After two dozen escort corvettes jumped to the planet Lok to assist in destroying the pirate fighters, the order to advance toward the target also came to the Inexorable.
Alexander checked the authenticity of the cipher with which the Chimaera had notified his Star Destroyer.
— Well, the time has come, — he said, ordering battle stations. The corridors and compartments of the Inexorable filled with the roar of sirens. — Crew! Stand by, prepare for the transition to hyperspace. Pilots—to your ships, prepare for launch immediately after exiting hyperspace! Gunners—use only ion cannons until the station's defenses are identified.
He was confident in his crew. And in the outcome of the upcoming battle.
Spy satellites, generously seeded by scouts throughout the Kartakk system, indicated that numerous starfighters from the pirate group "Kimogila Fanatics" had already left their eponymous station located in the region of the system known as the "Amber Scale." Only a few squadrons of medium Hutt G1-M4-C "Dunelizard" starfighters remained to protect the space facility. Little was known about the station's defense system, but they would soon have a chance to test it in practice.
The deck trembled slightly beneath his feet, and the stars in front of the bridge turned into a luminous hyperspace tunnel. The Inexorable left its hiding place inside the Ruby Nebula and headed toward the target.
Was it worth considering that the Inexorable could be destroyed in this battle? Such a danger always exists—war is ongoing.
But it wouldn't happen today… Not today, and not with Captain Mor's subordinates. He had learned his lesson well during the battle at the Hast shipyards. And he no longer intended to pale before the Grand Admiral. It was already enough that he had to write reports with tactical suggestions to him. Though it wasn't noticeable that the Grand Admiral was using them.
The tunnel shattered into fragments, and before the nose of the Inexorable appeared a massive station, shaped like a central spire thickened in the center with four radially extending piers at right angles. Multiple communication equipment, two hangar blocks at opposite ends of a pair of piers, huge fuel and tibanna tanks on the other two. The central thickening undoubtedly housed living quarters. A typical outpost, created by one of the numerous builders of such facilities in the vast star systems of the galaxy. Offhand, Mor couldn't determine what type or even class this station belonged to. But the fact remained—it existed, looked like a standard design, and had the capabilities and resources to support ships.
Therefore, the station in the "Amber Scale" region should belong to Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet.
Station "Amber Scale"
The first blue flashes that burst from the side of the Inexorable spread across the central part of the station, plunging it into darkness. The lights in the portholes and running lights disappeared. But the Imperial Star Destroyer continued to shell the structure and the few ships scurrying around it until it brought the former to absolute silence, plunging it into the darkness of space. Only the bluish background and the rolls of the second nebula in the system, rich in electrical discharges, helped visually distinguish the structure amidst the interstellar void and blackness.
— Captain Mor, two squadrons of "Dunelizards" are heading toward us! — reported the watch officer.
Alexander, with a slight smile, watched thirty-six TIE fighters sent to intercept the targets, marked on the tactical monitor as red, hostile dots.
— Leave the corvette and one squadron of interceptors to guard the Inexorable, — he ordered. — The second interceptor squadron is to escort the landing craft to the station. Destroy anyone who resists us. Turn the destroyer with its left side to the station, send reconnaissance droids to a distance of one hundred and one hundred fifty units from us, organize a perimeter to track potential targets. This station now belongs to us, — he said contentedly. — And we will not leave here.
***
An interesting fact—the abandoned Rebel Alliance station was still well-preserved. Despite being located quite close to the inner boundaries of the ecliptic plane of the asteroid belt known as the Lok Ridge.
Station "Alliance Outpost"
— Are you familiar with the design of this station, Captain Pellaeon? — I asked, examining an enlarged image of the man-made space object on the monitor.
— No, sir, — he replied. — I can only assume that it was likely assembled from several modules of other stations.
— Or perhaps built according to its own design, — I offered an alternative viewpoint.
— Is there a difference? — the commander of the Chimaera cautiously inquired.
— A huge one, Captain, — I stated. — If it was built to an individual design, we know nothing about which part of the station is responsible for what. If its basis consists of modules familiar to us, then one glance is enough to understand how dangerous it can be.
Judging by the look Gilad gave the image of the seemingly nondescript space object, he clearly thought it was presumptuous to consider the old station a source of threat to an Imperial-II class destroyer.
— Don't be judgmental, Captain, — I advised. — We intend to capture what is presumably the treasure trove of a pirate group, located in a region of space where battles for spheres of influence never cease. Distance to the object?
— Eighty units, — reported Lieutenant Tschel.
— Captain, — I addressed the commander of the Chimaera. — Order the preparation of a Lambda-class transport shuttle, number eighteen. Without crew or passengers. Also, give the order to prepare the tractor beams to direct the ship toward the station.
— Do we have more specially prepared ships? — Pellaeon was surprised, hinting at my little trick played on Captain Nym just a couple of hours ago.
— No, — I replied. — At least, no more such starships have been prepared on my orders. We're not going to destroy the station, but only to check its defenses before we enter the proton torpedo range.
— How did you know the station has launchers? — now Pellaeon didn't hide his astonishment.
— This station was built by the Alliance, — I reminded him. — Considering that proton torpedoes and concussion missiles are the New Republic's favorite weapons since the Civil War, it's most likely that we'll encounter this type of armament. In skilled hands, it's equally effective against both small and large ships.
— Understood, sir, — Pellaeon saluted and walked to the crew pits to carry out the order. At the same time, through the transparisteel of the bridge window, it was noticeable how the middle-aged man flinched when the bodyguard Noghri jumped out from a dark corner, hiding behind a metal truss. Casting an displeased glance at Rukh, Pellaeon quickened his pace.
For a few seconds, nothing happened until a familiar silhouette of a transport ship appeared before the pointed bow of the Chimaera. Its aft section glowed with rectangular engine nozzles, but not too brightly, indicating low power output. In that case, the transport was sufficiently controlled by the tractor beam.
— Rukh, — I said softly.
— What do you command, my lord? — came the soft meowing over my left ear. "My lord, is it? I had hoped the Noghri would continue to address me as 'Grand Admiral.' I don't like all these 'masters,' 'lords,' 'sirs.' It's like the Middle Ages. I'll need to convey my position to the overclan government." But one thing is pleasing—previously, the Noghri called only Vader "my lord." Even after he transferred control over them to the real Thrawn a few years before the current events. Even after he died aboard the second Death Star, the natives of Honoghr continued to call him that. To Thrawn, they addressed him as "our new lord." After I freed them from the debt of deceitful life, the clan representatives addressed me as "Grand Admiral Thrawn." A striking change. It seems like just words, but for a people who place honor first and are ready to kill every tenth adult resident to prove loyalty, it's something more. It's almost a religion. I'm a man of the old school—at least in consciousness. I treat others' beliefs calmly, but… I feel uncomfortable when someone regards me with such reverence.
"Am I softening? Most likely. Is it good? No. Bad? Also no. But ambiguity is bad because you never know which side it will turn to you."
— You must stop training your stealth abilities on Captain Pellaeon, — I said.
— As you command, my lord, — the Noghri obediently agreed. — May I explain?
— You are obliged to explain, — I clarified.
— My skills cannot be honed by catching Captain Pellaeon off guard, — the Noghri said. — I just want Captain Pellaeon to be on guard and not forget that I am always nearby.
— You don't trust the commander of my flagship? — interesting news.
— I trust those whom you trust, — Rukh evasively remarked. — Trusting no one but my lord is part of my job.
— Because even someone who was kindly disposed toward you can betray you? — I specified, hinting at how Darth Vader and the Empire treated the Noghri.
— You are as wise as always, my lord, — the bodyguard flattered. Meanwhile, the Lambda reached the seventy-five unit mark.
— Regarding that, — I said just as softly. — The title 'my lord' implies complete and unconditional submission of servants to their master. Are the Noghri my servants?
— We serve you, my lord, — there was a skillfully, but insufficiently, concealed bewilderment in his voice.
"This conversation is better ended before I get into trouble," flashed through my mind. As our system administrator in the headquarters used to say: "Is everything working for you? Great. That means I don't need to mess with it." True, the neighbor in the garage also liked to say that. But it didn't save him from bearing failures. Rider…
— Does it bother you that Major Tierce will lead the strike team on the station? — I asked.
— It is your will, my lord, — the Noghri calmly replied.
— There are several stations in our schedule, Rukh, — I explained. — And I need them to be taken as efficiently as possible. Tierce will capture this one, yours is next. And the one after that.
— My lord considers me worthy of two missions in a row? — there was some pride in the bodyguard's voice.
— You serve me faithfully, Rukh, — I reminded him. — And I can entrust the execution of such important missions to no one else. I can accept the possible loss of the pirate treasury. The loss of the former Imperial station, as well as the Trade Federation research center—no. Their capture will require not strength, but stealth. Can I count on you?
— Yes, my lord, — the Noghri replied.
— In that case, go, — I ordered. — The Trade Federation facility will be your first target.
— You want me to leave you without protection? — Rukh became alert.
— Capturing the former Alliance for the Restoration of the Republic station won't take much time, — the Noghri's remark didn't convince him much. — I'm on board my flagship. What can happen to me here?
"Especially since you don't intend to pierce my heart with your dagger," I finished my thought, but already in my head.
— I will not fail you, my lord, — Rukh meowed. — In an hour, the Trade Federation station will fall at your feet.
Um… What? It's only a kilometer long!
But there was no time to clarify—the bodyguard was already crossing the central platform toward the turbolift with a gliding motion. Oddly enough, this time Captain Pellaeon didn't flinch from the Noghri.
— Six proton torpedo launches detected, sir, — he said. But I already saw the crimson "fireflies" myself.
— Excellent, — I noted, watching as the lone transport shuttle was torn to pieces. — Give the order to Lieutenant Creb and his "Black Squadron"—I want the station's firing points destroyed in ten minutes.
— I vouch that Creb will manage in five, — Pellaeon said after transmitting the order to the squadron commander via comlink.
I didn't argue.
War is not an exact science. Especially in this galaxy.
***
— Interference has been activated in the system from the Interdictor cruiser, sir, — the watch officer reported to Antonias, on whose chest was a command bar indicating that its wearer held the rank of lieutenant in the Imperial Navy.
Captain Stormaer, tearing his gaze from the datapad screen, first looked at the transparisteel of the bridge's central window, beyond which the battle-snow-white-blue lights of hyperspace bloomed, sliced by the triangular hull of the Abyssal Fury. They were moving forward, toward battle.
The first battle aboard a Star Destroyer, but not the first for his subordinate crew. For most of them.
He shifted his gaze to the sentient who had just reported to him.
A human. No older than thirty. Clean-shaven. A perfectly ironed and fitted gray fleet uniform. A regulation cap on his head. A piercing, focused, calm gaze. And even somewhat frightening.
But during the time that the Star Destroyer captured in the Milagro system, the New Republic's Loyalty, had been under his command, Stormaer had already gotten used to the clones on board his ship. He had fought alongside them in the early years of the New Order, but then they simply disappeared from the fleet. Many commanders who had experienced the Clone Wars regretted this fact. A clone is always diligent, always loyal, always…
And a clone has no opinion of its own. It was created to carry out the commander's orders. At least, that's what those who fought side by side with them said.
— Thank you for the report, watch officer, — he said. — Order the ship to prepare for battle. In ten minutes, we will be there. Against the "Blood Razors" outpost, we will first use ion cannons, as prescribed by Grand Admiral Thrawn. If that doesn't work, we switch to turbolasers.
— Yes, sir! — the watch officer snapped. The commander's silence meant that there were no more orders, and the lieutenant turned on his left shoulder to leave, but Stormaer called him back:
— Wait, Lieutenant, — he said. — I wanted to ask you a few questions.
— Yes, sir!
— Are you uncomfortable? — for some reason, it only now occurred to him to ask this question.
— No, sir.
— And doesn't it seem strange to you that people who look just like you are flashing around? — he clarified.
— No, sir. Clones always look alike.
— And it doesn't bother you that you're a clone? — Antonias continued to inquire.
— No, sir. Whether I was born or created in a cloning cylinder doesn't matter to me. I am a fleet lieutenant, I have a first and last name, and job responsibilities. The fact that there are others like me in the fleet only confirms my pride in the original specialist who became the donor for our generation of clones, — he answered honestly.
— Pride? — Antonias specified.
— Yes, sir! Only the best of the best are cloned. I am from the generation that is a complete copy of its donor. With all his inherent qualities. Therefore, I am one of the best. It's flattering and motivating.
— And it doesn't anger you that you…
— No, sir. The fact that I'm a clone only simplifies my life.
Stormaer frowned.
— In what way?
— I avoided the puberty period and the acne that plagued the donor, — the clone replied without batting an eye. — And I didn't get punched in the face at the school prom for…
— Thank you, Lieutenant, — Antonias quickly said. — I've learned what I wanted. Dismissed.
— Yes, sir! — the watch officer saluted and headed to his battle station.
Astonishing…
A human being who is proud that he is a clone…
It's maddening.
Antonias glanced at the ship's chronometer. Two minutes until exiting hyperspace. And the battle for the "Blood Razors" pirate group's outpost would begin.
The man returned his gaze to the datapad screen, which contained the information transmitted to him about the upcoming target. The "Blood Razors" were a collection of "lawless" swoop racers from the planet Bivren, a small industrial world in the Expansion Region. As often happens in such situations, they self-organized to help exiled residents when large corporations came to power on Bivren. Imperial Intelligence had tried several times to clamp down on them because their main activity was trading black market goods under the guise of swoop races. The "Blood Razors" raided and robbed Imperial and corporate facilities, redistributing the stolen goods among poor citizens. It was because of this first part of their activity that Imperial Intelligence became interested in them.
When all this charity turned into illegal activity is hard to establish. But according to the available information, the group simply split. Perhaps due to the enforcement measures taken against them. Those who remained on Bivren continued to act as smugglers and philanthropists, while the other part ended up in the Kartakk system, where they operated as pirates. According to intelligence droid data, the "Blood Razors" controlled an area of space here known as the "Crimson Claw" (previously, their controlled territory also included the "Amber Scale" region, but competitors drove them out), where they had a small outpost to which the Abyssal Fury was heading. Scanning results indicated that in the past, it was a transport ship turned into a well-defended base by the pirates' efforts—otherwise, competing groups would have crushed them long ago.
On the planet Lok, the criminals had their own base—a crashed cargo ship. Now it was their headquarters on the planet, from where they carried out their planetary activities, robbing peaceful citizens. Of course, if any remained on Lok.
The main "competitors" of the "Blood Razors" were the "Kimogila Fanatics" gang, with whom the former had regular conflicts and major battles on both sides and inside the asteroid belt surrounding the planet Lok. That is why Thrawn tasked Stormaer and the Abyssal Fury with capturing the "Blood Razors" outpost, not destroying this old wreck—he needed information about the fairways and safe routes through the asteroid belt that one or another group might possess. Antonias had no doubt that similar orders were given to the captains of the other Star Destroyers.
The last part of the report didn't particularly concern Antonias, as it dealt with the "Blood Razors" confrontation and their struggle for control over zones of influence on Lok. But the commander of the Abyssal Fury was accustomed to studying information in full. When you command an Interdictor cruiser for a long time, you have to consider all variables. Because Interdictor-class Star Destroyers are not just considered one of the weakest in the line of ships using the Imperial platform. And the activated gravity well generators left no time for maneuvers at all.
Be that as it may, on the planet Lok, the "Blood Razors" competed with the "Canyon Corsairs" and "Lok Revenants" groups. The details of the report were sparse, except that a year after the Battle of Yavin IV, the "Blood Razors" greatly annoyed Captain Nym's subordinates by stealing a large arsenal of ammunition from them. The Rebel Alliance also made its mark on the planet at one time, flirting with the "Lok Revenants," so it's no wonder Thrawn chose the target.
But today, this star system will be finally cleansed. No one will leave here—all exits from the Kartakk system are blocked by Interdictors or Immobilizers. Today, justice will be served, which the Galactic Empire never cared about.
As someone who had lived for a long time on one of the Outer Rim planets, Antonias perfectly understood what the threat of pirates was. And he was glad to take direct part in the destruction of pirate gangs.
Did he feel sorry for them? No, not in the least. Until the jamming means blocked any long-range communication in the system, Thrawn offered the pirates to surrender. He offered them mercy.
Such gifts should not be refused.
The hyperspace tunnel disintegrated, turning into the outlines of an ugly-looking hull of an old transport ship.
Space outpost of the "Blood Razors" group
The alarm buzzer sounded. From under the belly of the Star Destroyer, decoupling from the manipulators, a Corellian CR90 corvette "fell out."
Simultaneously, as squadrons of TIE fighters and interceptors slipped out of the hangar, ion cannons struck the once cargo ship. Yes, the data might be damaged, but in the end, Imperial interrogators and stormtroopers always knew how to obtain the necessary information from living witnesses.
— Four enemy starfighter squadrons are moving to intercept us! — reported the clone watch officer.
— Engage our starfighter wing, — Antonias ordered. After the Sentinel with its reduced number of squadrons, having under his command sixty fighters and interceptors alone seemed to him a huge military wealth. — Begin barrage fire from anti-aircraft and medium artillery. Stormtroopers, prepare—as soon as the fighters and interceptors clear their way to the outpost, our boys in white armor will have work to do.
***
The station, once belonging to the Rebel Alliance, did not have too great a length or height. But it had a width of a good seven hundred meters.
It was also presumably the storage place for looted valuables obtained by the pirate Captain Nym and his criminal gang "Lok Revenants" over more than three decades of activity in the Kartakk system and sector.
It needed to be captured with a swift, rapid assault to prevent the scoundrels from destroying the loot, calling for help, or jettisoning the valuables into open space.
That is why Major Tierce chose only ten men for this operation, including himself. Or rather, he chose ten versions of himself.
Clones from the batch that included his own copies, with his memories loaded into them, possessing his skills, worldview, and absolutely loyal to Grand Admiral Thrawn.
Ten identical faces, ten warriors capable of destroying an army.
One cannot deny Emperor Palpatine—he chose the best to serve him. And thinking about this, Grodin did not discount his own conceit. Years of service had beaten any boasting out of him, leaving only a sober view of things and the ability to adequately assess his abilities.
The Imperial Guard, heir to the Red Guard, was not famous for secret assaults, covert operations, or other types of sabotage missions. They were stormtroopers—the best of the entire Stormtrooper Corps. And they knew better than anyone what an assault was.
Therefore, Grodin chose his own clones—he wanted to test them in action. Them and the recently delivered to the Chimaera armor of the Imperial Guards, covered with a special substance—cortosis, which absorbs energy-damaging elements. Most sentients who know about this material believe it is only useful against Jedi lightsabers. But the trick is that cortosis can absorb any type of energy to a certain extent. However, this also leads to its destruction.
Palpatine knew the secrets of cortosis. Therefore, he used it when building his apartments, lining the walls with it—in case any of the undefeated Jedi could get far enough to reach the ruler of the Galactic Empire.
But a Jedi could not get that far. Not one, not five, not ten. Even the entire Order, if it were alive, would not have gotten further to Palpatine's chambers than the Imperial Guards would allow. And they would allow him to take exactly as many steps as necessary for his lifeless body to lie on the floor and be identified.
The Imperial Guard knew for whom Palpatine had prepared such a "surprise." The Sith Lord wanted to be ready to destroy his apprentice, Darth Vader, if he decided to follow the ancient Sith tradition and usurp the throne by killing his master.
After the Gamma-class assault shuttle docked its belly to the intended penetration point, ignoring the flashing laser and turbolaser cannon shots from the station nearby, the rapid-fire return volleys of TIE interceptors, Tierce activated the device for cutting holes in the armor. The hatch-lock in the shuttle's belly was used specifically for such boarding methods.
Immediately after the plasma cutter cut out a round plate of the hull, which fell inside the corridor with a deafening crash, grenades followed. A second later, explosions sounded, but they were not followed by cries of pain or the whistle of shrapnel.
When you want to capture a space station built by yesterday's farmers and moisture farmers, you don't use destructive offensive-defensive weapons—the grenades used by Grodin and his clones were flash-bangs.
Gamma-class assault shuttle
Ten relentless killers in red-black robes, armed with vibropikes and powerful blaster pistols, infiltrated the station.
The disoriented pirates, prepared for an attack, tried to make out anything after the bright flash that blinded them for a time sufficient for penetration and attack. But the guards did not give them a chance to see.
Leaving behind two dozen decapitated corpses, Major Tierce and his clones, who did not yet have ranks or official assignments, continued the assault, ignoring the body parts lying under their feet. The blood-splattered walls did not frighten or stop them—over the years of serving Palpatine, Grodin alone had spilled enough human and non-human blood to dye the uniforms of all the other guards. And he was just one of hundreds of such faceless guards. Moreover, not the most outstanding.
The upgraded armor proved itself around the next corner when a group of pirates, running to help their already dead comrades, collided head-on with the guards. A moment's hesitation was enough for Grodin and his ten twins to step over another fifteen corpses. And on their breastplates, only a couple of black scorch marks from random hits appeared.
The first hints of organized resistance were detected only by the third dozen destroyed enemies, leaving only dead bodies on the battery deck. Two dozen pirate gunners, who realized that their newfangled Mandalorian beam cannons, similar to those on the Crusader-2 corvette, were out of work due to being out of range of the TIE interceptors, managed to fire several shots at the ten guards working as one deadly organism.
And after that, the deadly accurate fire from the blasters of the original and his nine clones broke any resistance. Imperial Guards do not carry a large supply of ammunition for blaster pistols. Imperial Guards see no need for it. Because Imperial Guards do not miss.
The second deck was left behind them only as a concentration of corpses and a reminder of the pirates' erratic shooting. Grodin, mentally calculating the effectiveness of his clones, occasionally gave orders via the squad's internal communication, forcing the clones to use one weapon or another.
He advocated to Thrawn for the recreation of the guard, where he should be the only donor for them. And before presenting the Grand Admiral with his protectors, who would go to guard the secret ally—Baron D'Asta—Grodin had to make sure that they deserved the right to wear his face and be called his clones.
He went against his master, to whom he swore to serve.
He joined the alien warlord who intended to reform the Empire, burying everything that made it so vile and repulsive, forcing most peoples to secretly or openly bury their desire to serve the Emperor.
He became an accomplice to a rebellion, dozens of which he personally drowned in blood.
And he was obliged to ensure that everyone created from his DNA would be loyal to Thrawn, prove to be combat-ready, and in no way inferior to the original.
Because every Imperial Guard knows that one day his life will end. Murder, protecting the master with his body, a rebel ambush, a control shot to the head, blowing up a vehicle—Imperial Guards died under Palpatine in hundreds, if not thousands, of ways.
Grodin Tierce knew that one day he would die too.
And the major was obliged to be sure that where he himself would fail, when his hand could no longer hold a vibroblade or blaster, and his brain would choke in death throes, he would be replaced by himself. Grodin Tierce. And it didn't matter what serial number he would have—second, third, tenth, hundredth, or thousandth. Each of his copies must be perfect and deadly.
General Kovell could teach the clones general training. The knowledge embedded in their heads could make Grodin's clones the best of the best. But only battle would show whether they were inferior to the original or not. Moreover, the first option was not provided by default.
And at the moment, Grodin objectively admitted that the clones were as deadly as he was. That's good. But this is only the beginning of their training program. To be the best—and Thrawn needs no other bodyguards—they must go beyond Grodin's own knowledge. For starters, the combat skills possessed by the Noghri would do. It was only necessary to find a way to make them share the necessary knowledge with the guards.
Grodin watched Rukh's training and gave credit—the bodyguard knew a lot. He was trained differently, prepared differently, possessed his own skills of fighting and killing, which were unfamiliar to the Imperial Guard. And there were few such training programs that remained outside the knowledge of the Emperor's personal bodyguards. And Major Tierce clearly set himself the goal—to discover them all and adopt them. Clones absorb new knowledge like a sponge—so their training won't take much time.
The next compartment greeted them with a pile of sealed and opened crates. Through the visor of his helmet, Grodin, like his clones, could see perfectly in the dark, so he instantly understood—they had entered the treasury. Hundreds of crates filled with precious stones, ingots of valuable metals, works of art, rarest spices, jewelry, just money—more than a dozen different currencies. But this is not a large compartment—only ten meters long and half that wide. This cannot be the entire treasury. So there are more—and they lead to a passage at the far end of the compartment.
Waving his hand, Tierce timed how long it took the last clone to disable the magnetic lock of the hatch through which they had come. Two seconds—and it was impossible to open it behind them. The compartment was located on the third deck, which they had cleared, in the very heart of the station. The most logical place to set up a valuables storage here.
The visor caught the seemingly casual hand movement of one of the clones.
Ambush. One sentient. Trained hand-to-hand fighter. Armed with vibroblades.
The other clones reported the same.
Excellent, only ten milliseconds behind the first. It seems a leader has emerged in the squad—Grodin-7. Need to keep an eye on him.
And demonstrate that he, Grodin Tierce, is their commander. Until death in the line of duty takes him.
Handing Grodin-7 his vibropike and blaster, Tierce ordered the nine copies to spread out across the compartment, pretending to search for something. This would lull the killer's vigilance, who decided to take advantage of the darkness. Let him think they came for something specific.
After he was left without visible weapons, the major walked at a normal pace toward the corridor.
A meter to the opponent.
Half a meter.
Now only ten centimeters separate them.
The opponent is behind him.
Like a scarlet hurricane, Major Tierce spun around, grabbing the mercenary-human's hand with the vibroblade clutched in it. He squeezed the wrist—and the knife slipped from his hand. The mercenary caught it with his other hand, intending to strike Grodin's stomach.
With a blow of his right knee, Tierce forced the killer's hand with the blade to rise higher, then grabbed it with his second hand, performed a painful hold, from which the killer cried out. Following this, breaking the bones in his wrist, Tierce plunged the pirate's weapon into his own chest. The body went limp, but the Imperial Guard knows too much about the physiology of humans and similar species to hope that this particular individual does not have a heart shifted to the right.
Clasping the dying man's head in his hands, the major-guard turned it toward his left shoulder until a distinctly audible click, breaking the cervical vertebrae. The unlucky pirate-killer's body was seized by a convulsion. With a short punch, Tierce drove the nasal cartilage and bones inside the opponent's skull, damaging the brain.
Only then did he allow the body to fall to the floor.
Grodin-7 silently appeared beside him, returning the weapon. The same silent, faceless red-black shadow of death as he was. The other eight clone guards were already nearby. It took them only a fraction of a second to look at the corpse, the fatal injuries, and recognize the technique once practiced by the mercenary group called the "Sun Guard," who served the Sith and became the precursor to the Red, and then the Imperial Guard.
Leaving the compartment, the ten guards sealed the door behind them, moving further down the corridor.
Those who tried to cut them down with crossfire from the compartments on either side of the corridor, Major Tierce and his nine copies killed in hand-to-hand combat, using the combat skills taught by the Echani people. Quickly, without weapons, shortly, and deadly.
There were more and more burn marks from blaster hits on the armor. Grodin was already calculating in his mind the relative margin of safety provided by the cortosis treatment. A small increase, in fact, but they don't need super-heavy armor—the more armor, the slower you move.
A guard does not need protection to preserve his body—only to save the one he protects. That is an immutable law. The death of a bodyguard must serve to prolong the life of the one he protects. Anything else is not provided for.
They found and cleared six more similar compartments, stuffed to the brim with looted goods. Neither Major Tierce nor his clones were interested in the trinkets and valuables they discovered. Their task was not that.
The next deck was the reactor area. Here were also communications and the station's life support system, serviced by more than a hundred different sentients who rushed at the ten guards with improvised objects they intended to use as weapons.
The station's layout clearly indicated its makeshift nature. This object was primarily dangerous to those on it.
But the greater danger here was ten identical men with military bearing, clad in red-black robes.
The Wookiee who rushed at him with a huge hydraulic wrench, Major Tierce met with a vibropike strike that cut the weapon in two. Before the two-meter-tall hairy alien realized that he had failed to smash Tierce's head, the major had already broken his right kneecap, ducked, letting a huge fist pass over his head, kicked him in the groin, then with an uppercut to the jaw disoriented the opponent for enough time to inflict six stab wounds to the Wookiee's vital organs with the vibropike and finish the three-second duel by beheading the enemy.
And almost immediately, a Nautolan jumped at him, slipping out from behind an energy distributor stand.
Grodin met him with a kick to the chest, which knocked the air out of the opponent's lungs and threw him back a couple of meters. A large Zabrak, in height and build not inferior to the guard himself, emerged from behind a cooling liquid tank and brought down a thick pipe on his right forearm. The blow was accompanied by the crunch of a cracked armor element and probably a broken radius bone. The vibropike clattered to the deck.
The Zabrak, with mad eyes, swung for another strike.
Ignoring the pain in his damaged arm, Grodin grabbed the alien's right bicep with it. With his left hand, he jerked the opponent's forearm to the side and down, thereby depriving him of the opportunity for another accurate and powerful blow with the pipe.
Twisting his right arm simultaneously at the shoulder and elbow joints, tearing tendons, Grodin ignored the blow to his side from the Zabrak but did not leave it unanswered, smashing the pirate's cheekbone and jaw with a blow from his own right elbow.
After that, he crouched, pulling the enemy to his knees, passed the opponent's arm over his head and laid it on his left shoulder, pulled the limb down, clearly feeling how he was breaking the Zabrak's right elbow joint. Immediately after, he kicked away the alien's left fist strike, kneed him in the throat. The choking opponent looked at his death with crazed eyes, begging for mercy, but unfortunately for him, Imperial Guards can decipher Zabrak tattoos.
Before him now stood a rapist and murderer of women. Who had sixteen years of imprisonment on Kessel, four escapes, and eight murders of law enforcement officers in six sectors of the galaxy.
Such tattoos are not applied to just anyone. They are not "inked" for bragging—the criminal world is meticulous about those who encroach on their "earned art." Therefore, this alien (in both literal and figurative senses) indeed committed what he boasted about, displaying his tattoos for all to see.
Grodin did not know any of this creature's victims. Frankly, he didn't care about their personalities. But today, through the hands of Major Grodin Tierce and his nine clones, justice was being served on this particular pirate station.
With an elbow strike to the back of the Zabrak's head, the guard forced him to fall forward, putting his left hand out.
With the next blow of his damaged right hand, he broke the murderer's and rapist's spine, dooming him to a slow and terrible death in a paralyzed state, suffocating from lack of oxygen and realizing his own helplessness.
Grodin took no pleasure in what he had done. He was simply doing his job—destroying the enemy. Was it luck that he managed to combine his work with the triumph of justice? No. Luck does not exist. Only precise calculation and coincidence.
In this case, one can say that Imperial law was unable to hold the murderer and rapist accountable.
Major Grodin Tierce was able to.
The Nautolan rising to his feet was grabbed by the Imperial Guard with his left hand by the head tendrils. His right arm began to hurt more, but not enough to consider him out of action. Only death can delegate such shame.
This specimen of criminal body "art" demonstrated his penchant for robbery, violence, murder, and rape exclusively against human victims. He is a vivid confirmation of the fact that even eighteen years of imprisonment on Kessel do not reform a criminal. And evidence that after his first victim, he caused the death of twelve more, for which he was not punished.
This Nautolan is a testament to the ugly impotence of the Galactic Empire and its own disregard for the proclaimed creed of human superiority and their advantages over others. Because this Nautolan committed crimes against thirteen human women—representatives of the "chosen race." Who did not find protection from Imperial law enforcement forces.
The Imperial Guard does not do someone else's work—they have their own. But today and now, on board this station built by criminals and used by criminals, he, Major Grodin Tierce, must administer justice.
From the heat emanating from the pipe, the guard recognized it as a heat exhaust pipeline from the reactor. It is made of refractory material and usually insulated so that the heat it emits does not heat the room. Apparently, the pirates either did not have the opportunity to purchase this insulator or did not want to. But that's not important now.
A knee strike to the kidneys made the Nautolan squeal like a Mon Calamari ballerina stuck in a water bubble. He threw his head back only for Grodin to grab a couple of his tendrils more firmly with his healthy hand and press his face against the hot pipe made of refractory metal with all his might. There was a hiss of skin instantly burning to the metal, accompanied by wild screams and attempts to escape the embrace of painful death. Grodin grabbed one of the head tendrils in such a way as to press on the pain points. Now the criminal's brain was torn by pain from two directions.
Only after the hot metal burned the entire face, boiled the eyes and blood in the Nautolan's head, vaporizing the remains of the brain, did the major stop the execution, continuing the cleanup.
Kubaz, Givin, Rodians, humans, Zabraks again, Duros, Quarren, several Bothans, a Pantoran, two Twi'leks, a Trandoshan… He killed them all. Everyone on this deck. And his nine copies were not far behind.
There were no innocents here. Only criminals who worked for the benefit of other criminals.
And only at this moment did the major feel fatigue. For the second time in the past ten years. Maybe he's getting old? Or is it because of the broken arm and the mild concussion the Trandoshan gave him? In any case, he would kill the lizard again if it could get out of the acid vat.
— Four hundred thirteen corpses, Major Tierce, — came the voice of Grand Admiral Thrawn, who had personally arrived at the station by the time Grodin and his nine clones had finished the cleanup.
— Four hundred sixteen, sir, — the guard clarified, pointing with his healthy hand at the limbs sticking out of the maw of the metal-crushing (and now Trandoshan) installation. — No losses among the squad.
— Four hundred sixteen criminal corpses in twenty-seven minutes, — there was some detached admiration or disapproval in Thrawn's voice. It's hard to tell when your helmet's auditory sensors are broken. — Now I begin to wonder, Major, why you didn't manage to return to the second Death Star. After all, Palpatine sent you to clean up a small group of rebels, thanks to which you avoided death at Endor.
It would be strange if Thrawn didn't find out about that. However, back then, when confiding on Tangrene, Grodin did not lie to him. It was a detail that had no bearing on the essence of the conversation.
— I was alone, sir, — the major replied. — And there were… a few more of them. It took me eight hours. And another two—to repair the ship to fly away.
— How large was the rebel group you destroyed, Major? — now there was interest in Thrawn's voice.
— Two hundred three sentients, sir, — Grodin answered.
Thrawn was silent for a while, then said:
— I find some discrepancy between what I see here and what you said, Major. Where is the truth?
— Then I was alone, — Tierce reminded. — There were two hundred three of them. I managed in forty minutes.
— And what happened next?
— Reinforcements arrived at the rebel base, — the Imperial Guard explained. — They interfered with repairing the ship, I had to destroy them too.
— How many?
— All of them.
— I was interested in how many there were who arrived at the base, Major.
— Sorry, sir, I didn't understand the question, — Grodin winced. The concussion was making itself felt. — A landing division, Grand Admiral. Six thousand sentients prevented me from returning to the second Death Star on time. But I had a lot of explosives, and they had extra buildings.
Thrawn was silent for a while, looking at the Imperial Guard.
— I'm glad you're on my side, Major Tierce, — the Grand Admiral said dryly. But his gaze expressed respect for the renegade.
— I'm glad to be of service, sir, — Grodin calmly replied. Looking at his clones silently waiting nearby, he explained:
— These have passed the primary test. We can proceed to the next trials.
***
The target of the Stormhawk was a space station resembling connected turbine blades, belonging to the gang known as the "Canyon Corsairs."
Station of the "Canyon Corsairs"
— Fighters—launch, — ordered Morgoth Astorias as soon as the Star Destroyer emerged into realspace. — Fire ion cannons at the station.
— Sir, — his first officer called out. — The station is surrounded by a deflector field. It seems the "Canyon Corsairs" did not respond to Captain Nym's call to confront the Inexorable and Chimaera.
— Registered more than fifty enemy starfighters, — reported from the observation post.
— Raise our deflectors, — Morgoth ordered. — Corvette, stay in the lower hemisphere. Interceptors, organize cover in the upper. Fighters, engage in pairs—from the left and right sides of the Stormhawk. Gunners—determine the strength of the enemy's shield and fire all guns at the station's protective screen and enemy fighters. Anti-aircraft artillery, be ready to repel attacks.
The Star Destroyer was enveloped in an invisible film of energy protection. The silent vacuum filled with the green fire of turbolasers and blue discharges of ion cannons.
No matter how strong and numerous the "Canyon Corsairs" were, they were doomed.
With his hands clasped behind his back, Morgoth calmly watched as his crew destroyed another pirate scum.
The "Canyon Corsairs" were a ruthless gang operating in the Kartakk system. They had areas of influence in other parts of the system, where they mercilessly exterminated civilians, members of other gangs, and also attacked transport ships that came into their attention for the sake of loot. And they never cared about the chances of victory—even now, their station bristled with crimson flashes of turbolaser fire. True, the beams didn't even reach fifty units, and it was at that distance that the Stormhawk was holding, shelling the enemy's positions.
Morgoth carefully observed the movement of enemy pilots, noting the fact that they had Z-95 Headhunters in the latest modification available in the galaxy at the moment, heavy Mandalorian M12-L Kimogila fighters, and the infamous T-65 X-wing starfighters. The first and last machines were produced by the Incom Corporation and were freely available for sale. Unlike the times of the Galactic Empire, when the sale of combat ships was strictly controlled by specialized institutions of the Imperial military-bureaucratic machine, the New Republic allowed companies to trade any samples of armaments with any buyers. No restrictions, licenses, or prejudices. As long as the buyer had money.
And pirates have that. Almost always.
Both the "Canyon Corsairs" and their opponents from the "Blood Razors" and "Lok Revenants" groups under the command of Captain Nym, who turned out to be too stupid to cross Grand Admiral Thrawn and the forces under his control.
Not without a slight envy, Captain Astorias noted that the "Canyon Corsairs" pilots had excellent training. They quite skillfully broke away from the attacks of his pilots' TIE fighters, thoroughly knew and used the advantages of their machines. The long experience of possession and the narrow specialization of the pilots of this gang were evident.
However, everything changed as soon as Morgoth ordered the TIE interceptors to join the attack.
Created as a replacement for fighters from the same line of technology, the interceptors took all the best from the fighters and even more. More rapid-fire guns, greater maneuverability, and the truly deadly power of the interceptors and the ruthlessness of their pilots instantly affected the confrontation.
While the Stormhawk's fighters destroyed the Kimogilas, the interceptors switched to the Headhunters and X-wings. And the tactical screen lit up with multiple marks of destroyed enemy machines.
Morgoth smirked. Here it is—the correct distribution of targets and the right approach to destroying the presumptuous pirates.
— On scanners, — he addressed the officer responsible for the ship's active sensors. — Have you finally determined the station's defenses?
— At our level, sir, — was the answer.
The captain of the Stormhawk only snorted slightly. So that's how it is.
— Armament?
— Fifteen outdated turbolasers, sir. Range—forty-five units.
— Not so outdated, — Morgoth noted.
Most likely something from the Clone Wars or a little earlier. But the fact remains—even outdated weapons inflict damage. Farmers on his homeworld—the planet Nez Peron—were armed with old hunting carbines. Possessing modern weapons in civilian circulation was simply prohibited. But that does not negate the fact that from five hundred meters they could shoot a small pest animal with an accurate shot in the eye.
Meanwhile, a picture pleasing to any Imperial was unfolding on the battlefield.
Fighters and interceptors from the company of the late Raith Sienar continued to press the presumptuous cutthroats. The clumsy Mandalorian heavy fighters crumbled to pieces as soon as the Stormhawk's pilots approached them from behind and began firing from several points. The vaunted Incom Headhunters and X-wings, even despite their deflector protection and launchers, flared up in the darkness of the vacuum like pulsars. But unlike the latter, the life of man-made pulsars is short. And their number decreases every second…
— Enemy deflectors breached! — joyfully reported from the right crew pit.
— Turbolasers—ready and track targets, ion cannons—volley at the station, — Morgoth ordered. — Do not cease fire until the last porthole goes dark. Inform the hangar—prepare the landing craft. Grand Admiral's order will be carried out exactly on schedule.