Nine years, seven months, and twenty-three days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and twenty-three days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and eight days since the arrival).
— And finally, — the young Imperial girl, no older than the princess herself, said instructively, a medical service chevron gleaming on her shoulder. — Your test results over time are excellent. How are you feeling?
— Yes, — Leia replied curtly.
— Sleeping normally, no nightmares? You've got circles under your eyes, — concern appeared on the medic's face.
— Like a baby, — the Alderaanian princess assured her. No need for the Imperials to know she tried every night to reach out to Luke. But something wouldn't let her even break past the confines of her quarters. As if the Imperials had something blocking her connection to the Force. Across the entire complex, except for her own residence. Where she could do nothing.
— I'll order additional tests, — the medic girl frowned. — It's not normal to feel perfectly fine while the bags under your eyes grow darker and more pronounced every day. It's either an organ condition, or you're not being honest about your rest.
— Are you suggesting an Alderaanian princess might lie? — Leia tried to play her lesser-known but devastating card.
— I'm saying that whatever's exhausting you could end badly for the children, — the Imperial didn't fall for it. — They're big enough now to sense your emotional state. Unconsciously, perhaps, but they understand everything. As a mother, you should realize your condition could affect them too.
— And what do you care about my children? — Leia asked the question that had been gnawing at her for a while. She wanted an answer. Though she feared what might be said—if they even decided to share the truth.
— The same as I care about all the patients under my responsibility, — the medic girl said, taken aback.
— First time I've met Imperials who care about how prisoners are treated, — Leia snorted.
— Maybe to others, yes, — the medic blinked. — But not to those under the grand admiral's command.
— A fresh tale, — the Alderaanian princess said irritably. — But I'm sure you don't treat all New Republic prisoners of war this way.
— How else would we? — the medic girl faltered. — We have orders—humane treatment of prisoners…
— Are you saying the tens of thousands of personnel from that star destroyer, captured with me, are living in the same comfortable conditions as I am, getting daily doctor visits and so on? — Leia knew she was pushing it, but her suddenly sharp tongue wouldn't stop.
— I… I don't know, — the medic stammered. — But the order applies to the entire medical service…
— Well, maybe then you'd be so kind as to arrange a meeting with my fellow soldiers so I can ask them myself, since you've got nothing to hide!
The Imperial girl suddenly bristled, furrowing her brows and pursing her lips.
— I had a better opinion of you, Princess Organa-Solo, — she said, lifting her head. — And here you thought my soft heart would let you breach containment protocols! You're callous and selfish! You didn't even consider that if I agreed and took you to my other patients, I'd be breaking a dozen regulations, decrees, and laws! I see now that you care nothing for your own life or your children's, and you think you can drag me into committing a crime too!
Leia felt a pang of guilt. Her old rebel habit—squeezing every situation for all it was worth, consequences be damned—hadn't just failed this time. It made her feel genuinely at fault. At the very least, she'd nearly pushed an innocent person who'd been caring for her into a war crime…
— Sorry, I spoke without thinking… — she started, but the medic girl had already leapt from her desk and headed for the door.
— Another doctor will finish your visit, — she said curtly. — I didn't join the military medical service to become a war criminal. The Imperials are right when they say you Republicans don't care about consequences, only your goals.
— Listen, I apologized and…
The door to the large common hall, where she was usually escorted by stormtroopers for medical procedures, swung open. Normally, they kept her in the office the whole time, and she never saw what happened beyond it—when they led her out, the space behind the door was always empty.
For a moment, Leia glimpsed what lay outside.
And froze. The shame grew stronger.
— I assure you, no surgery is needed, — a Duros doctor, dressed in the now-familiar Imperial military medical uniform, declared irritably. The sight was unsettling.
Especially when she saw an officer from the Loyalty standing on crutches before the doctor. One of the gunners, judging by the patches, she thought.
— But it's a fracture! — the officer whined. — What if the bone fragments…
— It's just a crack, Lieutenant! — the Duros shook his head. — No fragments! Seven scan results confirmed it! We've put a cast on you and…
— Excuse me, — the medic girl interrupted, addressing the Duros. — Could you finish with my patient?
— What's the issue? — the Duros glanced over her head.
— She… I… — the medic looked toward the open door. The Republic officer grinned, spotting Leia, and waved. — Well…
— Understood, — the Duros sighed. — You lot, — he turned to the officer, — Republicans, always stirring trouble, huh? Fourth case today—pestering young doctors until they run to the hospital's chief physician… Miri, — he looked at the medic girl, — you can go. In exam room ten, a couple of Sullustans are complaining of post-op pain. Check it out—probably phantom pain, but make sure, alright? And call Doctor Patter; he'll handle your fussy patient.
Glancing once more at the blushing princess, the Duros shook his head.
— My Imperial officers with missing legs behave with more dignity than Republican advisors…
Leia didn't catch the rest—the door's automation slid it shut, cutting her off from the surreal scene's shocking inner world.
Non-human doctors in Imperial service? That was… hard to reconcile with the usual picture. No, Leia knew the New Republic's propaganda about Imperial disdain for non-humans was exaggerated. But she was certain non-humans weren't allowed in military service—yet here was a full-fledged doctor in a military medical unit… and not some low-ranking staffer, it seemed.
Maybe the Empire was in worse shape than she thought, resorting to hiring aliens for military roles. Or perhaps this Duros was just an exceptional specialist, one of a kind…
The door slid open again.
A tall, stately, smiling doctor appeared in the doorway. Male, for a change.
But one look at him made Leia's mouth go sour. It seemed the New Republic might lose the propaganda war soon. The moment these prisoners of war returned to Coruscant.
— Hello, — the doctor kept smiling. — I'm Doctor Patter, your physician as of this hour. They tell me you're feeling unwell. Sweetheart, those circles under your eyes! Nearly black eyes! Fear the deity you believe in—how can you treat yourself and your little ones so recklessly! Tsk-tsk, not good, not good! Well, no matter, we'll figure out the problem and get everything sorted before the birth…
With that, a cheerful Twi'lek sat across from her, eagerly studying the chip with her medical data…
And on his chest was a nameplate: "Doctor Patter, Third-Class Physician. Military Medical Service."
Third-class… A regular medic…
Leia felt like she could hear the bastion of the New Republic's human-centric propaganda against the Galactic Empire crumbling.
— So, — the Twi'lek smiled, meeting her eyes. — Let's start our acquaintance with honesty. Why are you awake at night?
Her tongue felt like lead.
***
Stopping before a door guarded by two sentries in crimson-black garb, beyond which lay a dimly lit vestibule leading to the grand admiral's quarters, Captain Pellaeon waited as the faceless guards deigned to let him pass. The door opened, ushering him into the gloom. Gilad glanced around, futilely searching for Rukh lurking in the shadows. "This is becoming a habit," he thought irritably, stepping toward the inner door. Then another step. And another.
Aha! Got you, you little rat!
A faint breeze tipped the star destroyer commander off that his foe was approaching from the left. Self-defense basics, long forgotten from his Academy days, flashed through his mind.
Thrusting out his arm so Rukh would run into his fist, Gilad cursed as he realized the simple truth: the Noghri was no longer there.
The captain spun around, searching for the bodyguard. Rukh should've been gliding in his blind spot behind him. Or somewhere nearby.
— Captain, — a gravelly voice purred over his right ear.
As it happened, this time he delighted the little freak by flinching so hard he dropped his datachip. Well… it could've been worse—the first time, he'd screamed and jumped a good meter.
Irritated, Gilad bent down, retrieving the storage device and casually kicking into the darkness. Of course, the shorty wasn't there anymore. So where are you now?
And when will you tire of this?
Still, Pellaeon caught himself asking the wrong question. Not "when," but "who." He suspected he knew the answer—himself. He kept playing this childish game of hide-and-seek with the grand admiral's bodyguard, deciding not to bother him with the details of his rapport with Rukh.
At sixty, complaining about some runt who made him dredge up every Corellian curse he knew each time he reported to the grand admiral was beneath him. Thrawn was clearly aware but at least uninterested in reining Rukh in completely. And if he went tattling, that little gray pest would come out the victor. No, that wasn't the level of a star destroyer commander.
The level was crafting reasons compelling enough even for Thrawn to explain the multiple, life-unrelated injuries on his bodyguard that could pass as an accident without raising questions from the Chiss. Sadly, Gilad was only at the start of his dazzling revenge. He'd had more pressing matters before, but with the arrival of the eager Tschel, darting around the ship like a mouse droid, the aging captain found a bit more free time. And someday, he'd find a solution. That's the only reason he kept up these games. And he thanked the higher powers that the Imperial Guards didn't join in. Because navigating laser traps, minefields, tripwires, and sniper nests to reach the grand admiral with news updates was the last thing an aging Corellian wanted.
— You're so predictable, — as expected, Rukh emerged from behind Gilad. From the darkest corner. Right, noted. Next time, I'll make sure there's a contact mine there. Oh, what a picturesque "dead corner" that'll leave…
He wanted to snap something witty back, but right now, he was more interested in whether the moment was ripe to strangle the pest with his bare hands.
"Wonder if the grand admiral would buy that Rukh decided to study the mechanics of a thruster ion engine, tripped, fell headfirst twenty times, then crawled to the incinerator himself?" flashed through the captain's mind as he watched the bodyguard point toward the inner vestibule door with a long, narrow, matte-black blade. What's that thing? Barely visible in the dark—if not for the light's glint, you'd be done for.
Pellaeon crossed the threshold into the grand admiral's quarters in proud silence, thinking it might be worth convincing Thrawn that if he insisted on two types of bodyguards, maybe he could find someone calmer than Rukh. And hand the pest over to Gilad for… reeducation?
Because the moment that happened, the Chimera's commander would finish the freak off with his own hands. Gilad had never been inclined toward sadism or other perverse pleasures tied to inflicting pain on sentients (unless it was part of his job or on the battlefield), but the day that runt fell into his grasp, even Wilhuff Tarkin, bless his wretched memory, would envy Gilad from the afterlife.
The familiar dimness of the cabin greeted him with its expected holographic museum—Thrawn could never get enough of his figurines…
Pellaeon cut his thought short, realizing something simple—floating before him were cultural artifacts from entirely different traditions. No, it wasn't just paintings and statuettes; they were clearly crafted by different species. And there was no common thread in these collections. Rather, there were two threads—one distinctly Corellian in culture, and the other… Hmm… only a reptile, amphibian, or aquatic being could twist consciousness like that. Mon Calamari, perhaps?
And in the pitch darkness behind the golden holograms glowed two crimson eyes.
— Come in, Captain, — Thrawn invited, and only now did Pellaeon realize he'd paused in the doorway. — What news?
— The first reports on Captain Nym's treasury have come in, — Gilad reported, squeezing between sculptures and some eye-searing holograms. To his surprise, he noticed some were… literally downloaded from the HoloNet, judging by the telltale digital tags.
— Which one? — the grand admiral clarified.
— All of them, — Pellaeon generalized. Thrawn allowed him to speak freely in private. As if they were friends. Though one outranked the other, and the second was dutiful enough to remember that and maintain subordination. — I'll admit, the inquiry team was impressed.
— You seem to be as well, Captain, — Thrawn noted calmly.
— I am, — Pellaeon didn't hide the obvious. — Sir, the guesses were correct. It's indeed the aurodium reserves from the treasury. Most of it, judging by the markings, was funding allocated for the Death Star's construction. The rest—about a couple billion—came from batches minted shortly after Tarkin's death.
— Logical, — Thrawn said. — The grand moff needed funds to scout base locations and conduct field reconnaissance. That required resources. He simultaneously diverted funds from the Death Star project and pulled four star destroyers out of fleet control. The other ingots, I assume, are Captain Nym's personal haul with his gang.
So… the interrogators said Gilad was the first to review the pirate captain's questioning results. Or had Thrawn predicted it all again?
— Either way, sir, the ingots are worth—at a conservative estimate, by official rates—over fifty billion Imperial credits, — Pellaeon said with a breath. He'd never seen such a sum, let alone dared to imagine it.
— Good, — Thrawn replied in an utterly calm tone. He reacted with the same indifference to news that the Imperial Ruling Council wanted him as the new Emperor. Could anything surprise him? — What about the other treasuries?
— At the former Rebel Alliance outpost, there's valuables, credits, and high-cost goods worth about four hundred million; at Nym's Factory, another six hundred million. In total, — Pellaeon mentally tallied their assets, — our budget's around fifty-five billion credits.
— Five billion, — Thrawn corrected. — The aurodium will remain unclaimed.
— Uh… — Gilad hesitated. — As you command, sir, but may I ask—why?
— How many super star destroyers could we build with fifty billion, Captain? — the grand admiral inquired.
— Factoring in logistics and extra costs—twenty-five to thirty, for sure, at old prices. But we'd never muster enough crews for them.
— I'm not talking about us, Captain, — Thrawn corrected. — If that aurodium hits the market, we'll fall into the same trap as Captain Nym did—if the precious metal's identified, which it will be, the Imperial Remnants will line up to claim it. The Ubiqtorate's fleet would be among the first at our door.
— I didn't think their opinion mattered to us.
— It doesn't, — the grand admiral confirmed. — But you're forgetting that organization has roots throughout the Empire. Possessing aurodium would make Imperial Space hunt us down. No, for now, we have enough funds to pay our troops and keep the ships combat-ready. The aurodium stays in storage until we're ready for war with the Ubiqtorate.
— As you say, — Pellaeon shrugged. What did he care? They had money—huge sums. And that didn't even count their massive fleet under command. Even so, five billion would suffice to sustain every unit and project without exception.
— Captain Dorja reports resistance on the planet has been crushed, — Pellaeon continued. — The locals, let's say, aren't too friendly, but they're grateful for wiping out the pirate nests. Dorja ordered the restoration and expansion of the Imperial base there. Garrisons are stationed at Nym's fortress, the mine, and around the biolab… Speaking of which, specialists from the Relentless ran tests and say the complex is completely safe. What was produced there or what experiments were conducted is unknown, but there's nothing dangerous. Even the bodies have decomposed without a trace.
— Any clue what sparked the aggression against the Imperial facility? — Thrawn asked.
— Locals say it was pirates—not their own. A few claim it was Hutts. Nym confirms that's how it went—the Hutts intervened and destroyed the Imperial project. They were doing something with the dead, possibly another super-soldier project attempt. Either way, no data remains. But the facility's usable.
— The mine?
— It'll take some work since slave miners aren't the best option, but the locals are confident it's in a resource-rich area. With small investments, it'll work for us.
— Good. The stations?
— Actually, there's a proposal to dismantle some of them, — Pellaeon shared. — Specifically, the Alliance station and the Blood Razors' outpost. The construction's shaky, makeshift. Their weapons could be moved to other stations or used elsewhere.
— That doesn't need an immediate decision, — Thrawn said firmly. — Activate our intelligence—have them start selling off Captain Nym's trophy jewels. We'll boost our cash reserves.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon confirmed.
— Now, about Captain Nym himself. What did we learn?
— Exactly what you said, — Pellaeon admitted. — He worked with Adi Gallia, a Jedi, in the past. Pirated and raided Imperial supply lines. Collaborated with the Rebel Alliance. As for his ties to Tarkin—just as you predicted. Except the Lok Revenants never got to scouting asteroids in the planet's belt—they used an abandoned Imperial mine for that.
— So, we have a raw material base for our production, — Thrawn concluded.
— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon confirmed. — Once Captain Kalian captures the Cygnus Spaceworks caravan with everything we need, and Captain Shteben secures the Birds of Prey production lines on Sullust from SoroSuub, our rear's safely covered by manufacturing…
— Incorrect, Captain, — Thrawn interjected. — We'll be fully self-sufficient only when we secure enough fuel, spare parts, and tibanna gas for complete autonomy. Production is just the first step, nothing more.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon grimaced, eyeing the art holograms. — All unmodernized dreadnoughts, except those under repair at Susevfi's yards, will arrive in the Karthakk system within a day. Positive reports on restoring the captured Golans' integrity. Also, in two days, transport ships from Tangrene's military depot will reach Lok's orbit, including our idle star destroyers and active escort carriers.
— Contact Moff Ferrus and inform him the latter is unnecessary, — Thrawn ordered. — Have the shipyards focus on preparing and acquiring two hundred more plasma drills for the third phase of the operation. We'll also need twenty of the existing guided drills to complete the second phase. And let Captain Shohashi know that once the unmodernized heavy cruisers arrive to guard the Karthakk system, he and his ships must return to Tangrene. All transports with repair cargo from Susevfi should head there too, along with sixty repaired dreadnoughts to form a fighter wing—they'll escort the Steel Aurora's crew back after their raiding ends due to ship malfunctions, plus the Tangrene transports unloaded of outdated tech at Lok. They'll bring back all B-1 droids and droidekas. We're wrapping up the second phase of Operation Crimson Dawn. By then, all our combat-ready ships—privateers and wolf packs included—must gather in orbit around the Morshdine sector capital.
— Sir? — Pellaeon asked, hoping for clarification.
— Fey'lya is seventy percent ready for his revanchist campaign, — Thrawn revealed. — And I must admit, it's an intriguing move… one that'll lead to excellent outcomes for our attack and the total destruction of the Bothans' carefully cultivated influence over the New Republic.
— Delta Source? — the Chimera's commander probed for the grand admiral's intel source.
— Precisely, — Thrawn confirmed. — By month's end, he'll be ready to move.
— The New Republic's ahead of schedule, — Gilad lamented.
— Quite rude of them, — Thrawn gestured to the right side of the exhibit, the part the aging Corellian had pegged as amphibian—or reptilian—made. — Mon Calamari art, — he explained in a tour-guide tone. — What do you think?
Was this a joke? What could anyone think of coral chunks and colored pebbles? But aloud, he said nothing, dutifully studying them for some hidden meaning. To his disappointment, he saw only wavy lines and a strive for harmony.
— Quite intriguing, — the Chimera's commander said reservedly.
— Indeed it is, — Thrawn agreed, using a laser pointer to highlight a couple of sculptures. — These were specifically crafted by Admiral Gial Ackbar.
Pellaeon examined the indicated masterpieces with extra care, hoping to spot what set them apart from the rest of the Mon Calamari collection. No luck.
— I didn't know Ackbar was into art, — he offered.
— Everyone has their little secrets and hobbies, Captain, — Thrawn said meaningfully. Gilad ruefully thought Rukh's incinerator tour would have to wait. — These two sculptures were made long ago, before he joined the Alliance. Yet they bear his character traits, making them very useful. As does studying his strategies in past battles.
Thrawn was hiding something. Why study Ackbar if they were facing a Corellian?
But, as was his habit, he kept his thoughts to himself, asking instead:
— Have you found a way to beat him?
— I've found a way to understand him, — Thrawn clarified. — Battle is an art form too, and Admiral Ackbar excels at it. His early fights followed the late Grand Moff Tarkin's strategies, but by the Battle of Endor, we see a wholly different commander. — So, care to explain this interest now? — Yet personally, this Mon Calamari has changed little. He still favors sentients as driven as he is. He values smart, educated company—a symbol of his past as a slave, where knowledge was the ultimate prize. But he remains vulnerable to political intrigue, as Counselor Fey'lya showed by easily sidelining him. He's defenseless outside military matters but learns fast. He'll adopt an enemy's tactics and strategies if he finds them effective. Which, in a way, ties him to our old acquaintance, — Thrawn's red beam now pointed to the left collection. — Per open records, these art pieces were chosen for his personal collection by our Corellian foe.
Now that was interesting.
Pellaeon studied each sculpture diligently, noting some differences. As if some were made under circumstances that no longer mattered by the time others were crafted. Moreover, the stark contrast in creative direction clearly pointed to…
— These sculptures are from his Old Republic Senate office?
— Took some effort to track them down, — Thrawn indicated a few holograms with digital tags. — And these, — he now pointed, — are from his Imperial Senate desk. The far composition is from his personal ship. The last were found by analysts based on data from Obroa-skai.
Well, well. Pellaeon had thought they'd only gotten astrogation chart copies.
— Am I right that the content of all the statuettes stays the same, only the outward trappings change? — Pellaeon clarified.
— Exactly, — Thrawn agreed. — We're dealing with a sentient fiercely loyal to democracy and its freedoms. He'll openly clash if he believes his cause is just. See this statuette, — Thrawn pointed to one from the Obroa-skai data batch. — It shows how much this man values family.
— If I recall, it was thought he and his family were wiped out, — Gilad dug into his memory.
— Garm Bel Iblis survived; his loved ones didn't, — the grand admiral noted. — Resulting in a tough, driven, pragmatic, and calculating foe who orchestrated the attack on the Ubiqtorate base at Tangrene months before we took the Morshdine sector. He'll destroy civilian targets without hesitation if he knows they're doomed anyway, but his first shot will cause fewer casualties and secure victory. — Gilad's mouth went dry. Was this really a democracy advocate? That sounded like orthodox Imperials flattening everything for their goals. — Bel Iblis despises politicians, so he'll break from any government tying his hands—but that takes strong motivation. Yet, for a higher cause, he'll sacrifice himself. He recruits like-minded subordinates. He's sharp, quick to decide, and once suffered from pride—see how the earlier Republic-era statues focus on a lone figure, while in Imperial times, he favored group compositions. It shows his shift toward seeking reliable, goal-aligned allies.
— And that means…
— The battle won't be easy, — Thrawn declared. — Especially with Skywalker on that planet-base.
— How's that kid a threat to us? — Pellaeon asked, intrigued.
— Bel Iblis doesn't shelve resources he has, — the grand admiral said. — As a Corellian senator in the Old Republic, he dealt with Jedi enough to know their potential. Corellia had an Order enclave—the Green Jedi, all Corellians. Natural stubbornness, tactical talent, and quick thinking… — Thrawn paused. — Yes, Captain, this will be an interesting fight.
Six heavy cruisers against three star destroyers and support forces? Honestly, it'd be a slaughter of the Corellian upstart.
— Still, we'll find out tomorrow, — Thrawn concluded. — The Scimitar project trials were due yesterday. Any word?
— Not yet, sir, — Pellaeon admitted.
— Pity, — the grand admiral said. — Well, after facing Bel Iblis, we'll have time to visit Tangrene and see the project ourselves. Tell Moff Ferrus they've got extra time—in these circumstances, thorough prep beats rushed assembly.
— Will do, sir.
— Also, instruct the moff that the eighth clone batch, now matured and soon arriving at Tangrene, should be assigned to the star destroyers modernized by the Republic at Hast's yards. With the clones, minimal ship crews, and troops from the D'astan sector who've joined us, that'll suffice for full operation.
Pellaeon felt an itch of anticipation for the coming battle. Two extra star destroyers added to their lineup—pure fantasy!
If only the three "twos" and the "one," formerly Red Gauntlet, joined the fight, Thrawn would command sixteen Imperial-class star destroyers alone! Not to mention nearly a hundred Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers, either fully modernized or in final upgrades. And Steel Aurora and Crusader were already combat-ready, never mind the rest.
Pellaeon was about to reply when Thrawn's comlink buzzed:
— Grand Admiral, sir, flight deck here. Mechanics and techs finished work on the X-wing from New Cov and that YT-1300 captured aboard the star destroyer in the Milagro system.
— My instructions followed precisely? — the commander asked.
— Yes, sir. The block was hard to find, but… we did it. Ship functionality's unaffected; the removal and installation are undetectable, even with scanners.
— Excellent work, chief mechanic, — Thrawn praised, a faint smile crossing his face.
He cut the channel and sat silently for a moment until Gilad broke the quiet:
— Should I order scouts to Bel Iblis's base system? — Pellaeon asked.
— And disturb his solitude? — Thrawn raised an eyebrow. — No, Captain. While our Corellian friend counts on his location's secrecy, he's exactly where I need him. Feeling perfectly safe. Our job is to ensure he and his subordinates keep believing that.
He smiled grimly.
— After all, Captain, what does it matter where the Empire strikes back? — Pellaeon didn't know how to respond. Thrawn did it for him. — Trust me—none at all.
***
At first glance, the sanatorium seemed an easy target. All traces of the missing Lusankya prisoners led here—at least, that's what Wedge, Iella, and many other good folks hoped.
Neither satellite imagery, external surveillance, nor any other intel-gathering method revealed the slightest hint of a defense system. And that made it so dreary you could hang yourself.
Because if a mission looks too easy, trouble's already brewing.
Luckily, Mon Mothma worked her diplomatic magic and appealed to the Commenor government's conscience to sanction Wedge's task force operation. The New Republic's youngest general wasn't sure what Ewok dances with tambourines the Provisional Government's head performed, but she pulled it off—if needed, Wedge's cruisers would hit the planet's orbit.
Meanwhile, Rogue Squadron's machines were painted matte black to hinder identification and left on Commenor under the cover story of being training fighters for local defense forces. A flimsy tale, honestly—any fool knew most pilot training happened on the ground with simulators. No training craft were needed—practical skills were honed on the pilots' actual future ships.
So now, he was running final checks on his flight suit and life-support systems, squeezing in a moment after a brief rundown: we fly in, blow everything up, our brave scouts and spec ops run on the ground, and if we screw up, four Mon Calamari star cruisers swoop in to save us—but their crews will laugh at us bumbling fools for ages.
Iella's voice crackled through his helmet's comms:
— We're ready.
— So are we, — Antilles replied.
— Good luck, — Wessiri wished him.
— May the Force be with you, — Wedge replied with the now-routine pilot phrase from Alliance days.
Switching to the squadron channel, he said:
— To your ships, boys and girls, — he ordered. — Start engines, fly at ultra-low altitude. But shift foils to attack mode only after we're clear of the capital.
The warehouse holding their ships was within the main city limits on Commenor, so showing off their bravado here had no audience.
In the cockpit, Wedge endured another lecture from Minokk about how miserable he was and how he deserved more power, once again considered formatting the astromech as the best life choice, and guided the craft out of the warehouse's wide gates.
The rest of the Rogues followed suit.
The squadron veered off to avoid attention. Though the city slept in pre-dawn calm, the odd landspeeder popped up now and then. Well, their cover story should hold.
— Course two-seven-five degrees, speed ten percent. Forward.
The ships, reined in by their pilots, slipped out of the city, skimmed along the highway, weaving over hills, and only when the capital's lights faded behind their exhausts did all twelve X-wings spread their foils, shedding the look of overstuffed Headhunters.
Wedge glanced at the chrono.
— Time to target: fifteen minutes, — he reminded the pilots.
— Boss, — Tycho came online. — My scanners say we've got uninvited company.
— Minokk, anything out there?
The astromech trilled affirmatively. Four blips at the edge of the scanning range.
Executing a simple high-G maneuver, Wedge caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Whoever was tailing them knew how to use the terrain for cover. Wedge felt uneasy. Almost no one in the New Republic knew about this op. Could there be a traitor? Or had the locals assigned watchers? If so, it was dumb—they'd been offered that from the start but declined, fearing Imperial reprisal for aiding a New Republic mission. Naive. Clinging to their neutrality like an Ewok with a stormtrooper helmet. As if the Empire ever needed a reason to show up and blast the surface clean with orbital barrages.
— Rogues, boost speed to half power, — he ordered. — Two: slow down, drop to the deck, and see who shows up. Shoot if needed.
— Copy, Boss.
As the squadron skimmed belly-low over another hilltop, Wedge and Tycho peeled off, switching to repulsors and veering from the original course to flank any pursuers if necessary. Both pilots tucked their fighters into small ravines.
Just in time—moments later, TIE Interceptors roared over the hill. Four ships. Wedge mentally cursed the situation, watching the escorts chase after the fleeing X-wings.
None of the four bore markings, and scanners didn't flag them as hostile. Could be anyone, even locals on their own flights. So why hadn't the Rogues been warned?
As he pondered their allegiance, the unknowns opened fire on the retreating X-wings. Well, that clarified their stance.
— Pursuit, — Wedge ordered, vectoring his ship after the attackers.
The first Interceptor shattered into pieces as a pair of Wedge's proton torpedoes kissed its aft hull.
The second Imperial craft tried dodging Celchu's attack, and the torpedo veered. Another maneuver, partially successful—the projectile missed, but exploded close enough. The right solar panel took shrapnel damage, then was ripped off by the rushing airflow. The crippled ship spiraled down and erupted on impact.
The next torpedo struck dead-on, punching through the cockpit before detonating. The twin ion engines broke off and hit the ground first. The torpedo's blast shredded what remained. The field was streaked with a long trail of burning debris.
By the time the third went down, Tycho finished the fourth with cannon fire.
— All units, — Wedge said over the squadron frequency, — encountered four squints. We might be compromised.
The grim acknowledgments didn't lift spirits. The hint of a blown plan was too obvious to need elaboration.
— Mission continues, — Wedge Antilles checked his instruments. — Minokk, anything else out there?
The R5-series astromech, Minokk, buzzed a negative. The radar confirmed only his own squadron trailed him. Nothing on the horizon…
Antilles checked the chrono.
— Stay sharp, Rogues. ETA: about thirty seconds. First pass, take out any defenses.
— As you say, Boss, — came Wes Janson's terse reply.
Wedge nosed his Incom T-65 up, cresting the final ridge between him and the target. The sanatorium, long abandoned but used to turn people into suicidal messages, lay exposed.
The facility sat on a slight rise in the heart of a wide valley. Distant structures peeked out, with unlit homes scattered further off. The strike zone was clear of civilian targets. Perfect for an orbital bombardment.
Though that'd leave few survivors.
Antilles came in low, boosting the nose deflector against potential fire, and aimed for the complex's largest building, straining to spot anything.
Nothing. Flying over the roof, he barrel-rolled right.
— Taking fire, — Wes Janson reported, calm and unfazed. — Gun on the attic, no clean approach.
Wedge leveled out.
— I've got it.
— Covering, — Tycho reminded him tersely.
Switching to repulsors, they glided down twenty meters, facing the target. Wedge instantly spotted a pair of soldiers expertly manning a mounted blaster—bolts snapped against his forward deflector.
Okay, maybe not *expertly*.
— Why does infantry love shooting their pea-shooters at starfighters? — Wedge wondered aloud. — Any Hutt can see it's pointless.
— Can't say the reverse, — Celchu noted.
Wedge's X-wing, barely fazed by the weapon that could mince a small ground army, locked onto the threat and fired.
All four laser cannons raked the building's top floor, punching through thin metal walls. Two crimson bolts from Tycho hit the heavy gun just as the gunner tried swinging it toward a landspeeder emerging from the hills—a distraction, Wedge knew; Iella's team had been in place since nightfall.
The gunner roasted with the blaster. His partner enjoyed a thrilling flight off the roof to the unforgiving ground—the gun's power cell exploded.
The lucky one staggered up and limped toward the main building but didn't get far. From twenty meters up, a stun bolt's blue flash looked like a spark, even in pre-dawn gloom. But Wedge, long paired with ground teams, caught it—and saw two figures in dark combat gear drag the limp body into another structure's shadows. More shadows—a squad—encircled the central building, while others hurried to a barn.
A tiny explosion flash—the central building's doors were history. Sentients slipped inside. Firelight glints suggested a fierce fight brewing.
A modest blast blew the door, two shadows advanced, tossing something in. Windows and the open attic flared with bigger blasts. The shadows ducked inside, and the barn lit up with blue flickers.
Wedge saw someone climb out a second-story window and tumble down. The escapee glanced toward the ground team's attack line, then, hearing repulsors, spotted the X-wings and fired twice from a blaster.
— Shooting at you? — Tycho asked.
— Thought it was you, — Wedge admitted.
— Nope, — Celchu confirmed.
— Not me either, — the young general replied. With all Rogues busy elsewhere per scanners, no one else could've been the target.
This time, the escapee clarified his aim—red bolts hammered Wedge's canopy.
Antilles grinned approvingly:
— Not bad. But not enough.
Sensing the X-wing's shift, the shooter realized his mistake and bolted, crouching behind a low fence.
— Does he know we can see him? — Wedge checked with his wingman.
— Let's shoot him and ask, — Celchu suggested.
Fair compromise. Except a direct laser hit would cook the poor sod at best. So…
Wedge aimed ahead of the fence and fired. The blast tore a huge chunk out of it meters ahead of the runner, cratering the ground. The guy tumbled full-speed into the hole.
Wedge switched his comlink to the ground team's frequency.
— Rogue Leader to ground team commander, — he hailed Iella. — Got a runner three hundred meters east of the main building. Spooked him a bit with the cannons.
— Wedge, is there anything left of him? — Iella's open channel carried gunfire in the background.
— I was gentle as with my own kid, — the Rogue Squadron commander assured her. — But he's probably face-down in a ditch now.
— You could use some parenting practice, Wedge, — Wessiri teased, and the Corellian felt his cheeks flush. — I've sent two after him. Mind keeping an eye on your stray, if it's not too much?
— Got it, — he promised. — How's it—
— Cleanup's done, — she cut in. The shooting had stopped. — If you want, land and stretch your legs on our sinful ground.
— Copy, tempting offer. Coming down, — Wedge switched to the squadron channel. — Two, I'm landing. Set up air cover and send the second flight to guard the outer perimeter.
— Done, Commander, — Tycho replied, concise as ever.
Antilles guided his fighter to a small clearing between the main building and its neighbor. Repulsors set it down gently on solid ground, then he popped the canopy and killed the engines. He hopped out, heading for the central building, but a figure in black appeared beside his ship and brazenly grabbed his arm.
— Uh, just like that? — Wedge faltered.
— Nothing interesting in the main building, — Iella said in a near-grave tone. — Come on, one of the local barns has plenty to see.
— As you say, — Antilles shrugged, wishing he could drape an arm over her shoulders. Not quite the moment for that. Her voice—and her unnatural pallor in the dawn's first light—unsettled him.
Two Sullustans guarded the barn's doors. The air reeked of burnt wood and plastic. Operatives moved grimly—some bagged fallen comrades. The dead guards' bodies stayed put for identification.
But the rest…
A question lodged in his throat, unspoken.
One of Iella's operatives crouched by a living skeleton. Others freed more prisoners from makeshift cells. As gently as possible, they carried them to the central aisle, where medics worked frantically to provide first aid.
For the first time since being teased for skinniness as a kid, Wedge saw how emaciated a sentient could become. It was… terrifying. A nightmare that'd haunt him forever.
The stench was unbearable. These people had been forced to live in their own filth… Wedge barely stopped himself from pinching his nose. The prisoner by the medic—whose wrists were rubbed raw to the bone by cuffs, with things crawling in his hair and beard—didn't make him flinch.
He couldn't tear his eyes from what civilized beings had been reduced to. Gaunt, so starved they couldn't stand… It was truly horrifying.
— Water, — rasped the nearest living skeleton. Wedge glanced at Iella. She silently pointed to three empty liter flasks beside the man. A nearby medic mixed another batch of tonics and vitamins to keep them alive until proper help arrived.
Wedge briefly stepped away to relay an order through Tycho to his task force flagship. They needed medics here. Lots of them.
— Water, — the skeleton croaked again.
— Hang on, buddy, — the medic said, voice trembling, tears welling up at the sight. — More than three liters will make you sick with the vitamin batch. Trust me—you've got enough water in you now to be okay.
— Water, — the man rasped, and like a chant, others joined in. A chorus of the dead…
Wedge felt Iella trembling. The stench grew so thick it felt tangible—his eyes stung as operatives pulled a near-corpse, still alive, from a puddle of waste. They scrambled, found a water line, and began testing it for usability…
— We need air here, — Wedge decided.
— Building's sealed, — Iella echoed. — One entrance, no windows.
— What's at the far end of this sty? — Antilles looked toward a pile of rusted scrap.
— Junk heap, — the Corellian woman replied, eyes fixed on the water-beggar. The water line kicked in, and operatives filled empty flasks to start cleaning the prisoners. Hygiene had to return, even a little. — Nothing valuable.
— Perfect, — Wedge said. He signaled Tycho, waiting as he strafed the far wall with laser cannons, tearing a jagged hole from side to side along his flight path.
A breeze instantly began clearing the foul air.
— You'll be alright now, — Wedge promised, crouching by the water-obsessed skeleton.
The prisoner stopped muttering, then, with surprising speed, reached out a bony hand and scratched at Wedge's flight suit leg with gnarled fingers.
— I know you…
— Maybe, — Wedge didn't rule out that among these ragged, wasted humans and aliens were people he'd once known. But recognizing them now was impossible. — Were you with the Alliance?
— Supply, — the man rasped. — Nabbed on Hoth…
Wedge frowned: how many more like him, declared fallen heroes, were rotting in Imperial dungeons?
— Sorry we took so long, — his eyes stung. Iella rested a hand on his shoulder.
— You're here now, — the man grinned, revealing rotted teeth and ulcerated gums. But Wedge didn't look away. His heart clenched. Now he understood, more than ever, why Corran Horn tore across the galaxy hunting for these people. What had been done to them… It was beyond good and evil.
Worse, the Alliance and New Republic had never—until Horn's pleas—bothered searching for their missing comrades. They'd just been forgotten. Written off.
— Warm, — the freed supplier said suddenly, flashing Wedge another ghastly smile. Antilles held steady.
— The chems are kicking in, — the medic cheered. — This one's gonna make it. Ma'am, — he looked at Iella, — I'll handle the rest.
— Go, — was all she could say.
— Was it always like this here? — Wedge asked, voice wavering.
— Worse on Lusankya, — the skeleton managed a smile. — Here, it was just starvation, thirst, and filth. There, they broke your will too.
— Ships are coming soon, — Wedge promised. — We'll get you all aboard, cleaned up, healed, fed. I swear. And we'll find who did this. I promise.
— One guy promised too, — the living corpse said darkly. — Jan said he'd look for them. She got mad, and anyone who believed got beaten bad. Lots stopped believing.
— You mean Corran Horn and General Dodonna? — Iella clarified.
— Corran, yeah, — the corpse said. — Good kid. Didn't break. Pissed her off. Shame he's not here.
Wessiri opened her mouth, but Wedge cut in:
— Horn's under my command, — he explained. — On a special mission now—finding the others. He asked me to say he's sorry he couldn't free you himself. But you'll meet again—all of you.
— So he's alive, — the prisoner said with a kindly smile. — Ysanne said she had him killed on her orders. Broke a lot of us then. Not Dodonna, though. Took extra effort for Iceheart to crack him.
— That was a while back, — Wedge tried to lift his spirits with a smile. — We took out Ysanne Isard not long after she moved you from Lusankya to these prisons. About two years ago.
The only spark of life in this corpse—his piercing blue eyes—dimmed. As if clarity had been snatched away.
— Then you did a lousy job, folks, — he said quietly. — Hope Horn has better luck finding the rest. 'Cause she said even if you found us, there'd be no clues here to the others. Our rescue's a dead end, she claimed.
Wedge and Iella exchanged looks. A bad feeling gnawed at the Corellian.
— You only found us 'cause she wanted you to get our corpses, — the supplier said dryly. — Kept us on near-empty slop so we'd be her message to you by the time you showed up…
— What woman? — Wedge asked, dreading the answer.
The prisoner shivered:
— Iceheart.
— Ysanne Isard was here? — Iella's fists clenched. — But she died two years ago on Thyferra! The Rogues took her out!
— She was here a couple weeks back, — the prisoner said. — Didn't look like she had health issues.
— But we killed her, — Tycho Celchu's voice came from the entrance. Another Lusankya survivor. One who'd pulled the trigger to blow the shuttle Iceheart tried escaping on.
— Told you, guys, — the corpse rasped. — You screwed up bad.