CORE SYSTEMS

CHAPTER 35

In Admiral Daala’s hands, the remnants of the Empire became a machine, a massive cohesive engine being tuned to peak performance.

Cogs spun. Components fit together. Armament factories processed resources into additional weapons: TIE fighters, blastboats, AT-STs, and structural components of new Star Destroyers. Hyperdrives were mass-produced and installed in ship after ship. Weapons’ cores were charged with tibanna gas. Formerly downtrodden workers—even aliens and females—were given responsibilities and put to work for the glory of the Empire.

Daala reveled in the progress reports she received. Now aboard her great black ship, the Night Hammer, she progressed from system to system, knitting together once-scattered allegiances, cementing loyalties, and squeezing more work out of subjects who had been lax for too long, drawing tight the Imperial net.

Accompanied by awesome red Imperial Guards, she spoke at armaments factories and shipyards, raising her voice and building morale, making herself visible so that all could see a charismatic leader who was there to do something against the enemy, fostering hope in the future once more.

She paced around the Night Hammer’s ready-room, a private strategy chamber that was itself as big as the entire command deck on a Victory-class Star Destroyer. Daala stared out the viewing window, drinking in the brilliant spatter of stars at the heart of the galaxy. Nebular material streamed in ribbons across star clusters.

The huge ready-room seemed extravagant, almost intimidating. She would have preferred a more confined place to gather her thoughts, but in her position she could not take command of any ship other than the Super Star Destroyer. The ready-room had its own sleeping quarters, food-processing stations, even access to command-level escape pods, should disaster befall the warship. Though it was immense, the Night Hammer functioned with a relatively small crew, relying on massively redundant automated command systems.

Vice Admiral Pellaeon cleared his throat and waited for her attention. Daala knew the older officer had arrived, but she let her thoughts wander a while longer. “Our fleet is growing strong,” she finally said out loud. “I can feel it.”

Pellaeon waited for her. “Yes, Admiral.”

“I don’t want to strike before we are ready … but I’m anxious to go to battle again.” She sighed and turned to Pellaeon, who stood holding a datapad with the latest fleet statistics. She frowned wearily and sank into one of her chairs. “I do grow tired of administrative details, though,” she groaned. After only a moment she stood up again and began to pace around the ready-room, a blur of nervous energy.

“These details are necessary,” Pellaeon said. “Without sufficient attention to detail, all your work will fall apart. You must understand that, if you intend to run the Empire.”

Daala fixed him with a sharp stare. “But I have no designs on running the Empire. That’s not what I’m after. Surely you understand that by now? Once the battle is won, I intend to relinquish command with great pleasure—to you or whomever else is most suited to the damn job.”

Pellaeon’s head snapped back and his watery eyes widened. “Me, Admiral? I am no emperor!”

She let loose a laugh. “Neither am I, Vice Admiral—but let’s not worry about that until the war is over. Give me a rundown. Where do we stand?”

With obvious relief at the change of subject, Pellaeon sat down at the table while Daala continued to pace. He called up numbers on his datapad. “We now have one hundred twelve fully functional Victory-class Star Destroyers. I’ve placed them under the command of Colonel Cronus, as we discussed at our last meeting.”

“Yes,” Daala said, “a good choice. He seems a competent commander.”

“We also have forty-five Imperial Star Destroyers—and of course we have the Night Hammer.” He slid the datapad across the table. “There’s a full listing of our TIE fighters, interceptors, and bombers as well as a tally of Gamma assault shuttles, Lambda-class shuttles, AT-ST walkers, scout transports, and blastboats. The next entry summarizes our entire complement of personnel and their areas of expertise.”

Daala glanced at the numbers but felt her green eyes glaze over. This was not her strength. “I’ll study these later,” she said. “Right now my mind is occupied with other concerns.” She drew a deep breath. “We are getting close, very close. You and I must discuss the strategy for our first attack. I prefer not to make this decision alone. You have decades of experience and a wealth of knowledge. We are here with the door sealed and no one watching—I want your honest opinion.” She lowered her voice. “I will not make the same mistakes again.”

Pellaeon swallowed slightly. “I appreciate your faith in me, Admiral, but surely you recognize that this time you have a genuine fleet at your disposal.”

Daala slapped the palm of her hand down on the table, her eyes blazing. “And I will not waste it!”

Pellaeon stood up. “Shall I get us a drink, Admiral?”

She nodded and turned her eyes to stare out at the stars. She didn’t speak until he had returned with a tall, cool glass of stim tea.

“As I see it, Admiral,” Pellaeon said slowly, “we have two obvious primary targets. The first is Coruscant, the capital—the most heavily populated and fortified world in the New Republic. If we destroy that planet, it would turn the Rebels into a scattered flock of whipped animals, fleeing for sanctuary to a hundred separate bases all over again.”

“I agree,” Daala said. “However, the battle for Coruscant will be long and difficult. And bloody. We will lose a large portion of our new fleet if we choose that as our first target.”

Pellaeon nodded, tugging at his gray mustache. “I’m forced to concur, and I must also confess to a certain reluctance to devastate the former Imperial planet.”

Daala’s lips drew together in a pinched expression. “What I’m looking for, Pellaeon, is a decisive victory, an important Rebel target that we can utterly squash with minimal loss to our forces. We need a morale-building strike that will set the Rebels reeling and buoy our own troops up in an ecstasy of renewed patriotism. At that point we can come back with twice our strength and hammer Coruscant to rubble. I have such a target in mind,” she said. “Are we thinking of the same one?”

Pellaeon took a sip of his cool tea. She watched him. He paused a moment, then answered without hesitation. “Yavin 4.” He raised his eyebrows. “Where the new Jedi training center is located.”

“Yes,” Daala said. Her smile congratulated him. “The Jedi Knights are powerful symbols to the Rebels—and they will be powerful enemies if we let them proliferate, as the enemy seems to intend. If we strike now and uproot this weed before it goes to seed, we can strike a mortal blow to these Rebels.”

Daala recalled her iron-willed mentor Tarkin, who had taught her everything about tactics, strength of character, and love for the Empire. Tarkin had died while attacking the Rebel base on Yavin 4—and she thought it would be a fitting target in her new campaign.

“Excuse me, Admiral?” Pellaeon said, startling her out of her thoughts.

She glanced at him and realized he had just said something. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I suggested that we diversify our strike. Allow Colonel Cronus to take his Victory fleet and strike at dozens of minor targets, so that the Rebels believe they’re under attack at all points. This will cause damage far beyond the risk incurred, and it will add to the turmoil and confusion surrounding our own surprise attack.”

Daala smiled. “Excellent idea, Vice Admiral. Colonel Cronus will launch his strikes. You will take a fleet of Imperial Star Destroyers directly to begin the obliteration of the small jungle moon. And I will follow in the Night Hammer to ensure that we retain possession of this worthless system.”

She gulped down the last of her cold stim tea, and it felt like a thick rivulet of ice crawling down her throat and spreading through her body.

“We’ll begin at once,” Daala said.