The center of mass of the galactic capital released invisible gravitational claws toward the "Reptavian" as it approached Coruscant.
The motley kaleidoscope of hyperspace flared up, the jumble of lights crawled, stretching into distinct starlines with a roar that the admiral felt not with his ears, but through the barely perceptible vibration of the deck beneath his feet; and there they were again, surrounded by the familiar panorama of stars.
The light tunnel finally disintegrated, and the First Fleet, led by its flagship, found itself in orbit around the planet.
The grand spectacle of the galaxy's most famous planet once resembled a huge technogenic sphere, crisscrossed by illuminated canyons, a mesmerizing pattern of lighting from the sleepless city, painted against the dark void.
But now Coruscant resembled a grave more than ever before.
Its lights barely glowed, and through the sparse atmospheric cloudiness, numerous blazing craters were visible—testimony to the fall of starships onto the planet or the aftermath of orbital strikes by Grand Moff Ardus Kaine's fleet, whose flagship had been detected at a considerable distance.
The "Reaper"—the source of headaches and superstitious fear for the New Republic's military command.
The Star Dreadnought that breached the planet's defenses after the massive assault by the Pentastar Alignment's heavy cruisers petered out due to the self-sacrifice of officers and enlisted personnel from the fleet guarding the capital.
A little farther away shone the local star, bestowing warmth on everyone who fell into its rays.
The admiral automatically glanced toward Centax-2.
The moon, once of immense strategic importance, still bore the scarred ruins of a military base on its surface, destroyed by the cunning and ruthless ramming strike of the Star Cruiser "Home One" with Admiral Ackbar aboard.
A strike that Grand Admiral Thrawn had demonstrated during his assault on the New Republic's capital, succinctly and concisely stating his intentions—to eliminate the New Republic.
Right where the last two orbital defense stations should have been, controlling the space above the portion of the Upper Levels occupied by Republic troops.
But no one saw the expected sight.
Only an ocean of debris and two Imperial-class Star Destroyers, licking their numerous wounds and displaying extensive hull damage.
From afar, it might have seemed as if the ships had been processed by a kinetic shotgun, with the countless holes being the result of targeted hits from projectiles the size of an airspeeder.
But Admiral Duplex had devoted too much time to fleet service to make a fool of himself and fail to recognize the punctures made by low-yield proton torpedoes designed for fighter basing.
"Raise shields," he ordered. "The 'Reptavian' and two strike frigates move toward the enemy ships. Alpha and Beta groups disperse to the left and right flanks respectively. Launch fighters—one squadron to protect each ship in the task force. All batteries fire on the nearest Star Destroyer. Target—'priority-one.' Transports—follow the flagship, prepare to descend on command."
Numerous enemy starships held orbit—and it was from them, both the battered and the intact ones, that the transport convoy had to be protected by the ships of Alpha and Beta groups.
A deadly firefight would soon erupt there, one the New Republic could not win—the enemy had concentrated about two dozen Star Destroyers and no fewer than a hundred heavy cruisers in the system.
And the "Reaper."
Without comparable forces, Admiral Duplex could not win, no matter how one particular Bothan and his entourage dreamed otherwise.
The New Republic's First Fleet was effectively destroyed, and the fifty ships Argentis had brought here were essentially the dry remnants of its former might.
Losing these ships in a completely unnecessary attritional battle was foolish and wasteful on the part of the military command.
Now, with the New Republic forced to defend on dozens of fronts, every cruiser and every frigate played its role.
Of course, he would exert as much effort as possible to inflict maximum damage on the enemy, but miracles do not happen.
At least—not in his execution.
Ejecting streams of golden-crimson turbolaser fire from its bow batteries, the "Reptavian" jetted long plumes from its sublight engines, preparing to close to knife range.
On the tactical monitor screen before Argentis's eyes, columns of numbers flashed, notifying that course had been set for approach.
To left and right appeared additional crimson lightning bolts—both Mk II strike frigates had entered the fray with minimal delay.
The order transmitted to the flagship's escorts to select targets was executed flawlessly.
Now the artillery of three mighty New Republic starships tormented the hull of the Imperial Star Destroyer.
The hull specifically.
Because the crimson hurricane of turbolaser flame sloughed off the enemy's bridge with its sensor cluster globes and deflector shield generators on the very first hit.
The element of surprise from the Republicans' appearance and the Imperials' carelessness were the guarantee that Argentis had tipped the scales of the impending confrontation in his favor.
Deprived of protection, the enemy's first Star Destroyer snarled back furiously, but its turbolasers merely dissipated across the "Republic's" deflector fields.
They were sturdy, but would have been even sturdier if the SEAL technology could have been installed on them.
In that case, survivability could have been increased, and thus the combat effectiveness of the Republican Star Destroyer.
But what the Rendilians did not have, they did not have.
Still, it was very good as is.
TIE fighters emerged from the depths of the Star Destroyer, streaking toward the Republican starships.
Half the X-wing squadron covering the "Reptavian" surged to intercept.
Yes, there were disgracefully few of them, but Argentis had assembled the best of the best pilots on his ship.
From among those whom Thrawn's aces had not killed off.
The second Destroyer, which had been luckier than its counterpart, began maneuvering.
Supporting its comrade with turbolaser and ion cannon fire, it slowly advanced to meet the "Reptavian."
The enemy commander's intent to shield the damaged ship with his own, allowing it to fire in point-blank conditions, was obvious.
But it was not in Admiral Duplex's intentions to allow the foe to execute such a maneuver.
"Escorts—switch to the second Destroyer," he ordered. "Take the 'Reptavian' down to the lower echelon. Gunners prepare to strike 'priority-two.'"
The strike frigates were already executing the pincer maneuver, approaching the second Destroyer from left and right simultaneously, harassing its deflectors on the fly.
The "Republic" itself, having dived, swung into position where it had far greater chances of an almost instantaneous victory.
"Artillery—fire on 'priority-two,'" the Zeltron ordered.
While the commander of the first Destroyer was figuring out what was happening and reacting to the maneuver, the Republican flagship struck below the belt.
The enemy's hull shuddered from the powerful blow—and the main hangar turned into a branch of hell.
"Continue firing on the hangar," Argentis said.
The enemy vessel opened fire on the "Republic's" upper hemisphere, but its broadside guns were clearly insufficient to pierce the Republican Star Destroyer's defenses.
The belly of the first Star Destroyer, still pressing forward and raising its stern to cover the hangar, had already turned into Swiss cheese.
Flames lashed from the breaches, and small debris mixed with human bodies spewed out.
The enemy sought to position itself nose-on to the "Reptavian" to execute the classic Imperial Destroyer attack scheme, mobilizing all its turreted turbolasers to inflict maximum damage.
"Prepare to turn," Argentis directed. "Deviation from initial course—ten degrees to starboard."
The "Republic," once again "nose to nose" with its opponent, began diverging on counter-courses.
Such a maneuver primarily allowed the ship to evade the left broadside turbolasers of the enemy Destroyer, but made it vulnerable to broadside artillery.
"Elevation seven degrees," Admiral Duplex commanded, watching as his Destroyer's shields steadily buckled under enemy artillery strikes. "Left rotation speed—six percent."
The Republican Star Destroyer practically came broadside to broadside with its opponent.
They were separated by only twenty-seven kilometers when the "Reptavian" began its axial turn.
The over-kilometer-long ship turned its upper hemisphere toward its opponent's starboard side and, maintaining that position, shifted to rapid fire.
From all its guns capable of reaching the Imperial Star Destroyer.
Streams of golden-crimson fire first destroyed the Pentastar Alignment ship's broadside turret artillery, after which, as the Destroyers drew level, came the denouement.
Ion artillery showered the Destroyer's superstructure with white-blue charges, from which lightning began crackling across the entire structure, and the internal lighting steadily went dark.
The enemy Destroyer increased speed to maximum, realizing it was effectively on the brink of destruction.
Breaking free of the clinch, it could calmly close with the Republican transport convoy and begin a slaughter there, even in its current state.
"Activate tractor beams," came the order from the First Fleet commander. "All our escort fighters—switch to enemy aviation."
The last six pilots executed the order and joined the nearby dogfight with TIE fighters.
The two large starships, drawing level with each other, locked together at the initiative of one, inexorably binding their fates.
Yes, the Imperial was larger, more massive, and its engines had already gained speed greater than that of the Republican ship.
But suddenly it turned out that the "Reptavian" had engines too.
The thrust vector of which was directly opposite to that of the Imperial Star Destroyer's installations.
The added mass and opposing acceleration forces first slowed the Imperial, practically braking it in place, after which the ships began slowly rotating around a common center.
"Increase power to emergency starting engines," Admiral Duplex directed, watching as the second Destroyer's fire concentrated on his ship's lower shield.
The lateral acceleration of the structure took the starship out of the firing zone, allowing the "Reptavian" to use the first Pentastar Alignment Destroyer's hull as a screen against the enemy.
While continuing to mangle the triangular ship, turning everything in the path of the Republican guns into tiny molten metal droplets and clouds of debris.
"Reduce power to the lower deflector, redirect energy to the upper," the belly's defense could be sacrificed, as it was now on the unobtrusive side.
But the upper hemisphere was still taking salvos from enemy gunners until the Republican cannoneers silenced it for good.
The "fight" turned into a massacre.
The "Reptavian" crushed the opponent, literally dismantling it from the inside.
Breaches in the side multiplied and widened, deepened and spread to even greater areas of the Pentastar Alignment Star Destroyer's internal compartments.
After another salvo, the lights in the enemy's viewports went out, plunging the ship into darkness.
In an instant, from bow to stern, the starship transformed from a combat-effective unit into a liability with nothing left to oppose its foe.
"Cease fire," Argentis directed.
He looked at the battlefield, seeing that one of the two strike frigates had been knocked out, while the second, on its last legs, continued to fend off a superior foe (albeit thoroughly battered).
"Reduce sublight power, increase on starting engines," the admiral directed. "Adjust orbit so we're in line with the second Destroyer."
Saving the strike frigates was impossible—one had just exploded, and the second had taken a hit to the reactor area and ceased resistance.
The Imperial Star Destroyer set about tearing its opponent to pieces and in a couple of minutes, targeting weak spots, would turn the ship into a miniature supernova.
From forty kilometers away, the "Reptavian" could do nothing to help the crews, but it could avenge them.
Which it was doing at the moment, spinning the enemy Star Destroyer around itself.
Yes, these were not fighter speeds, but the residual energy would suffice for the plan.
After three full rotations around its axis, the Republican Star Destroyer, obeying a precisely calculated moment, released its opponent, allowing the multi-ton enemy behemoth to embark on its final voyage.
The first Destroyer, unopposed in the vacuum, shot toward the target like an arrowhead.
"Transports—immediate landing," Duplex commanded. "The 'Reptavian' set course for the second Destroyer. All batteries—fire."
The commander of the second Destroyer saw the threat but could not prevent the collision.
Residual radiation from the nearby detonation of two Republican ships jammed the scanners, and the approaching dead hulk, shedding guts in flight, was spotted by the surviving Destroyer's crew too late.
Course correction softened the monstrous impact but did not avoid it.
However, that proved sufficient to end the confrontation.
The first Destroyer's solar ionization reactor missed the second Pentastar Alignment ship's hull by only five meters.
The toughest armor, colliding with material of equal quality and density, deformed on both ships.
But for the second Destroyer, the broadside hit resulted only in significant damage to the structural framework, plating, and major decompressions.
And for the second...
Reactor fuel does not tolerate such treatment, no matter its aggregate state.
The artificial star that Raith Sienar had ignited for the galaxy's peoples bloomed in orbit around Coruscant, destroying both Pentastar Alignment starships in a tandem flash of their reactors exploding one after the other.
"Destroyed," someone on the "Reptavian's" bridge said with admiration in their voice.
Argentis, recovering from his astonishment, coughed into his fist to conceal his state.
"Approach order canceled. We're assuming orbit and preparing to cover the transports," he said firmly.
The crew slowly came back to life after what they had seen, enthusiastically setting to the tasks assigned to them.
The commander of the New Republic Defense Force's First Fleet himself approached the central viewport, hoping none of the crew would notice his surprised face gazing at the disintegrating remains of two Star Destroyers.
And he had only wanted to force the second Pentastar Alignment starship to dodge the first so he could swing into its aft and rake it...
Truly—military fortune favors the bold at the most unexpected times.
***
From above, there was a magnificent view of the advancing ranks of Imperial stormtroopers.
Troopers in white armor, broken into squads, combing building after building, mercilessly and regretfully gunning down anyone who tried to offer even the slightest resistance.
The planet the New Republic was abandoning, withdrawing its units to zones near the Imperial Palace, was experiencing shock and awe, mass executions and shootings of wounded and surrendering Republican fighters cut off from main forces by maneuvering stormtrooper groups.
Gazing at the scurrying stormtroopers near a small snack bar turned into an enemy firing point bristling with gun barrels in all directions, Agent Cross allowed himself a crooked smile.
He was on the top floor of one of the residential complexes behind Imperial lines, having occupied some senator's penthouse after the residential building had been combed by stormtroopers from top to bottom.
In his entire life, he had seen something like the current purge of Coruscant only three times.
The first—the Separatist droid raid on the planet to capture the Supreme Chancellor in the final stages of the Clone Wars. An enormous number of sentients had died then.
The droids spared no one, nor did they have orders to do so.
They killed indiscriminately.
The second—the assault on Imperial Center by Rebel Alliance forces just a few years ago. Nothing had stopped them then. Like butchers, they carved through the masses of people in their path. Just like the Imperial stormtroopers were doing now.
With the sole exception that billions of residents had been on the streets and in key structures of Coruscant at that time.
Not the pitiful few million who remained on the planet after Grand Admiral Thrawn's strike, blockading it with invisible asteroids.
Jahan glanced away for a moment, catching sight of several people standing in a dark corner of the attic.
Even without their black-and-red armor, the guards looked imposing, clad in gear that did not diminish their combat effectiveness and prevented identification.
These sentients never showed their faces, always remaining in closed helmets.
They were not particularly eloquent, and honestly, Agent had little desire to chat with hybrids of a battle tank and a medium-sized rancor.
Glancing at the soldiers, Jahan sighed. Despite being the head of all Dominion operations here on Coruscant, the thought lingered that these ten guards, if given the order, would slit his throat with relative ease and continue about their business.
Hence, he needed to be extremely cautious, blending personal ambitions with command orders in his activities.
Fortunately, for the moment, they coincided.
Thrawn had given the order—find Cronal.
The man who had headed Imperial Intelligence under the name "Agent Blackhole" and was responsible for the death of his unborn child.
Of course, from a formal standpoint, the decision to terminate the life inside her had been made directly by Elli to become an Imperial agent.
But two men had pushed her to that decision.
He, Jahan Cross, who had prophesied a future among spies for the girl, and Cronal, who had made it clear that pregnant women had no place in the academy.
And now Jahan intended to follow Blackhole's trail to find him and gut him like a tauntaun.
Feeling queasy from the flood of memories, Jahan leaned against the cold attic railing, continuing to observe the stormtroopers' actions through the polarized transparisteel of the attic.
In this part of the city, there were not that many of them, but even the battalion clearing this quarter was too many to venture toward his objective.
Even if the guard commander promised to deal with the enemy stormtroopers quickly, quietly, and most importantly, with a guarantee, the agent dared not break through their ranks to the target.
The deep interrogation sector was located, as funny as it sounded, deep beneath the structures of the Upper Levels.
Under normal circumstances, it would take considerable time to reach it using standard routes, coordinating passwords and access levels.
But now, the New Republic and the Pentastar Alignment had greatly simplified his task, plowing up the lion's share of the Upper Levels' structures during their nearly month-long battle.
Thousands of buildings destroyed, reduced to ruins or completely incinerated by targeted orbital strikes.
The Republicans, continuing to use the city's still-Imperial defense systems with turbolasers mounted on upper floors of buildings, surely thought suppressing those firing points would be quite a challenge for the attackers.
After all, they had to destroy such a small target that could bite back—from the surface to low orbit.
The "Reaper" resolved that tactical conundrum in a few days.
It simply bombed the skyscrapers, not bothering with targeted fire on the firing points.
When had Imperials ever cared about casualties among the local population?
Just recall the slaughter they inflicted on civilian ships in orbit around Coruscant.
In the first hours of their invasion, the "Reaper" and its squadron destroyed every starship carrying peaceful population intending to return to Coruscant after leaving it following Grand Admiral Thrawn's asteroid blockade several months earlier.
"Sir," a quiet voice came through the headset communicator. "You're being called."
Jahan stepped away from the polarized attic enclosure and entered the penthouse.
Once it had been a place with spacious rooms and expensive furniture.
Now it was a sort of barracks where two dozen Dominion guards waited out the time.
As well as their command post, arsenal, medbay, and much else, including a communications center that allowed scattered groups across all of Coruscant to maintain contact with each other.
Jahan had used the planet's duplicate emergency services communication network, unused for several years due to its redundancy—the main line was reliable enough that no one used the backup since the New Republic's assault on Imperial Center.
True, it had taken considerable work to get it operational, but it was worth it.
Agent Cross looked at the holographic projection of the planet, where lights slowly blinked indicating the locations of Dominion Intelligence combat squads.
For the most part, they consisted of clones of the late Dominion hero Molo Himron, but who would identify them under closed armor? And in case of death or severe injury in combat, the armor featured a detonation system. A baradium charge the size of a large thumb would not just leave no traces for identification and body recovery but even fragments of the gear.
A logical precaution when operating deep in enemy territory with clone forces.
The existence of the latter was a secret for all but certain categories of the Dominion's population.
It could not be kept for long—eventually, the enemy would start asking questions about why Dominion stormtroopers were hauling their dead off the battlefield.
But let command worry about that.
Jahan himself found using clones useful.
He knew of Himron only by hearsay, but what his clones did... That was something else.
Scouts and saboteurs, provocateurs and demolition experts... It seemed these guys could do anything ordered of them.
Sometimes Cross even wondered how he would react upon meeting one of his own clones.
And he had no doubt they existed somewhere.
"On comms," Jahan identified himself, linking his comlink to the encryption system.
"Surprises are ready," Afar's voice reached him.
The Zygerrian commanded one of the forward sabotage squads tasked with mining certain facilities whose demolition was necessary to support the entire group's operations and to execute Cross's own plan.
"Five-minute readiness," he ordered.
Meaning the forward squads had exactly three hundred seconds to clear the blast zones and the area that would soon be cordoned off by Pentastar Alignment stormtroopers.
Though Jahan himself doubted that these white-armored guys truly belonged to Kaine.
The latter's ground forces had entirely different uniforms.
Stormtroopers yes, but if all data on their numbers from numerous observers and spy droids were tallied, it came out that there were no fewer than three hundred thousand "white boys" on the planet.
Which was about six times more than the known figures for stormtrooper numbers in the Pentastar Alignment that Jahan had access to.
Either Kaine was pulling the wool over eyes, or he had far more stormtroopers under his command than he had demonstrated in the past.
When the allotted time ended, Agent Cross picked up the remote control from the table and activated the device.
All that remained was to send the signal to the detonators.
The small black piece of plastic stuffed with electronics settled familiarly into his right palm. Multicolored lights blinked.
The small button on the side panel of the remote was indistinguishable from the others, but if his thumb pressed it, it would unleash fire and pain, sweeping aside a considerable number of enemies standing between him and his objective.
"Squads ready?" he asked the guard commander.
The latter nodded curtly.
Though Jahan could have confirmed it himself by looking around at the main squad's armored fighters, laden with weapons from head to toe, not to mention capacious tactical backpacks.
After he pressed the button, no one would return to the penthouse.
"Traps activated?" he posed the next question.
And again, only an affirmative nod.
The guards were not verbose, but they were dutiful.
And that was good.
Well then, time to act.
***
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