CORE SYSTEMS

CHAPTER 9

True night was impossible in the Core Systems. Stars clustered so closely together that even the blackest regions of space were a symphony of stellar flares and hot ionized gas clumped in regions once considered uninhabitable. In a navigational hell like this, remnants of the Empire hid among uncharted systems where they could wait and recover—and war upon each other.

Admiral Daala walked erect and alone, a proud example of Imperial training as stormtrooper guards provided an armed escort into the fortress of Supreme Warlord Harrsk. Her face appeared to be chiseled from stone, still beautiful but now weathered so that its edges held a bitter sharpness. Faint lines were etched around her mouth from too many years of clenching her teeth, too many months trying to reunite the feuding warlords who squabbled over the Empire’s remaining military might like nek battle dogs tearing a carcass.

Shadows haunted Daala’s eyes, memories of failure and a snuffed fire of revenge, but the green of her irises flashed molten when she thought of how simple it would be to strike effectively against the clumsy New Republic. Even now, the Rebels still hadn’t managed to secure their hold on the galaxy, though the Empire had given them years in which to accomplish it.

The stormtroopers formed a tight and comforting honor guard around Daala as she strode down the fused corridors into the bedrock. Supreme Warlord Harrsk had established his stronghold on a rocky planet that orbited close to a red giant star. Its surface crust remained soft and cracked, seeping lava like an oozing wound.

In orbit, giant solar smelters provided energy and processed raw material to construct Harrsk’s personal fleet of Imperial-class Star Destroyers. Upon arrival here, Daala’s loyal second in command, Kratas, had gone aboard the flagship Shockwave to inspect the weaponry. Harrsk had completed construction on twelve of the Star Destroyers so far, using whatever resources he could scrape together by bullying all the systems within reach.

Daala thought of the unexploited military strength in the safe shadow of Harrsk’s planet, where ripping rays from the red giant could not damage the ships’ systems. Back when she had been ordered to guard Maw Installation, Daala had commanded only four Imperial Star Destroyers—and in her private little war against the Rebels, she had lost three of those ships.

Yes, she could console herself that she had destroyed a Rebel colony, blown up a convoy to a new military base, and attacked and damaged the waterworld of Calamari—but overall her tactics had been woefully outdated and ill-considered. She had allowed dark anger to blind her to the shortcomings of her own schemes. She had suffered from fiendishly bad luck as well—but she had no intention of allowing luck to become a factor again.

Daala had given up everything to limp back to the Empire, surviving in the battle-scarred wreck of her last Star Destroyer, the Gorgon. Reaching sanctuary, she had been unimpressed with the weak and childish warlords who now held the future of the Empire in their hands. Imperial authorities had commandeered Daala’s remaining troops, scattering them among other ships in other fleets. They had scrapped the Gorgon, taking away the few usable components to rebuild other ships.

Daala, though, did not give them the chance to reassign her to a fighting group, preferring instead to act as a freelance ambassador, a peacemaker visiting the far-flung warlords. Each of them had concocted increasingly ridiculous titles for themselves, trying to top their nearest competitor—from Grand Admiral to High Admiral, to Supreme Commander, to Omnipotent Battle Leader. Admiral Daala had retained her own simple rank, requiring no further medals or titles. Her mission of unification remained incomplete, and she and Commander Kratas traveled from system to system, banking on their reputation and speaking to ears that seemed unfortunately to be filled with duracrete.

Around her now, the air smelled warm and steamy with a sulfurous edge that leaked through the vitrified tunnels. Daala’s mane of reddish hair flowed behind her like a comet’s tail. She had tried to trim it back to control it, but she disliked the severe look it gave her. Part of her needed to remain free, confined only by the limits of what she knew she could accomplish.

Harrsk’s stormtroopers formed up and lined the corridor like a gauntlet for her to pass. Tall synrock doors rose to the ceiling, etched with complex patterns that evoked an Imperial grandeur. A stormtrooper struck his fist against a circular brass plate set into the rock, and sound enhancers piped the single knock through an echo chamber so that it boomed and reverberated like the summons of a powerful deity.

Daala tried to hide her expression of distaste. Elaborate formality and overblown demonstrations of supposed power did not bode well. Supreme Warlord Harrsk seemed to consider himself very important—and in Daala’s experience, that meant he probably wasn’t.

The synrock doors ground open, and Daala marched forward without waiting to be announced. Her black boots clicked on the fused stone floor. She saluted. “I give you greeting, Supreme Warlord Harrsk.”

In a large chamber Supreme Warlord Harrsk had installed banks of observation panels. He sat on a small floating chair that bobbed as he kicked himself away from the station over to another panel.

“Ah, Admiral Daala,” Harrsk answered. The grin stretching across his face was hideous. The entire left half of his head was sizzled, leaving only bubbly pinkish skin, a mass of thick and insensitive scar tissue. His eye had been blinded, but Harrsk had replaced it with a synthetic droid optical sensor that caused his eye socket to glow yellow.

Harrsk had been nearly killed in an explosion during the battle of Endor. His Star Destroyer was crippled, but he managed to escape with part of the fleet to a rendezvous point in the Core Systems just after he had seen the Death Star explode. Harrsk could have repaired his skin with existing medical techniques, but had chosen not to, keeping the hideous scars as a badge of honor—and no doubt, Daala thought, a means of intimidation.

He shifted in his repulsorchair, and the seat bobbed with his motion. The hair on the unscarred half of his head was short and neat and black, and he seemed to show as much meticulous care for the intact side of his visage as he showed disdain for the scarred portion.

“Your reputation precedes you,” he said. “I am honored to have such a great war hero among us—and pleased that you have at last come to me after wasting so much time with my weaker rivals.”

Harrsk gestured toward the screens on his wall. Daala noted that he had holocams mounted on the hellish planetary surface, as well as remotes in orbit and more distant spy satellites on the fringes of the system. One image showed an ongoing fissure tearing a rock shelf apart as scarlet-orange lava spilled out in an incandescent waterfall. Harrsk nodded to the central screen that showed his dozen Imperial Star Destroyers in shadow where the rocky planet eclipsed the red sun.

“I was just speaking with your Commander Kratas,” Harrsk said. “He seems to be most impressed with my Shockwave.” He punched a button, and the scene shifted to show Kratas leaning over a station on the command bridge of a new Star Destroyer. His dark eyes glittered, and his heavy eyebrows were upraised.

“Admiral!” Kratas said, snapping to attention. “It feels good to be on the bridge again. This is a fine piece of military machinery. I had forgotten how sleek and maneuverable an Imperial Star Destroyer could be, after all the damage we suffered on the Gorgon.”

Daala reminded herself to chide him for showing such glee. Kratas must learn to act more professional. But he had been through enormous ordeals at her side. Kratas had been a solid second in command, a foil for her ideas … though perhaps if he had been stronger in his resolve, more willing to show a little backbone, Kratas might have convinced her that her tactics against the Rebels were unwise.

“I’m glad you are impressed, Commander,” Harrsk said. “You may continue your inspection. Admiral Daala and I have some things to discuss.”

Kratas began to snap a trim salute, but Warlord Harrsk ended the transmission without even acknowledging him. He swiveled in his floating chair to face Daala. She looked at him intently, staring at his one dark eye and one glowing optical sensor. She saw through his scars, paid no heed to his face or his droid eye—only to the mind that drove this collection of hardware that could be put to better use.

“Let us not draw out our discussions,” he said. “I know of your mission. You have spent the last year speaking to others, trying to sow the seeds of unification. I admire that. I, too, grow tired of this endless civil war—but, again, your tactics are all wrong. Such techniques might have worked under the frail democracy of the Old Republic, but it is not the Imperial way.”

When he stood, she saw that the warlord was substantially shorter than she. “You are a hero, Admiral Daala. Your word carries weight. That’s the only reason you have been able to travel unharmed through the hostile territories in the Core Systems. But it’s time you ended this game. You must throw in your lot with the most powerful warlord—myself, obviously. With you as my second in command, I will have the power to bring those pretenders to their knees and forge them into a fighting force. We’ll need to kill off the traitors, of course, but I suspect that many of their loyal soldiers would welcome the change in command. We’re all frustrated, you know.”

Daala bristled. “I understand what you’re saying, Supreme Warlord, and your fleet is indeed impressive.” She gestured to the screen, which depicted the shadowed group of Imperial Star Destroyers. “But I’m not convinced that you could so easily overwhelm your competitors. The moment you became stronger, the others would form alliances, and the struggle would be even bloodier than before.

“Rather, we must all focus the fleets on a common goal. Act independently, if you wish, but meet and discuss overall strategy so that we select appropriate Rebel targets and inject our venom where it will cause the most damage.” She raised her gloved fist, glaring with ice-green eyes at Harrsk. “It serves no purpose for Imperials to be at each others’ throats.”

Harrsk chuckled, but the smile stretched across only the intact part of his face, while the scarred mask remained unmoved. “I see now why your battles were a dismal failure, Admiral,” he said. “You are such a naive commander. No wonder Grand Moff Tarkin locked you away where you could cause no harm while the rest of us continued the real fight for the Empire.”

Rage erupted like a volcano within Daala—but before her words could break through the barrier of her clenched teeth, the viewscreens began blinking with alarms. One of the distant spy cams mounted high above the ecliptic had detected searing lights, trains of afterburners streaking through space so fast that the sensors could not focus.

Harrsk scuttled toward the screens and pressed his face close against one. The in-system holocams trained on the giant sun showed more trails arrowing in.

The central screen switched, and Commander Kratas was there again. “Admiral Daala—uh, excuse me, Warlord Harrsk—we’ve detected incoming ships, moving fast.” More of the out-system spy holocams triggered alarms, a dozen more ships coming from below the orbital plane this time. “I’ve spotted seventy,” Kratas said in disbelief.

Harrsk shouted, “Sound all alarms!” Battle klaxons ripped through the tunnels.

When the images finally focused, Daala caught her breath as she recognized the fleeting forms of seventy-three Victory-class Star Destroyers, smaller warships each about half the size of an Imperial Star Destroyer. But these ships were fast, agile, and bristling with weaponry. Their hulls were made of a crimson alloy so that the Victory ships looked like bloody fangs clamping around Harrsk’s Star Destroyers.

“Is this a drill?” Daala said. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“No!” Harrsk said, glaring at her so deeply that even the scarred portion of his face rippled with distaste. “That’s High Admiral Teradoc.” He shouted to the Star Destroyers. “Lock on any target and fire.”

Running lights flashed on, powering up on the bone-white Star Destroyers eclipsed by Harrsk’s planet. Green turbolasers shot out, skewering target locations—but the Victory-class ships roared by too fast. Five of the crimson ships erupted as they took severe hits, but even those losses were insignificant compared with the sheer number in the attacking fleet.

“Teradoc is trying to disgrace me,” Harrsk said.

On screen, Daala could see Kratas snapping to his duty as ranking officer on the bridge, instinctively issuing emergency orders. She was proud of how her second in command instantly took charge. She had trained him well.

“Concentrate all firepower,” Kratas said. “Select one target, destroy it, then move on to the next. Scattered fire won’t accomplish anything.”

Kratas took Warlord Harrsk’s flagship to the point of a phalanx formation. The Shockwave was larger than the other Star Destroyers, more heavily outfitted with high-energy weapons. The Shockwave targeted and fired, obliterating a sixth Victory ship. It aimed again, crippling a target, and the crimson vessel went dim and spun out of control.

Then Daala realized with horror that the Shockwave itself was the primary target for the combined assault of a hundred Victory-class Star Destroyers. They converged like metal filings drawn to a magnet, firing and firing.

“He’s trying to destroy my flagship!” Harrsk said, balling his fists and standing next to his floating chair. “He wants to humiliate me. I told you.”

“Cease fire,” Kratas ordered his bridge crew. “Route all power to our shields. We’ve got to withstand this salvo.”

The Victory-class destroyers came on without pausing. The other Star Destroyers in Harrsk’s fleet shot at them, taking a minor toll, but the crimson warships were suicidal, seeming not even to notice the loss of their comrades. The Victory-class ships formed a blanket of turbo-laser fire, stabbing again and again, pummeling the shields of the Shockwave.

“We can’t hold out much longer,” Kratas said, his voice harsh with strain. “Shields failing.” He turned to look out of the screen again. His dark eyes, wide with realization, seemed to be staring directly out at Daala. “Admiral, I—”

Then the screen turned to a fuzz of gray static. One of the spycam images showed the Shockwave cracking apart as geysers of molten white fire shot from breaches in the hull. The engine compartment spewed unleashed energy in all directions. The hull integrity could not hold.

The Victory-class Star Destroyers kept firing until finally the Shockwave was no more than a glowing cloud of debris and an agonizing memory for Admiral Daala. “Oh, Kratas,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Achieving their target, the surviving Victory ships—sixty-two of them according to the tally on the data screens—reversed course and streaked toward hyperspace, even as Warlord Harrsk’s remaining Imperial Star Destroyers took unsuccessful potshots in their wake.

Daala stood, feeling cold outrage. Commander Kratas hadn’t even been part of Harrsk’s fighting force. He had been a bystander in a childish squabble between feuding warlords. Daala’s lip curled as the rage built inside her, like pressurized steam rushing through her blood.

“We won’t stand for this,” Harrsk growled. “This time we’ll get even, and I have the means to do so with you, Admiral Daala,” he said, looking up at her, his golden droid eye blazing.

Daala was startled from her grim reverie. “What?”

Harrsk continued breathlessly. “We must smash that obese coward now with everything we have! I’ve been gathering my military might for a strike just such as this.”

Daala fixed Harrsk with a withering glare. “I have no intention of assisting you in your childish brawl, Warlord Harrsk. You just lost me the best commander I ever had. I will not perpetuate this—”

“Stormtroopers!” Harrsk shouted toward the door. “Come here immediately, weapons ready.”

The stormtrooper contingent marched into the large viewing room. Their white boots thundered on the glassy floor as they stood at attention. Cold black goggles and white plasteel helmets smothered all expressions.

“Take Admiral Daala to one of my Star Destroyers,” Harrsk said. “She will command our retaliatory strike against High Admiral Teradoc.” He scowled at her. “If she refuses, you will execute her immediately for treason.”

Daala bristled. “I won’t allow you to order me around like that.”

“I outrank you, and you have my orders,” he screamed. “Do you serve the Empire or do you have your own agenda?”

The stormtroopers brought their blaster rifles to bear, pointing at her. They looked uneasy, but they followed their warlord’s orders. Daala could feel aiming mechanisms focusing on vulnerable points in her body.

“Very well, Harrsk,” she murmured, still stunned at the loss of Kratas and numb with her own unchanneled anger. She intentionally denied him the title of Supreme Warlord. Her green eyes narrowed to calculating slits.

“Give me full command of one of your Star Destroyers, and I will lead your fleet.”