A crimson blade hummed as it slashed through the air and descended like a guillotine, poised to behead a certain someone with a knack for losing lightsabers.
But this time (after so many practice sessions), Fodeum was prepared for his opponent's strike.
Raising the white-and-blue blade Grand Admiral Thrawn had given him, the young man easily parried the blow. His muscles trembled at the realization of the power behind the Inquisitor's attack—but he stood his ground. This time he wouldn't go crashing face-first into a burrow for local rodents, because…
The Force was much too late in warning him that an Inquisitor's weapon might be more than just a double-bladed lightsaber: the Inquisitor's entire body could be a weapon.
A boot with a ribbed tread smashed into his chest with such force that, in the next instant, Fodeum found himself airborne. That fleeting sensation of weightlessness had a strangely invigorating effect on mind and body. But his back, the first to collide with the rough bark of a century-old tree, was far less enthusiastic about such developments.
Fodeum slid to the ground, gasping for air—his lungs felt suspiciously empty after Obscuro's kick, and his respiratory system wasn't helping. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision.
Then, thankfully, it brightened a little—but it was a dangerous sort of relief. The cause was the Inquisitor's displeased glare, or possibly one of his lightsaber blades pointed right at Fodeum's throat—hard to say.
— Poor! — Reynar barked, deactivating his own lightsaber. With a yank, he hauled Fodeum upright. Shaking the young man as though he were a sack of grain, the instructor seemingly triggered some hidden mechanism in Fodeum's body that the apprentice hadn't known was there. But at least his lungs started working again, so that was something. — Absolutely disgraceful! It's like it's your first time holding a lightsaber! Where's your Force?! Did you come here to waste my time?! Fight, weakling, or die!
— Thank… you… — Fodeum rasped, drawing a fresh breath. Seems this "training bout" had cost him a few bruised internal organs. Hey, that's not fair—those organs were precious, the only ones he had, dear and irreplaceable. — A… valuable… lesson…
— Thank the Hutt for that "advice"! — Obscuro snarled. — You'd be killed in your first real fight! I could have already ended you multiple times, but I decided to give you a chance!
— By cracking a few ribs? — Fodeum tried joking. His body strongly advised him against it.
— You're fine, weakling! — Obscuro spat on the ground with poorly concealed contempt. — Be grateful I changed my mind about punching you in the face, otherwise your sweet little tail-head—he gestured toward Vex, who was hurrying over—would be picking bits of your nasal cartilage out of your brain.
— You're so kind today, Master, — Fodeum returned a stiff smile with a bit of a barb. — Maybe next time, you could try actually teaching me instead of just beating me?
— Trying to teach you, — the Inquisitor ground out, — is just a waste of nerves. If not for Thrawn's request, I wouldn't be bothering at all, you worthless weakling!
— Enough! — the Twi'lek snapped at Reynar. He gave her a scorching glare, but she didn't even consider backing off. — You've been beating him daily for two weeks straight! Every single day!
— Training must involve pain, — the Inquisitor gritted out. — It's the only way to learn the lesson for real!
— You alive over there? — Vex asked, focusing on Fodeum for the first time, real concern emanating from her. Her worried face was so close he could smell the subtle sweetness of her perfume, not overwhelming but distinctly pleasant.
— Yeah, yeah, — Fodeum mumbled distractedly. — Same as always.
— You'll end up crippling him, you heartless piece of bantha hide without a shred of compassion! — done with fussing over her partner, the Twi'lek now confronted the towering Inquisitor, easily two heads taller. Reynar eyed her with open hostility, as if still not believing this tiny slip of a woman, barely tall enough to reach his chest, dared to challenge him—a man who could crush her and the entire Imperial research team currently rummaging around the ruined Jedi Enclave. Surreal indeed, but…
— Vex, let it go… — Fodeum put in.
— You stay out of it! — she hissed at him, jabbing a slender finger his way. Lips pressed tight, she shoved the Inquisitor in the chest with all her might. He didn't budge. — What kind of training is this, anyway? Every single day, in the middle of your so-called "breaks," you thrash Fodeum with all your strength and call it practice?! He won't have a patch of unbruised skin left, you monster!
— Only pain can help him remember how to keep himself alive! — the Inquisitor rumbled. — Once he faces Sedriss, Solusar, or one of the Dark Side Elite, he'll recall my lessons—recall them in pain, accept it, and grow stronger!
— You'll kill him before he's even ready, you hutt-spawn freak! — the Twi'lek flared up, shoving him again. Reynar didn't budge. — You just keep kicking, pushing, tossing him around! Who teaches like that?! At least show him how to fight…!
Fodeum, well aware of the Twi'lek's fiery temper and how it clashed with the Inquisitor's vile demeanor, gripped his lightsaber, clearing his mind of extraneous emotion. The Force insisted it was about to boil over…
And it did.
The Inquisitor closed the fingers of his right hand into a fist. Vex's tirade cut off instantly, like water from a faucet. She choked, legs kicking as she rose a meter in the air, clawing at her throat.
— Pathetic little pest, — he snarled, spitting on the grass again. — Yapping, yapping, yapping… My ears hurt just hearing you! Worthless! I might as well throttle you right now so you stop distracting me from toughening up your whimpering captain. If this were Darth Vader… — he cast a sidelong look at Fodeum, who was quietly assessing the best way to defuse the situation. But the Inquisitor was deaf to words, wholly amoral. A pang of fury simmered in Fodeum's chest at his own helplessness in the face of this monster. — Aha, your puny captain's about to blow steam out his ears… Well, come on, weakling, save your lady friend!
— Let her go, Reynar, — Fodeum said. He hated how feeble he sounded, not even believing in his own resolve, let alone enough to sway this killing machine.
— Make me, runt, — the Inquisitor sneered. — She's pretty cute—he brushed the back of his hand across the sobbing Twi'lek's cheek—Shame to scar that face…
— Don't touch her! — Fodeum demanded more firmly, feeling fire spreading through his body, burning away the barriers that held the beast inside.
— Make me, weakling, — the Inquisitor repeated, his tone edged with menace, clenching his fingers so that Vex gagged harder. — She's about ready to fetch my slippers in her teeth…
The azure-white blade of Fodeum's saber carved an elegant arc, forcing Obscuro to step back. Hissing and crackling, the Inquisitor's red blade spun like a ring of fire, a whirlwind that Fodeum tried to fight through, slashing away without aiming, pouring every ounce of his fury, fear, hatred, anger…
The Force was intoxicating, making his head spin. As he glimpsed Obscuro's defense weakening, he anticipated his saber slashing through the Inquisitor's armor and letting his life bleed away, practically growling at the notion of savoring the terror in the other's eyes.
In that moment, all the lessons from his mother and other Jensaarai about the dangers of the dark side, the hazards of raw emotion, vanished from his mind. He wanted just one thing: to kill. And to protect Vex.
He'd already saved her—he sensed that once Reynar went on the defensive, he'd stopped choking his partner. Now to finish! Finish him! Kill, destroy, protect…
That final concept knifed into him like thousands of blades, making him feel as if he'd stumbled. His rage vanished instantly, replaced by disgust at the thirst for death. He felt filthy, as if coated in layers of congealed blood. Blood of those he intended to kill.
And so the Force fled, leaving behind a hollow loneliness, a bottomless despair akin to losing everyone dear.
He barely dodged the Inquisitor's kick, but the following blow from the double-bladed saber knocked his own weapon away. With a hiss, the Inquisitor's blade flitted past his nose.
Fodeum felt the tidal wave of fury and murderous intent swirling off Reynar, dwarfing his own momentary slip into darkness. The Inquisitor panted, eyes molten metal, cold and final. He lifted his saber…
A blaster shot rang out overhead. Obscuro parried the bolt with casual ease, deflecting it into the grass. Another shot whizzed upward, and with telekinesis, Reynar yanked the blaster out of Vex's hand—she was wheezing on the ground—and destroyed it with a slash of his saber. The Twi'lek, evidently snatched by his power, half-lurched across the clearing, but ended up near Fodeum. The swirling lumps of pain told him it wasn't some unnatural teleportation, more like her being dragged physically across the grass.
— This is called Dun Möch, — Reynar Obscuro explained grimly. — Undermining your enemy's composure through threats, taunts, whatever it takes. The Sith and their pawns exploit it to disrupt a Jedi's emotional control. All you have to do is survive that first wave of anger, and then the Jedi's own dogma will shatter him, draining that Dark Side power—precisely what happened to you, weakling, — The Inquisitor switched off his blade, the handle hooking onto his belt. — I've killed dozens if not hundreds of Jedi this way, runt, so I know exactly how to force you to do what I want. Those who come after you, after your loved ones, will be masters of it. They'll have a hundred more tricks, each one lethal, and they train every day by fighting death itself. Today you gained enough strength to crush me, — Fodeum noticed a burn mark on the Inquisitor's armor, — and to protect her, — he pointed to Vex, glowering from the side. — You can't be both good and evil at once, weakling. Make a choice—claim the power to do what must be done, or remain the sweet boy who cares about his conscience first. Because if you're fighting someone from the Dark Side Elite, not me, that one — he pointed at the now silent Twi'lek — won't save you. You saw just a fraction of what a Dark Sider can do. Another in my place—Sedriss, Solusar, or a half-dozen other butchers—wouldn't play games with you. She'd die in your arms, then they'd kill you, too. Want to live and triumph? Accept who you really are, weakling. The Force should always be with you—it's your weapon, the lightsaber is secondary! If you keep rejecting the Force every time you're about to kill and sleep soundly at night, you'll die. And so will those you wanted to protect, because you feared getting your hands dirty. You keep pestering me to teach you to fight, but you won't see how immense and perilous this galaxy is. Half-measures won't do. Either claim your nature and harness the Force, or remain a weakling who always needs saving. Sure, maybe you'll survive by occasionally grazing the Force like you have for years—but your allies, the ones risking their hides to save yours, won't.
Without waiting for a response, Reynar turned on his heel. The heavy black folds of his cloak nearly slapped both Fodeum and Vex in the face, but they backed away just in time. The Inquisitor strode away toward the ruins of the Dantooine Jedi Temple, where an Imperial science team had set up a field camp.
— He's provoking you to do what you must never do, — Vex whispered to Fodeum. She saw how his hollow gaze rested on his hands and the lightsaber lying nearby. — Remember how you said the Dark Side was dangerous?
— I said it, — Fodeum murmured. — They taught me to keep it in check…
— Don't listen to him, — she tugged on his shoulder. — He wants to make you as rotten as he is! You're better than that!
— Of course, — the young man nodded, not entirely convinced by her optimism. — But… some of what he said… might be true. He's confusing me with all these twisted arguments, but there's something there…
— I'll always watch your back, — Vex told him, pressing close in a friendly way, resting her head on his shoulder. — Same way you'd watch mine. No need to break yourself just to become "stronger." If you're no longer you, who needs that kind of power?
He looked down at the top of her head…
And said nothing.
***
The first landing craft, carrying speeder bikes in its cargo bay, hovered a few meters above the ground. As the ramp lowered, a scout trooper revved up his 74-Z speeder bike and roared out under the midday star of Honoghr. Meanwhile, the second craft extended its landing legs onto the dry grass.
Scout Trooper on a 74-Z Speeder Bike
Stripped down for minimal weight and armor, this particular speeder had been part of the arsenal dating back to the Clone Wars. First used by the Grand Army of the Republic's scouts and continuing up to the Empire's recon units. Reliable, easy to handle, and fast.
Now, while Fourth Squad under Sergeant TNH-0297 and some Noghri guides were unloading from a Lambda-class shuttle, the scouts on 74-Zs did what they always did—scouted the vicinity for hostiles. Highly maneuverable and lightning-fast, often traveling 360-500 km/h, these troopers soared around without crashing. They got the job done.
TNH-0297 glanced around, looking for the Noghri guide. He stood near the squad leader, so the Sergeant headed that way. Mushkil spotted him approach and moved closer:
— This temple is sacred to our people, — the gray figure mewed in passable Basic. Hard to say which of them he was addressing. The Sergeant merely nodded, not wanting to get into debates. His job was to fight. — The intruders have barricaded themselves inside. There is no hope of freeing our matriarchs otherwise.
— We'll see to it, — TNH-0297 said, surveying the surroundings.
As the scouts finished their inspection of the plains leading to a grove—where presumably a religious building of the Noghri was hidden—they returned to the rest of the stormtroopers emerging from the shuttle. Their helmet feeds updated the unit's commanding officers in real-time.
So, the scouts had found over a hundred enemy troops. Some scattered through the forest, the rest hunkered down around the complex, presumably waiting for an inevitable assault, possibly with more inside, else the matriarchs would be free by now. That means a bigger force than anticipated—and they were all likely perplexed that just nine stormtroopers plus some scouts dared to challenge them.
The Sergeant studied the terrain.
They had to cross 250 meters of open space, then came thick undergrowth and hills. Past that, the grove with the Noghri temple.
It seemed quiet—too quiet. The scouts had confirmed enemy positions in the hills, bunkers, a trench line. Likely the Republic paratroopers wouldn't do anything until forced. They didn't fire on the scouts, so maybe they were biding their time.
His attention drifted to engine noise.
Turning, he saw yet another Lambda-class shuttle coming in. From the hull markings and modifications, it was the Grand Admiral's personal craft.
— Fourth Squad, center formation, — came the order, once he deduced the pilot's intended landing spot.
The troopers lined up. With two Lambdas between them and the rebels, the new arrival's identity would remain a mystery to the defenders.
Grand Admiral Thrawn disembarked his craft with an Imperial Guard. They strode briskly to a field holoprojector that was displaying the enemy dispositions.
The Noghri guide bowed respectfully upon seeing the commander. The stormtroopers—both line infantry and the dismounted scouts—stood at attention in typical textbook form.
— Report, — he ordered.
— This detachment, supplemented by scouts, is set to assault the Noghri temple, — a lieutenant explained. — The enemy is holding the clan matriarchs hostage, threatening to kill them if we attack. They demand three hyperspace-capable ships and safe passage. The Noghri tried freeing them on their own, but lost. The enemy lost about a company of paratroopers, but at least two remain. All armed with standard-issue gear. Our intercepts indicate the officer in command is "Page."
— Then we're dealing with the New Republic Special Forces, — the Grand Admiral narrowed his eyes.
— On this front, yes, sir, — the squad leader confirmed. — The rest were standard paratroopers.
— So this is their last pocket of resistance, Lieutenant? — Thrawn asked the trooper in charge of this operation.
— Yes, sir. The enemy's in two defensive rings—the hills and the forest, plus the structure itself. They presumably have a command post inside.
— Plan of attack? — the Grand Admiral inquired, glancing at the charred remains of destroyed New Republic armor a few dozen meters away, likely taken out by the shuttles on their first pass.
— The scouts on speeder bikes will lay a smoke screen for the first enemy line, then punch through to hit the second line. Fourth and Third squads will attack head-on here and on the adjacent sector, while the First and Second squads flank left through the woods to reach the structure via the shortest route. Meanwhile, the Noghri Death Commandos will infiltrate the temple and free the hostages.
— Where are the Noghri now? — Thrawn's glowing eyes landed on the guide, who looked aside.
— They're spread in the undergrowth on the left, — the Noghri said. — They've stayed there since the first attack was repelled.
TNH-0297 knew all about the Noghri's failed attempt to destroy the paratroopers that had seized the temple. The Rebel craft had crashed after being disabled by a turbolaser tower, but the survivors took the temple area, planning to entrench with heavy weapons. With a Stormtrooper reinforcement, their armor got torched, but a couple of landing companies slipped away, wiping out the local Noghri. Now the final standoff was at the temple.
— I don't recall the Noghri ever mentioning this place, — Thrawn said, eyes never leaving the guide. — Or any temple here.
— It is the Noghri's religion, — the gray figure said. — The temple was built by the gods, and no one should know of it. So decreed the matriarchs.
— I'll speak with them about that later, — Thrawn replied. — Lieutenant, begin the assault. Use the shuttles to shield your men until they get close. At fifty meters, deploy the scouts' smoke screens. Then have the shuttles lift off and destroy any fleeing hostiles.
Mushkil seemed about to say something but froze under the Grand Admiral's warning stare.
— Yes, sir, — the unit commander barked.
Thrawn lifted a cautionary brow.
— First, offer them surrender. Give them five minutes to think. If they refuse, destroy them. Take the officers alive.
— Understood, Grand Admiral, — the lieutenant said, saluting. — We'll proceed at once.
— Move out.
— Yes, sir.
TNH-0297 admired the commander's logic. He'd offered them surrender before showing force, but they refused, likely hoping for negotiation. Now, the troopers would crush them. Best outcome was capturing them.
As for the Noghri… the Sergeant wasn't sure of their relationship with the Grand Admiral but assumed Thrawn's final words carried real weight. He just took note that these Noghri knife experts might become potential threats, so he stealthily shifted his footing to allow more room to maneuver if they lashed out.
A few paces away, the lambdas were lifting to a moderate altitude, like hawks sizing up prey.
The troopers lined up behind the craft's hulls, moving quickly in unison, presumably waiting to see if the enemy responded to the surrender ultimatum.
— The enemy refuses, — came the lieutenant's voice in TNH-0297's helmet. — Commence the attack. Pilots: slow advance. Troopers, double-time. Scouts, stand ready to break through.
The shuttles kicked thrusters, continuing forward. The troopers, staying clear of the engine blasts, went into a run to keep pace.
So far, everything was going by the book, no complications typical of an op this size. The enemy tested the Lambda deflectors, found them strong, and ducked for cover once the heavy laser cannons of the shuttles raked their defenses.
TNH-0297 soon reached the danger zone. As the shuttle hull parted, the scout troopers shot out on their speeder bikes, guns blazing mostly for suppression.
Swinging in arcs before the enemy lines, the scouts lobbed smoke canisters, blanketing the field in thick white-gray clouds that didn't impede the stormtroopers' helmet sensors.
With that, the shuttles climbed, leaving the troopers to carry out the final push.
The roar of blasterfire from both sides merged into one deafening dirge of death. But the unstoppable advantage lay with the Imperial side—hammering from the air, the foe was pinned, with limited effect on the troopers.
Storming past the tree line, which had begun to blaze in patches, TNH-0297 watched Mushkil shoot an enemy sniper from cover. The next one died by a standard Noghri finishing move: a thrown knife to the forehead. The body crashed into some bushes. Stormtroopers bypassed the corpse and gunned down two more with crossfire.
Distant blasts suggested further pockets of explosives—grenades or bigger ordnance. Noted.
Casualty reports started trickling in. The Second Squad was almost wiped out; the First Squad pinned by snipers. But the Noghri moved in, and a second later the First Squad's sergeant announced the problem solved.
The Third Squad was fifty meters away, steadily pushing in. The screech of the speeder bikes and their rapid-fire cannons indicated the second defensive line was putting up a bigger fight. They needed a better approach. The sergeant in the Fourth Squad considered solutions.
Four hundred meters of forest took them a few minutes. Ahead, a dark-gray temple loomed, and fierce fighting raged on its steps. The pockmarked ground and battered exterior suggested booby traps had taken out some troopers and Noghri.
Republic forces were withdrawing inside the main entry—a rectangular arch glowing with warm yellow light. Fodeum glimpsed droid debris battered by close-range weapons. The enemy avoided them, but the Noghri…
— Mines! — TNH-0297 shouted, too late.
A wave of about ten young Noghri charged and was wiped out when the enemy triggered hidden devices. The explosion scattered blood and limbs. Stormtroopers ducked behind a waist-high exterior wall circling the temple, in places crumbling like the structure itself.
TNH-0297 noted the building was made of extremely resilient material, definitely beyond Noghri tech. That meant the temple was built by outsiders.
He needed an approach. He radioed for permission to bring the shuttles in for covering fire. The lieutenant swiftly gave commands. The temple entrance erupted under a sea of blasterfire. The defenders, now battered, pulled inside, presumably seeking narrower spaces. That was logical. They were familiar with the layout.
A couple stormtroopers edged near the entrance, from which red bolts flickered, blocking entry. A frontal assault would cost too many. They needed a plan.
— Scouts, be ready to dash inside, — Thrawn's voice came over the command channel unexpectedly.
TNH-0297, who'd had the same thought himself, watched as pairs of scout troopers soared past the entry, wailing away on high speed, harassing the defenders with their guns and splitting their focus.
When the defenders' fire died, the squads rushed in.
The entire place echoed with the roar of lasers on both sides, the defenders swiftly outmatched. The stormtroopers used columns, podiums, and corners to trap the rebels in the temple's central chamber, near a cluster of older, black-furred Noghri women. Three Republic soldiers guarded them directly, with five more wounded. The stormtroopers fanned out, some securing the hostages while the rest advanced into adjoining hallways. At least two dozen Noghri joined them, lurking in the dark corners.
Cautiously, a half-dozen 74-Z bikes eased forward, their engines whining in the gloom. The corridors still rang with battle, likely E-11 fire. The outcome was certain. The end was near.
— Drop your weapons, — the sergeant ordered the cornered foe. — Your people need medical attention.
— Look at this kindly Imperial, — spat a tall, broad man with no rank insignia, presumably in charge by default. — We want a ship out of here…
— You get neither, Lieutenant Page, — Grand Admiral Thrawn's voice announced from a corridor linking the entry and main chamber. In the Imperial Guard's company, he stood beneath the arch, gazing coolly at the last living rebels. — The best I can offer under these conditions is surrender and medical care. Continued resistance means your death.
— Then they die, too, — the paratrooper retorted, pressing his combat knife to the throat of a Noghri matriarch. A split-second later, from the darkness, a throwing knife flew, severing the man's wrist. He hissed, letting go of his hostage.
Next instant came a sickening crunch of bones, and the enemy leader collapsed to his knees, arms limp and useless. The matriarch pinned him, pressing his own knife to his throat. Other clan rulers seized the moment—either disappearing or merging with the shadows. Possibly illusions.
The last rebels exchanged shocked looks. A flurry of glinting Noghri blades surrounded them.
— The first one to open fire will cause the deaths of all his comrades, — Thrawn declared, dividing his attention between the matriarch controlling the rebel commander and the rebels themselves. — Every New Republic soldier who lays down arms will be taken captive and given treatment. The Noghri could kill you, but then I would never again accept their pledge of loyalty or come to their defense. You have ten seconds. After that, you'll be wiped out at all costs. Time starts… now.
TNH-0297 found the logic impressive. He'd offered them a chance to surrender even before. They refused, hoping to negotiate, but lost. Now, capturing them was best.
As for the Noghri… The Sergeant didn't know the intricacies of the relationship between them and the Grand Admiral, but the promise Thrawn made must carry weight. The matriarchs made no move to kill. The last few battered rebels, seeing no hope, gave up.
— Good choice, — Thrawn commented. He eyed the rebel SF commander, who was quickly disarmed by 501st troopers, and turned to the clan matriarchs standing a few meters away.
— I'll remain in orbit for two more days, — he said. — If you have anything to tell me, do so in that time. Otherwise I suggest you prepare an evacuation. The Republic won't leave you alone.
With that, the Grand Admiral departed the ancient temple, escorted by his Guard.
***
— Eymand? — Tiberos yelled, pushing into the cockpit of an armored Gozanti-class transport and plopping down in the co-pilot seat next to the helmsman—a shirtless hulk of a man, muscle cords etched with tattoos, each marking time served. Likely half his life was spent on Kessel. Possibly the reason for such sculpted muscle. — Let's move, buddy. We've got a crisis on our hands.
— The Rabid Ewok, Bounty Hunters, and Ravager are in position! — the ex-Jedi responded. — We've undocked from the transport. Just need to hold for thirty minutes while they clear out and make the jump.
Easier said than done.
Tiberos scanned the readouts.
The pirates from whom he'd stolen a heavy fighter had apparently brought their entire fleet. They must have taken that petty theft personally. Fine, so be it. As long as they can manage…
— We're in big trouble, Captain, — the beefy pilot rumbled.
Tiberos already saw the same data, but if this lug realized it, it was truly dire.
— Plot an intercept course, — Tiberos commanded. — Right now, we can't let them reach our transport. The other four are safe; the Colicoid Swarm is covering them.
— Won't the Black Pearl cover us? — the pilot asked.
— Good question, Tiberos, — Eymand chimed in. — Will Vayne back us up?
— The jerk wants me to pay for his entire ship's repair, — Tiberos growled. — We can't afford that.
— If we lose the profit from this job, we'll have nothing, — the ex-Jedi said. Thank you, old friend, for not mentioning "the stash." No need for even old allies to know the details. — We have two captured freighters full of supplies, plus that half-dead one belongs to us alone. Thrawn will pay us well for these gifts. Miss this cargo, and we'll only have enough for basic repairs and wages. So I say we gamble—if the Black Pearl helps, it can easily gut half the Lok Revenants' fleet.
But Captain Nym's pirate flotilla was no joke. The console said it all:
Fourteen Nubian Scurrg H-6 "Scourges," heavily customized by the Lok gang, making them far more threatening. Enough to cause real alarm.
Sixteen G-400 single-seat fighters with a single cannon. No big threat 1-on-1, but there were a lot of them.
A "Freefall" bomber from the same Nubian line, apparently used by the second-in-command. Not as scary as it might be, so long as its bomb bay stayed sealed.
A "Mantis Guardian" from the X'Ting/Charr… or Xi Char? A cunning stealth fighter. Only one, but still nerve-wracking.
Two Sigils… ancient, but still around.
A "Hummer," basically a kitbash freighter loaded with an absurd amount of weapons.
Five Z-95 AF4 Headhunters, a modern variant… a serious headache, sturdier, stronger, faster…
Wait, that's all? No X-wings? No Y-wings? No storm boats or Skyhoppers?
— Forty ships, — Tiberos exhaled. He was well-versed in the "Lok Avengers" tactics, so no doubt about it…
He began issuing orders to the motley crew on his seized transport. They were stunned but complied. Implementation began.
Sorry, Vayne. Should have just cooperated. Now you might end up paying a bigger price.
He saw from the instruments that Captain Irv was hugging the perimeter. The battered remains of a Mon Cal cruiser were ablaze, hammered by the Colicoid Swarm. At least fewer complications for them. He felt a bit guilty for Vayne but you can't help it—blame it on random chance or the Force. The outcome is set.
— You want more? — Eymand said. — Tiberos, they're about to enter firing range!
— I see it, — the captain muttered. — Nym, you better stand down. We're working for the Empire. Not our contract—Theirs. You mess with us…
— Spare me, Tibb. We've a personal score, not with the Empire, — the calm bristled with static.
— Then let my ships go, and we settle ours… — Tiberos proposed, though he sensed it only aggravated Captain Nym.
— No can do, Tibb, — the Fi'oren responded. — I want to see how that fool Imperial who hired you reacts when you fail. Fire!
Dozens of fighters—some X-wings or Y-wings? Correction: lumps were maybe cross references. A volley of proton torpedoes hammered the sluggish freighter. Tiberos silently thanked the Force that his other ships were out of the blast radius…
But the massive Black Pearl was not.
The battered Providence-class carrier's matte-black plating took the brunt of the chain reaction, deflectors straining to contain the first shockwaves, but ultimately failing, letting shrapnel rake the open hangar deck. Tearing up everything within range. The star destroyer, or ex-Separatist dreadnought, had effectively lost the entire starboard side to the chain reaction from the cargo's warheads.
Even though Tiberos regretted the lost bounty, at least the lifepods from his own crew had launched out of range. Yazuo Vayne, a decent guy but did he manage to escape the initial explosion? Possibly not. The attackers hadn't planned for such an enormous detonation.
— That's it, your transport's gone, — Nym snickered. — Quite the pretty Seppie destroyer you had, Tibb… Mmm, been a while since I saw a Providence. Where'd you dig that up? Eh, guess it don't matter.
— You made a big mistake, Nym, — Tiberos sighed, motioning to his pilot to steer them closer to the Black Pearl. If Vayne was onboard that cargo ship, well… But scanning readouts said otherwise… Vayne's vessel was drifting, battered. Or maybe not?
— No, Tibb, — the fi'oren laughed. — I'm finishing off your crew, then I'll help myself to that neat piece of hardware. I was always partial…
— Nym, you worthless liar, — Tiberos said with mocking sweetness. — The Lok Avengers are broke. If you had credits, you'd never stoop to raiding me mid-job.
— Save the talk, Tibb, — the pirate leader scorned. — We'll pick your bones and snag that beauty. Dare you to resist. Wait… what do you mean it's not yours?
"Black Pearl," until now drifting immobile, suddenly powered thrusters. Warily the battered starboard hull turned, and…
A bright surge enveloped the star destroyer's battered flank. Not from existing fires but from the thrusters or perhaps a surprise.
A barrage of artillery from the Pearl erased a dozen enemy signals from Tiberos's console, replaced by miniature blasts of chain reaction.
Silently, Tiberos thanked the Force that Vayne, that incorrigible brat, had survived and was thoroughly pissed.
He and everyone within earshot heard a torrent of curses—Huttese, Arkanian, Corellian, plus languages Tiberos didn't even recognize.
Then the well-spoken but furious voice of white-haired Captain Vayne took the comm:
— I don't know who the gamorrean hog is that damaged my ship — he shrieked, unrecognizable in fury, — but now I'll tear you to pieces! Tiberos, this is your buddy?
— Hardly, — Tiberos answered, eyes locked on the devastation as another volley from the Pearl obliterated half of Nym's flotilla. — He's called Captain Nym, come to take your ship, Vayne.
— MY SHIP?! — the same savage voice roared so loud the comm squealed. The Black Pearl accelerated, closing in on Nym's nineteen remaining craft as they scrambled away from the monstrous volley of turbolasers and missiles. — Nym, get your worthless hide over here! I'm going to shred you personally!
— W-wait, Vayne, hold on, I'll pay you—! cried Nym's voice, backpedaling in panic, but a well-aimed anti-ship missile swatted the stealth fighter out of existence.
From the wails on the open channels, the Lok Avengers recognized they had no shot. The SBD droid fighters and heavy turrets hammered them. They never even got near Tiberos's backup positions, as the Pearl alone was decimating them. Nym, his second, plus three battered Headhunters escaped into hyperspace.
The Gozanti soared along the Pearl's battered starboard flank, a disheartening sight. Sections of plating ripped away, internal decks warped or collapsed, multiple fires burned out from lack of oxygen, leaving twisted metal. The entire open hangar was gone, the vessel gutted. Only the fact that Vayne had no money for a full bomb load prevented total meltdown. He'd used up the last of what he had…
— Yazuo, — Tiberos spoke. — I'm at your starboard side. There's… not much left. I'm sorry, friend.
Instead of a reply, the hangar's shield doors tried to close but jammed. Possibly the blast had broken them.
— Friend? — Vayne's voice sneered with unexpected venom. — Because of your petty feud with Captain Nym, my ship's ruined. Eymand already sent me telemetry! My starboard side is gone! My turbolasers are half-obliterated! You call this friendship?!
— I didn't lure them here, — Tiberos tried. — They destroyed the cargo loaded with warheads, so the chain reaction took out your starboard side. Believe me, I'm sorry…
— Shove that "sorry" up a Hutt's backside! — The battered pilot shot back. — If the Pearl can't make it to Makem-Te for repairs and deliver the merchandise, I'll carve you up myself, got that?!
— Sure, friend, — Tiberos said calmly, internally calculating the cost to fix the battered starboard side. Possibly half the original cost of the entire Providence. Vayne did have some money from these captures, but maybe not enough to fix everything. So the logical outcome was to sell the old hull. Tiberos himself lacked enough cash to buy it outright, but maybe he could get two-thirds. The crew might forfeit wages, though, in exchange for a stake. Might be workable…
He leaned back in the co-pilot seat, watching as the battered Pearl, ringed by a few droid fighters, limped toward the Colicoid Swarm. The Twi'lek was stowing his Vulture droids in Irv's hangar, presumably.
Smiling to himself, Tiberos plotted how to use this. He bet Thrawn would be very interested in the planet Lok, where Nym had stashed big caches of loot and a modest factory for the Scurrg H-6. The Grand Admiral might pay well for that intel. Then Tiberos could muster the funds to buy the Black Pearl from Vayne. So long as he made sure the Imperial never discovered he'd lost that warhead-laden freighter due to Tiberos's petty sabotage.
He saw a bright future for himself… and a battered "friend."