The center of mass of the galactic capital released invisible gravitational claws toward the "Reptavian" as it approached Coruscant.
The motley kaleidoscope of hyperspace flared up, the jumble of lights crawled, stretching into distinct starlines with a roar that the admiral felt not with his ears, but through the barely perceptible vibration of the deck beneath his feet; and there they were again, surrounded by the familiar panorama of stars.
The light tunnel finally disintegrated, and the First Fleet, led by its flagship, found itself in orbit around the planet.
The grand spectacle of the galaxy's most famous planet once resembled a huge technogenic sphere, crisscrossed by illuminated canyons, a mesmerizing pattern of lighting from the sleepless city, painted against the dark void.
But now Coruscant resembled a grave more than ever before.
Its lights barely glowed, and through the sparse atmospheric cloudiness, numerous blazing craters were visible—testimony to the fall of starships onto the planet or the aftermath of orbital strikes by Grand Moff Ardus Kaine's fleet, whose flagship had been detected at a considerable distance.
The "Reaper"—the source of headaches and superstitious fear for the New Republic's military command.
The Star Dreadnought that breached the planet's defenses after the massive assault by the Pentastar Alignment's heavy cruisers petered out due to the self-sacrifice of officers and enlisted personnel from the fleet guarding the capital.
A little farther away shone the local star, bestowing warmth on everyone who fell into its rays.
The admiral automatically glanced toward Centax-2.
The moon, once of immense strategic importance, still bore the scarred ruins of a military base on its surface, destroyed by the cunning and ruthless ramming strike of the Star Cruiser "Home One" with Admiral Ackbar aboard.
A strike that Grand Admiral Thrawn had demonstrated during his assault on the New Republic's capital, succinctly and concisely stating his intentions—to eliminate the New Republic.
Right where the last two orbital defense stations should have been, controlling the space above the portion of the Upper Levels occupied by Republic troops.
But no one saw the expected sight.
Only an ocean of debris and two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, licking their numerous wounds and displaying extensive hull damage.
From afar, it might have seemed as if the ships had been processed by a kinetic shotgun, with the countless holes being the result of targeted hits from projectiles the size of an airspeeder.
But Admiral Duplex had devoted too much time to fleet service to make a fool of himself and fail to recognize the punctures made by low-yield proton torpedoes designed for fighter basing.
"Raise shields," he ordered. "The 'Reptavian' and two strike frigates move toward the enemy ships. Alpha and Beta groups disperse to the left and right flanks respectively. Launch fighters—one squadron to protect each ship in the task force. All batteries fire on the nearest Star Destroyer. Target—'priority-one.' Transports—follow the flagship, prepare to descend on command."
Numerous enemy starships held orbit—and it was from them, both the battered and the intact ones, that the transport convoy had to be protected by the ships of Alpha and Beta groups.
A deadly firefight would soon erupt there, one the New Republic could not win—the enemy had concentrated about two dozen Star Destroyers and no fewer than a hundred heavy cruisers in the system.
And the "Reaper."
Without comparable forces, Admiral Duplex could not win, no matter how one particular Bothan and his entourage dreamed otherwise.
The New Republic's First Fleet was effectively destroyed, and the fifty ships Argentis had brought here were essentially the dry remnants of its former might.
Losing these ships in a completely unnecessary attritional battle was foolish and wasteful on the part of the military command.
Now, with the New Republic forced to defend on dozens of fronts, every cruiser and every frigate played its role.
Of course, he would exert as much effort as possible to inflict maximum damage on the enemy, but miracles do not happen.
At least—not in his execution.
Ejecting streams of golden-crimson turbolaser fire from its bow batteries, the "Reptavian" jetted long plumes from its sublight engines, preparing to close to knife range.
On the tactical monitor screen before Argentis's eyes, columns of numbers flashed, notifying that course had been set for approach.
To left and right appeared additional crimson lightning bolts—both Mk II strike frigates had entered the fray with minimal delay.
The order transmitted to the flagship's escorts to select targets was executed flawlessly.
Now the artillery of three mighty New Republic starships tormented the hull of the Imperial Star Destroyer.
The hull specifically.
Because the crimson hurricane of turbolaser flame sloughed off the enemy's bridge with its sensor cluster globes and deflector shield generators on the very first hit.
The element of surprise from the Republicans' appearance and the Imperials' carelessness were the guarantee that Argentis had tipped the scales of the impending confrontation in his favor.
Deprived of protection, the enemy's first Star Destroyer snarled back furiously, but its turbolasers merely dissipated across the "Republic's" deflector fields.
They were sturdy, but would have been even sturdier if the SEAL technology could have been installed on them.
In that case, survivability could have been increased, and thus the combat effectiveness of the Republican Star Destroyer.
But what the Rendilians did not have, they did not have.
Still, it was very good as is.
TIE fighters emerged from the depths of the Star Destroyer, streaking toward the Republican starships.
Half the X-wing squadron covering the "Reptavian" surged to intercept.
Yes, there were disgracefully few of them, but Argentis had assembled the best of the best pilots on his ship.
From among those whom Thrawn's aces had not killed off.
The second Destroyer, which had been luckier than its counterpart, began maneuvering.
Supporting its comrade with turbolaser and ion cannon fire, it slowly advanced to meet the "Reptavian."
The enemy commander's intent to shield the damaged ship with his own, allowing it to fire in point-blank conditions, was obvious.
But it was not in Admiral Duplex's intentions to allow the foe to execute such a maneuver.
"Escorts—switch to the second Destroyer," he ordered. "Take the 'Reptavian' down to the lower echelon. Gunners prepare to strike 'priority-two.'"
The strike frigates were already executing the pincer maneuver, approaching the second Destroyer from left and right simultaneously, harassing its deflectors on the fly.
The "Republic" itself, having dived, swung into position where it had far greater chances of an almost instantaneous victory.
"Artillery—fire on 'priority-two,'" the Zeltron ordered.
While the commander of the first Destroyer was figuring out what was happening and reacting to the maneuver, the Republican flagship struck below the belt.
The enemy's hull shuddered from the powerful blow—and the main hangar turned into a branch of hell.
"Continue firing on the hangar," Argentis said.
The enemy vessel opened fire on the "Republic's" upper hemisphere, but its broadside guns were clearly insufficient to pierce the Republican Star Destroyer's defenses.
The belly of the first Star Destroyer, still pressing forward and raising its stern to cover the hangar, had already turned into Swiss cheese.
Flames lashed from the breaches, and small debris mixed with human bodies spewed out.
The enemy sought to position itself nose-on to the "Reptavian" to execute the classic Imperial Destroyer attack scheme, mobilizing all its turreted turbolasers to inflict maximum damage.
"Prepare to turn," Argentis directed. "Deviation from initial course—ten degrees to starboard."
The "Republic," once again "nose to nose" with its opponent, began diverging on counter-courses.
Such a maneuver primarily allowed the ship to evade the left broadside turbolasers of the enemy Destroyer, but made it vulnerable to broadside artillery.
"Elevation seven degrees," Admiral Duplex commanded, watching as his Destroyer's shields steadily buckled under enemy artillery strikes. "Left rotation speed—six percent."
The Republican Star Destroyer practically came broadside to broadside with its opponent.
They were separated by only twenty-seven kilometers when the "Reptavian" began its axial turn.
The over-kilometer-long ship turned its upper hemisphere toward its opponent's starboard side and, maintaining that position, shifted to rapid fire.
From all its guns capable of reaching the Imperial Star Destroyer.
Streams of golden-crimson fire first destroyed the Pentastar Alignment ship's broadside turret artillery, after which, as the Destroyers drew level, came the denouement.
Ion artillery showered the Destroyer's superstructure with white-blue charges, from which lightning began crackling across the entire structure, and the internal lighting steadily went dark.
The enemy Destroyer increased speed to maximum, realizing it was effectively on the brink of destruction.
Breaking free of the clinch, it could calmly close with the Republican transport convoy and begin a slaughter there, even in its current state.
"Activate tractor beams," came the order from the First Fleet commander. "All our escort fighters—switch to enemy aviation."
The last six pilots executed the order and joined the nearby dogfight with TIE fighters.
The two large starships, drawing level with each other, locked together at the initiative of one, inexorably binding their fates.
Yes, the Imperial was larger, more massive, and its engines had already gained speed greater than that of the Republican ship.
But suddenly it turned out that the "Reptavian" had engines too.
The thrust vector of which was directly opposite to that of the Imperial Star Destroyer's installations.
The added mass and opposing acceleration forces first slowed the Imperial, practically braking it in place, after which the ships began slowly rotating around a common center.
"Increase power to emergency starting engines," Admiral Duplex directed, watching as the second Destroyer's fire concentrated on his ship's lower shield.
The lateral acceleration of the structure took the starship out of the firing zone, allowing the "Reptavian" to use the first Pentastar Alignment Destroyer's hull as a screen against the enemy.
While continuing to mangle the triangular ship, turning everything in the path of the Republican guns into tiny molten metal droplets and clouds of debris.
"Reduce power to the lower deflector, redirect energy to the upper," the belly's defense could be sacrificed, as it was now on the unobtrusive side.
But the upper hemisphere was still taking salvos from enemy gunners until the Republican cannoneers silenced it for good.
The "fight" turned into a massacre.
The "Reptavian" crushed the opponent, literally dismantling it from the inside.
Breaches in the side multiplied and widened, deepened and spread to even greater areas of the Pentastar Alignment Star Destroyer's internal compartments.
After another salvo, the lights in the enemy's viewports went out, plunging the ship into darkness.
In an instant, from bow to stern, the starship transformed from a combat-effective unit into a liability with nothing left to oppose its foe.
"Cease fire," Argentis directed.
He looked at the battlefield, seeing that one of the two strike frigates had been knocked out, while the second, on its last legs, continued to fend off a superior foe (albeit thoroughly battered).
"Reduce sublight power, increase on starting engines," the admiral directed. "Adjust orbit so we're in line with the second Destroyer."
Saving the strike frigates was impossible—one had just exploded, and the second had taken a hit to the reactor area and ceased resistance.
The Imperial Star Destroyer set about tearing its opponent to pieces and in a couple of minutes, targeting weak spots, would turn the ship into a miniature supernova.
From forty kilometers away, the "Reptavian" could do nothing to help the crews, but it could avenge them.
Which it was doing at the moment, spinning the enemy Star Destroyer around itself.
Yes, these were not fighter speeds, but the residual energy would suffice for the plan.
After three full rotations around its axis, the Republican Star Destroyer, obeying a precisely calculated moment, released its opponent, allowing the multi-ton enemy behemoth to embark on its final voyage.
The first Destroyer, unopposed in the vacuum, shot toward the target like an arrowhead.
"Transports—immediate landing," Duplex commanded. "The 'Reptavian' set course for the second Destroyer. All batteries—fire."
The commander of the second Destroyer saw the threat but could not prevent the collision.
Residual radiation from the nearby detonation of two Republican ships jammed the scanners, and the approaching dead hulk, shedding guts in flight, was spotted by the surviving Destroyer's crew too late.
Course correction softened the monstrous impact but did not avoid it.
However, that proved sufficient to end the confrontation.
The first Destroyer's solar ionization reactor missed the second Pentastar Alignment ship's hull by only five meters.
The toughest armor, colliding with material of equal quality and density, deformed on both ships.
But for the second Destroyer, the broadside hit resulted only in significant damage to the structural framework, plating, and major decompressions.
And for the second...
Reactor fuel does not tolerate such treatment, no matter its aggregate state.
The artificial star that Raith Sienar had ignited for the galaxy's peoples bloomed in orbit around Coruscant, destroying both Pentastar Alignment starships in a tandem flash of their reactors exploding one after the other.
"Destroyed," someone on the "Reptavian's" bridge said with admiration in their voice.
Argentis, recovering from his astonishment, coughed into his fist to conceal his state.
"Approach order canceled. We're assuming orbit and preparing to cover the transports," he said firmly.
The crew slowly came back to life after what they had seen, enthusiastically setting to the tasks assigned to them.
The commander of the New Republic Defense Force's First Fleet himself approached the central viewport, hoping none of the crew would notice his surprised face gazing at the disintegrating remains of two Star Destroyers.
And he had only wanted to force the second Pentastar Alignment starship to dodge the first so he could swing into its aft and rake it...
Truly—military fortune favors the bold at the most unexpected times.
***
From above, there was a magnificent view of the advancing ranks of Imperial stormtroopers.
Troopers in white armor, broken into squads, combing building after building, mercilessly and regretfully gunning down anyone who tried to offer even the slightest resistance.
The planet the New Republic was abandoning, withdrawing its units to zones near the Imperial Palace, was experiencing shock and awe, mass executions and shootings of wounded and surrendering Republican fighters cut off from main forces by maneuvering stormtrooper groups.
Gazing at the scurrying stormtroopers near a small snack bar turned into an enemy firing point bristling with gun barrels in all directions, Agent Cross allowed himself a crooked smile.
He was on the top floor of one of the residential complexes behind Imperial lines, having occupied some senator's penthouse after the residential building had been combed by stormtroopers from top to bottom.
In his entire life, he had seen something like the current purge of Coruscant only three times.
The first—the Separatist droid raid on the planet to capture the Supreme Chancellor in the final stages of the Clone Wars. An enormous number of sentients had died then.
The droids spared no one, nor did they have orders to do so.
They killed indiscriminately.
The second—the assault on Imperial Center by Rebel Alliance forces just a few years ago. Nothing had stopped them then. Like butchers, they carved through the masses of people in their path. Just like the Imperial stormtroopers were doing now.
With the sole exception that billions of residents had been on the streets and in key structures of Coruscant at that time.
Not the pitiful few million who remained on the planet after Grand Admiral Thrawn's strike, blockading it with invisible asteroids.
Jahan glanced away for a moment, catching sight of several people standing in a dark corner of the attic.
Even without their black-and-red armor, the guards looked imposing, clad in gear that did not diminish their combat effectiveness and prevented identification.
These sentients never showed their faces, always remaining in closed helmets.
They were not particularly eloquent, and honestly, Agent had little desire to chat with hybrids of a battle tank and a medium-sized rancor.
Glancing at the soldiers, Jahan sighed. Despite being the head of all Dominion operations here on Coruscant, the thought lingered that these ten guards, if given the order, would slit his throat with relative ease and continue about their business.
Hence, he needed to be extremely cautious, blending personal ambitions with command orders in his activities.
Fortunately, for the moment, they coincided.
Thrawn had given the order—find Cronal.
The man who had headed Imperial Intelligence under the name "Agent Blackhole" and was responsible for the death of his unborn child.
Of course, from a formal standpoint, the decision to terminate the life inside her had been made directly by Elli to become an Imperial agent.
But two men had pushed her to that decision.
He, Jahan Cross, who had prophesied a future among spies for the girl, and Cronal, who had made it clear that pregnant women had no place in the academy.
And now Jahan intended to follow Blackhole's trail to find him and gut him like a tauntaun.
Feeling queasy from the flood of memories, Jahan leaned against the cold attic railing, continuing to observe the stormtroopers' actions through the polarized transparisteel of the attic.
In this part of the city, there were not that many of them, but even the battalion clearing this quarter was too many to venture toward his objective.
Even if the guard commander promised to deal with the enemy stormtroopers quickly, quietly, and most importantly, with a guarantee, the agent dared not break through their ranks to the target.
The deep interrogation sector was located, as funny as it sounded, deep beneath the structures of the Upper Levels.
Under normal circumstances, it would take considerable time to reach it using standard routes, coordinating passwords and access levels.
But now, the New Republic and the Pentastar Alignment had greatly simplified his task, plowing up the lion's share of the Upper Levels' structures during their nearly month-long battle.
Thousands of buildings destroyed, reduced to ruins or completely incinerated by targeted orbital strikes.
The Republicans, continuing to use the city's still-Imperial defense systems with turbolasers mounted on upper floors of buildings, surely thought suppressing those firing points would be quite a challenge for the attackers.
After all, they had to destroy such a small target that could bite back—from the surface to low orbit.
The "Reaper" resolved that tactical conundrum in a few days.
It simply bombed the skyscrapers, not bothering with targeted fire on the firing points.
When had Imperials ever cared about casualties among the local population?
Just recall the slaughter they inflicted on civilian ships in orbit around Coruscant.
In the first hours of their invasion, the "Reaper" and its squadron destroyed every starship carrying peaceful population intending to return to Coruscant after leaving it following Grand Admiral Thrawn's asteroid blockade several months earlier.
"Sir," a quiet voice came through the headset communicator. "You're being called."
Jahan stepped away from the polarized attic enclosure and entered the penthouse.
Once it had been a place with spacious rooms and expensive furniture.
Now it was a sort of barracks where two dozen Dominion guards waited out the time.
As well as their command post, arsenal, medbay, and much else, including a communications center that allowed scattered groups across all of Coruscant to maintain contact with each other.
Jahan had used the planet's duplicate emergency services communication network, unused for several years due to its redundancy—the main line was reliable enough that no one used the backup since the New Republic's assault on Imperial Center.
True, it had taken considerable work to get it operational, but it was worth it.
Agent Cross looked at the holographic projection of the planet, where lights slowly blinked indicating the locations of Dominion Intelligence combat squads.
For the most part, they consisted of clones of the late Dominion hero Molo Himron, but who would identify them under closed armor? And in case of death or severe injury in combat, the armor featured a detonation system. A baradium charge the size of a large thumb would not just leave no traces for identification and body recovery but even fragments of the gear.
A logical precaution when operating deep in enemy territory with clone forces.
The existence of the latter was a secret for all but certain categories of the Dominion's population.
It could not be kept for long—eventually, the enemy would start asking questions about why Dominion stormtroopers were hauling their dead off the battlefield.
But let command worry about that.
Jahan himself found using clones useful.
He knew of Himron only by hearsay, but what his clones did... That was something else.
Scouts and saboteurs, provocateurs and demolition experts... It seemed these guys could do anything ordered of them.
Sometimes Cross even wondered how he would react upon meeting one of his own clones.
And he had no doubt they existed somewhere.
"On comms," Jahan identified himself, linking his comlink to the encryption system.
"Surprises are ready," Afar's voice reached him.
The Zygerrian commanded one of the forward sabotage squads tasked with mining certain facilities whose demolition was necessary to support the entire group's operations and to execute Cross's own plan.
"Five-minute readiness," he ordered.
Meaning the forward squads had exactly three hundred seconds to clear the blast zones and the area that would soon be cordoned off by Pentastar Alignment stormtroopers.
Though Jahan himself doubted that these white-armored guys truly belonged to Kaine.
The latter's ground forces had entirely different uniforms.
Stormtroopers yes, but if all data on their numbers from numerous observers and spy droids were tallied, it came out that there were no fewer than three hundred thousand "white boys" on the planet.
Which was about six times more than the known figures for stormtrooper numbers in the Pentastar Alignment that Jahan had access to.
Either Kaine was pulling the wool over eyes, or he had far more stormtroopers under his command than he had demonstrated in the past.
When the allotted time ended, Agent Cross picked up the remote control from the table and activated the device.
All that remained was to send the signal to the detonators.
The small black piece of plastic stuffed with electronics settled familiarly into his right palm. Multicolored lights blinked.
The small button on the side panel of the remote was indistinguishable from the others, but if his thumb pressed it, it would unleash fire and pain, sweeping aside a considerable number of enemies standing between him and his objective.
"Squads ready?" he asked the guard commander.
The latter nodded curtly.
Though Jahan could have confirmed it himself by looking around at the main squad's armored fighters, laden with weapons from head to toe, not to mention capacious tactical backpacks.
After he pressed the button, no one would return to the penthouse.
"Traps activated?" he posed the next question.
And again, only an affirmative nod.
The guards were not verbose, but they were dutiful.
And that was good.
Well then, time to act.
Without the slightest hesitation, Jahan pressed the detonator activation key.
Despite the dwelling's good soundproofing, the roar of detonation and destruction reached him through the open door to the attic.
He approached the window, used the monocular to examine the scene several kilometers away.
Windows shattered in buildings adjacent to the blast sites.
Transparisteel shards turned into deadly shrapnel that raked the stormtrooper ranks, increasing the number of wounded and dead.
Several skyscrapers damaged in the orbital bombardment could not withstand it and collapsed under their own mass, burying an entire battalion advancing slightly south of the Dominion positions.
Other buildings crumbled too, creating avalanches and blockages in the path of Pentastar Alignment troops.
Roadbeds and overpasses along which stormtroopers and armored vehicles moved exploded. White armor and gray vehicle hulls fell downward like ash and snow during volcanic eruptions on frozen planets.
The demolition of several buildings not only buried the quartered Pentastar Alignment soldiers inside but also destroyed temporary HQs and blocked fortifications.
The Pentastar Alignment's advance toward the New Republic garrison evacuation points was interrupted.
Thousands of casualties and hundreds of mangled and wrecked combat vehicles, including massive walkers, now littered the streets in all quarters surrounding the Imperial Palace.
He had employed New Republic mobile reconnaissance-sabotage unit tactics, with which the garrison had slowed the enemy by abandoning one defensive line and falling back to another.
But on a much larger scale.
"Stormtroopers from adjacent districts are moving to the sabotage sites," Afar reported. "Detecting withdrawal of up to two-thirds of personnel and armor. Roads are clear."
"Excellent," Agent Cross commented.
Thus, everything was going according to plan.
The sabotages not only slowed the Pentastar Alignment's advance, allowing as many Republicans as possible to evacuate, but also weakened Kaine's military presence in the districts that Jahan's fighters would need to cross to reach the deep interrogation sector.
"Moving out," he directed, watching the guards place the final charges in the penthouse. "Switch comm channel."
He had not used the emergency services line for nothing.
No military operation proceeded without thorough work by communications assurance units.
Sooner or later, they would find this place simply by analyzing all communication variants.
By Jahan's estimates, it would take them no less than three hours.
The same amount of time additional forces would spend at the sabotage sites investigating and reinforcing the front line.
And then Pentastar Alignment reinforcements would head here—to check the hunch and eliminate the threat.
The demolition charges of baradium and nergo-14 placed throughout the building, especially at its apex, would obliterate the skyscraper the moment enemy troops entered.
And bury the entire area in debris, interring not only enemy soldiers but also the route to the deep interrogation sector for a long time.
And the enemy's regrouping would allow Dominion groups to withdraw farther, continuing to dig up Imperial Intelligence and Imperial Security Service secret caches.
***
Sometimes it's even entertaining—to return to those sectors where certain victories were achieved.
But in the case of our current destination, one could say the past success had bypassed this place.
The gravity wells of the Maw Cluster yanked the "Chimaera" out of hyperspace, shattering the already familiar stream of white-blue hyperspace light.
The Maw—the dangerous neighbor of Kessel—I was seeing for the first time.
The enormous vortex of matter sucked into the unknown resembled hypnotic spirals.
Only in this whirlpool's case, one could not expect that the worst a showman would do to you was pick your pockets.
One careless move—and the ship's hull would begin experiencing monstrous overloads, disintegrating under irresistible force.
The Kessel sector and the Maw nebula.
Any sensible pilot would stay far from these places, as luring those willing to risk their ship and neck here was not so easy.
Well, that's the official version.
Smugglers and various scoundrels, as well as Republicans and even Imperials (not to mention other prominent galactic denizens) visited the Kessel system with quite respectable safety.
And entirely different goals.
The Empire delivered criminals here and pursued its own interests in spice mining or building a secret lab in the black hole's depths.
Oddly, the New Republic had made its mark too. But unlike the Imperials, their most famous visit involved the opposite—extracting the most hardened villains from here and delivering them to the Empire's heart—Coruscant.
Smugglers and criminals came here for two reasons.
First—not of their own volition, to serve sentences.
Second—to smuggle contraband spice.
The spectacle of numerous gravity well throats of black holes, made visible by the ionized gas of the Maw nebula they devoured, was mesmerizing and terrifying simultaneously.
The Maw Cluster (also known as the Maw).
The "Chimaera's" course was plotted so that right before its bow, the system's white-blue star, Kessa, unfurled in all its glory.
But the Destroyer was already arcing, settling onto course for orbit around the system's most famous astronomical object.
The planet Karedda was an ice-covered world devoid of atmosphere and frankly dangerous for sentient life.
It occupied the third orbital position from Kessa.
First from the star was Senna, which in opposition to Karedda was instead a molten ball rich in useful minerals...
Which could be mined if logistics costs from the hard-to-reach region did not exceed possible profits.
But there was a nuance known to me but completely hidden from the eyes and minds of most of the galaxy.
The situation here was practically the same as on Nkllon, well, except stellar radiation levels were higher.
This imposed yet another problem for presence in the Kessel system—radiation was a sensor enemy in modern ships, so until you approached at least the icy planet Karedda, your presence could be detected only by ships miraculously nearby your Destroyer.
Of which there were not exactly many here.
And that played to my advantage.
However, that was worth considering a bit later.
As was possible development of the planet's deposits.
Yes, expensive, but again...
There was a nuance.
Finally, Kessel itself came into view—a huge ripe potato with pale tendrils of artificial atmosphere streaming into open space.
I had a classmate from Minsk.
I think if he ended up in this galaxy with me, he would definitely relocate here.
Because he loved, respected, and valued potatoes.
And in general, he was not a wasteful person, thrifty, but with a refined inner workings.
And heavy fists.
One could laugh at stereotypes as much as one wanted, but Yuras took any jokes about Belarusians and potatoes as a national insult, uncompromisingly punched faces, and every weekend drove to his dacha, where from dawn to dusk he toiled over cherished beds and characteristic bushes.
Beside it, a small drab orb—the Garrison Moon, which in recent past had hidden an entire Imperial garrison in its depths, watching order on Kessel's prison settlements.
And this place clearly needed significant guarding, because uprisings and riots against lawful authority on Kessel were almost monthly practice for inmates who had nothing to lose.
The planet Kessel.
For most of the galaxy, Kessel was no more than an Imperial high-security colony where the most hardened and vile scum served long sentences.
The flip side was that the prisoners here were not just idling.
Nor blissfully gazing at the mesmerizing beauties of the Maw slowly devouring matter in the system.
Kessel was a ghost, a legend, a world of doom that even in this illumination was not immediately noticeable.
It was too small to hold its own atmosphere.
Hence, gigantic generator factories on its surface tirelessly processed tons upon tons of mineral raw material, releasing oxygen and carbon dioxide.
Thanks to this, on Kessel one could still manage without spacesuits—for now, simple breathing apparatus sufficed: oxygen masks and tanks.
And right before my eyes, another hefty portion of atmosphere simply evaporated into space, trailing behind the small plaque like the tail of a giant comet.
"Sir, we're assuming assigned orbit," Captain Tschel reported.
"Any word from Corran Horn?" I inquired.
"None, sir," the "Chimaera's" commander replied. "Scanning all frequencies—nothing."
"Good," I directed. "Contact our recon ARC-170s—have them conduct a flyby of the Garrison Moon. I want to know its condition."
"Yes, sir. Launch the duty squadron?" Judging by his puzzled expression, Tschel was clearly concerned by my mention of walking straight into a trap.
"Launch them," I permitted. "If it'll make you calmer—have them hold the outer defense perimeter."
Saluting silently, Tschel left me, heading toward the watch officers to whom he began issuing quiet orders.
I returned to contemplating the cosmic object toward which the "Chimaera" was heading.
Despite the planet being inhabited solely by prisoners, Kessel... Was extraordinarily important to the galaxy.
I would even say this "potato" held strategic significance for the galaxy equal to Thyferra.
In the same year that Luke Skywalker trusted the Force and blew up the labor of billions of sentients in the Yavin system, the Imperials maintained several massive communications satellites in orbit around Kessel to control the surface prisons on the shattered planet.
They also cleared passage through the system and coordinated ship landings.
Each of these satellites was guarded by a Victory-class Star Destroyer, two Acclamator-class assault ships, two Tartan-class patrol cruisers, several squadrons of TIE fighters, TIE interceptors, and bombers, as well as one squadron of elite ships, TIE Defenders.
After the Empire lost the Battle of Endor, Kessel's Imperial security forces decided to abandon the planetoid on their own. The atmosphere factories were shut down, though inmates in Detention Center Alpha, Detention Center Beta, and Detention Center Gamma were forced to continue working in the thinning air. Soon after liberating the planet Kashyyyk, Han Solo, Chewbacca, Lando Calrissian, and other Wookiee soldiers arrived on the planet and successfully restarted three atmospheric plants, freeing many Imperial slaves and prisoners in the process.
According to intelligence data, a revolt had occurred on Kessel several years ago.
But not like the previous one.
Imperial Correctional Facility staff led by prison administrator Morut Dul rose up against the Imperial garrison, overthrowing the guards and taking control of the planet, appointing Arba Skyynxneka as his number two. After the revolt, Dul discovered a dead rancor in the prison that had clearly not been fed. He regretted the rancor's death, as he had planned to feed it the Imperials. Instead, he sent them into the mines, and tortured and froze the former prison chief in carbonite, displaying him in his office for all to see.
Unfortunately, that was the last report from our agent, who had gone to the planet posing as yet another smuggler intending to smuggle spice out from under the administration's nose.
Of course they caught him; he successfully infiltrated the prisoner milieu and learned quite a bit of interesting information, which he duly passed on to us.
His silence meant only one thing—they killed him.
He had gone quiet a day before Corran Horn came on comms with a meeting proposal.
So I decided to combine several matters at once.
Kessel was the largest spice producer and thus a highly unsettled place regarding smuggling.
After its formation, the Empire clamped down on spice production and vigilantly controlled everything—naturally, except what daring smugglers, including Han Solo in bygone days, managed to snatch from under its nose.
For nearly five years now, Kessel had been under criminal control, with thousands of former Imperials in the mines extracting spice.
And spice... Was not just a drug but key raw material or catalyst for many medicines.
The drug itself was expensive, and for a significant list of potent pharmaceuticals, it was vital.
Control of Kessel was a strategic victory that could provide both money and necessary resources.
But after the coup and criminal takeover, the planet—conveniently remote from busy routes—severed contacts with most of the galaxy, and reaching it without suffering from any galactic conflict side was quite difficult given the limited forces and capabilities.
So no one had poked here to find out why Kessel was not communicating under any pretext.
Well, time to find out what was really happening here.
Meanwhile, the "Chimaera" inexorably approached Kessel, maneuvering with thrusters to settle into high orbit on the far side of the "potato" and prolong its incognito.
The radiation background continued to play in our favor.
"Chimaera" over Kessel.
"The duty squadron commander reports seeing orbital beacons operational," Tschel reported. "Also, five starships detected. Class identification difficult due to radiation interference."
"Expected," I said.
Moreover—it was planned that way.
"I think it's time to introduce ourselves," I said, looking at my flagship's commander. "Boost comms equipment power at the expense of additional deflector energy."
"Yes, sir," Tschel relayed the order to the watch chief.
For several seconds he was silent, looking somewhere behind me, then added on his own:
"Prepare to activate deflectors at full power. Battle stations check. Crew to combat posts."
A sensible precaution.
I approve.
"Begin, Captain," I ordered.
"Activate transponder," Tschel directed.
In that instant, the "Chimaera's" squawk spread through the area in Basic, notifying all present of the Star Destroyer's arrival.
And nothing happened.
At least we did not register anything.
"Sir," the watch officer approached Tschel. "The duty squadron reports the detected ships are changing course, leaving orbit, and approaching the 'Chimaera' at maximum speed."
"Managed to identify them now?" Tschel asked impatiently, rubbing the lower edge of his tunic with his right palm.
"They're five Carracks, sir."
And that was already interesting.
The Carrack-class light cruiser was designed for effective combat against small craft.
And five such ships at once could very inconveniently maul our air wing.
"Gunners distribute targets," he directed.
Looking at me, the man inquired:
"Sir, permission?"
"Act at your discretion, Captain," I said, feeling the long-forgotten ysalamiri discontentedly dig claws into my pants. What a nasty little thing! "Consider me not here. Officially, I'm even a corpse."
Tschel smiled nervously, then brought his comlink to his mouth:
"This is Captain Tschel of the Star Destroyer 'Chimaera,' Dominion Starfleet. We have arrived to meet Corran Horn and to liberate Imperial POWs from Kessel's mines. I request that Administrator Morut Dul show wisdom, accept payment for the prisoners, and not subject your people on the 'Carracks' to senseless death. In case of an attack attempt on my ship, you will all be destroyed. Wherever you are—in space or on the surface."
Silence.
And the light cruisers kept approaching and approaching...
"Looks like it's time to teach them a lesson," Tschel muttered, looking at me with bated expectation of comment.
But I saw no point in it.
His ship—let him command.
"The 'Raider' exit the main hangar and take position in the Destroyer's lower hemisphere," it had required modifications to place the duty squadron in the cargo bay so its launch did not intersect with corvettes dangling on magnetic clamps. "Air wing—launch. 'Scimitars' prepare to dash behind the enemy stern and destroy it."
I continued silent, and Tschel—drilling me with his gaze.
"Sir," he finally could not stand it. "Do you have orders?"
"Not a single one," I replied calmly. This was not a flight with an instructor. This was another proficiency check. "But there is advice, Captain."
"What, sir?" Tschel asked, relieved.
"Do not ask the enemy to agree to your terms when speaking from a position of strength," I said. "It immediately destroys your reputation in the eyes of such rabble. The strong one does not ask. He offers or demands. In particularly advanced cases—he takes by force. But he does not ask."
"Clear, sir," judging by the tone, that was not the answer Tschel had hoped for. And from the intonation, I understood he had realized this battle he would conduct independently. "What do I do now?"
Come on, Tschel, more composure.
I slowly turned my head, looked straight into the young Star Destroyer commander's eyes, then said:
"Destroy them, Captain. And prepare for troop deployment."