecessary," Thrawn said unexpectedly.
"What, pardon, sir?" the young commander startled.
"You are quite unnecessarily overexerting yourself, Captain," the grand admiral stated.
"I'm striving to make my crew the best in the fleet again, sir!" the former exec explained.
"And you'll achieve the destruction of the star destroyer and everyone aboard," Thrawn continued calmly. "Haste will lead to nothing good."
"But it should help the crew adapt to combat conditions faster!" the captain insisted stubbornly.
"Indeed?" The grand admiral favored him with a fiery gaze.
"Yes, sir—it's prescribed in the accelerated training manual for fleet personnel," Tschel stated convincedly.
"That is so," the Supreme Commander agreed. "As is the fact that such a course is designed for Academy graduates who have completed full training. Your crew, however, is staffed with far from such competent personnel. They differ little from conscripts, one of whom you yourself were just six months ago."
Tschel, realizing he had overlooked that small but important detail, averted his gaze embarrassedly.
"My fault, sir," he murmured.
"There is nothing terrible in admitting mistakes, Captain," Thrawn stated. "You are one of our most competent and prepared young officers. Brilliantly passed qualification exams—both theoretical and practical—indicate your competence in combat and readiness to command a ship. But do not demand the crew be the best here and now—remember, it took you time and considerable practical work to enter the first graduating class of the fleet Academy and receive command of a star destroyer. Zeal in service is excellent. But do not cross the line of the permissible."
"I understand, sir," Tschel licked his lips. "But… I served under Vice Admiral Pellaeon. And I was confident I could impart the knowledge I gained to my subordinates through an intensive training course."
"It will happen inevitably," Thrawn agreed. "But before demanding flawless obedience to your orders from the crew, recall how much time you spent on extra duties. For reasons that you did not immediately grasp the essence of Pelleaon's orders to you."
"Yes, sir," Tschel uttered strainedly.
The expansion of the Dominion's fleet to truly immense sizes had set the military's social ladder in full motion.
Dominion Armed Forces headquarters organized the recall of top specialists from ships for command courses, to appoint them to bridges of commissioning starships in the future.
Tschel and over two dozen lieutenants and commanders from senior execs on star destroyers had been luckier—they distinguished themselves throughout Thrawn's campaign, Operation Crimson Dawn.
But only he had the honor of becoming the full "master" of a star destroyer bridge.
The other young officers settled for corvettes, rarely cruisers.
Tschel had long struggled to believe his luck—to leap over the personnel ceiling at once, not just gaining command of the Chimaera but skipping ranks.
Rumors swirled that Vice Admiral Pellaeon himself, heading the regular fleet staff of the Dominion Armed Forces, had pulled strings for him.
But Tschel doubted that strongly.
And to ask outright…
"Sir, permission to ask a question?" he ventured.
"Ask, Captain," Thrawn replied.
"Rumors circulate that Vice Admiral Pellaeon lobbied my promotion and assignment to the Chimaera's bridge only because he didn't want his ship commanded by an 'outsider,'" Tschel blurted. "That I was slated for command of a Chimaera escort corvette, but in that case…"
Thrawn gestured for him to stop.
The young officer complied.
"As I already said—you are a worthy officer in your place," the grand admiral pronounced. "In the Dominion, there is no patronage from superiors—for such, the best is life labor on the mines. You were chosen because deemed suitable for this post. However, if you doubt yourself and believe your place is on a corvette bridge, that is easily remedied."
"No, sir, I do not think so," Tschel flushed.
"In that case, cease using rumors as your sole information source," the grand admiral advised. "And engage your head. Imagine for a second that Vice Admiral Pellaeon, chief of the regular fleet staff, the man who exerted maximum effort to make the Chimaera the fleet's best star destroyer, with her crew tempered in a dozen battles and becoming donors for clones of nearly all fleet specialist types, risked his career and life so his former ship would be under a 'Chimaera man' rather than an outsider."
"As you mentioned, it's impossible," Tschel echoed the grand admiral's words. "Just rumors."
"Correct," the Supreme Commander nodded in agreement. "But we both know rumors have a habit of embedding in officers' heads and gaining ground. The only way to combat them is to prove by deeds they are baseless. Draw the conclusion—what is better for you and Pellaeon? That you rush combat cohesion and head into battle where you will almost certainly perish with crew and ship, or demonstrate yourself in the best light, using all allotted training time to properly prepare your crew for the enemy, thereby proving by deed that rumors of your 'patronage' appointment are mere distortions of facts."
For several seconds, the young star destroyer commander digested the information, then nodded affirmatively.
"You are right, sir," he stated. "I will not hurry and ensure the crew is prepared in the allotted time, honoring their predecessors' legacy without allowing the Chimaera's defeat in upcoming battles per assigned combat tasks."
"Commendable," Thrawn agreed, glancing at the nearby adjutant, positioned in the opposite part of the bridge from the gray-skinned bodyguard Rukh. "Since we agree on thorough personnel preparation, be so kind as to report the current authorized strength and composition of your guard star destroyer's air wing in the Dominion's regular fleet?"
Despite the near-total replacement of command, officer, and enlisted personnel from campaign veterans with recruits, the Chimaera retained her guard ship status.
And the Dominion's emblem—a golden "cog" inscribed in a circle—continued adorning the ship's upper and lower hull, emphasizing the star destroyer's status.
Even the ship's aviation had its own designation—Air Wing Scimitar, under the command of Major Tomax Bren, well-known to Tschel.
"TIE Avenger squadron 'Gray Wing,' four TIE interceptor squadrons, Scimitar bomber squadron, Xg-1 Star Wing assault gunboat squadron, two pairs of Dominion ARC-170 reconnaissance craft," the young commander rattled off.
To accommodate all this "wealth," space in the main hangar had been sacrificed.
Now, there was virtually no empty space for receiving shuttles and shuttles on the spacious main hangar deck—now occupied by Xg-1 Star Wings.
They had excelled in the operation against the New Republic fleet at Lianna and associated battles, and, no less, it was they who claimed credit for destroying most of the Republican aviation and ramships during the Battle of Sluis Van.
The Chimaera's guard status called for replacing standard TIE bombers with Scimitars, while "regular" star destroyers were equipped with the former types.
Despite ramped-up Scimitar and Star Wing production, there weren't enough to outfit every star destroyer, so command found this solution.
Likewise, guard ships were allotted Raider-III corvettes for escort and cover, in exchange for transferred Corellian CR90 corvettes and DP20 frigates to the defense fleet.
Equipped with antiaircraft laser turrets like the Crusader II corvettes standard for "regular" destroyers and other regular fleet ships, the Raider-IIIs excellently complemented the Imperial I and II classes with additional antimissile shielding.
But even they weren't plentiful yet—the laying down of new ships was recent, and swift entry into service wasn't expected.
Such starships were primarily intended for pairing with Project Three destroyers, as well as delivering spec-ops teams and storm commandos to operational areas.
And considering that the first and second Raider modifications hadn't taken well in the Dominion regular fleet, and all six existing samples had been hastily upgraded to "threes," the modification number was often omitted in use.
The Raider-III allotted to the Chimaera was currently absent, as was the ship's air wing.
Why—not clear.
Grand Admiral Thrawn, who continued flying his flag on the Chimaera despite the combat-ready superdestroyer Guardian officially the flagship of all Dominion Armed Forces, did not explain the corvette's absence.
And Tschel, naturally, did not inquire, understanding there was information even flagship commanders of the Supreme Commander should not know.
Theories abounded, but the most plausible was that the crew assembled from numerous regular fleet starships for the Guardian needed proper bonding.
Yes, they had engaged Grawn's moff star destroyers, but that was little more than a stroll.
True combat cohesion required substantial training time.
Most likely, that's what Captain Pellaeon—the only known clone of Vice Admiral Gilad Pellaeon—was doing now.
And the grand admiral, to avoid wasting time, decided to "tighten tails" on the Chimaera's crew.
By the Hutt, it was even honorable—the grand admiral himself participating in the star destroyer personnel preparation.
This time must be used fully to glean as many valuable instructions and remarks as possible.
"And precisely these small flying craft you mentioned are what we are now heading to receive," the grand admiral stated.
"Aye, sir," Tschel confirmed, glancing at the bridge tactical monitor.
At the star destroyer's scanner edges, markers of approaching air wing groups had already appeared.
Broken into squadrons, the small starships rapidly closed on the destroyer…
And the vectors they chose for approach did not please Tschel.
"Grand Admiral?" the destroyer captain said quietly. "Aviation is approaching us on attack vectors."
It took considerable effort to say that.
Yes, he might be mistaken, but…
No, he was not mistaken!
Their aviation was indeed approaching the Chimaera with clear intent to attack!
And as commander of a Dominion star destroyer, he was obliged to voice his opinion to the senior officer.
Right or wrong—he was obliged.
A junior reports information to the senior officer.
As it was in the Empire, so it remained after straightening out the Dominion Armed Forces regulations.
"Thank you," Thrawn said, glancing at the tactical monitor. "Correct. The Chimaera is under attack."
With that, the grand admiral slowly turned and settled into the chair installed amid the central dais, favoring his flagship destroyer's commander with a fiery gaze.
"This was not in the exercise program," Tschel noted.
But he had already realized part of the information had been withheld from him.
Thrawn was not aboard idly.
He was clearly here not to chat and dispense advice.
He was evaluating.
And now the hastily promoted star destroyer captain needed to apply all his skills and knowledge to confirm that very high assessment allowing him to stand out from the masses.
But he lacked much experience as ship commander.
And now, asking this simple question, he was merely buying time to run through all known data in his head and formulate a decision.
"Correct, Captain," Thrawn agreed, glancing at his adjutant, Lieutenant Colonel Tierce, at the adjacent console. "The exercise program has abruptly changed. That's how it is on the battlefield—plans change, requiring operational intervention."
Now it was clear.
Lieutenant Colonel Tierce had altered the exercise program on Grand Admiral Thrawn's order.
Otherwise, why climb to the duplicate console?
"Understood, sir," Tschel acknowledged, pivoting on his heels toward the pits. "Crew! Stations! Battle stations. Raise deflectors, activate defense posts. Secure hangars, prepare for combat."
And the grand admiral gazed out the viewport again.
The first thing he noticed on his subordinates' faces was fear.
Like him, they had not expected that instead of observing small flying craft maneuvers, they would now directly repel an attack.
But under the unflinching gaze of the star destroyer commander, the youth came alive.
With some fuss and overly loud reports from junior officers on the bridge to seniors, the watchstanders took their combat roster stations and switched to working mode.
Orders rolled further, from one battle station to another, deck to deck, migrating from compartment to compartment…
As the young ship commander had presumed—all small flying craft assigned to the Chimaera were entering the attack.
Tschel, raising the comlink to his lips, quietly dictated instructions to the ship's gunners.
They had to repel solely with turbolasers, lasers, and ion cannons.
Given the aviation grouped by type, it was clear this was an extremely simple attack.
From their own pilots, no less.
Well then, let's begin.
"Ion cannons—barrage fire on interceptors," Tschel ordered, realizing that firing lasers or turbolasers at those craft would sweep them away.
"Turbolasers, ion, and antiaircraft guns—to minimum allowable power range," the Chimaera's commander continued.
That was precisely the "training" power setting—inflicting no damage, unable to penetrate deflectors.
One notch higher—and turbolasers would vaporize the craft outright. Essentially, that setting, combined with high rate of fire, was the Galactic Empire Armed Forces command's design for IIs to repel enemy starfighter attacks.
A tactic used even in the Clone Wars era.
The Avengers approached from the bow.
A dozen deflector-equipped machines in proper assault wedge poured fire on the star destroyer's deflectors.
At breakneck speeds, they executed a demonstrative attack.
As soon as the craft entered engagement range, they split into two equal squads, lunging toward the Chimaera's turret artillery.
Meanwhile, interceptor squadrons attacked from both flanks and bore down on the bridge.
Scimitars and Star Wings were only laying onto combat courses.
The lack of a swift lunge by the former indicated the air raid repulsion program provided for countering standard bombers unequipped with PLAE.
Well, a bit simpler then.
"Targets tracked and engaged," the senior gunner reported. "Ready to repel attack."
"Fire," Tschel commanded.
And immediately, turret turbolasers and broadside ion cannons belched green-blue flame, instantly licking up a third of the notional enemy craft.
But instead of drifting statues, most hit interceptors continued moving.
Tschel momentarily faltered, not grasping how linear TIE interceptors could survive even a low-power ion cannon shot.
After all, they had no…
Noting the craft still failed after second-third hits, the Chimaera's commander looked to the grand admiral.
"TIE interceptors equipped with deflector fields?" he clarified, testing his guess.
"Yes," Thrawn did not hide. "Low-power, but they allow our pilots to survive initial hits. Congratulations—this fact did not catch you unawares. Captain Kalian on the Steel Aurora failed the check."
"Increase ion cannon power by two notches," Tschel ordered.
Yes, that would reduce rate of fire, but against nimble interceptors, there might not be a second shot.
Especially if…
"Missile launch!" came from the pit.
"Laser artillery—switch to destroying ordnance!" Tschel barked.
So he hadn't erred there either.
It seemed Grand Admiral Thrawn had decided to mass-produce an extremely rare and significantly costlier TIE interceptor modification compared to a month ago.
With deflector fields and concussion missile launchers.
Now it was clear why they attacked from such long range—ten units out.
For interceptor pilots, this was also a test.
A check on their ability to use upgraded hardware.
Quite possibly, such interceptors weren't anywhere in the fleet yet, and the Chimaera was the first destroyer to be equipped with them.
Yes, Thrawn had mentioned Kalian, but Tschel knew the Steel Aurora's commander personally—young commanders strove to stay in a shared information space.
And that Victory had received standard interceptors in her air wing.
Possibly because he couldn't handle the test task.
Meanwhile, the Chimaera's gunners were demonstrating themselves in the best possible light, exerting maximum effort to cope with the missile attack.
Long crimson plasma beams literally incinerated missiles, denying them the inner perimeter of the star destroyer.
Training munitions burned on plasma contact.
Though no one had told Tschel the munitions were training, he deduced it seeing they didn't explode on intercept.
Thus, no warheads.
It took over ten minutes to repel sixty-seven percent of missiles and down eighty-three percent of attackers.
"Tractor beam operators—capture downed enemy craft," Tschel stated. "Ship security—proceed to main hangar to take downed enemy pilots into custody."
"Doesn't it bother you that these are your own pilots, Captain?" Thrawn inquired.
"We are under attack, sir," Tschel countered. "Formally, they could wear any uniform. We'll check who they are, interrogate, and draft a plan to improve air group training. If my gunners down them so easily, there's clearly a training lapse with the 'flyboys.' Together—we'll fix it. After all—the exercise plan didn't provide for this, so I'm raising the stakes in the confrontation."
"Commendable," Thrawn stated. "In that case, I would advise your gunners to increase power on their lasers and ion cannons. The Scimitars and Star Wings will attack with live ordnance. Including using PLAE."
The young commander felt sweat beading on his brow.
"I think you've already realized, Captain Tschel," Thrawn said quietly, "that in battle, stakes are raised not just one-sidedly."
Tschel nodded silently in agreement and cast a warning-pleading glance at the senior gunner.
The latter merely spread his hands, as if to say, I'll do all I can.
Ten minutes later, the thrice-"destroyed" Chimaera finally went into drift and dispatched shuttles to search for and recover her own downed pilots.
***
Luke Skywalker came to from the cold.
His mind quickly opened to reality and, with the Force's aid, concluded he was still in the same cell aboard the same starship that had fished him out after the Chimaera bridge shelling during the Battle of Sluis Van, which had occurred…
Some days ago.
Locked and shackled at wrists and ankles with shock cuffs.
Weak but painful man-made lightning struck his exposed skin.
It caused no real pain but prevented focusing on the Force.
And the metal bands holding him supine on the bunk, constricting shins, thighs, torso, arms, and even neck, allowed no serious movement.
All Luke could do was slightly raise his hands.
But only to confirm his right arm prosthetic was disabled, leaving him to contemplate the dark walls and outlines of the compartment holding him.
"Awake," he heard a clearly displeased male voice stating the fact.
For the first time in so long, he learned something about his captor, whom he had neither seen nor heard until now.
A figure in dark robes approached, and now Luke could make out a middle-aged man.
Slightly gaunt, with short stubble and dull gaze, he looked at Luke like an inanimate object.
"Who are you?" the young Jedi rasped.
His throat was parched, lips cracked.
He couldn't fathom how, in the elapsed time, he hadn't died of starvation or dehydration.
Though he didn't know the exact captivity duration, he certainly understood it wasn't just one day.
Likely not even a week.
"You'll learn soon enough," the jailer said promisingly.
He turned, and only then did Luke notice a small droid hovering behind the man, holding a large plastic container of transparent contents in its manipulators.
Without elaboration, the captor approached the head of Luke's bed and began doing something there.
The Jedi strained to twist or squint to see.
But his viewing angle lacked to comprehend.
The only thing he glimpsed was the stranger taking the full container from the droid's hands, and seconds later returning the empty one.
Where and how he had emptied the bottle so quickly, without even tearing the rubber stopper or metal seal on the neck—instead merely breaching the center—Luke did not know.
The man and droid left the compartment in complete silence, ignoring the young Jedi's questions.
For a moment, Luke glimpsed a corridor fragment, then the metal door sealed, leaving Skywalker in darkness and solitude.
After a time, he felt drowsiness overtaking him.
Despite an initial surge of vigor in his body…
Drifting into sleep, Luke concluded he knew why he hadn't died yet.
The jailer was pumping him with life-support drugs but sedating him so the Jedi couldn't cause trouble.
Before his eyes fully closed, Luke thought wistfully that this time, R2-D2 definitely wouldn't save him.
***
Well then…
For the first time, one could say the Chimaera's new crew didn't "perish" with a crushing score.
Tschel acts quite competently but still rigidly and within the frameworks of studied instructions.
Far from operational command and independent planning, but no one expects miracles.
Command genius is something elusive.
It may come on its own or result from prolonged consolidation of theoretical knowledge through practical drills.
Tschel is a symbol of the Dominion's young officer corps.
The lad clearly tries but doesn't overdo it.
Though, to admit, he adapts quite quickly.
The same Pellaeon is more rigid in this due to age and weak initiative.
Tschel doesn't fear risk but fears defeat.
Already, his solid hardware knowledge does him credit.
The live rounds fired at the Chimaera were destroyed by gunners—good.
Not all—bad, of course.
Had to use self-destruct systems, but Major Bren controlled the situation tightly.
The exercise ended with simulated Scimitar attacks after PLAE use and closing to short range.
A "killer move" with few true defenses, really.
But, at least, Tschel passed the minimum check—he's truly capable, a young man and officer who doesn't lose his head.
I think, over time, continuing training—starting with small simple ops and gradually raising "difficulty"—he'll gain needed experience and "temper."
And his service will become a model for other young specialists.
So, though not on all points, the unannounced exercise is accomplished.
Now the Chimaera collects her downed pilots, and while techs "revive" battered hardware, I have time to sort the latest intelligence data.
"Come in, Grodin," absorbed in rereading the report, I gestured for Tierce to take the seat opposite my desk.
The guardsman, also my adjutant and perpetual ops duty officer, soundlessly settled on the couch, glancing at the motionless white-and-blue R2-series astromech beside.
Very well-known in narrow circles.
"Reflashed," overhauled, retrofitted with cutting-edge tech.
Artificial personality is fine, of course.
Perhaps even "splendid."
But a little rebel with attachments to specific sentients as a prisoner aboard the Chimaera didn't suit me.
He was to be returned with Skywalker, but when the young Jedi's "pranks" on Ossus became known, a more interesting use emerged.
And no, no one intended to give him to Horn anyway.
I needed motivation for the Corellian, and mentioning Skywalker in negotiations should also spur potential informants to report my having such a prisoner to their patrons.
That exposed another good dozen of Palpatine's spies among imperials disloyal to the Dominion.
All that remained was the little matter—provoke Skywalker to "my" murder and thereby unequivocally turn this man into a problem for his former comrades.
From what I know of the Chimaera bridge shelling circumstances, the cloaked ship acted with advanced, clearly stygian optical and sensor camouflage systems.
And that work isn't cheap.
Undoubtedly Palpatine's doing.
Whether so or not would become clear once the madman revealed himself or sent Skywalker Jr. as vanguard of his invasion forces.
Hence, by my deep conviction, this droid was no longer needed by Skywalker.
But he's quite capable and has rare modules sometimes unfound even on the black market.
Thus, after the software "lobotomy" his Mr. Ghent clones administered alongside Dominion specialists, this "rolling bucket" would never serve the Skywalker family again.
But me—yes.
Same personality, but different motivation.
And priority in order execution based on loyalty matrix.
But the beacon inside him remained, just in case.
Who knows what surprises this droid might spring?
Or to whom I might have to give him, for instance…
"Meeting place with Horn selected?" I inquired.
"Aye, sir," Tierce replied. "Our ops teams have prepared everything needed for proper conditions."
"Good," I approved. "Transmit coordinates to Captain Tschel once air wing work finishes."
"Will be done, sir."
"Now to the front situation," I stated, leaning back in my chair. "Kaine attacks the Core Worlds and, as expected, not swiftly."
"He met serious resistance," Tierce confirmed. "Losses in starships and personnel far exceed projections. Anaxes and Coruscant remain untaken. As do Empress Teta and Foerost—they're encircled with slow defense collapse. Incoming reinforcements suggest by month's end, defenses will fall, after which the offensive will slow temporarily, requiring additional resources to resume."
As presumed, the grand moff preferred not heeding my advice to "wait" on the attack.
Well, his business.
This variant suits me more than fine.
Kaine and the Imperial Remnants attacking the Core Worlds, Colonies, and Inner and Mid Rims are not Palpatine's forces.
They are the prologue to the main campaign.
How Kaine planned to use radical imperials in the first wave of Palpatine's announced offensive to spare loyal crews and units to him.
I'm sure Palpatine adheres to the same tactic, thus first wearing down troops unallied to him who preferred local warlords.
And only then advance his own forces, letting predecessors exhaust the New Republic.
Why such operational maneuver—unknown for certain, but I suspect it's again "wait-and-see" policy.
And undoubtedly, concurrently, superweapon prototypes are completing, armament systems and stocks building.
Which, beyond doubt, isn't the best outcome.
Bloodied Remnants won't withstand the New Republic or Palpatine's forces in any form.
Thus, one can already say that locally, after Palpatine's still-hypothetical death, the "command" starting this war won't quite be the same.
That the Core Worlds hold so far is good—for the New Republic, of course.
But they were to defend against Palpatine's forces directly, not Remnants.
"A certain trend emerges from reports," I pronounced. "The most fortified worlds are targeted by Pentastar Alignment forces, while Imperial Space assaults their polar opposites."
"Such pattern can't be coincidental," Tierce stated. "With comparable armaments between the Alignment and Empire, the latter clearly prefers territorial expansion, while Kaine aims to seize and hold strongpoints."
"Unlikely their own initiative," I said. "Especially Kaine's. He fears major defeat most, most probable in such battles. I suspect targets come directly from Byss."
Which in turn implies a most interesting fact.
If Kaine could still be classed "disloyal" for creating his state and renouncing the New Order, Orinda is a direct Empire continuation under Palpatine's ardent supporters.
Thus, most logically, Kaine acts on "hard" targets not of his own will.
Quite likely, per Palpatine or an aide's design, the grand moff isn't to last long.
Such development I had presumed and accounted for in current strategy.
"Our groups operating on Coruscant per plans?" I clarified.
The guardsman nodded affirmatively.
"Each group checked in after customs and surface reach," Tierce confirmed. "Republican garrison mobilized, military sites securely guarded. They continue tasked execution."
And that's good.
Coruscant devastation looms—and by then, everything needed and of interest must be evacuated from the planet.
"Has the Head of State left the capital?" I inquired.
"Among the first. Soon as First Fleet cleared a safe corridor. Effectively, senators and political, legislative, executive high officials evacuated. Military command defense to the last."
Well, that was also presumed.
"What do our observers report from D'Astan sector?"
"Pro-Imperial and pro-Republican lobbyists activated," Tierce replied readily. "Baroness's troops hold for now, but without outside aid, they'll be swept in months. Too high disabled hardware count. Personnel losses also off the charts. Opponents of the baroness show many Hutt and other mercenaries, private orgs including with significant materiel-technical resources. Supporters of the baroness lack such broad opposition means. Already, many sector civilians and poorly trained fight on her side."
D'Astan cannot be lost.
But openly committing reinforcements there—also wrong.
The Dominion has isolated from galactic problems, building internal might, economy, defense.
Factually, my not being dead is known only here, and not to everyone.
To prevent such leaks, borders stay locked, comms controlled.
Though rumors persist on who died on the Chimaera bridge—real me or clone.
I'm in no hurry to debunk either myth—long-term strategy matters here.
One thing clear—without our support, the baroness clone will lose.
Evidently, former Hutt-allied comrades act against her.
Thus, considering plans to annex D'Astan to the Dominion, current regime preservation must be ensured.
Especially since our agents capturing Grappa the Hutt haven't arrived yet. Pros sent to aid, arrival imminent.
And only after clarifying a long list of questions directly with the Hutt will it be known how to unfold the neighboring sector conflict for optimal outcome.
"Well then," I concluded. "A few local issues remain, then we can tackle primaries."
"Aye, sir."
"Dismissed, Grodin," I commanded.
The lieutenant colonel rose and left my quarters.
Sitting in silence and half-dark for a time, I long twirled the code cylinder in my hands.
The very one I passed to Pellaeon containing detailed impending crisis descriptions.
The very one Tierce extracted from the vice admiral's safe during the Sluis Van operation and replaced with another—far more prosaic on trophy distribution among metropolis, periphery, Karthakk, Yalara, Horrn, and Swekk systems.
The clone's appearance, aimed at bolstering Pellaeon in the general battle of Operation Crimson Dawn and nudging him to independence and tactical skill, effectively nullified the need for true backup.
Which had been acutely necessary due to Chiss genotype incompatibility with Spaarti cloning mechanisms.
A Chiss can be cloned.
Programmed via GeNod.
But requires a Kaminoan vat.
The very single one found in Mount Tantiss depths.
Understanding this took nearly six months, but even then, the clone wasn't most viable.
Had Skywalker not killed him, he'd have died in years.
Now I understand why, in known events, Mitth'raw'nuruodo grew a clone on Nirauan full cycle—ten years, not the most obvious way.
I think now I grasp how he created Major Tierce's clone, implanting part of his talents.
Spaarti cloning and GeNod training. Integrating his personality into another's…
Neither I nor medics on this failed to grasp why clones emerge clearly flawed, but fact remains.
Cloning a Chiss—any way—yields a ruthlessly arrogant, psychopathy-progressing entity.
I'd even thank Skywalker for destroying the bastard, but naturally, not yet.
First, all enemies of the Dominion burn.
And we'll start small.
Unlocking the datapad with ops summaries again, I delved into reports on sectors near "corps."
Time to address the Zann Consortium problem.
Since my death convinced Palpatine to delay attacking the Dominion, we must profitably use all allotted time.