Nine years, seven months, and ten days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and ten days since the Great Resynchronization.
I suppose it's no longer fitting for me to be surprised at how little I know about the universe I once thought I loved so dearly. If I were younger, I might even feel disappointed. But now...
I gazed at the hologram of the Kessel sector hovering beneath the ceiling of my traditionally dimly lit quarters. To be honest, I had assumed there was nothing here beyond the Kessel system, Honoghr, and the cluster of black holes—the Maw—within which Admiral Daala had holed up with four Star Destroyers and the brightest minds Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin had once gathered.
But no... The Kessel sector is far more intriguing than it first appears.
Fourteen star systems within reach of four regional hyperspace routes, two nebulae—one of which is a wandering mass of ionized gas that drifts from one end of the sector to the other—the aforementioned Maw Cluster, and another nebula that blankets much of the sector. An asteroid field, not overly dangerous to seasoned pilots but still the cause of regular, fatal collisions between ships and space rocks.
And one planet, Oba Diah, home to the Pyke species and their criminal syndicate that traffics in spice. Not for the sake of producing medical supplies, mind you. Much like morphine in my previous life, spice can be used as a medicine—or a potent narcotic.
Chimaera, like the other ships mobilized to repel the attack on Honoghr, hung motionless in the interstellar void of the Prishella system. Not the entire fleet, of course, but enough forces to obliterate anything the Republicans could muster against me with a single squadron under these circumstances.
The Kessel sector.
A chime sounded from the direction of the entrance. Pellaeon had arrived with his report.
— Have the scouts taken their positions? — I asked the commander of the flagship Star Destroyer.
— Affirmative, Grand Admiral, — he reported. — We've secured our rear in the Formos system by deploying one Interdictor-class Star Destroyer with a screen of medium cruisers. Our cloaked scouts are positioned near Honoghr's moons—stationed in their gravitational shadows, with stealth fields activated, monitoring the situation with probe droids. The Noghri lack any system for observing near-planetary space, so they won't detect the passive sensors of the Vipers. In the Lesser Kessel system, we've deployed several spy droids. Given the sector's astrogation, if the enemy approaches Honoghr from the Randa system, they'll need to drop out of hyperspace in Lesser Kessel to adjust their course.
— They'll come from there, Captain, — I assured him. — You can recall the detachment from Formos. The enemy is investing significant personal and political stakes in their assault on Linuri and Honoghr. Time, in the latter case, is against them—the New Republic Senate session is approaching, where Counselor Fey'lya will attempt to pounce on Mon Mothma, head of the Provisional Government, to remove her from power.
— Bothans... — Pellaeon grimaced. — They're the ones I'd subject to a Base Delta Zero without losing a wink of sleep over it.
— Hatred for Bothans, due to their way of doing business where they—and only they—come out on top, irritates many peoples across the galaxy, — I remarked. — One might even say that for some species—human and those kindred in spirit, as well as certain xenophobic ones—perpetually despising the natives of Bothawui is a national sport.
— As if that's a bad thing, — Pellaeon grumbled. — Back in the days of the Old Republic, when I was training at the Academy, there was a saying: "If you're unsure who's causing your problems, punch the nearest Bothan in his smug face. Even if he's not directly responsible for your specific troubles, odds are he's already drained the life out of hundreds of sentients in his lifetime and won't indignantly ask, 'What did I do?'"
Suppressing a smile in response to Gilad's words took considerable effort. Considerable indeed.
— Bothans are a phenomenon unto themselves, — I said neutrally. — Our "good friend," Counselor and Commander-in-Chief Fey'lya, is a prime example. In a crisis, he seized the opportunity to climb as high as possible.
— Aiming for the top spot, if not of the New Republic, then at least of the provisional government, right? — the older man inquired.
— Precisely, — I confirmed. — However, under current circumstances, that's not to our advantage.
— Why not? — Pellaeon asked, surprised. — He's an idiot...
— His incompetence in military matters works in our favor, Captain, — I explained. — But we cannot allow him to reach political heights.
— In my view, he could easily tear the New Republic apart single-handedly, — Gilad shrugged. — Leaving us to simply pick up the pieces of those who'd break away from Coruscant.
— In the future, Captain, — I clarified. — But not now.
— Because of Palpatine? — Pellaeon winced.
— Exactly, — I affirmed. — The weaker and more fragmented the New Republic becomes, the more it will unite against a common enemy. Then we'd face a monolith of thousands of species, many with armed forces comparable to ours. We cannot allow that. We'll weaken the New Republic just enough for Palpatine and his minions to sweep through with a punishing blade, igniting sector-wide discontent with a government that failed to protect its citizens as promised.
— Only if Palpatine actually dies, — Pellaeon shivered. — And if he doesn't?
A good question. What if Master Skywalker and his sister don't play the game I need them to and fail to destroy the Reborn Emperor? What then, if the New Republic grows too weak? After all, I intend to strip it of several key "cards" in the upcoming confrontation...
— Until the analysts finish assessing the forces under Palpatine's command, the plan remains unchanged, — I said firmly.
— I fear the New Republic might not hold if the Imperial Remnants rally under Palpatine's banner, — the man lamented. — The New Republic's fleet is aging, and as we've already seen, it's not strong enough to withstand coordinated action. It's possible they'll fall entirely, and Palpatine will reclaim the galaxy.
Yes, I fear that too. To death, I fear it.
— We'll observe everything as it unfolds, Captain, — I hope my words sound confident. — If necessary, we'll intervene.
— If only we knew who'll stand in our way and who'll support us, — Pellaeon's starting to grumble. — On Chimaera, we have thirty-seven thousand naval personnel alone, a legion of stormtroopers... I'm certain of their loyalty—they'd follow you, sir, even against Palpatine. But the rest of the fleet...
— We have ample time to figure that out, — I cut him off. No room for despair. — Any word from Moff Ferrus?
— Yes, sir, — judging by his expression, Gilad was relieved to change the subject. — We've received production lines for assault gunboats, Genon-IV ion engines, and a large batch of gunboats, shuttles, and landing craft. This will keep us from worrying about fighters for a while. At least until the repairs on the captured equipment from the military depot are complete. But in combat, sir...
— I'm well aware that much of the equipment we've received from base RZ7-6113-23 is inferior to our existing Imperial tech, Captain, — I said. — But thank you for the reminder. In our position, we must use everything at our disposal.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon nodded.
— Anything else you'd like to say? — I've known the captain long enough to read his straightforward nature from his face.
— Yes, sir, — he nodded again. — The moff reports he's also purchased general licenses for all production lines... and acquired everything needed to manufacture missile boats...
From his cautious glance, it seemed Gilad was waiting for a response that would reassure him I knew what he was hinting at. Another test? Why now? I've long since adapted to "Thrawn's skin" and control my behavior well enough—no questions should arise. What's the implication behind mentioning missile boats? Should I know what they are? Hutt's blood, give me a couple of minutes to dig into the Imperial archives. "Cygnus Spaceworks" markets itself in its public brochure as dealing only in engines, proprietary systems, shuttles, Xg-1 gunboats, and landing craft. Where do missile boats come into this?
The silence has dragged on too long. I need to say something—something neutral to ease his suspicions and hide that I have no clue what he's talking about.
— Is that so? — I said in as indifferent a tone as possible. — I assumed they'd only provide the moff with their "public" brochure.
— From what Ferrus said, I gathered Cygnus isn't doing as well as they'd like to appear, — Pellaeon replied, equally neutral. — So he jumped at the chance to secure exclusive blueprints and production lines, cutting off other potential buyers.
And why would Felix do that? Clearly, he found something intriguing and potentially useful in those missile boats. But what? Something for the fleet? Or to protect his territories? A boat suggests a planetary craft, but then again, calling the Xg-1 an assault gunboat is a stretch—it's a heavy fighter, nothing more. Names don't always reflect reality... unless "missile" implies its armament? But that's absurd—the Empire never commissioned small missile-armed craft for its forces... Wait! Hold that thought. The Xg-1 has launchers. It carries missiles. So they did commission them—it was standard in a Star Destroyer's starfighter wing. Okay... Think, think, think...
Hmm... Let's reason logically.
The Sentinel-class landing craft is an evolution of the Lambda shuttle. Similar production lines mean lower costs for the manufacturer. Does that mean the missile boat is an evolution of the gunboat? Or its predecessor?
I need vague statements that imply this was all part of the plan—that I wasn't being tested, but rather testing their competence. Always two steps ahead, hmm?
— A wise move, — I said in my usual measured tone. — The moff has proven his foresight. He handled the task as I'd hoped. Have you reviewed the missile boat data?
— In broad strokes, sir, — Pellaeon seemed to relax. — I'm not convinced it's not a waste of credits. Cygnus has already cashed in—the deal's done, and now a convoy of bulk freighters loaded with equipment is headed straight for Tangrene.
— Explain, — I locked eyes with Pellaeon.
— Cygnus Spaceworks handles delivery and setup themselves, — Gilad said. — That's why Ferrus informed me. First, the freighters arrive, then the setup specialists—two convoys, a few hours apart.
Curious that the moff, effectively my deputy, chose to report this to the fleet's chief of staff rather than me. Direct deliveries to Tangrene are a problem. The orbit's littered with invisible asteroids! A repair yard! And about a hundred heavy cruisers lurking in the planet's shadow! If the bulk freighters follow a standard approach vector, they're doomed—along with our equipment.
— It's a test, — I said. — Cygnus Spaceworks wants to verify the story Moff Ferrus fed them. Specifically, to see with their own eyes what's happening in the Tangrene system—whether the ships he mentioned are there, if the yard's damaged... Contact Captain Kalian and Black Asp. Have the task force calculate the convoy's approach and intercept it under the guise of the New Republic.
A faint buzzing started in my temples. My mind raced, analyzing the situation and searching for viable outcomes.
— You want Cygnus Spaceworks to think the New Republic attacked them? — Pellaeon clarified.
— It'll align perfectly with the safety concerns Moff Ferrus should've raised, — I said. — And it lends credibility to what happened with Prince-Admiral Krennel's convoy. It'll partially deflect suspicion from us regarding that incident.
— In that case, we'll need to set up the production lines somewhere outside the Morshdine sector, — Pellaeon noted.
— That was never the plan, — I clarified. Gilad fell silent, then nodded in understanding.
— Then we can't use the Xg-1s, — the Chimaera's commander said. — Otherwise, it'll be obvious what really happened.
— We'll refrain from deploying assault gunboats for now, — I agreed. — That'll give us time to properly train pilots. Then, we'll introduce them into the fleet in small numbers, followed by a series of operations against the New Republic, triumphantly "returning" our tech to service. In sufficient quantities.
— As if we recaptured it from the enemy, — Pellaeon nodded. — But the New Republic will deny any involvement...
— Without a doubt, — I confirmed. — Because they aren't involved. However, Mon Mothma has already stated she has two squadrons under her direct command, outside Fey'lya's control. Who's to say there aren't three? Or more?
— That's why you don't want our privateers or wolf packs intercepting the convoy! — Pellaeon exclaimed. I nodded affirmatively.
— They'd eventually be linked to us anyway, — I added for clarity. — The longer the enemy lacks proof, the easier it'll be to exploit their paranoia.
— In that case, equipping the fake Republican squadron with gunboats wouldn't hurt, since the New Republic wouldn't pass up such an opportunity, — Pellaeon mused. I nodded again. — And we don't have enough captured enemy starfighters to sustain the ruse long-term. Eventually, some survivor will ask, "Why are Mon Calamari star cruisers and an Interdictor only launching one squadron of X-Wings each?"
— Sound reasoning, Captain, — I agreed. — Instruct Captain Kalian that the equipment convoy must have time to report its distress—including to the follow-up ship with the setup crew. No need to hold captive those who could become partners down the line.
— It'll be done, sir, — Pellaeon confirmed. — But how do we replace our fighter losses? The Xg-1s could've been a great alternative to our TIE Bombers for strafing runs...
— The Scimitar project, — I reminded him. — Captain Bren should soon present us with a new bomber design. Moff Ferrus acquired the necessary data to enhance it. Contact him and instruct that all technical specs be transported on his flagship.
— So there's no evidence we lack the capacity to produce these ships in small batches, — it finally clicked for Gilad. — That's why you said we'd introduce the Xg-1s gradually in small groups!
— To reinforce the perception that we're building them from technical documentation alone, — I confirmed. — In limited runs... Though, for the sake of plausibly increasing gunboat numbers in our fleet, we'll need another production line. New Republic credits are of little use to us, so we should spend them for tangible gain. An additional line, supposedly retrofitted, will distract from the real ones and ease Cygnus Spaceworks' concerns.
— You're practically reading my mind, — Pellaeon muttered. — Moff Felix mentioned that during his talk with Cygnus Spaceworks' commercial director, they told him about a defunct SoroSuub project, "Birds of Prey." Only prototypes were made before the line was shuttered as unprofitable. The experimental batch was sold off to assorted rabble—pirates, smugglers. A couple even ended up with Karrde's friend, Mazzic...
Something clicked in my head. A specific, intriguing thought took shape.
"Birds of Prey." A shuttered SoroSuub production line. Machines in pirate hands...
Could this be the same production cycle that, in events I know of, was in the hands of pirates supplying them to Moff Disra's Imperial Remnant a decade after Thrawn's death? Though I recall them being called "Preybirds." A localization quirk from unofficial translations? Or a different type of craft?
— I need information on that project, — I ordered. — And the report Moff Ferrus gave you, since he didn't see fit to inform me directly.
— The moff contacted me to check if his Cygnus Spaceworks assignment was a test from you, — Pellaeon smirked. — He reported to me to hedge his bets—did he do it right, or how upset you'd be with his initiative on the missile boats. It's a niche craft, after all. But he found it odd you didn't mention it, given your involvement in its development...
I nearly blurted out, "That wasn't me!"
Thrawn developed missile boats? For what? Against whom? When?! It seems I missed a lot by skipping the comics and supplemental literature...
— The moff accomplished his task, — I said, neither confirming nor denying Pellaeon's last remark. It might be info I'm unaware of—or another test. — I expect the data, Captain. Keep me updated on scout reports.
— Yes, Grand Admiral, — Pellaeon likely realized he'd overstepped and quickly rose, approached my desk, and placed several data chips on it. After a salute, he headed for the exit.
— One last thing, Captain, — I said, connecting the chips to my computer. — Since Moff Ferrus feels safer reporting to you than me, let him continue doing so.
— I'll inform him, sir, — the Chimaera's commander nodded.
— Dismissed, — I commanded, activating my holographic gallery of galactic art under the ceiling... Soft strains of "Squid Lake" music flowed from hidden speakers...
Pellaeon, witnessing Grand Admiral Thrawn once again "indulge" in studying alien art, gave a faint, satisfied nod before leaving my quarters.
Well, judging by Gilad's expression, I've passed his personal test. Not bad...
Now, let's dive into Delta Source's reports... Time to learn what kind of enemy I'll be fighting for the hearts and lives of Honoghr's people.
***
Yanking his vibro-ax from the body of a Republican soldier, Tiberos wiped the weapon on the fallen enemy's uniform out of habit.
Glancing at another New Republic soldier collapsing nearby, the privateer smirked.
— Not bad with that stick of yours, Vain, — he said, addressing the captain of Black Pearl. The white-haired commander of the carrier Star Destroyer snorted and looked around.
The bridge of the New Republic transport ship, carrying proton torpedoes for the Fourth Fleet stationed at Bothawui, was littered with corpses. The convoy—five CG-75 medium transports escorted by just one MC80 Mon Calamari star cruiser and three CR90 corvettes—was utterly unprepared for the ambush awaiting them in the Monastery system: Colicoid Swarm, Black Pearl, and Tiberos's ships.
Another Bothan attempt to supply the Fourth Fleet for a prolonged campaign had failed. Grand Admiral Thrawn's intelligence was spot-on—the Bothans had hoped to slip past the fanatics of the Sacred Circle Order, who maintained a pointedly neutral stance (perhaps overly so) toward both the New Republic and the Empire... except for pirates, though they quietly dealt with smugglers.
While former Separatist Star Destroyers distracted the New Republic ships, the transports made a run for it—a familiar and often successful tactic. But Tiberos's ships stood in their escape path—Gozantis, Rabid Ewok, and several large fighters.
Fortunately for them, four of the transports didn't have fools aboard—any hull breach or damage to the containers slung beneath could've triggered instant annihilation for both the Republican ships and their crews. So they wisely drifted to a halt, awaiting the privateers' boarding parties to "politely" explain that cooperation was the best way to extend their lives and reach comfortable captivity. A hero's only good when he's alive.
But when he's an idiot...
The crew of the fifth GR75 exemplified that—heroic idiots. Their attempt to flee Tiberos's ships and the assisting Black Pearl turned into a bloody boarding action. Cold steel proved the best option for eliminating resisting Republicans in the narrow, munitions-packed corridors of the transport, where a single blaster shot could spell death for all.
— Your pokers aren't half bad either, — Vain smirked. — Took a lot of practice not to stab yourself with those sharp squiggles?
— Chatty one, — Tiberos grinned widely. — How about we make a deal?
— About what? — Yazuo raised an eyebrow.
— You've got a nice ship, — Tiberos said thoughtfully. — Not tired of it yet?
— How could I tire of my own dream? — Vain replied, watching Tiberos's crew haul out the last of the bodies. Blood stains, naturally, no one would clean—not in this system, at least. Better to get out fast before "guests" like a few New Republic patrols showed up. Cleaning droids would handle the rest, but picking a fight wasn't worth it.
— Say, when you can't keep it properly supplied? — Tiberos purred. — Short on crew, owe Thrawn a hefty sum for repairs...
— This raid will cover last time's repair costs, — Vain scoffed. — With a decent chunk left over, by my estimate.
— And how'll you pay for the damage Black Pearl took in this fight? — Tiberos asked, watching his crew take up positions at the observation consoles.
— Not a big deal, — Vain said coolly. — Thrawn always finds a juicier target than the last.
— Gonna stay in his debt forever? — Tiberos chuckled.
— What's it to you? — Yazuo frowned. — Want to snatch my ship?
— I'm not hiding it, — Tiberos admitted frankly. — It's a good ship. I could use it.
— Oh, really? — Yazuo smirked. — I could use it too.
— Suit yourself, — Tiberos shrugged theatrically. — Ships wear out, take battle damage, get wrecked... Then they lose value. And a droid crew—honestly, a bad idea, especially ancient B1s. You don't need a ship this big. With a nice stack of credits or peggats, you could buy some sleek, modern starships instead of this old hunk...
His persuasive spiel was cut off by an incoming comm call. Vain was about to snap back, but the privateer, noting the unusual frequency, stepped aside.
— Listening, — he said, a hint of concern in his voice.
— Tiberos, it's Eymand, — his task force deputy identified himself. — We've got company on vector four-six-zero. Coming in fast from Monastery's far orbit.
The privateer captain tensed.
— Identified? — he asked, gesturing urgently for his crew to hurry with the transport. Time to get out—now.
— Didn't even need to, — Eymand said grimly. — They're broadcasting their intent to get you across open channels. I've ordered our guys to pull the transports out while Colicoid Swarm finishes off the Mon Cal cruiser. But we'll need more time to move this ship—you really trashed its engines.
— Don't tell me it's our old pals from Lok showing up? — His heart skipped a beat... Not now!
— I told you your Force abilities are growing, — the former Jedi Knight chuckled. — Yep, it's them. Full fleet. They really want your head—and Ravager. Pretty sure the head's the priority.
— Can we escape before they close to engagement range? — Tiberos asked quickly.
— Only if we ditch the transport you're on, — Eymand sighed. — Think we should avoid that?
— Trust your call, — Tiberos said, inhaling the blood-soaked air, its sharp tang fueling his anticipation for the coming fight. — Can the other transports get clear without joining the battle?
— Captain Irv says he'll cover them with firepower, but the cruiser and corvettes gave him a beating, — his comrade reported. — Speed's low after tangling with the Mon Cal, and his artillery's banged up... We'll have to hold the enemy off ourselves until the transports reach the rendezvous.
— That's the plan, — Tiberos decided. — Irv handles the four prizes, we cover the fifth. Just need a little time... Can you stall them while I sprint through the docking tube?
— When have I ever left you to deal with your messes alone? — Eymand mused philosophically.
— Want me to list every time, or just the ones from the last year? — Tiberos quipped.
— I'll get our guys into a defensive formation, — Eymand dodged diplomatically. — Maybe ask our blond boy to cover his buddies with some fire?
— Not his fight, — Tiberos said darkly. — Not his, not the Empire's.
— We've got one cruiser, one Rabid Ewok, one H-6, and a couple of bounty hunters, while they've got ten Scurrg H-6 Ravagers alone, — Eymand sighed. — If you don't want your privateer kingdom dreams to crash, I'd suggest cutting a deal.
— End transmission, — Tiberos growled, shutting off the comm.
Spinning on his heels, he glared at Yazuo Vain, who radiated smug satisfaction.
— Well, well, well, — Vain said, flashing a charming smile. — Looks like this old Separatist ship might come in handy?
— Old, but not useless, — Tiberos muttered. — Wanna earn some credits?
— If you'll foot the bill for a full Black Pearl repair after this fight, I'll humor my fellow privateer and order my useless old droids to man our useless old turbolasers, aim them at the enemy, and... — Captain Vain trailed off, distracted by the rapid thud of Tiberos's boots as the privateer captain bolted away from the chatty nuisance.
— No-no-no! — Gripping his monstrous weapon tighter, Yazuo shouted, giving chase. — Tiberos, you're not getting away that easily!
***
A slime-coated, worn-out converter sailed across the garbage bay, landing squarely in a massive trash container. Whistling over the Noghri's head, it hit a pile of similar ooze atop a burned-out heavy turbolaser power buffer, bounced off, ricocheted from the container lid, and fell inside.
The slime splattered in all directions. Miraculously, the Noghri bodyguard remained unscathed by the foul, unsightly mess.
— Looking for trouble, Guardsman! — Rukh growled, snatching a jagged metal shard and wielding it like a knife.
— Want to see who's better, assassin? — Tierce smirked, twirling a torn-off pylon in his hand. It wasn't much of a fighting staff, but better than nothing.
— The Grand Admiral gave us a different task, — the Honoghr native squinted. — My side of the chute's cleaner than yours!
Grodin surveyed "his domain," where a fresh load of junk had just arrived, and snorted, glancing at his waterproof sanitation jumpsuit.
— We're not leaving until the job's done, — he reminded. — You could lick the walls clean—the trash flow won't stop. This bay's meant to be dirty. Plus, destroyers have quotas for trash accumulation. In the last two days, they've been exceeded several times over. Thrawn's test isn't about making this place spotless.
— The Grand Admiral wouldn't send us here if he didn't think it was doable, — Rukh said, offended. — Your faith in Thrawn is weak, Guardsman!
— If that were true, Noghri, I wouldn't have arranged my transfer under his command or tried to fix things, — Tierce said calmly. — The stormtroopers they gave him are weaklings. I thought bringing in Vader's remaining troopers would at least bolster my battalion. Turns out, there are cloning cylinders... That simplified things. But you Noghri—what are you doing under Thrawn?
— I don't answer for my blade-brothers, — Rukh declared, tossing the sharpened metal into the container. Looks like a brawl was off the table for now.
— Tell that to Lieutenant Tschel, — Tierce smirked. — Even Pellaeon didn't buy your story. And Thrawn? No point even mentioning him.
Rukh silently began stacking ruined, mangled parts into the trash bin.
— So there's a scheme after all, — Grodin concluded, stepping aside to let a stream of refuse pour from the chute into a container. The latest batch had come from sheepish midshipmen overseeing the ship's waste disposal. Before every hyperspace jump, this bay was supposed to be emptied... Cleaning it or sorting scrap into bins? That only happened at shipyards during major overhauls—and rarely even then.
— Noghri affairs don't concern you, Guardsman, — Rukh said.
— Just like my job guarding Thrawn doesn't concern you, assassin, — Grodin shot back. — But you meddle in it. And I don't like that.
— Afraid your two-faced nature will slip out? — came a sudden hiss near his ear. Tierce sidestepped smoothly, raising the pipe like a spear.
— Lie again, and I'll smear you across this bay, assassin! — he roared.
— Then your name will join the Emperor's on my target list, — the Noghri declared, brandishing a heavy converter dangling from a bundle of wires. It looked weighty—and he clearly intended to use it as a sling if it came to a fight.
But was there even a reason...?
— You want to kill Palpatine? — Grodin asked.
— For what he and Vader did to my world, — Rukh stated.
— They didn't drop the poison on Honoghr, — the Guardsman reminded him.
— But they kept us enslaved and lied to our faces, sending Noghri to die as payment for a cleansing that would never come, — the Noghri explained.
— How'd you find out? — Grodin grew curious.
— The Grand Admiral told me before declaring my people no longer owe him service, — Rukh spun the part, testing how fast he could swing it if a scuffle broke out.
— Is that so, — Tierce smirked. — That Chiss is clever, figuring that out. Though I'm not surprised.
— You knew the Imperials deceived my people? — Rukh cast a wary glance at the Guardsman.
— At court, many mocked the dumb aliens so easily fooled, — Tierce said indifferently, dodging a part hurled at his skull with a roll, then blocking a Noghri lunge with the pipe. He sidestepped a leg sweep, parried a face strike and a double body blow, then leapt back, holding the now-bent pipe forward defensively after its clash with Noghri fists. — Your temper could use some direction...
— You knew my people were enslaved and did nothing! — Rukh snarled, gripping two more jagged metal scraps menacingly. Where'd he find those? Oh... The two pieces he'd stashed under the trash pile for a retreat behind the container. Sly alien.
— Your beloved Darth Vader knew and did nothing too, — Tierce sneered. — So did a hundred of Palpatine's trusted lackeys. But few even knew where you were.
— That doesn't excuse you, — Rukh said threateningly, stepping sideways.
— I'm not trying to, — Tierce declared. — I served my ruler. The moral side of any issue didn't concern me. Think your people are the only ones the Empire exploited one way or another? Should I weep for each one?
Rukh stayed silent. Of course he did.
— You don't care about other enslaved or destroyed races, — Grodin continued evenly. — They don't matter to you. Not your people, not your burden. Same for me—no peoples, races, events, or their moral angles mean anything beyond my service. You and your death commando kin didn't question your orders to kill, destabilize, provoke, kidnap, or sabotage either. So there's no difference between us.
— There is, — Rukh said with menace. — Noghri are warriors of honor. Guardsmen like you are butchers.
— I don't speak for all my brothers-in-arms, — Tierce snapped. — Just myself. I joined Thrawn because I believe he can stop the Reborn Emperor.
— I don't trust you, Guardsman, — Rukh said coldly. — You've always been loyal to the Emperor. You might fool the Grand Admiral, but not me. Your Tangrene tale doesn't convince me...
— I'm not here to convince you, Noghri, — Tierce said with disdain. — I serve Thrawn, not you.
— I doubt that, — the Noghri replied. — Once a Guardsman, always a Guardsman.
— So, — Tierce gazed fondly at his makeshift weapon, — swap one word in your saying, and Noghri are still loyal Imperial tools?
He easily deflected a flying shard of sharpened metal.
— Pride stinging, Noghri? — Tierce smirked, shifting to another part of the bay for more maneuvering room if it came to blows. — I could've killed you several times, but unlike you, I get why Thrawn sent us here. If only one of us walks out, the other's as good as dead.
— I'd die to ensure Thrawn lives and stops the Emperor, — Rukh spat. — But in you, I see a traitor worming into trust to strike from behind.
— I could say the same of you, assassin, — Grodin countered reasonably. — I'm sure Thrawn trusts neither of us. Haven't noticed he wears armor under his tunic?
— My eyes are sharp—I notice everything, — Rukh snapped. — He's worn it since we found Joruus C'baoth on Wayland.
— Smart move, — Grodin nodded faintly. — But the longer we trade barbs here, the longer the Grand Admiral's unguarded. With Palpatine's spies loose in the galaxy, he—or at least his agents—already knows his once-reliable tool, Thrawn, is off the leash. While we play games, they could be closing in...
The Noghri, who'd been fluidly shifting stances, froze for a moment.
— There's sense in your words, Guardsman, — he said quickly. — We need to finish clearing this bay fast...
— Didn't you hear me? — Tierce asked. — They're dumping trash beyond the quota. Per protocol, it's less and spread over multiple dumps—before each hyperspace jump. They're burying us in it. Your thoughts, Noghri?
— It's deliberate, — Rukh flung one of his makeshift blades into the container.
— Same conclusion I reached, — Tierce nodded. — Any guesses what Thrawn wants from us?
He had a hunch already. But he knew passing the Grand Admiral's test—achieving the intended outcome—required the Noghri's help.
— Nothing here's of value, — Rukh said. — Just junk.
— And you, me...
— Don't treat me like a dim child, Guardsman, — the gray-skinned figure hissed. — The Grand Admiral wants us to work together. If we tackle the trash as a team instead of scavenging weapons to kill each other, it'll go faster.
— Sharp one, — Tierce grinned. — Bet there's a surveillance system here too—after the Death Star fiasco, the Emperor ordered them on every major ship of interest to Rebels. Thrawn's watching. As long as we work apart, the trash keeps piling up.
— Worth testing, — Rukh nodded. — If he wants us together, he trusts you with his life.
— And you, — Grodin concluded. — Believe I'm not a traitor now?
— My trust isn't won so easily, Guardsman, — Rukh shook his head.
— Nor mine, — Tierce countered. — I'm loyal to the oath I swore to Thrawn. If that means working side by side with you, Noghri, I'm in.
Rukh pondered for a couple of seconds:
— Accepted, — he said, extending his right hand. Major Tierce glanced at it and shook his head.
— Handshakes are for when you don't want to rip each other's throats out. A gesture of full trust, which neither of us has. Self-deception won't help—it'll only harm our goal of guarding the Grand Admiral. I'll work with you, but I'm not taking my eyes off you, Noghri.
The Honoghr native retracted his hand instantly.
Fixing the human with a squinting glare, Rukh said softly:
— I'll remember that, Guardsman.
— No doubt, — Tierce replied evenly. Just then, another load of scrap, food waste, and debris tumbled from the chute.
Holding eye contact a few seconds longer, the former death commando and ex-Imperial Guardsman set to work on the same trash heap.
***
Stepping back from the garbage bay's surveillance feed, I nodded to myself in satisfaction.
It's a start. They'll watch each other—one keeping tabs on the other. In time, they'll mesh—and I'll keep an eye on both.
Hours later, after reviewing Delta Source's data, I gazed thoughtfully at the holographic collection spinning before me. Not as extensive as the Mon Calamari's, but enough to discern patterns, draw conclusions, and cross-reference them with open databases about my upcoming foe and their species.
What can be said of Corellians? A galactic proverb claims they've got rocket fuel in their veins. That's the most apt summary of their behavior and psychology.
Shoot first, think later. Simple enough... But there's more to Corellian psychology. Honestly, I admire Thrawn's approach to sizing up enemies. It's not that complicated, really. Just grasp the essence...
So, Corellians. Outwardly, they're egocentric—bordering on narcissistic—with a performative disinterest in events. It's a bargaining tactic, not apathy, but a hatred of playing by others' rules. It stems from their national traits—independence, pragmatism. Hence their apparent recklessness.
I see their defiance as a desire to shape their own fate. Fun fact: no externally imposed government has ever lasted long on Corellia. The Corellian Resistance formed almost before the Alliance to Restore the Republic—rumor has it, the day after Imperials killed Senator Garm Bel Iblis and his family. Self-determination and control over their destiny—that's what Corellians cherish most. Until a certain point in their lives, that is.
Corellians are vain—reliant on external approval to varying degrees. Demonstrative behavior, I'd call it. Fascinating... An entire human offshoot with a pronounced character accentuation. It's not about each one wanting to play hero. No. For the average Corellian, leaving a legacy matters. Being remembered. Only Corellians have that peculiar burial custom—burning bodies and compressing the ash into synthetic diamonds with artificial gravity generators. But not for all—executed criminals are disposed of irretrievably, their memory erased fast.
Corellians adore their homeworld and sector to a fault. Away from it, they're like kids marveling at anything Corellian—especially food and drink exclusive to the sector. I recall in Rogue Squadron, Corran Horn devoured a national treat Mirax Terrik made, despite her open hatred for him at the time. Quite a twist of fate they had.
Another Corellian trait—their love for ships. Not just any ships, but fast ones. Another way to immortalize their name through tales of their vessel's speed.
These psychological drives shape their decisions. Corellians think fast, act instantly—high reaction speed. That's why so many tie their lives to flying and exploration. Who doesn't dream of fame by naming a celestial object after themselves or pulling off a stunt like the Kessel Run?
Corellian art reflects comfort and utility. Oddly, beyond their sector, it's less valued than their liquor. Yet, they love technical innovation—especially shipbuilding. Their shipyards are among the galaxy's best for a reason. Corellians know what a ship needs, building to their own standards of speed, firepower, and defense—and the galaxy loves the result. Speaking of which—note to self: after this op, check on Niles Ferrier's scheme to snag ten ships from Corellian yards. The smuggler's already... Well, no need to dwell on the grim.
Studying Corellian art, I noticed the sharp, dynamic lines sculptors, painters, and architects use to depict their kin and their deeds aren't uniform. That led me to realize my profile of the "average Corellian" doesn't quite match the Han Solo I know from Thrawn's books. At first, I thought books can't fully align with reality or current events. Then I saw paintings of Corellian families—and it clicked.
As I said, Corellians have "childish quirks" and a drive to be remembered—until a specific point. And then it hit me: a peacock's tail analogy...
Because that "wind in their heads" vanishes the moment they find a partner.
Corellian society prizes family above all—something worth going all-in for. Family ties, kids—everything shifts once a Corellian finds their other half. Their efforts turn to family comfort, safety, and basic needs. That's why Corran Horn braved a Hutt's wrath to find his wife, why Booster Terrik amassed a fleet to save his daughter, fighting to the last thinking she'd died. And why Han Solo's coming here instead of staying a deserter, searching for his wife and unborn kids.
Someone or something tipped him off about a Honoghr link to his beloved. It's hinted at in his talk with Wedge Antilles after their meeting with Mon Mothma—not overtly, but when every sentence circles back to the Honoghr assault and landing being his path to her, it raises suspicions about who fed him that idea.
And yet, it's clear why he's charging into battle—Corellians despise anyone dragging their women, children, or friends into conflict. To them, that's family, demanding a proper response. A Corellian won't stoop to underhanded tricks beyond their sense of honor, preferring to handle it personally. Again, part of their egoistic valor. Attacking what a Corellian holds dear is tantamount to declaring personal war.
Fascinating analysis, especially since I drew it from Corellian art and it aligns perfectly with psychological data on the HoloNet. So, I can tentatively say I'm getting the hang of assessing enemies through their art. A reason to push further in this direction.
That's the broad strokes. Now, Han Solo himself...
A more intriguing slice of Corellian folk.
What do I know? He loves gambling, brags about his ship's feats, hates losing, and is devilishly lucky—maybe the luckiest Corellian alive.
He adores his ship, loathes anyone tinkering with it, and takes grave offense at harm done to him personally. Yet, since marrying the Alderaanian princess, he's devoted more time to her—why he's less hands-on with his ship now. Chimaera's techs, who disassembled and scanned it bolt by bolt, say as much. They found clever external mods, but a full teardown—including the guts—is far off. Though, I didn't bring his ship aboard Chimaera just to study it (though that's part of it). Gutting the Millennium Falcon serves another purpose...
Han Solo's resourceful, quick-witted, often using unorthodox solutions in dire straits. Recall how he tricked the Imperial garrison in the Endor shield bunker to flush out its defenders.
And one trait makes him stand out—he's wary, if not hostile, to droids meddling in his affairs. How do I know? His constant bickering with C-3PO, Organa-Solo's protocol droid, hints at it. From familiar sources, droids boarded his ship only by circumstance or at family or friends' behest. Plus, Chimaera's techs noted rushed, shoddy repairs with subpar parts—Solo fixes it himself. A droid crew would've had it purring ages ago. A New Republic counselor's husband can afford that, but he doesn't. Not a money issue—he's got plenty, separate from the family budget. So, Han Solo keeps his ship in this state not out of shame to use his wife's funds. He wants to fix it himself, by hand, sans droids.
So, I face an unpredictable, improvisation-driven foe dead-set on finding clues to his wife on Honoghr. With him comes a former Imperial Star Destroyer Mark I, Red Gauntlet—his flagship—three Mon Cal cruisers, two assault frigates, two Quasar Fire escort carriers, and six escort corvettes. I won't count landing craft—they're minor in a line battle.
My assets: Chimaera, Death's Head, Judicator, Nemesis, Crusader with its Mandalorian escort, four medium cruisers, one Interdictor-class Star Destroyer, and five Corellian CR90 corvettes. Equal forces? Sure, if you've got a tongue, say what you want.
Is that claim true?
No, it isn't. We're even in line ships, but the small craft...
Hmm... The gap's not that wide, actually. So what's bothering me?
Facing a smart, driven enemy with a hefty dose of luck. I recall at Jaina Solo's wedding in known events, she speculated her father might be slightly Force-sensitive. True or just a hunch? Could Solo's knack be the Force guiding his instincts about foes? Or is it mere theory?
Hard to say, easy to test—get a blood sample. That means capturing him...
Hmm... What strategy to devise? Trading ships doesn't favor me—the Noghri are watching. To win their trust, I need a crushing victory. Pity the armed freighters my scouts use can't join the fight—with proton torpedo launchers, they can't strike from stealth; they don't see the enemy, nor does the enemy see them.
But killing Han Solo's no simple task. And if it happens, his wife and friends will never heed me again, even if I blare my tenets through a megaphone. So, victory means sparing him.
Wait. Hold that thought. Not just spare him—talk to him! Yes! He'll return to Coruscant, carrying word of who he fought.
Hmm... Good, I've got the ending—now for the beginning...
Leaning back in my chair, listening to Corellian music's lilts (yes, it exists—shocked me too), I stroked my ysalamiri's back, mulling over every Corellian tenet I knew...
The critter, apparently tired of one-sided attention, flipped over, brazenly stretching out. From meek pet to demanding belly rubs! If I pinched it, you'd fight back, wouldn't you? Don't glare—I won't. We're allies, after all... And allies don't turn on each other, right? We're responsible for those we tame.
The comm beeped. Reaching out, I grabbed it.
— Grand Admiral, sir, — Pellaeon's voice came through. — Scouts in Lesser Kessel confirm the enemy's dropped out of hyperspace to adjust course. Nav reports they'll jump again in ten minutes.
— It's at least two and a half standard hours to Honoghr, Captain, — I recalled. From our staging point, it's exactly three hours—a twenty-minute gap. Standard recon time. No matter how reckless Solo is, he won't land troops on a barely scouted planet. Nor bombard it—likely thinks his wife's on the surface, or clues to her are. Otherwise, he'd head straight to her. — Order our techs to prep the Millennium Falcon for flight, — a faint cough came through the speaker. — Fleet to full hyperspace readiness. Standard march order: Interdictor jumps first, Judicator as cover. Remaining ships follow five minutes later. Chimaera at the center, Death's Head to starboard, Nemesis to port. Medium cruisers hold the upper hemisphere of the flank destroyers. Corellian corvette captains and bomber squadron commanders prep for a briefing in one hour.
— It'll be done, sir! — Pellaeon replied briskly.
As the device clicked off, I closed my eyes, surrendering to the Corellian melodies.