Yellow Brick Road (II)

The orbital defenses of Nez Peron left an indelible impression of sheer grandeur.

Over twenty Golan II-type orbital defense platforms stood guard—a formidable sight. Each of these stations came with a hefty price tag of around twenty-nine million credits. A simple calculation revealed that the D'asta family had invested a staggering five hundred and eighty million credits in their defense. And it was a shrewd investment. With that kind of money, one could procure three Imperial Star Destroyers or similar-class ships. But here's the catch: in the event of a sustained siege on Nez Peron, three destroyers wouldn't last long. The "Golans," however, were a different breed. These stations boasted artillery and defensive capabilities on par with a Star Destroyer and functioned like a massive fortress. Surrounding the planet with a sufficient number of these orbital stations, enabling them to provide overlapping fields of turbolaser fire, created a nearly impenetrable barrier. Breaking through such a defense without incurring colossal losses would be nearly impossible.

Of course, this level of defense wouldn't deter those with super star destroyers or battle stations equipped with axial superlasers, like those on the Eclipse or combat planetoids like the Death Star.

The fleet that attacked the Crondre system had encountered just one Golan II station—and even that had been a harrowing experience. There were four Star Destroyers involved, and while they ultimately prevailed against the rebel forces, the struggle highlighted the effectiveness of such defenses. A combination of orbital stations and a supporting fleet made for a potent defense, especially on planets with significant financial resources and strategic importance.

I could afford two, maybe three, of these orbital stations, but to what end? Such a purchase would drain my funds, leaving nothing for fleet maintenance. When finances allow, securing Tangren with an additional station or two might be prudent, but only after we've fully assessed our crippled prize's worth. The chief engineer's verdict on the viability of our makeshift "diawai" in a factory environment will be crucial.

Nez Peron also benefited from a natural defense against surprise attacks—an asteroid field surrounding the sector's capital world. If my understanding is correct, most approach vectors to the system force attackers to navigate through a cluster of cosmic debris. Only the dispatch station can transmit the safe passage coordinates, and I'm certain this information is tightly controlled. The asteroid field is also laced with space mines, and the larger asteroids serve as bases for fighters. The space mining stations in the belt are anything but idle, and the sector's infamous private military fleet drifts in orbit, ever vigilant. I have no doubt that even a couple of hundred CR90 corvettes could bloody any enemy fleet's nose.

One thing is clear: the D'asta family has a solid grasp of both defensive fortifications and the pragmatic use of resources. Nez Peron may be primarily an agricultural planet, but the baron and his allies extract all the necessary metals from the asteroids. The larger ones, after being mined, can be converted into space bases. This explains why the New Republic avoids meddling in this sector—despite its considerable value. If the other planets in the region are defended even half as well, there's little to gain here unless one has a super star destroyer or a battle planetoid at their disposal. Ironic, indeed.

Baron Ragez D'ast's residence did not exude the opulence one might expect from someone controlling a prosperous sector of the galaxy.

The structure, which bore a striking resemblance to the palaces of European monarchs from my past life, was surprisingly understated. Despite its three-story height, the sprawling building fit seamlessly into the landscape of Nez Peron's vast agricultural fields.

Adorned with intricate stucco work, columns, ornamental curls, and statues carved from precious minerals, the grayish-blue mansion sat in the midst of endless grain fields. From the shuttle's altitude, I could see workers tending the intelligent fields, agricultural machinery harvesting crops, and neatly arranged alleys of greenery. Spacious duracrete areas encircled the residence, alternating with perfectly aligned rows of trees, eerily reminiscent of those I'd seen on Earth—though only in photographs brought back by friends from their vacations. As a fleet analyst, I'd never had the opportunity to travel abroad, especially not to the decadent West.

** Residence of Baron Ragez D'ast **

The shuttle descended onto a landing pad marked with reflective lines and patterns. As the landing gear made contact with the durable surface, a sharp hiss filled the air as the cooling systems released pressure. Harmless white-gray steam vented into the atmosphere with a sharp whistle.

The landing ramp lowered with a soft clang, revealing the sunlit surroundings where a squad of stormtroopers from the Star Destroyer had already disembarked. Watching the precise synchronization of movements as Captain Astorias's soldiers formed two neat lines on either side of the gangway, I wondered if I should consider assembling my own ceremonial unit. Perhaps it would be more practical to secure a dedicated shuttle, customize it to my taste, and find a suitable crew along with a well-trained escort team. True, I had Rukh—still silently trailing behind me, scanning for threats—but the Noghri were not front-line fighters. He was a spy, saboteur, assassin, bodyguard. But in the event of a full-scale battle, professional soldiers, trained specifically for such engagements, were essential.

Hmm…this idea warrants serious consideration. I'll need to carefully weigh all the pros and cons.

A sharp thought crossed my mind: "What am I capable of in a battle, if I set aside the abilities of my soldiers and the Noghri?" There's little need for me to wield a blaster—I'm a naval commander with an entire squadron of Star Destroyers at my disposal, capable of turning a planet's surface into slag, and then some. Why would I need more practice with a blaster? In my previous life, I wasn't particularly fond of service weapons, and now…

No. It's absolutely necessary.

As I looked over at the Imperial soldiers in gray uniforms and light body armor who had positioned themselves ten meters from the Lambda shuttle, I thought: "What would happen if a firefight broke out right now?" An entire company of armed infantry against me, the Noghri, and a squad of stormtroopers—how long would we last?

Yes, I wore a light cuirass under my jacket, capable of stopping less serious blaster shots and kinetic projectiles, but still… Should I consider acquiring a personal energy shield as well? I seem to recall that such devices exist in this galaxy—if the plots of certain games based on the Galaxy Far, Far Away are to be believed, there's no doubt. Here's another puzzle to solve—why aren't personal shields in use currently? Perhaps they're not available, or maybe they were never invented and only exist as gaming conventions.

But all of that can wait.

For now, my attention was focused on the striking figure of Baron D'ast, who had come to greet me in person.

** Baron Ragez D'asta **

A tall and solidly built man, with sharp features and striking gray hair that contrasted with his simple yet regal purple attire, exuded an air of authority. His piercing yellowish-brown eyes took a moment to assess the small display I had orchestrated. I was confident that neither the stormtroopers nor the weapons aboard the Lambda fazed him; after witnessing the defenses in orbit, I was certain that his residence was equally well-guarded. Planetary turbolasers, camouflaged as angular "water towers" constructed from gray stone, with their tops resembling the domes of ship-mounted cannons, were just one of the many concealed defenses. Perhaps other security measures were hidden underground or within the palace itself. If not, I would be disappointed.

"Grand Admiral Thrawn," the imperial aristocrat greeted me with impeccable courtesy, his posture as rigid and unyielding as his reputation. He matched my height but exceeded me in shoulder breadth, clearly a man who had once engaged in strength training, building considerable mass. Though time had taken some of his vigor, he remained in excellent shape, reminding me of my own condition about five years before my death—when I still made an effort to avoid becoming weak. After my diagnosis, however, that changed...

A fleeting thought crossed my mind: "Should I set up a small gym in my quarters? Analytical skills are crucial, but a well-maintained body is equally important." Something to consider later.

"Baron D'asta," I returned the greeting with equal formality. There were no nods, no handshakes—nothing that might suggest familiarity. His sector was formally aligned with the Empire, to which I also belonged by contract. He commanded respect and admiration from the rulers of the Empire because he, too, was a ruler. I, on the other hand, was merely a commander. It was only the status of Supreme Commander that lent me the authority to stand as his equal.

"May I suggest a walk, Grand Admiral?" the gray-haired man offered.

"I would be pleased to join you," I responded, noting as the baron began to walk towards one of the alleys, leaving his soldiers at the landing site. I gestured to Rukh to wait and followed the baron at a measured pace. Out of courtesy, he pretended to admire a plant in a nearby flowerbed, giving me time to catch up.

The baron observed the flowerbed for several minutes. It was filled with a carpet of wildflowers, arranged in what appeared to be a random pattern. However, from a higher altitude, one could see that the plants were carefully arranged to form the coat of arms of the aristocratic family—a design that was simple yet tasteful, rather than ostentatious.

"I hear the New Republic suffered significant losses in the Dufilvian sector," he finally remarked, turning away from the flowers and walking slowly along the edge of the flowerbed.

"Not as severe as reported," I replied, avoiding any exaggeration. This brought to mind a question: Whose victory was it, really? Was it mine, for planning the attacks and setting a trap for the insane C'baoth, forcing him to use his Battle Meditation and devising strategies to assault the bases on Ord Pardnon and Crondre, all while keeping the New Republic unaware of the true purpose behind the destruction of these bases by "meteorites"? Or was it the victory of a deranged clone who, through sheer ultimatum, managed to subjugate an entire fleet and use the deep knowledge of countless beings to achieve results?

"I heard the entire line of star cruisers survived," the baron noted.

"The command withdrew them from the sectoral fleet," I explained.

"So you targeted the weaker forces?" the baron asked, a hint of provocation in his tone.

"I targeted the enemy," I replied calmly, noticing the aristocrat's interest.

"Do you consider the New Republic to be our enemy?" he asked, his question piquing my curiosity.

Imperials often refer to the new rulers of Coruscant as "rebels" or "insurgents," with a tone of disdain. But the baron used a different vocabulary, one that I occasionally use. It's high time for the Imperials to realize something: the rebels are no longer just "the boys from Coruscant."

"I believe that our nations have conflicting interests that can only be resolved through force," I explained. "The rigidity of our military's thinking prevents them from even uttering 'New Republic' to identify the enemy."

"Yes, it's an amusing play on words," the baron smiled. "What do you think, Grand Admiral? Are they rebels or the New Republic?"

"By calling them 'rebels,' we cling to a nostalgic longing for the days when the Empire controlled most of the galaxy with an iron fist, and the rebels were just a small band of desperate individuals," I observed. "In their greed and shortsightedness after the Emperor's death, our military leaders failed to realize that they were destroying something that should have endured and thrived for millennia. At least, that was the plan."

"I suppose we could say that the execution of the Emperor's vision for a galactic state has strayed... significantly from its intended course," the baron noted diplomatically.

This man was no simple conversationalist—far from it. He spoke with ease, as though voicing his thoughts without any filter, yet I was certain that every word he uttered had been carefully crafted through long contemplation and analysis of the galaxy's state. He was playing a game of words, gauging my responses. It was clear that his reaction to my proposals would hinge on whether we aligned on key points.

And I saw no reason to shy away from the truth or to grovel for crumbs from his table.

"The success of any plan depends on its execution," I replied. "A plan may be perfect, even ideal and humane, but if those entrusted with its execution do not grasp its essence, the final result will fall far short of its intended goals. The fall of the Empire is a clear testament to this."

"Do you think we are destined to fall?" the baron inquired.

"I believe we will continue to struggle with varying degrees of success unless we change our approach toward the enemy," I said. "They are no longer 'rebels'—they are a formidable power that demands respect. They control Coruscant, and most inhabited worlds view their possession of it as the key to ruling the galaxy. Their navy outnumbers ours, and their armed forces are better trained. Where we once fought a group of fanatics and selfless idealists, we now face battle-hardened pragmatists and strategists who, in many cases, surpass our own. To underestimate them is to endanger the very existence of the Empire. The moment we acknowledge this, we will find a viable solution."

"And what do you believe that solution to be?" the baron asked quietly, his interest unmistakable.

I did not hesitate.

"Peace, Baron," I stated, watching his gray eyebrows rise in surprise. "Only a peace treaty with the New Republic can save the Empire from total destruction."