Ghent didn't know how Mara could feel at ease in the Imperial Palace, but for him, this place was undeniably oppressive. Even though Jade had promised him protection, he was unequivocally afraid. Afraid of being caught by the Republicans, afraid that the upgraded code granting access to the central computers of Imperial Star Destroyers wouldn't work, afraid that the programs he'd written practically "on the fly" to link all the palace library terminals into a unified system of computational power wouldn't hold up...
The young man knew the root of all this was his fear of operating in the very heart of the New Republic. Especially since he was technically working for the opposing side of the conflict, and if they caught him here...
From behind, out of the darkness of the infochip racks where Mara had disappeared, came the sound of a scuffle. The slicer let out a quiet yelp and watched in horror as something approached him—a figure seemingly woven from shadow, with a terrifying aura of misty chaos where its head should have been and...
— Don't just stand there, — the shadow hissed at him in Galactic Basic, casting a furious glance from mesmerizing green eyes.
— Oh, — Ghent said, relaxing. — It's you, Mara.
— Were you expecting someone else? — she asked, still backing toward him, bent over double.
— I mean, I see some monster crawling out of the dark and thought... — the slicer trailed off, meeting another glare that could kill on the spot. He flinched under its intensity.
— So... What happened to you? — he asked, carefully averting his gaze.
— Ran into a countertop, — Jade spat venomously. — And four fists and feet.
— Karrde said you're always careful when you move, — Ghent said, puzzled. — Did you trip?
The girl hurled something forward, then straightened up. A wave of pain crossed her face. It seemed she even let out a faint cry. Why was she biting her lip? Was she angry at him? For what? He'd only asked...
— Ghent, — she said softly, but that only made it scarier. The young slicer's soul fled to his heels and refused to return. — I'm begging you—shut up. Don't push me to sin. That bitch is a real piece of work. And I'm apparently not in as good shape as I thought.
— Who are you talking about? — The slicer blinked.
Mara let out something like a groan. Then she kicked at something with her foot... Ghent's gaze dropped downward.
— You've got a friend? — he asked, surprised, spotting a young woman with snow-white hair lying on the floor. She didn't look great—probably fell too. In her hand was clutched a hefty chunk of fiery red hair... She must've grabbed the first thing she could when she went down.
— I'll beat you senseless, — Mara promised, wincing. But she was joking. She was always so strict, throwing threats around, though in reality, she was a sweetheart. — Ghent... How are we doing?
— Already started copying, — he admitted. — The slicing takes about half the time and...
— Copy the files whole, — Jade said, leaning back against the rack. She was breathing shallowly but rapidly. Each breath clearly came with effort and pain.
— But you said Thrawn...
— Ghent, — the girl licked her lips, making the slicer feel himself flush. No, even after crashing into a countertop, Mara was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. But to him, she'd always been more like an older sister. And you don't court sisters... At least not where he came from. — I've got a broken rib. Maybe a crack in my sternum. It's getting harder to breathe. I think I twisted my ankle too. Be a dear—grab the bacta spray from the pocket on my jumpsuit belt and spray it across the center and left side of my chest.
— Uh... — the slicer, now red as a beet, tried to protest, but she smiled at him. He suddenly felt the urge to use the refresher. — I checked the data. Mara, we can't copy everything. If we don't strip the software protection—which is three times the size of the files themselves—we won't get much. Even then, we could only copy maybe a hundredth of it—there's just too much data—and with the protection, it'll be even less...
— Then stop slicing, — Mara told him again. — Find the key files and copy those first. If there's space left, grab something else interesting. After that, wipe your chips clean and try recording more onto them.
— Wait, but... — The slicer met her gaze, then opted to turn and get to work. He'd already cracked a dozen files, so there'd be some extra volume. But the rest would have to be copied with the security code intact. Breaking it without the kind of processing power he had here in the Imperial Palace would be tough. And slow. — Done.
— Good boy, — Jade praised him. — Now the spray. Hurry, before I pass out.
— Mara, I... — Ghent stammered.
— Sweetheart, — and now it was really dangerous. The redhead had switched to endearments. That meant arguing with her was outright perilous. — There are guards outside that door. And they'll come barging in. Maybe even armed. You see, — she pointed at the unconscious girl at her feet, — this is a very... influential person... She was here doing... something... With General Solo... He'll probably... show up soon... If I'm... unconscious... no one... will protect you.
The hint hit home. Ghent carefully stepped over the unconscious girl, averted his gaze, and began fumbling blindly at Jade's waist...
— What... kind of... circus... are you... running? — Mara panted, each breath yielding just one word.
— I... — Ghent felt even his ear tips burning red. — This is it, right? Doesn't feel like...
— Lower... — Mara said. — And to the left...
Ghent wanted to say it'd be easier for her to find and grab it herself, but he bit his tongue just in time. She was gripping the rack with both hands, keeping herself upright. If she didn't stay standing, it might get worse. Maybe even break a rib completely...
— This one, right? — he asked hopefully.
— That's painkiller... gel... — Mara groaned. — Ghent, I'll... thrash you. Rub it... on my chest! It hurts!
— Yes, yes, yes, right now, — Ghent, still looking away from Jade, found the zipper on her jumpsuit and pulled it down to her waist. Squeezing the tube's contents onto his palms, he began rubbing it in without looking at her, hoping to at least ease her pain...
— Ghent... — he heard her whisper.
— Yes, Mara? — he asked, putting in extra effort. She was feeling better, wasn't she?
— You've... never had... a girlfriend, have you? — At that question, the young man dropped the tube. The faint clatter sounded deafening to him.
— Y-yeah, — he admitted. — How'd you know?
— Chest... — Mara said. — It's not... just... what you're... touching... I can't feel... the left side... move to... the center... before you... get it!
— I... — Ghent faltered. He still couldn't overcome his shyness to look at the half-dressed girl. But his sense of camaraderie told him the redhead needed help. Now!
Burning with shame and embarrassment, the young man followed Mara's instructions. Oh, he could feel her ribs! She was actually pretty skinny. She'd said her ribs hurt, right? He needed to rub the painkiller there...
With a faint cry, Jade crumpled to the floor. At the last second, Ghent managed to catch her head, preventing it from smashing against the hard surface.
— Oh no, — he whispered, looking away from the rasping girl. — This is bad, really bad...
Just then, the other one—the platinum-haired girl—twitched...
— Oh, oh, oh... — Ghent's eyes widened as the blonde jerked her arm. — Mara, Marochka, I won't touch you there anymore... Mara... MARA!!!
Looks like he was in deep trouble.
***
When the turbolift doors slid open, the scene on the Chimaera's bridge made it clear that the people here were struck with grief. So profound that every single one had completely forgotten their military duty.
— I like your little ships, Imps, — a voice rumbled through the intercom. It unmistakably belonged to Captain Nym. — Think I'll take them as compensation for my destroyed squadrons. With a Star Destroyer and an interdictor cruiser, my organization will be unstoppable!
The gaze continued to sweep the bridge.
Some sobbed, some were drenched in tears, others just stared grimly ahead. And some, like Lieutenant Tschel, were being carted off by medics on a stretcher.
The medics—a pair of orderlies—were the first to notice the newcomers on the bridge. Their reaction was bizarre—they dropped the stretcher, sending Tschel crashing to the deck with a groan of pain...
— Seriously?! — The young officer's face stretched as if made of rubber, sculpted by some strong hand into something longer.
Ignoring the hushed watchstanders, the quartet of sentients made their way to the central platform. The Chimaera's commander looked up, tearing his eyes from the tactical display now lighting up with numerous enemy ship signatures. His gaze flicked over the approaching figures, curses nearly spilling from his lips, but he held his tongue.
The words caught in his throat:
— Captain Pellaeon, — I said, settling back into the chair, — care to explain why the bridge watch is in a state bordering on panic.
— You're alive! — Pellaeon blurted out. The older, gray-haired man stared at me as if trying to see through me with an X-ray.
— Beyond any doubt, — I confirmed, glancing at the tactical display. — I see that in the fifteen minutes of my absence from the bridge, the enemy's disposition has shifted dramatically. Both bounty hunter squadrons destroyed?
— Y-yes, sir, — Gilad said slowly. — Along with your shuttle.
— Excellent, — I replied. — So the ruse worked. Captain, see to it that the operator at tractor beam post six undergoes an expedited review board. That man deserves a rank and pay increase.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon darkened. He shot a quick glance toward the pit where the junior specialist sat, then back to me:
— Shuttle Seventeen was empty, wasn't it?
— Not at all, Captain, — I assured him. — Our adversary might have had the scanners to check. To make it easier for them, we removed the deflectors.
— But... Then who was onboard?! — Pellaeon tensed.
— We'll need eleven new ysalamiri, — I said.
— And the tractor beam operator controlled the Lambda's movement, — Gilad realized. — That kid did a fine job maintaining both speed and beam duration.
— All it took was arranging the ship's delivery to its escorts. After that, the standard engines kicked in, and it flew straight without guidance.
— And it was packed with explosives and scrap metal you turned into shrapnel, — Pellaeon continued.
— The primary modifications were to the shuttle's hull, — I explained. — Solid armor was cut down to the brink of structural failure. When proton torpedoes detonated it, the engines and onboard explosives went off. The kinetic munitions bypassed the bounty hunters' deflector shields.
— Understood, sir, — Pellaeon replied curtly. He glanced at the guardsman, noghri, and pirate standing on the other side of the chair—whose species we still couldn't identify. Close to human, but... It's speculated Captain Tiberos might be some undiscovered hybrid. — May I ask what the point of this exercise was?
— Demoralization, — I explained.
— Ours or the Lok Revenants'? — It was clear Gilad was struggling to contain his rising anger.
— And testing the theory that Captain Nym's standard tactic for repelling an invasion hinges on eliminating the enemy commander, — I continued, not bothering to answer directly. Because both were true.
Deceive the enemy, and you've nearly won. But that's not all.
Learning how your flagship's crew reacts when you're presumed dead—whether they'd follow your orders or collapse into panic and ruin everything—that's invaluable. I got the answers I needed. I'm confident they'll do better next time.
But I got what I wanted—I figured out how Nym thinks. This will be easy.
— Why's he here? — Pellaeon asked, nodding toward Tiberos.
— To double the blow to Captain Nym's reputation and ego, — I declared. And to verify something in Tiberos's own account. — Captain Pellaeon, I trust you've checked the landing coordinates Captain Nym provided?
— Uh... — A faint confusion crossed Gilad's face. — Forgive me... I was... somewhat occupied.
— I know, Captain, — I nodded. — You were grieving. Please, see to it immediately while we watch four fighter squadrons close in on my flagship.
A dozen Scurrg H-6 bombers were rapidly approaching from the Lok space station. Three more full-strength units were lifting off from the planet's surface.
— The coordinates match Captain Tiberos's data on Nym's stronghold location, — Pellaeon reported.
— It's a landing pad for his ships, — Captain Tiberos interjected. — The big ones are there. The fortress itself is one klick north.
— They'll be in firing range in ten minutes if you order an advance now, — Gilad said, ignoring the clarification. — Open fire, Grand Admiral?
— No need, Captain Pellaeon, — I replied. — Is Black Asp still holding the vectors assigned for its gravity well generators?
— Affirmative, sir, — the Chimaera's commander confirmed. — Over a hundred assorted enemy fighters have lifted off from the surface and are heading our way.
— Then issue the fleet the order to commence the operation, — I directed. — Black Asp is to ensure its own safety independently. And open a channel to Captain Nym.
The next moment, the bridge filled with the smug voice of the Feeorin:
— Ah, the Imperial gizkas have decided to hand over their tubs, — he rumbled. — Your little ship's in a bind—the vector Tiberos gave you doesn't leave room for maneuvers if you want to get it out of here intact. Time to...
— On the contrary, Captain Nym, — I replied. Silence fell over the bridge. — I find you not only a dishonorable pirate and galactic scum, but a sentient who doesn't keep his word.
— Thrawn!? — The pirate leader's voice wasn't just surprised—it was stunned. So stunned that his arrogance and confidence vanished. — You... you're alive?!
— You destroyed an Imperial vessel, — I continued, ignoring the obvious question. — Combined with your existing offenses, I deem you unworthy not only of cooperating with my forces but of living at all.
— Thrawn, Thrawn, this is the Outer Rim, — Nym wheedled. — You just don't get how things work out here... THRAWN!!!
— I take it, Captain Nym, — I pressed on, — your informants have already told you all hyperspace routes out of the Karthakk system are under the control of interdictor cruisers and blockade ships. Excellent. Then I address all within the Karthakk star system. You are in a military operation zone conducted by Imperial fleet forces under my command. Warships have already been dispatched to every station, outpost, and facility. Lay down your arms now, surrender your leaders, and relinquish control of your assets, and only then will you be permitted to live. Anyone resisting Imperial stormtroopers or ships will be eliminated on the spot—just like Captain Nym and those subordinates still loyal to him.
— Thrawn! — Nym spoke quickly. — We can make a deal! I've got credits, valuables! We'll work it out! Call off your Star Destroyers!
— You were right about one thing, Captain Nym, — my voice was firm, radiating confidence and resolve. — I'm unfamiliar with the customs of the Outer Rim systems. Which is precisely why I brought a specialist with extensive experience in resolving disputes between Outer Rim pirates and Imperial forces.
The Imperious emerged from hyperspace just as it reached the edge of the artificial gravity cone deployed perpendicular to the Chimaera's heading. The triangular ship materialized close to the Lok space station but kept it astern. The moment it dropped into realspace, TIE fighters, interceptors, assault shuttles, and troop transports launched from its hangar.
The ship's active transponder broadcast its name.
— Shohashi's Imperious!? — Nym roared. — Shohashi?! Thrawn, you sick bastard! You brought that Hutt-spawned maniac into my home?! I'll get you wherever you are, my ships...
— Imperious is firing on a ground target per telemetry relayed from Chimaera, — Lieutenant Tschel reported, still at his post despite bandaged head and hands. Hmm... An interesting man. Driven. Worth keeping an eye on.
— Deploy the fighter wing, — I ordered. — Lieutenant Creb and Black Squadron's target remains unchanged. Other units are to engage targets per dispatcher instructions. Command the battle, Captain—it's your ship, after all.
Meanwhile, the Imperious's fighter wing slammed into the chaotic mess (calling it a formation would be laughable) of enemy fighters. Green lances from Imperial laser cannons began their bloody harvest... Soon joined by the Chimaera's fighters.
— Yes, sir! — Pellaeon replied, barely concealing his anticipation of the coming slaughter. — Artillery—barrage fire on enemy fighters!
— Thrawn! Thrawn! — Captain Nym continued his hysterics over the open channel. — Stop trashing my home! My ships! You blew up my ships! Let's meet and talk this out?! Just call off that Hutt-spawned maniac!
— We will meet, Captain Nym, — I promised. — Once you're dragged to me on your knees and in chains. And I pass judgment.
— Thrawn! — Nym squealed. Whatever else he meant to say didn't interest me. The link to the surface cut off.
— Primary target—Lok space station, — I directed. — I want that little shipyard.
Which, with luck, could become a repair hub for our freighters, armed transports, corvettes, and frigates. That would free up our orbital repair yard technicians for other tasks.
— Sir, what about the Lok Revenants? — Pellaeon asked.
— Imperious and Captain Shohashi will handle them, — I replied. — More than enough.
***
— Black Squadron—break into pairs.
Lieutenant Creb's voice was, as always, calm and cold. No need to repeat himself. He and his pilots knew exactly what they were up against.
The H-6, acquired from pirates, had been dismantled and studied by the Chimaera's tech crew. Its data was shared with all fleet pilots. They were ready.
The H-6 was two and a half times slower than a TIE Interceptor. But it boasted six forward laser cannons, each with its own targeting computer. A laser turret covered its rear and flanks. An Interceptor had just four forward cannons, aimed manually by the pilot—but with a higher rate of fire.
The enemy had deflector shields, but the craft stretched twenty-two meters against the Interceptor's six and a half. The H-6 lacked meaningful maneuverability—unlike Imperial ships. It carried bomb bays and launchers, though their homemade ordnance was subpar.
This would be simple.
The TIE Interceptors burst from beneath the Chimaera like a flock of gleeful ghosts rising from a graveyard at night. A quick surge to cruising speed, and they were already in range to engage the enemy's ramshackle squadron.
Lieutenant Creb floored the accelerator, banking into a turn to dodge incoming fire. His wingman stuck to him like glue.
The squadron leader locked an enemy craft in his crosshairs and fired a short burst.
Green plasma beams vanished into the deflector shield, weakening it significantly. His wingman mirrored the maneuver, stripping the H-6's screens bare.
The enemy wasn't idle, returning fire from its turret. The Interceptors split apart, leveled out, and with eight barrels, shredded the first Scurrg into pieces.
Nearby, vacuum flared with three red beams—the enemy firing in half-salvos.
Creb banked again, pulling into a spin at the apex, and with his wingman, slipped behind a second craft. The turret spat at them, but both pilots grazed the deflector, then darted under the enemy's belly at cruising speed, splitting the ship apart with a final strike.
— Minus two, — Creb said calmly, updating his pilots on their pair's kills. The rest had notched four more. Half the H-6 squadron was gone—and it'd been just five minutes since launch. On the downside, one Interceptor took a hit to its left panel and was now tumbling, unable to maneuver. Creb reported it to the Chimaera's Operations Control Center. The flight deck confirmed the downed pilot was located and would be retrieved by a returning troop shuttle post-drop.
Seamless coordination.
Creb's Interceptor shot upward, looping at full speed. While the pirates puzzled over his next move, clumsily pirouetting, he veered right and fired a short burst in front of their leader's nose, blinding him for precious seconds.
— Black-Two—go.
His wingman surged ahead, starting his own hunt. Creb covered him, letting the younger pilot learn to take down the enemy solo.
The targeted ship shifted slightly on the display, outlined in green. Black-Two squeezed the trigger. Four long green bolts struck. The first two smashed through the deflector like a comet through ice. The third blew the midsection turret apart, and the fourth vaporized the cockpit. Flames burst from the black hole, and the enemy starship spun out of control.
— Black-Two to OCC—uncontrolled H-6 at point five-two-seven, vector eight, — the wingman reported.
— Chimaera OCC to Black-Two—copy that, dispatching a salvage team.
The Scurrgs might not match Interceptors, but Grand Admiral Thrawn had ordered enemy craft retrieved when possible. For study or repair—didn't matter. Orders were orders.
Black-Two was already weaving around another pirate, lining up shots. The first volley cracked the deflector. The enemy panicked, veering aside, but that only let Black-Two rake its shields with a long burst, piercing the hull. Smoke poured from the breach, flames flickering—then the H-6 exploded.
From his cockpit, Lieutenant Creb saw Lok's yellow-brown orb and two Imperial Star Destroyers pounding away with turbolasers while disgorging dozens of landing craft for surface targets.
During his next report, Creb realized the H-6 squadron was finished. His pilots had sustained minor damage at most. Eleven Black Squadron flyers remained in the fight.
— Black-Leader to Chimaera OCC—mission complete, enemy fighters eliminated.
— Provide fire support for stormtroopers at Lok station, — came the new order. Creb relayed it to his team. Eleven TIE Interceptors zeroed in on the new target.
The repair station only seemed harmless at first glance. Turbolasers along its hull futilely swiped at a Sentinel-class shuttle. But their firing rate and power made it clear these weren't cutting-edge weapons. Their shots were more like an annoying insect's sting.
But too many stings can hurt. So Creb ordered the guns taken out—sparing the assault teams from constant risk to their precious cargo.
Lok Orbital Station.
Creb and his wingman led the attack on the station's defenses. Against the blackened hulks of the asteroid belt, the station was barely visible—troopers relied on overpowered floodlights the enemy hadn't bothered to disable. Now, the pirates were spotlighting their own targets with turbolaser fire.
They swung around, each unloading a burst at the nearest turret. Green beams grazed the armor, confirming no deflector protection on the station. Good.
Second-pass salvos melted several turrets into slag—helpless, ugly scrap. Meanwhile, his other pilots hammered the starboard guns. In minutes, decisive advantage was theirs, though it took more effort than expected. The Interceptors proved their mastery once again.
But this was just the start. Despite barrage fire from two Star Destroyers, more enemy ships kept rising from Lok's surface. A full-on brawl was brewing. Creb reported it to the Chimaera's OCC.
— Grand Admiral has authorized free hunting, — came the reply. — Act at your discretion.
— Roger, — Creb acknowledged, passing it to his team. He and his wingman dove into the fray. Losing a dozen heavy fighters at once had shocked the pirates—crucial for breaking their will to fight. No doubt they'd clashed with Imps before. But today, their dubious skills wouldn't save them.
Creb's wingman picked a target, unleashing multiple blasts. An H-6 erupted, but just before, another identical craft swooped in for a counterattack. The pirate fired all six guns, aiming to finish the Interceptors, but both ships evaded, nullifying the strike. It took five more minutes to clear the enemy starfighters, then refocus on the main objective.
The station, choking under the Interceptor assault, tried launching a third wave of Scurrgs. Or at least attempted to.
Lieutenant Creb and his pilots had clear orders—capture the station, not destroy it. Though this ramshackle thing—clearly cobbled from scrap—could be easily blasted apart, disabling its defenses was the real mark of skill.
Creb and his wingman tailed a pair of H-6s. The first went down fast, shredded by eight cannons from both Interceptors. But the second...
It almost danced, its massive frame dodging the lethal fire of pursuing Interceptors. The standoff dragged on. The OCC warned of a fighter slugfest unfolding near the Star Destroyers. Time to finish the station's defenders and join the counterattack.
Creb adapted quickly. The third Scurrg wave was nearly wiped out—just two ships left. Black-Six had just torched one, frying its cockpit. Too bad for the salvage teams—it veered into the asteroid belt and smeared across a rock.
One enemy craft remained. And oddly, its crew didn't want to die either.
— Black-Leader and Black-Two, handle the last Scurrg, — Creb ordered. — Rest of you, return to Chimaera OCC's command.
Confirmations crackled through.
Spotting the enemy trying to flank, Creb knew their plan, banking left. In the heat of pursuit, chasing down shields, it'd be easy to miss a turret locking on. Not with them.
— Box it in, — he commanded. — Hit both sides from below.
The enemy took the bait: fixating on the Imps' apparent retreat, it missed the short bursts tearing into its underbelly. Shields shattered, and a gaping hole opened in its starboard side.
Even crippled, the enemy tried to flee. Not beyond the gravity well's reach, no—into the asteroid field. There, it could hide, patch up, and try breaking out later. But not now. Right now, it was doing something absurd—dumping its bomb bay to avoid a detonation from an onboard fire.
Just then, the wingman sheared off the turret, then green bolts stripped the left-side guns from the battered craft.
Creb hit the right side for symmetry. Then opened a channel.
— Calling H-6 Scurrg, registry number... — Only now did he realize he'd burned off its markings with his cannons. How to identify who he was talking to?
— Don't bother, Imp, — a melodic female voice replied. Creb felt a surge of respect for this pirate pilot—a woman, no less. Not out of chauvinism, sexism, or feminism—handling a beast like the Scurrg took strength few men had. Heavy controls, stiff pedals... — Never had one. What's your name, anyway?
— Lieutenant Creb, ma'am, — he introduced himself. — I suggest you power down your engines and drift. Captivity beats death.
He got a lilting laugh in response:
— Lieutenant, since when do Imps offer pirates surrender? Usually, you just blow us away.
— Consider yourself lucky today, — Creb said, watching her ship shut down its engines. Smart choice.
— Black-Two—stay sharp, — he cautioned. — Could be a trick. Fire without warning if needed.
— Roger, — his wingman replied.
— Lieutenant, — the Scurrg pilot cut in. — Has anyone told you pirates have honor too? That not all of us are here because we love it?
— She's stalling, — Black-Two chimed in.
— Enlighten me, ma'am, — Creb offered.
— Miss, — she corrected. — Judging by your voice, you're barely thirty. I'm twenty-four. If you're curious, I'm a Twi'lek.
— I've got no species bias, miss, — Creb assured her.
— Nice Imp, — her voice carried bitterness. — Kid, you know why I'm chatting you up?
— Buying time, — he guessed.
— Yep, trying to hotwire the engines straight from the reactor, — she admitted. — How about a rematch, huh, Lieutenant Creb? Just you and me?
— Your weapons are gone, your deflectors are trashed, and I'm tracking the bombs you dumped, — Black Squadron's leader pointed out. — Try attacking me, and you're done.
One shot at her Scurrg, and it—and she—would be history.
— Let's drop the formalities, Creb, huh? — Her voice took on a pleading edge. — Name's Tia.
— You know mine, Tia, — he replied, glancing at his instruments. The bombs she'd jettisoned were well beyond any fighter or transport's blast radius in Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet. — Why not surrender?
— And then what? — she countered, surprised. — Thanks, but I've already spent half my life as a slave. Didn't want to be a bomber pilot either, but it was that or become some pirate's property under Nym. I've been a toy in someone else's hands before—don't want it again. By the way, Creb, know how to bypass a fuel regulator so it doesn't lock into 'safe mode' without fuses? You and your wingman really messed up my electronics.
— Tia, that'll detonate the reactor core at the slightest overload, — Creb warned.
— Oh, so you know your Scurrgs? — she marveled.
— I always study what I'm up against, — Black Squadron's commander clarified. — It's what we're trained for.
— Well, how about that, — Tia whistled. — Back in slavery, I dreamed Imps would swoop into the Outer Rim, kick out the masters, and set us free. Then I'd become an Imperial pilot... I got the pilot part, but pirates 'freed' me instead... Their favorite trick—liberate you, then force you to work for them. Believe it or not, I didn't want this life. But I wanted to be someone's property even less. Alright, think I fixed it. So, Lieutenant Creb? Grant a lady's last wish?
For the first time, Black Squadron's commander felt a flicker of uncertainty. He'd never just chatted with an enemy pilot like this. Let alone dug into their life story. Sure, it was probably a fabrication. But if so, parts might still be true. Maybe.
For some reason, Creb wanted her to be telling the truth. Even a little.
— How many Imperial pilots have you shot down, Tia? — he asked. — Over your whole time with Nym.
— A couple for sure, — she didn't hide it. — And at least three unconfirmed in this fight. Why?
— You wanted to be an Imperial pilot, — he reminded her. — I can't promise it, but I'll give my word to talk to command about you. If there's even a slim chance, I'll push to make you one of us.
She snorted in surprise.
— You've got a rotten sense of humor, Creb, — she said. — Since when do Imps recruit aliens? What about the New Order, human supremacy, all that?
— You'd be surprised, — he chuckled. — That's not a thing in our fleet.
— Creb... — She paused. — You know lying to a lady on a first date's bad form, right?
— I never lie, — he said firmly. — I'm not promising it'll work, but I'll try to make it happen.
— And they'll forgive the Imps I've shot down? — she asked skeptically.
— I'm sure our commander will understand, — Creb replied. — Plenty of non-humans work at our base. Not slaves—freelancers, paid for their work. Some serve in auxiliary units. I'm confident there's a spot for a pilot. And sorry to disappoint, but my pilots were the ones against your squadron. You didn't down any. Maybe scratched a few ships. That'll count in your favor at the inquiry. Can't guarantee it'll all work out, but I'll vouch for you. If you surrender now.
— Don't promise a girl what you can't deliver, huh, Creb? — Tia tried to sound chipper, but sadness crept in. — You know, over by your destroyers, folks like me kill folks like you... And here you are, recruiting me...
— We're soldiers, — he reminded her. — Each doing our job. My unit neutralized a threat. I'm sure you're trying to figure out how to remotely detonate those bombs to catch me and my wingman. But you don't have to.
— And you could end this with one trigger pull, — she noted.
— Contrary to popular belief, TIE Interceptor pilots aren't maniacs, — he stated. — We've got honor and our own sense of right and wrong. If I can save even one pilot from death and fly with them against a common foe someday, it's worth it. So, Tia, willing to try changing your life?
She was silent for a moment.
— Promise, — she said quietly, — if it doesn't work, you'll just kill me. Okay?
— I don't kill the innocent, — Creb declared. — Enemy soldiers, sentients who raise weapons against me and my comrades—yes. Not prisoners or civilians.
— You're a weird Imp, Lieutenant Creb, — Tia said. — You know... If it works, if they don't enslave me again or force me to please sweaty creeps, and they actually take me in... I'll dance for you. Just for you.
— It'll be enough if you become one of our pilots, — he said firmly. — The rest is extra. Think of me helping you as a potential squadmate.
Tia paused again.
— Creb, — she finally said. — You're a really weird Imp. I believe you. And yeah, be a dear—get off the drift path of that unpowered bomb. I'll send the bomb trajectories, just tell me who to give them to, alright? I don't want to lose more squadmates. Potential ones, at least.
— Thanks for the heads-up, — Creb checked his instruments. Sure enough—it was drifting his way. A quick engine burst shifted his Interceptor clear of the deadly "gift." He mentally cursed his carelessness three times over.
— Black-Two to Black-Leader, — his wingman's voice crackled on their pair's frequency. — Message from Chimaera for you, Commander. Grand Admiral Thrawn sends thanks for recruiting enemy pilots and requests a full report post-op.
— Why didn't he contact me directly? — Creb wondered.
— Said he didn't want to interrupt your cooing, — Black-Two snickered. — Commander, if it falls through, you could claim her as a trophy under the regs. At least then no one'd mess with her.
— Shut it, Black-Two, — Creb advised. Then, catching himself, asked:
— You said 'pilots'?
— You were cooing on an open channel, — his wingman explained. — OCC says two or three of Nym's squadrons surrendered. With their ships. Though some think they just chickened out facing Imperious's pilots, and here you are sweet-talking...
— Black-Two, — Creb cut in.
— Already shut up, Commander, — the subordinate reported.
Creb watched a transport snag Tia's ship with a tractor beam, towing it toward the Chimaera. Sensors showed she'd powered down the reactor and cut energy flow to avoid suspicion. Smart move.
— Course for Chimaera, — Creb ordered. — Escort the transport to the hangar, then back to the fight. OCC send any wing loss stats?
— No stats, Commander, — it seemed his chat with Tia had made his wingman chatty. No matter, that newfound talkativeness would fade soon enough. — Chimaera, Black Asp, and Imperious squadrons have zero losses...
Not a bad start, really.
***
The pilot set his Sentinel-class landing craft on a course straight for Lok station's main hangar. A dive, then an arc five meters off the starboard hull. The craft's gunners hammered their triggers, unleashing streams of lethal green bolts that merged into one. A trail of fire swept the hangar, blasting an improvised barricade and fuel containers. The quicker defenders leapt from platforms or dodged the exploding tanks. The rest met death.
The Sentinel swept into the hangar bay. Landing struts scraped the metal deck with a grating screech. The assault ramp slammed down, unleashing the stormtroopers.
The 501st Legion's squads poured out, joining the fray mid-stride.
Sergeant THX-0297 was first to spot the threat to his troops from the hangar's upper level. A small guard post—an armored box with a blaster turret already swiveling toward the attackers.
— Grenadiers—neutralize, — THX-0297 ordered, relaying target telemetry. His troops took cover behind the Sentinel's hull while two heavy-weapons stormtroopers, shielded by the craft, flanked from another angle. A fourth squad drew the turret operator's fire with their E-11s. He swung the barrel away from the grenadiers' position. Too late—he'd need time to retarget, and he had none.
Trails of gray smoke followed as one Plex launcher spat a round, then another. Perfect aim—both charges hit the guard post. The square structure erupted into a fireball, spewing charred sentients and gear. Precise blaster fire finished off the burning pirates.
— Move out, — the squad leader commanded. — Fourth squad—secure the reactor bay and barracks.
— Executing, — THX-0297 replied.
The rough layout of Lok station was known thanks to first-wave assault scans and Imperious's sensors, which probed the structure for threats. Clearly not an Imperial design—more a haphazard build. But destruction wasn't the goal—capture was.
Fourth squad sprinted toward the passage on the hangar's right side. Armed sentients swirled around in panic, unsure where to shoot or how to defend. The 501st stormtroopers had no such doubts. They had orders.
That's why the hangar defense crumbled from the start—pinpoint Imperial blaster fire cut down anyone aiming a weapon their way. The rest—panicked workers in rags, dropping pirate blasters—were shoved face-down onto the deck and cuffed without ceremony.
Nearing the first corridor turn, THX-0297 peeked around the corner. He jerked back as a blaster volley slammed into the wall behind him. Activating his helmet comm:
— Ambush. Five targets. Deploy flamethrowers.
Two stormtroopers with the designated weapons edged toward the corner. Two others tossed smoke grenades around the bend. Return fire missed. Then the flamethrowers moved...
Jets of flame instantly scorched the corridor's oxygen. The ten meters between attackers and defenders became a fiery torrent, drowning out agonized screams with the roar of rolling flames.
— Forward, — THX-0297 ordered as the flamethrowers cleared the path. Fourth squad dashed through, mercy-killing those still twitching from wounds.
Five such sweeps later, Fourth squad reached a compartment of stacked temporary housing modules—no losses taken. Amid this shantytown loomed a central building, its attic already bristling with enemy shooters. Fourth squad engaged with grenade launchers, then dashed to the nearest module. At the sergeant's signal, the stormtroopers fanned out behind cover, assessing the interior and potential threats.
— Multiple targets in structures, — a clone warned. — Civilians. Unarmed. Likely slave families.
— Minimal threat, maintain control, — THX-0297 ordered. Any civilian, especially a slave, might stab a government trooper in the back for a master's praise.
As the grenade-stunned enemy recovered, Fourth squad crossed half the distance. Moving along both sides of the makeshift street, they covered the area and each other. Then blaster shots rang out from the houses.
The stormtroopers took one wounded, then returned fire. Volleys from trained killers in Grand Admiral Thrawn's service outmatched any armed foe by leagues—efficiency above all.
Suppressing enemy firepoints with barrages and lobbing grenades through windows, Fourth squad pressed on, ignoring the thermal detonators bursting behind them. An attack on a stormtrooper never went unpunished. Retribution was inevitable and absolute.
Two minutes later, nine stormtroopers—two with minor wounds—reached the slave town's central building. Thick black smoke from grenade blasts hung overhead, not dense enough to hide burning corpses or figures crawling across the attic toward fallen comrades or severed limbs. Painful cries echoed from within, increasingly drowned by furious shouts. Then blaster bolts pierced the smoke—the enemy had spotted them. In a dead zone, the pirates' success would be pure luck.
Grenades couldn't hit the sloped attic floor without rolling back on the troopers. But that meant every window was open to thermal detonators.
Nine stormtroopers split targets, smashing the thin transparisteel glazing with blaster fire before hurling their explosives inside.
A chain of blasts hurled debris, furniture, and bodies—human and alien alike—out of the building. Moans of the wounded and death rattles rose from within, mingled with profanity and barked orders.
A demo trooper flagged a sealed door into the admin building—likely the overseers' quarters. Didn't matter—they were just targets.
A breaching charge turned the thick door into a kinetic projectile, rocketing through the room until it smashed the far wall. Blood and brains splattered with the crunch and squelch of fatal compression trauma.
THX-0297 stepped through behind a trooper with a heavy repeater. Firing from the hip, the latter dropped several sentients hiding behind an overturned kitchen table—the repeater's bolts punched through the flimsy cover.
The sergeant backed his men with fire. On the move, he ejected a spent power cell and slapped in a fresh one. In the smoky firefight, enemies tracked the stormtroopers by their shots, peppering them with red and blue bolts. A barricade loomed in the far room, spotted too late in the haze and blaster storm. From behind it, the enemy fired—and scored. A stormtrooper fell, chest ripped open by an explosive slug round, plastoid armor no match.
The squad pulled back, dragging their dead comrade. The slug had torn his sternum apart.
— Clear it, — THX-0297 ordered. The fallen trooper's gear was swiftly divvied among the survivors.
The repeater trooper peeked out, sweeping the barrel left to right and back. The barricade erupted. Some foes dropped like felled trees, weapons clattering; others stumbled aside, seeking safety as repeater bolts tore through guts and spines. A grenade rolled his way—he kicked it back and ducked behind the wall.
The blast shredded the barricade, revealing over a dozen stunned, shrapnel-raked enemies to the peering Fourth squad.
— Flamethrowers, — THX-0297 said calmly. A stormtrooper knows no vengeance. But Colonel Selid did. And he endorsed wiping out as many foes as possible for each lost subordinate. This was THX-0297's first loss—not just a comrade, but his trooper. It... felt wrong.
But he'd deal with that later.
Right after the flamethrowers—clones of Colonel Selid like him—finished their methodical work here and in this op. Until enemy resistance hit zero. Only then would the order be fulfilled.
Fourth squad, posting a guard, headed up the lone staircase. Energy readings suggested the reactor was nearby. Why it was here wasn't clear. Most likely, it doubled as a failsafe against slave revolts. Time to adjust tactics—small arms only, maximum efficiency.
The first door was a flimsy wooden panel on ancient hinges. Kicked open, the stormtroopers stormed in. THX-0297 dropped to one knee, minimizing his profile for any foes. His blaster sight swept the dim room. The squad, save rear guards on the лестница and тыл, mirrored him across the doorway. A quick scan confirmed no guards ahead. No reactor, no threat.
— Next room, — the sergeant ordered.
Clearing the building took seconds—only on the third floor did they find it: the reactor's hum, emanating from a stairwell down. A shaft cut through the bearing wall.
THX-0297 assessed. Slaves likely tended the reactor under overseers. Kill the latter, and the slaves' only exit was up—past three floors of armed foes. Fourth squad had already cut down over thirty pirates.
No choice. The reactor couldn't be used to scuttle the station.
The sergeant ordered a gear check, got the all-clear, and led five troopers down under his command. The remaining three, including the dead man, covered from the building.
Unlike the station, the stairwell was cunningly built: each flight rose halfway to the next floor, then turned sharply. Walls blocked sightlines between flights. Metal steps—standard for a space facility.
Every landing meant a fight. Blaster cracks, fresh wails of fire. Overseers had clearly used this chokehold against unarmed slaves, but these were stormtroopers. With grenades. One guard toppled back, half his skull sheared off by a thermal detonator's shrapnel. Another leapt, mistaking a dud for live, realizing too late—but a combat knife to the throat ended him anyway.
A third took a shoulder hit and a skull-cracking bash against the wall, out cold. A fourth dropped his weapon and raised his hands—cuffed to a pipe and knocked out with a fist to the temple.
The final metal grate barrier fell to a breaching charge.
Through a short corridor, the stormtroopers reached a man-made grotto beneath the slave town, its centerpiece a hulking reactor—ripped from an old Republic destroyer. Powerful enough to obliterate the station and damage the nearest ship.
— Drop your weapons! — a Weequay by the reactor controls demanded, pressing a crude knife to an aging Zabrak's throat, the latter in an engineer's uniform. — Or I slit his head off! And blow this place! Reactor's at the limit! Only he— — he shook the captive — knows how to cool it! Now! Guns down and back off! Hands behind your dumb heads!
— Lower weapons, — THX-0297 ordered, complying first. He stood at the front of his cramped squad—the corridor allowed no more. Hands went behind his helmet. Then, with his tongue, he toggled the comm, muting the external mic. What he told his men, the pirate couldn't hear.
— Get me a ship, fast! — the Weequay screeched. — You've got ten minutes! Move!
THX-0297 felt what he'd requested slip into his palm. He flipped the comm back to speaker.
— Reactor radiation jams comms. One trooper will drop his weapon and head up to the slave town to relay your demand to command. I assure you, you'll get a ship—we need this station.
— Oh, well then, perfect, — the Weequay eased up, predictably. His blade drifted a few centimeters from the throat. Victory assured.
Whipping his right hand from behind his head, THX-0297 flung his corporal's combat knife. The durasteel tip pierced the pirate's eye socket, sinking to the hilt. The body slumped back as the sergeant lunged forward.
— You're safe, sentient, — he said, helping the shaken Zabrak up. — Secure the reactor.
— Y-y-yes, o-of course, — the Zabrak stammered, fumbling at the controls.
Three minutes later, coolant flooded the unit, averting detonation.
Ten minutes later, Lok station fell fully to the 501st Assault Legion. Fourth squad and the rest were already boarding transports to drop onto Lok's surface.
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