Grand Admiral

Admiral Areta Vell of the New Republic, a striking red-haired woman of middle age and a native of Corellia, stood on the bridge of the Victory II-class Star Destroyer named Emancipator.

She gazed at the swirling white-blue patterns of hyperspace streaming past the destroyer's wedge-shaped bow, contemplating the mission assigned to her and the starships under the overall command of Admiral Kir Vantai.

Their orders: enter the Oplovis sector, rendezvous with allied forces in the Ketaris system, and eliminate the fleet of Grand Admiral Thrawn, which was attacking the planet.

Their opposition consisted of a single Imperial-class Star Destroyer, specifically an Imperial II, two Victory I-class Star Destroyers, two Acclamator-class assault ships, and an Immobilizer 418-class interdictor cruiser.

Six starships against the massive New Republic fleet set to converge in the Ketaris system. The enemy, however, was unaware of the true strength of the forces they would face.

Until now, the New Republic's forces in the sector consisted of three Mon Calamari MC80 star cruisers, supported by a dozen smaller vessels, including two Carrack-class light cruisers, four Nebulon-B escort frigates, and four Corellian CR90 corvettes.

But what Admiral Ackbar had managed to amass at the borders of the Oplovis sector was a far more formidable array of capital ships.

In addition to one escort frigate assigned to each capital ship, Admiral Ackbar had concentrated significant forces at the sector's edge: four additional MC80s, Vell's own Victory II-class Emancipator, Admiral Kir Vantai's Moon Shadow—another Imperial II-class—and an Imperial I-class Star Destroyer.

Notably, the latter was a destroyer that once served in the Oplovis sector fleet under the name Wolf's Claw. It, along with two other destroyers, had escorted the Executor-class Star Dreadnought Guardian during the Battle of Tantive V, which ended with the destruction of Admiral Drommel's flagship, two Star Destroyers, and the capture of Wolf's Claw. It had since been renamed, though the new name was not far removed from the original.

Following that battle, the sector's massive fleet had partially scattered to join other Imperial Remnant warlords, was partially captured by the New Republic, or was largely destroyed by the advancing Rebel armada. This allowed the Oplovis sector to be secured almost bloodlessly nearly six years ago.

Well, at least from the perspective of the Rebel Alliance at the time, casualties were minimal. For the Imperials, however, death is always a tragic event, but in war, the options are stark: either you destroy the enemy, or they destroy you.

Areta Vell had devoted considerable time to the cause of liberating the galaxy from the Imperial scourge. During the evacuation of Echo Base, she served as a navigator aboard a transport ship, covered by her fellow Corellian and arguably the most famous X-wing pilot, now General Wedge Antilles. Her expertly charted course through the ranks of the Imperial fleet—Darth Vader's own Death Squadron—allowed the ships to escape.

Since then, her military career had soared.

Now, she commanded not only her Emancipator but also an attached Nebulon-B frigate.

Their small task force, under orders from high command, was approaching the Ketaris system from multiple directions. Soon, the main strike force from the Stronk system would launch a frontal assault on Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet, forcing him to maneuver in the confined space between the New Republic's reinforcements and Ketaris's planetary defenses. Task forces approaching from several directions, consisting of seven capital ships and seven escort vessels, were to cut off Thrawn's escape into hyperspace.

Unfortunately, the nearest New Republic forces lacked an interdictor cruiser to keep Thrawn's fleet trapped in the system, so they would have to rely on brute force—pressing forward relentlessly, disregarding the fire from other starships. The operation's sole objective was the destruction of Grand Admiral Thrawn.

Capturing him alive was not even considered—only elimination. This sentient was deemed too dangerous to naively assume he could be contained.

Evidently, Coruscant feared this non-human to such an extent that, after the humiliations he had inflicted on the New Republic, no one even entertained the notion of taking him prisoner.

As bitter as it was to admit, the Imperial terror orchestrated over the past year and a half, escalating into an unrelenting series of defeats and losses over the last four months, had found its reflection in soldiers' humor. Thrawn's actions were so subtly manipulative that some began to develop paranoia.

Areta had repeatedly heard her subordinates jokingly attribute any shipboard malfunctions to Thrawn's machinations.

It would have been amusing if Emancipator and Moon Shadow had not been among the ships investigating the massacre Thrawn was now known to have orchestrated in the Rugosa system, later repeated at the Hast shipyards.

Indeed, after he had taken credit for nearly every New Republic failure in recent times, one could almost believe Thrawn was somehow responsible for the numerous malfunctions plaguing Emancipator.

A sensor failure here, engine trouble there, or issues with the artificial gravity generators—sometimes to the point that, until Emancipator and Moon Shadow underwent repairs at the Fourth Fleet's base, nothing of the sort had occurred. Those repairs followed the investigation of events in the Honoghr system.

Now, scarcely a day passed without some external malfunction. None were critical, but the number of issues was growing exponentially.

At that moment, for instance, the long-range communication antenna had failed, as if someone had severed the data transmission channel.

But that was absurd, wasn't it? No living being could survive outside a ship's hull during a hyperspace jump. The radiation levels were so intense that even sensors and weapon systems were temporarily blinded upon re-entering realspace.

The antenna had failed shortly after the ship entered hyperspace. With time pressing and troubleshooting potentially taking hours, Areta ordered the journey to continue. After all, the long-range antenna was needed for communications across vast distances, but once in the Ketaris system, she could rely on short-range systems.

The white-blue streaks of hyperspace suddenly vanished, contracting into pinpoints as abruptly as her feet left the deck.

Oh, those Imperial ship designs.

No railings on the bridge.

The fiery-haired woman slid down a support beam between two viewports, thrown there by unforgiving physics.

It was only after a few seconds that her battered lungs could draw breath again, and sounds ceased to feel as though filtered through dense cotton.

— Ma'am! — one of the watch officers rushed to her side. — Are you alright?

She noticed blood on the officer's face and splattered across his light brown uniform. Apparently, she wasn't the only one who had taken an unplanned flight across the bridge.

— What… happened? — Her speech came with great difficulty, suggesting she had hit her head hard.

— Something pulled us out of hyperspace, — the watch officer reported, helping her to stand upright. — There are numerous casualties on the ship, and…

A chill gripped the admiral's core.

Pulled out of hyperspace.

On a course where such an event should have been impossible.

She turned, gazing through the transparisteel viewport of the bridge, then glanced at the tactical display, hoping it was all a dream.

The cold within her tightened into a knot.

She opened her mouth to issue a belated order.

The last thing she saw on the tactical screen before TIE Bomber proton torpedoes struck the bridge was a Dominion Star Destroyer at the center of a bowl-shaped formation, flanked by a dozen Corellian corvettes and Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers shielding an Immobilizer 418-class interdictor.

The golden-yellow "gearwheels" of the Dominion blazed brightly on the gray hulls of these ships, even in the darkness of interstellar space.

***

After Emancipator lost its central command post to a bomber strike and its Nebulon-B escort frigate began venting atmosphere and debris into space, succumbing to crossfire, Captain Morgoth Astorias ordered the capture of the future trophies using stormtrooper units stationed aboard Stormhawk.

Many considered him a simpleton, fit only for carrying out orders. Even Grand Admiral Thrawn shared this prevailing opinion.

Morgoth did not dispute this view. Let them think so.

Captain Astorias preferred not to stand out, favoring steady and measured service over brilliant ascents followed by equally spectacular failures. He knew his job well, understood his weaknesses, and kept his strengths hidden from prying eyes to avoid becoming a target of the internal intrigues so common in the Imperial Navy.

But now, in the Dominion, he realized it was time to "spread his wings" and demonstrate his full capabilities.

His defining trait was his skill as a professional hunter, with a passion for ambushing big game. He excelled at it, understanding the habits of prey that sought to strike while remaining undetected.

Today, he became the first among the Dominion fleet's operational-tactical commanders to open the hunting season on New Republic "predators."

***

Curiously, after the Battle of the Hast Shipyards, when Grand Admiral Thrawn demanded that Alexander provide his own tactical analyses, none had been implemented in practice.

Working "for the drawer" was somewhat disheartening.

Still, the commander of Relentless did not suffer from an inflated ego, understanding that his work was largely a teaching exercise—a lesson to keep him grounded.

If Thrawn wasn't using his analyses, why not employ them himself?

— Is the task force deployed? — he asked his aide. — Are the fighters in position?

— Affirmative, sir, — the officer subtly gestured toward the tactical display.

Alexander glanced at it.

Standard ambush tactics called for a "bowl" formation, partially encircling the enemy.

Simple, straightforward, and effective, it allowed attacks from three sides—frontal and both flanks.

The presence of the Interdictor-class Star Destroyer Eternal Wrath ensured the enemy could not escape.

But today, Alexander intended to deviate from standard tactics.

The enemy's approach vector was known, recently provided by Chimaera's analysts. It had required relocating the task force, but there was every reason to intercept the enemy's main forces.

Relentless was positioned on a counter-course, while Eternal Wrath was stationed several dozen units below in a lower echelon. Its four gravity well generators were operating at full capacity, but only two were aligned across the enemy's path. Once the enemy was pulled from hyperspace, they would be unable to continue due to the gravitational anomaly ahead. Immediately after, Eternal Wrath's commander would activate the other two generators, cutting off their retreat.

Alexander positioned his heavy cruisers at a distance of forty units from the point where the enemy would emerge. This allowed two groups of Dreadnoughts, positioned opposite each other, to deliver crossfire at lethal range.

Given that starships were temporarily blinded upon exiting hyperspace, with targeting sensors overwhelmed by residual radiation, the first strike belonged to Captain Mor's operational-tactical group.

The "bowl" formation was effective under certain conditions.

Since the gun emplacements on Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers were mounted along the sides and oriented forward, crossfire was the most logical approach. This maximized firing intensity and engaged the greatest number of turbolasers.

Moreover, if the enemy emerged at a significantly higher or lower echelon than the ambush ships, a quick rotation would allow them to adjust their angle of fire swiftly.

At least, that was Alexander's calculation.

— One minute to contact, sir, — his senior aide reminded him.

— Sound battle stations, — Captain Mor ordered. — Raise deflector shields. All ships, open fire on the enemy. Corvettes and fighters, suppress enemy artillery.

The bridge crew froze in anticipation of the impending slaughter. Every nerve, every muscle, every mind of those involved in the operation was taut, awaiting the events about to unfold halfway from the sector's borders to the Ketaris system.

The ship's chronometer ticked down the final seconds when…

Forcibly decelerating, the triangular blade of a Star Destroyer and its escorting frigate appeared on the scanners in realspace.

In that instant, every ship—from TIE Interceptors to the Star Destroyer—opened fire.

They had little time to exploit the advantage of the enemy's temporary blindness post-hyperspace. But it was enough to execute the plan.

Green-white and scarlet-gold streams of turbolaser and laser fire, punctuated by ion cannon bursts, engulfed the enemy ships from the bow and both flanks.

With a wry smirk, Alexander watched as plasma streams and branching ion charges tore into the hulls of the Republic ships.

Pinpoint accuracy was secondary—maximum rate of fire would suffice.

Fractions of seconds turned into seconds as salvo after salvo hammered the blinded New Republic ships.

Armor bloomed with black scorch marks, cracking or melting, venting streams of crystallizing air and sentient bodies into space. Droplets of freezing metal, once part of the ship's structure, formed grotesque clusters of abstract art.

Pillars of flame erupted, marking breached compartments.

Mesmerized, Alexander watched as the enemy Star Destroyer's superstructure was consumed by fire. Like a fiery crown, caused only by nearby TIE Bombers, it briefly illuminated the darkness—just long enough for the air in the breached upper compartments to burn out, following the destruction of deflector shield generators and communication systems.

— The enemy is responding, — reported the senior aide.

— At least this won't be a slaughter of defenseless infants, — Alexander chuckled. — Report damages.

— The destroyer's defenses are offline—no deflector shield detected. Up to half its turreted artillery, including medium triple turbolasers, has been destroyed. Multiple hull breaches. The bridge is neutralized. Corvettes are neutralizing enemy fighters almost immediately after launch. The escort frigate is heavily damaged, with hull breaches throughout. Its docked fighters have been reduced to scrap. Maneuvering attempts are being suppressed by concentrated fire. Engine clusters are currently being targeted.

— Excellent work, — Alexander commended. It was unfolding exactly as planned. This strategy could be presented to Thrawn not as experimental but as fully operational. — Prepare boarding parties to seize the enemy Star Destroyer and escort frigate. By the way, what's the name of the former?

— Sir, Wolf's Claw, — the watch officer replied. — Identified as our former Wolf's Claw from the Oplovis sector fleet.

— Well, — Alexander mused, watching a squadron of interceptors burn out the enemy destroyer's starboard weapon emplacements with focused fire. — The New Republic isn't exactly brimming with imagination. Comms section! Transmit via laser to the destroyer and frigate that if they surrender immediately, their crews will be spared and tried for illegally crossing Dominion borders. Otherwise, stormtroopers will eliminate anyone showing even a hint of resistance.

— Affirmative, sir, — the communications officer replied. — Working on it…

Thirty minutes later, Wolf's Claw and its escort ceased to be part of the New Republic fleet.

***

After reviewing operational reports and updates on current tasks, I leaned back from the dual row of monitors and stretched my stiff neck.

Judging by the faint hum of the deck, Chimaera was completing its repositioning to align precisely with its intended position for the capture of the fortress planet. When planning an ambush, it's critical to ensure the enemy learns of your presence as late as possible. This also applies to force distribution.

Thus, only the ships known to the Ketaris government, reported to the ships in the Stronk system and Coruscant, remained near my flagship. Revealing Red Dragon and the heavy cruisers now would ruin the trap.

The familiar dimness of my quarters tempted thoughts of sleep, but my energized body stubbornly resisted.

Intriguing.

The task force led by Chimaera had been reorganized into a defensive formation, ground forces and defenses disarmed and handed over to Dominion ground troops.

Repairs to the orbital defense stations were proceeding at full pace.

We were ready, undeniably. Now, it was a matter of waiting for the enemy to stick its head into the mousetrap, so we could sever it at the knees.

Among today's reports, a few others pleased me.

Jedi archaeologist Eymand reported acquiring several Jedi datacrons on the black market, containing basic lightsaber training techniques. Not groundbreaking, but a decent find—and inexpensive.

On Susevfi, Saarai-kaar had integrated the acquired databanks into the training program for the Jensaaarai defenders. Yes, it was "textbook training," but better than nothing.

Moreover, Eymand reported stumbling upon something significant and was preparing for a new expedition. Let him continue his socially beneficial work—I have no objections. Especially since the trackers on his ship ensured we always knew his whereabouts. So far, nothing incriminating had been detected.

Noticing a blinking light on the holographic communicator, I activated the device.

A small blue-white hologram of the commander of the Red Star squadron appeared.

— Commodore Shohashi, — I addressed the officer. — Are there issues with the current assignment?

— Negative, sir, — he shook his head.

— Then what prompts this urgent call? — I confess, the Alderaanian could surprise. Unlike most other Star Destroyer commanders, "Atoan's Butcher" didn't need hand-holding or detailed explanations—he was competent and resourceful enough to operate autonomously. That was one reason he'd advanced a step further in his career.

— Your envoy, sir, Ahsoka Tano, — Shohashi said plainly. — May I inquire about the reasons for her assignment to Crimson Dawn?

Interesting. What could have happened to make the unflappable Alderaanian take the initiative to inquire about such matters?

Telling him the truth—that I'd offloaded a potentially troublesome former Jedi who was predictably "for all that's good and against all that's bad"—was unnecessary. Despite his distinction among commanders, he remained my subordinate, and no confidences would be shared.

Only the dry, official version.

— Lady Tano is our temporary ally in combating crime, — I stated. — Her task is to assist you in eliminating criminal and pirate threats.

And there was a strong hope she'd quietly meet her end somewhere.

A Jedi not aligned with the Dominion was a potential threat, liable to defect to the enemy for ideological reasons, "the will of the Force," or other motivations.

— Understood, sir, — Shohashi seemed satisfied that the Togruta had a legitimate reason to be aboard his ships. — Some results of this collaboration are already evident.

Really? Intriguing.

— Elaborate, — I demanded.

— She is currently on the surface of Mentanar Vosk, — Shohashi explained. — Upon arrival, she claimed to sense the presence of a "Dark Side adept" on the planet. Based on her explanation and what I've gathered from the HoloNet, it's a general term for Jedi adversaries.

Well, well.

Could she have found one of the Dark Side Elite?

If so, why was one there? The Nidjun sector was riddled with pirate and mercenary gangs. Did Palpatine or his lackeys need expendable fodder for a meat grinder? A logical assumption under certain circumstances.

But it was unconfirmed. The galaxy was full of Dark Side cults, surviving Imperial Inquisitors, fallen Jedi, their apprentices, or self-taught Force users. Mentanar Vosk could host any of them—or none, and what Tano sensed might not involve sentients. Perhaps an artifact or some Force anomaly. I recalled that even animals, like vornskrs, could be Force-sensitive.

— Monitor her activities, Commodore, — I ordered. Whatever was on that planet had captivated Tano enough to rush there headlong. It warranted interest. She might not have told Shohashi the truth—perhaps it was a Jedi or something Jedi-related. — Whatever she finds, if she tries to claim it, seize it by any means.

— Even lethal means, sir? — Shohashi asked.

— Especially lethal, — I clarified. — If our allies attempt to steal something valuable, they deserve death. Particularly those sensitive to the Force.

It was a common galactic practice: a Jedi or similar figure finds an ancient, dangerous artifact, declares themselves Emperor (or the like), and sparks another Sith-Jedi bloodbath, grinding millions or billions of sentients in the war's mill. With the looming Yuuzhan Vong invasion and other expected crises, I had no interest in fostering a cult.

— You have ysalamiri on board, — I reminded him. — Once you secure what Tano seeks, place it in a sealed compartment surrounded by ysalamiri cages. Allow no one in or out, and use droidekas and guards for security. Keep me informed of all developments and report any changes immediately.

— Affirmative, sir, — Shohashi replied, showing no surprise at the order.

After the hologram of the Red Star squadron commander vanished, I sank into thought.

Jedi, Sith, and their ilk… Dark Side, Light Side… And then there were the Jensaaarai, who cared little for which techniques they used, so long as they protected sentients.

Currently, I had an Inquisitor, a half-trained Hand, a couple of Jedi (assuming Reynar Obscuro wasn't lying and the Mon Calamari Jedi was genuinely open to cooperation), a few dozen Jensaaarai, novices like Tiberos and Aurra Sing, and this Tano… A volatile mix of contradictions, recruited on the principle of "better than nothing." Palpatine had his cadre of Force adepts, the New Republic had at least Luke Skywalker (with rumors of Galen Marek and Rahm Kota—perhaps others I was unaware of), while I had only a deranged clone.

I was collecting fragments of Jedi and Sith power—mutually exclusive concepts, philosophies, and worldviews—without a clue how to train or prepare them, essentially leaving it to the Jensaaarai. This was starting to resemble the New Jedi Order, with all its potential consequences.

And the question arose…

What to do with those who, like some of Luke Skywalker's students, felt humiliated, insulted, or untrained to their "great potential"? Such "outcasts" had caused the New Republic significant trouble. Even in the days of the Old Jedi Order, this was a pressing issue.

Before the Jedi Purge nearly thirty years ago, if my memory serves, the Jedi had a dedicated unit for tracking and eliminating rogue Force users, alongside other tasks. History shows that regular Jedi handled such threats… less than effectively.

Palpatine's Inquisitorius served a similar purpose, hunting Jedi and their allies as renegades with unrelenting fury. They, too, were not particularly successful.

Yet, both Jedi and Inquisitors managed to neutralize some threats.

This led me to consider whether it might be prudent to establish my own Inquisitorius.

The question was: whom to recruit?

The Jensaaarai, despite incorporating some Sith teachings, preferred defensive roles, much like the Jedi. Ironically, the Jedi had sought to eradicate the Jensaaarai precisely because they believed no one should use Dark Side techniques. According to Saarai-kaar, any who did were marked for destruction as renegades.

This logic eluded me.

Dark Side, Light Side—what did it matter which techniques or philosophies were used if they served to eliminate threats to the state and protect its people? It was a matter of choosing the weapon: a scalpel or a sword.

Hmm… I now had ideas on how to safeguard the Dominion from Force-sensitive threats. The Jensaaarai were unsuited for this.

But I already had suitable candidates.

And they wouldn't even need a new name.

This bureaucracy of "changing the sign" was growing tiresome.

The comlink chirped.

— Grand Admiral, — the voice belonged to Lieutenant Tschel, the senior officer aboard while Pellaeon was planetside overseeing negotiations. His tone carried caution, a hint of uncertainty, but no panic—a good sign. — The enemy fleet from the Stronk system has arrived at Ketaris's outer orbit. One MC80 star cruiser is missing. At their current speed, they'll be within range of our Golan platforms in thirty minutes.

— Thank you for the update, Captain, — I replied. — Orbital stations are to maintain silence. We don't want to scare off our prey.

— Affirmative, sir, — the senior aide responded. He likely realized he'd be commanding Chimaera directly. Would he recognize this as a test of his professional competence? — Any further orders?

— Indeed, Captain, — I confirmed. — Contact Captain Dorja and authorize his raid on the Stronk system. Emphasize that I expect a fair fight with the enemy.

— Uh… — Lieutenant Tschel hesitated. His youth made him slow to grasp subtleties, a common trait among Imperial officers. No matter, they learn. — Affirmative, sir.

— Your confusion is understandable, — I said. — But the goal of the Stronk attack isn't to seize it quickly—we could have done that before striking Ketaris. I want Amber Clad to demonstrate its full capabilities. We've waited too long for the ISD-III prototype to delay its combat trials.

— Understood, sir, — Tschel replied, relieved. — Any specific instructions regarding the enemy?

— Our fleet is already positioned for victory, — I declared, smiling. — At least the portion the enemy knows of, which arrived in this system before communications with Coruscant were severed. I'll join you on the bridge shortly.

Let's see what these lessons have taught the lieutenant and whether he has the potential to outgrow his current rank.

***

Life's twists are curious for a military career.

One moment, you're preparing your crew to take a Star Destroyer into space as its commander.

The next, you're branded a traitor, hunted by the intelligence service of the state that is the legal successor to the one you swore an oath to.

You flee, find a new home, a new post, and fight alongside your subordinates—now bolstered by clones and conscripts.

And then, you're commanding an operational-tactical group, centered around the Interdictor-class Star Destroyer Sentinel, a legendary vessel in Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet, hanging in the interstellar void.

Waiting.

Captain Abyss found it amusing—Void Wanderer adrift in the void.

But today, he was not alone.

Today, he led an entire squadron entrusted to him, Abyss—a man stripped of his home, his family, branded a traitor.

Yet he continued to fulfill his duty: fighting for an Imperial peace.

Grand Admiral Thrawn could call his state the Dominion, but in essence, it was the same Empire Palpatine had built.

With one key difference: it was better.

At least for now.

No one could predict whether the Dominion would remain the great, lawful state its creator envisioned.

But one hoped that, should madness or folly afflict its ruler, the Dominion's people would be spared.

Repeating the Galactic Empire's fate, rising from its Imperial Remnants… that would be foolish.

And painfully predictable.

— Sir, Sentinel's gravity well generators are deployed, — the watch officer reported.

A young man, barely twenty-five, still green but eager. If he grasped the process and his role in this noble cause—bringing peace and order to the galaxy—he could go far. If he misunderstood his duty, he'd become like those who hunted Void Wanderer not long ago.

— Gravity well generators, — Abyss corrected, stepping aside for the officer handling scanning equipment. Noticing the lieutenant's confusion, he elaborated. Every sailor, every soldier, must understand what they fight for and the importance of being true to themselves.

— "Gravity well generators" and "interdictor" are synonymous terms, Lieutenant, — the Void Wanderer's commander explained. — The former is the official term; the latter, slang. An officer like you must not confuse terminology when addressing a superior.

— Understood, sir, — the lieutenant nodded. — In my defense, I heard "interdictor" from the senior navigator, and…

— How long have you served, son? — Abyss asked, moving toward the bridge's central platform. The officer followed.

— Three months, sir, — he replied. — I'm a conscript, a young specialist.

— Recruited from civilian life? — Abyss clarified.

— Affirmative, sir, — the officer said, lowering his voice.

— Where from? — the captain asked.

— Brentaal IV, sir.

— And you didn't desert? — Abyss asked, surprised.

— No, sir, — the young man replied, clearly offended. — I'm loyal to my oath and Grand Admiral Thrawn.

— Commendable, — Abyss agreed. — Don't take it personally. Your planet sided with the enemy. Usually, the ISB would hound you with investigations, trying to catch you for treason.

— Yes, sir, — the young man confirmed. — I was called in by security.

"Really?" Abyss nearly blurted. In his experience, after Alderaan's destruction, no one returned from such interrogations.

— And the outcome? — he asked, rephrasing.

— They said they'd understand if I submitted a resignation and left the fleet, — the young man grimaced.

"Huh? They didn't even rough you up?" The story sounded like a fairy tale. Since when was the security service—counterintelligence—so lenient with potential deserters?

— And you didn't agree, I presume? — Abyss asked.

— Affirmative, sir, — the young man sighed. — They held me for a week in filtration, then apologized and returned me to the ships. I served on a corvette before, but when your crew was formed, I requested a transfer to a destroyer. It was approved.

"Is this kid a planted informant blowing his cover so clumsily?" Abyss wondered.

— I've never heard of lenient ISB agents, — the captain admitted. — They're usually… ruthless.

— I was told the same, sir, — the young man confessed. — My former commander thought I was a ghost for the first few days. Said no one returns from ISB interrogations.

"Your commander must have been experienced," Abyss thought.

Regardless, the young man warranted closer scrutiny.

He might be innocent, simply following his heart and believing in his cause. Older officers, scarred by the ISB's purges, shuddered at those memories when anyone could be branded a traitor.

The gap between such an accusation and execution was often brief.

One could hope the Dominion's security services wouldn't descend into the Galactic Empire's madness. Serving without constantly looking over one's shoulder, knowing someone was watching, was a simple but vital expectation.

— Thirty seconds to enemy contact, — Captain Abyss announced over the intercom. — Sound battle stations. Prepare for engagement with New Republic starships. Mercy only for those who surrender. No quarter for the rest. Remember: minimum risk, maximum firepower.

As a Mon Calamari star cruiser and a Nebulon-B escort frigate emerged from hyperspace, their hulls were bathed in a near-continuous glow of white-green turbolaser fire.

— Ion cannons, target the shield pump generators and projectors! — Abyss ordered.

It was undeniable—Mon Calamari starships were an enigma of shipbuilding. No two were built to the same design, each differing slightly from its sister ship.

But that wasn't entirely true.

This applied primarily to internal layouts—corridors, compartments, and passages could be disorienting without understanding the wall markings.

However, key systems were consistently placed. Mon Calamari shipbuilders were not cavalier about precision in this regard.

Captain Abyss leveraged this knowledge in the unfolding battle.

An MC80 star cruiser was outgunned by an Imperial-class Star Destroyer by nearly two and a half times. Yet, its rapid shield recharge system made it a match for a destroyer.

This turned the engagement into a heavyweight slugfest. The Mon Calamari lacked the firepower to quickly deplete a destroyer's shields, but their shield generators constantly refreshed their defenses, forcing even the most heavily armed Imperial destroyer to chip away gradually.

Thus, Abyss aimed to disable the Mon Calamari cruiser's critical systems before its crew and equipment regained the ability to "see" their opponent. A prolonged battle was unacceptable.

At any moment, Grand Admiral Thrawn could recall any operational-tactical unit to assist his fleet in destroying the enemy squadron advancing from the Stronk system.

Though he had achieved much with limited forces, facing a fleet nearly twice his size…

— Sir, — the watch officer addressed him. — Ion cannon calculations have struck the SEAL system's pump generators, — the system responsible for restoring the Mon Calamari cruisers' shield strength. — Multiple damages observed on both ships. Extensive depressurization on the escort frigate, and a fire in the star cruiser's hangar, with a series of internal explosions.

— Good, — Abyss said. — Now, connect me to the MC80.

— Think they'll want to talk? — the lieutenant asked, surprised.

— If they plan to survive this battle, they will, — Abyss sighed, watching a group of six Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers from the Katana fleet enthusiastically pound both Republic ships with crossfire.

As it turned out, the New Republic fleet had more individuals willing to live than those ready to die on foreign soil for political whims.

***

A figure in black armor, face concealed by a helmet, crept through the corridors of a pirate base on Mentanar Vosk.

From fingertips to head, the humanoid was clad in fabric armor, leaving no skin exposed. Nothing but their build hinted at their identity, save that they were humanoid.

The absence of horns or lekku suggested they were not Zabrak, Togruta, Nautolan, Twi'lek, or similar species.

Something human-like, but who could know, except the figure themselves, what world they called home?

Or what goals drove this figure to infiltrate a base of Aar'aa pirates and other criminal scum undetected.

The decision to come here was driven by one necessity: the pirates possessed something vital to the figure.

Alarms buzzed, and occasionally the figure hid in a shadowy corner to avoid attention.

Fighting the pirates was not part of the plan, though a slaughter here could be glorious. But why draw attention when the pirates were already occupied with the Imperial stormtroopers landing on the surface?

What the Imperials sought on the planet, the figure didn't know but doubted they wanted the same thing.

Thus, the best course was to slip quietly into the base's arsenal, retrieve the desired item, and leave as unobtrusively as they had arrived.

The base, a former Imperial IM-455 modular facility, was standard equipment for most Imperial Star Destroyers—a formidable stronghold if maintained.

It bore little resemblance to the pristine Imperial bases deployed to showcase the Galactic Empire's might to local populations.

The figure knew this base had once served as part of Warlord Zsinj's perimeter forces. When Zsinj fell, the Imperials were cut off from supplies. It took pirates years of sieges and raids to wear them down until the garrison, exhausted, surrendered.

The pirates slaughtered them all. Those whom the Imperials had hunted across the Outer Rim for years felt no reverence for preserving lives they could profit from later.

The equipment inherited from the Imperials was in deplorable condition—a pity, as a grand battle could have further depleted the pirates' forces. Instead of using Imperial weaponry against the Imperials, the pirates relied on small arms and fixed defenses. To think, they had controlled an Imperial base for so long yet failed to maintain its systems. Foolish sentients.

The figure was about to slip from a dark corner when a faint sense of another sentient's presence halted them. Instead of reaching the arsenal doors where the pirates stored their loot, the figure remained still, watching the armored doors. That was where their prize lay.

They didn't know how the items ended up with the pirates, but tracking them had taken time. The object wasn't critical, but it was part of the figure's past. Why not reclaim it?

Especially given the galaxy's current state, where only the well-prepared survived encounters with fate. In such times, it was best to wield what one mastered.

The figure had once led a small mercenary band, now dead or captured by Imperials after the Rugosa massacre. The figure had refused to join that raid, unmoved by Booster Terrik's promises. Their team, driven by greed, ignored their leader.

The outcome was predictable: the figure lived, while their former comrades… who cared for such fools?

Something ominous was brewing.

The figure, Force-sensitive, had felt this foreboding for some time. Taught by bitter experience, they avoided risks.

They would retrieve their prize, perhaps acquire a better ship, and vanish to a remote corner of the galaxy, hiding where no one would look.

This was how Jedi and other Imperial enemies survived.

A simple, effective strategy.

Yet, the figure knew coincidences were rarely random. They had lived without using the Force to avoid attention from the Empire and its Inquisitors, who hunted Jedi.

Joining the Inquisitorius was an option—the figure was adept at hunting Jedi and enjoyed it.

But their past made aligning with those who once deemed them a threat too risky. There were simpler, less painful ways to end one's life.

Thus, the figure chose to exit the galactic stage.

They needed little—neither palaces, ships, nor slaves. Everything required could be bought or taken legally—or seized if necessary.

Hiding was the best option. The galaxy held countless planets untouched by colonists, and the figure knew a few where they could live undetected.

Using the Force again to sense their surroundings, the figure noted the two guards still at the arsenal.

But at the edge of their perception, another presence flickered briefly in the Force. It felt vaguely familiar, but identifying the potential threat was nearly impossible—the sentient was actively concealing their presence.

This suggested they weren't here to fight pirates but to hunt the figure specifically.

That complicated matters.

The figure had encountered many Force-sensitive beings on Nar Shaddaa and investigated their identities. Could this be one of them?

Regardless, playing hide-and-seek would only hasten their discovery, as the figure could no longer mask their presence in the Force.

They had to act quickly and retrieve their prize.

— Hey, who are you? — one guard spotted them but couldn't react in time. The figure's left leg snapped forward, crushing his throat and collapsing his trachea. The pirate crumpled.

The second guard reached for his blaster, nearly aiming it, but the figure was faster.

Agility and speed were the figure's weapons. They wore no heavy armor, only a reliable fabric suit, leveraging their natural flexibility. Many Jedi had fallen to the figure in the distant past.

This time, a kick disarmed the second pirate, breaking his wrist. The Weequay screamed, but a punch from the figure's armored glove silenced him, knocking him unconscious.

An electronic lockpick easily opened the arsenal's doors, and within a second of them parting, the figure was inside.

Piles of looted goods and racks of Imperial weapons greeted them.

But jewels, ornaments, and even precious metal ingots held no interest. Spice containers were equally irrelevant.

The figure moved to the far end of the arsenal, drawn to the items that once belonged to them.

And found them.

They lay in a simple container amid junk, including training remotes used by Jedi younglings to practice blaster bolt deflection.

With a sneer, the figure used the Force to upend the container, spilling its contents.

Their target lay near the bottom. Taking the weathered, time-worn objects in hand, they felt a faint resonance from the crystals within the hilts.

Yes, they remembered her.

Now, it was time to leave.

The battle's din grew ominous—the Imperials had likely breached the base. Unfazed, the figure planned to depart as discreetly as they had arrived.

Grabbing a few jewels en route and stuffing them into pockets (useful for bartering in hiding), the figure headed for the exit.

Ten meters from the open door, they stopped.

The Force warned of sentients ahead.

Their minds were calm, untroubled.

Killers, cold and singularly focused on eliminating their target.

That target was the figure.

The hilts felt light in their hands, as they had years ago. Thumbs found the activation switches. No need to test the weapons—these were her lightsabers, and she sensed their readiness.

— We don't have to fight, — a voice called from beyond the doors. A tall Togruta appeared, holding lightsaber hilts. — I came to talk.

The figure let out a sound akin to a groan.

This was mockery!

Decades might have passed, perhaps more, and she might have changed in character or appearance, but that face, those distinctive white markings…

Unmistakable.

No doubt remained about who stood before her.

— Jedi filth, — the figure hissed. The helmet's vocoder stripped the phrase of its intended fury and contempt.

The figure spun the blades, loosening their wrists.

— I'm no longer a Jedi, — Ahsoka Tano replied calmly. — So I'd rather not fight you. At first, I thought you were with the pirates, but no stormtrooper has been killed by a lightsaber. I think we can negotiate. You see…

— I hoped you'd died, Skywalker's little pet, — the figure snarled, yanking off her helmet.

In what was about to happen, that foolish bucket would only hinder her.

— But, — said the humanoid woman with pale skin and dark tattoos on her exposed head, — it seems I'll have to do it myself!

The recognition in the Togruta's eyes confirmed Tano knew her.

Tano's mouth curved into a mocking smile:

— The years haven't been kind to you, old friend.

— Let's see what you say after I gut you like a gizka in a butcher shop, — the figure growled. — Out of my way, Jedi mongrel.

— Alas, — Tano sighed with mock regret, activating her blue-bladed lightsabers, one a shorter shoto. — We got along well in the past. Especially at our last meeting on Coruscant.

— We'll handle her, — two large figures in black-and-blue garb appeared behind Tano. Their visored helmets concealed their faces, but… — Orders are to take her alive.

Even if they'd repainted their uniforms, the figure instantly recognized Imperial Guards.

— Hold on, boys, — Tano's voice turned icy, her eyes losing their characteristic mirth and mockery that irritated everyone she met. — I have old scores to settle with this lady. I promise not to damage her too badly.

— Arrogant fool, — the pale woman spat.

— At least my lack of hair is physiological, not because I'm a seething Dark Side puppet who was used and nearly killed, — Tano retorted, raising her right hand and beckoning with her fingers without releasing her saber. — Come on, Ventress, attack. Time to stretch my legs.

With a furious roar, Asajj Ventress lunged at her old rival.