A chime alerted Rear Admiral Shohashi that a visitor had arrived for him.
The commander of the "Red Star" squadron tore himself away from studying the latest intelligence data, then looked with bewilderment at Brandei who had entered the office.
His mind immediately noted several inconsistencies.
For starters—the visit of the commander of the Judicator to the flagship had not been coordinated with squadron headquarters.
The Dominion Armed Forces Regulations did not permit such movements during the period of combat readiness recently declared for the entire unit stationed in the Bosf sector.
Such rendezvous were allowed only in a number of exceptional cases where circumstances required no delay.
And, to be honest, Shohashi had expected the arrival of the commanders of the other two Star Destroyers, which had just entered the squadron's basing system.
His comrade's face did not radiate the usual relaxedness.
On the contrary, it was focused, even somewhat tense.
He held himself emphatically by the book, saluting as soon as Erik spotted him in the doorway.
His gaze direct, but his eyes tried not to look at the rear admiral, his back straight, his step marching, his uniform—ironed to perfection…
And Brandei was clutching a data chip in his hands.
Standard-issue weapon—absent.
And since when did his old friend adhere so scrupulously to the protocol of a subordinate's personal visit to a commander?
"Rear Admiral, sir, permission to speak?" Brandei said dully, stopping a few meters from Erik's desk.
The MagnaGuards and a pair of BX-series droid commandos didn't even stir at the appearance of the Judicator's commander.
Which meant they had already received data from the scanners covertly installed in the turbolift, walls, floor, and ceiling of the corridor leading to Erik's quarters.
No weapons, no dangerous items.
The guards securing the entrance to Shohashi's office had no suspicions either.
"What's the matter, Captain?" The situation was clearly beyond acceptable and routine. "You weren't scheduled for this time."
"I asked the commanders of the Red Dragon and Liquidator to postpone their visit by ten minutes," Brandei explained, still looking aside, avoiding direct eye contact with Erik. "I promise this will be the last breach of discipline on my part during the period under your command, Rear Admiral."
What the…?
"What are you talking about, Brandei?" Erik pulled his cane toward him and, leaning on the precious stone of the pommel, rose from his chair.
His wounded leg had been hurting terribly for the past week, but he endured this trial stoically as well.
"First you show up unannounced, now you're saying you asked the ship commanders—who arrived without explanation into the squadron's composition, though I didn't request it—to postpone their report," Erik listed his dissatisfaction. "And now you've decided to cover your head in ashes too? If you're going to adhere to the Regulations, then kindly—don't take it as nitpicking—explain yourself and report properly."
"Aye, sir," Brandei met his eyes. "The Supreme Commander has approved my request for transfer from the Red Star to another posting. The commander of the Red Dragon delivered confirmation of the order in person."
With these words, Brandei extended the data chip to Erik.
"Transfer?" Shohashi frowned, snatching the device and limping to the workstation. "Why wasn't I informed?"
"Because I acted in circumvention of the current Regulations, sir, without notifying you of my appeal to the higher commander," Brandei said in a steady voice.
Verifying the document's authenticity didn't take long.
It was indeed an order relieving Brandei, the Judicator, and its crew of duty in the Red Star.
Now it made sense why the Red Dragon and Liquidator had arrived at the squadron's base of operations.
They weren't just joining the squadron to replace the Judicator, which was being reassigned to regular fleet headquarters (read as—would be redirected to another posting, but Erik wouldn't learn about it), but had also escorted two Acclamators, which had delivered two full legions of stormtroopers, overstaffed with armored vehicles, aviation, battle droids, equipment, and other military supplies aboard.
Which meant that duty in the Bosf sector, after the surgically precise strike to destroy the enemy stormtroopers, was continuing.
But one question remained…
"The order is relayed; I'll comply with it, though without joy or inner conviction that it's right," Erik furrowed his brows. "What in the Sith is going on? I went out of my skin to pull you under my command, and now you request a transfer behind my back?"
The official tone of the conversation had clearly been set aside.
"I'm grateful for everything," Brandei looked at him, for the first time since entering the office. "Truly grateful. But Ventress is right—I started abusing our friendship. I know how important rules are to you, and time and again I ask you to break them, to deviate from the principles that made you who you are. That's wrong."
"You talked to that witch after your recovery or something?" Shohashi narrowed his eyes.
"I don't have that many uniform pants to wet them at every meeting," Brandei shuddered bodily. "No, Erik. I thought long and hard and came to the conclusion that transferring under your command was instructive for me in terms of gaining additional experience. But, who would have thought, for the first time in my life, the idea settled in my head that Regulations are written in blood for a reason. And the provision on the absence of close relationships between commander and subordinate—it's not just another line."
"'Close' implies entirely different relationships," Shohashi noted. "Family ones."
"You're like a brother to me, Erik," Brandei sighed. "Younger, but more successful. Patient and unyielding. And I'm like the overgrown slacker who knows his job, loves it, but does it not by the rules because the 'little brother' will cover for him. Thanks to Ventress, that situation knocked some sense into me. I thought long and hard, but decided this is for the best. I won't distract you with my problems, and you won't have to keep stepping on your principles time and again so I don't land in the next mess."
"I sense our witch played some Force games here," Erik shook his head. "You're saying too sensible things, my friend."
"Even if so, then only thanks to her," Brandei shrugged. "So, in my view, Erik, the lady is worth taking a closer look at. She's driven, has brains, is 'right' in certain moments, and…"
"Shut your mouth," Erik advised. "Or the reactor will overheat."
Brandei smiled warmly.
"I told you—I get carried away too much," he said. "Sorry, sticking my nose where it doesn't belong. In any case, the best I can do so we remain friends and you don't have to keep 'looking the other way' at my shortcomings is transfer to another posting. I'm sure it won't be as fun with Pellaeon as with you, but at least without suicidal attacks on a dreadnought with a destroyer."
Erik couldn't hold back a smile.
A joking jab referring to how Shohashi, already commanding the Star Destroyer Imperious, had attacked the Crimson Dawn when it belonged to the Republic.
"Want me to remind you that you charged that beast with guns on your Judicator too?" Erik clarified. "And—without orders."
"But together to the end," Brandei grinned, extending his hand.
Erik, shifting his weight to his left leg, returned the handshake.
He already understood that backpedaling the situation was pointless.
Thrawn, approving the transfer, had clearly not just gone along with Brandei's request.
The Grand Admiral knew everything that happened in his fleet.
And surely knew that Brandei had escaped the hospital without fully recovering.
The transfer decision—this was precisely a "fresh start" for Shohashi, relieving him of responsibility for Brandei's actions.
His friend was absolutely right—he had gone soft when Erik, in gratitude for help capturing the Crimson Dawn, had transferred him under his command.
Thrawn, agreeing to the transfer several months ago, had unambiguously hinted that there would be problems when he took away two top-class destroyers from him, handing over a couple of weaker ones in exchange.
A hint that Erik had understood, but as a man of honor had decided to fulfill his obligation to his friend.
Accepting the consequences of that decision himself.
And everything had only worsened.
To arrange Brandei's beloved on the squadron, Erik had to reject his own initiative to promote Brandei with the next rank.
Then that episode with the treatment…
Whether on his own or with someone's help, his friend had realized that it couldn't continue like this.
And made the decision.
If the thought had reached him with someone's help—that was bad.
If he had realized it himself—it meant there was still a chance that mistakes and laxity wouldn't haunt him anymore.
Brandei was a capable officer.
He had just "relaxed."
A change of posting would help him get back on track.
"Together to the end," he repeated the first part of the old cadet saying invented by him and Brandei in the distant years of youth to encourage each other in tough situations.
"One falls," Erik said the beginning of the second part of the saying, observing the proper order of recitation so that the third part would sound as intended by young cadet minds.
"The other avenges," Brandei said confidently, gripping the palm tighter, looking his friend in the eye.
After a couple of seconds, the handshake ended.
"Good luck to you," Erik said, encouraging his comrade before the "leap into the unknown."
That was how they, as cadets, had gotten used to calling every service transfer between themselves, every mission about which almost nothing was known in open access.
"May it be with you instead," Brandei replied with a modest smile, clapping his comrade on the shoulder. "I've got turbolasers."
The meeting, which had begun with misunderstanding, ended in a warm, friendly atmosphere.
They had met and become friends.
They had served as friends.
As friends, they parted.
Never to meet again.
***
It seemed to Arista Kabul that the hum of the machine in which the girl had been placed had decreased.
This was good, because she was already thoroughly nauseous.
A couple of seconds later, she realized her assumption had been confirmed.
The hum ceased, the couch on which she lay came into motion, pulling her out of the "centrifuge" of the monstrous-looking apparatus, and caring warm hands touched her face, removing the absolutely dark blindfold from her eyes.
The girl cracked her eyelids, knowing that only emergency lighting was on in the room.
At least it had been that way when she lay down in the Dominion's apparatus this time.
Which, by the way, was the count?
Fifth?
Tenth?
She had already lost track.
Her eyes graciously accepted the dark blue lighting, in which everything was visible, and her eyes didn't tear up too much.
"How are you feeling, Arista?" asked a familiar male voice, which had become perhaps the only one she heard during all that time since agreeing to inhale the sedative gas from the respirator.
"'Those are the rules,'" Bravo-One had explained to her. "'You're a civilian, and you shouldn't know where the equipment is located. Trust me. Everything will be fine with you'…"
That's what he had said…
"Marvelous," the girl said, forcing a smile when Agent Bravo-One helped her sit up.
"You're a big champ. The Dominion appreciates…"
Arista shuddered, seeing how the agent casually kicked the chrome trash bin closer to her with his foot, enticingly gleaming with cleanliness.
"Come on," she mustered courage. "This time I have nothing left to…"
The girl doubled over from the cramp in her stomach and spasms that ran through her entire young body.
If not for the agent's strong, caring hands, she would have inevitably collapsed from the couch straight to the floor.
But as it was…
She hung on one of his arms, which had caught Arista across the chest, while the agent's second hand gently held her hair, not allowing it to get in front of her face and…
The compartment in which they were drowned out very characteristic sounds of expelling the stomach's contents.
The girl was convulsing.
Tears sprayed from her eyes, her insides thrashed in fits and urges, and her body was literally twisting into an arc.
The agent held her in one position, not allowing her to get dirty, and completely unreacting to the fact that her nails had dug into his forearms up to the very edges of her fingertips.
After several minutes of retching urges, it released her.
Tears streamed like a river, her mouth tasted of bile and gastric juice, mixed with thoughts of self-disgust.
Her body trembled finely.
It became chilly.
Like a small child, the agent lifted her into his arms and carried her to the corner where the medical refresher was located.
Supporting her so she wouldn't fall, the agent washed her face and dried it with a terry towel, then draped a warm hospital robe over her shoulders.
"I think my stomach is emptier than the Dune Sea on Tatooine," she said pitifully.
"You're a big champ, Arista," the agent said, patting her head paternally with his hand. "I… I don't even know how to thank you. I'm sure that when we finish, the leadership will come up with something. I'll make sure our gratitude is substantial."
"Will they buy me a doll?" the girl looked at him wearily, wiping tears from her eyes.
"Your sense of humor hasn't left you," he smiled, which was highly uncharacteristic of the stern agent.
"Unlike my stomach," the girl sighed. "You didn't tell me it would be like this…"
"I'm sorry you have to endure such discomfort," the agent said, helping her settle on the table next to a small side table set with a couple of glasses of water and tablets to replenish the lost contents of her body. "But your vestibular apparatus and old head injuries are making themselves known."
"My dad told me—wear a helmet in the shafts, a rock falls on your head—you'll turn into a fool, no one will marry you," Arista downed the first glass in one gulp, first swallowing a handful of tablets. "I was young, stupid."
"What, did cave-ins happen often?" Bravo-One inquired.
"Only once," the girl explained. "When my uncle blew up the shaft with me and my father inside. But, I'll say this—the helmet didn't save me. And as a girl, I often ran through the drifts. Bumping and falling from a height of several meters is completely normal for a child. Sometimes you can even find a valuable ore vein that way."
"You're a brave and courageous girl," the agent squeezed her hand in his. "Seventeen treatments… Some of those who underwent such a procedure refused to repeat it after one or two times."
"You tell them about me later," Arista forced a smile, swallowing another handful of tablets. The new portion of liquid sent the medications into her emptied stomach.
"I'm sure that in time, what you're doing for us now will be told to the wider public, and your example of courage…"
"No, don't tell everyone about me," Lady Kabul protested. "Your crazy doctor said that to download all the information, it would take just one or two passes. If you tell them I stuck my head in the 'centrifuge' seventeen times, they'll think you were poking around in the brains of some underdeveloped…"
"Yeah, everything's normal with your development," came a female voice.
Also very familiar.
With a smacking accompaniment.
Arista shuddered.
Her insides prepared.
"You just have a somewhat stale hematoma," the young woman in the doctor's uniform informed, approaching the conversing pair.
The smell of a juicy steak hit Arista's nostrils.
And her eyes noticed the thick sandwich that the one called Third was holding in her hands.
"If you want, I'll quickly put you under, open your skull, remove them," the "doctor" offered, mouth full, waving the glossy-with-oil-and-sauce sandwich in front of the patient's and agent's faces.
"Doc, I don't think it's appropriate to say…" Bravo-One said, casting a wary glance at Arista, seeing how Lady Kabul shuddered from the first urges.
"I came to say that three more passes, and we're done. We'll create a full virtual model, luckily our new specialists get it…"
She spoke, continuing to tease Arista's taste and olfactory receptors with the enticing smell of food…
"Sith," was all the girl managed to say when her body betrayed her, and her stomach rebelled.
Two liters of water and the remnants of undigested medications splashed out in a fountain.
And her brain had beforehand made the girl turn her head in the more familiar direction for her reactions…
"Sorry," was all Arista managed to utter, lunging for the already spotted bin.
"No harm done," Agent Bravo-One said, peeling the now-wet uniform shirt from his body. "Doc, can I ask you a couple of questions?"
Third, waving the sandwich toward Arista, impassively declared:
"If you want my opinion, after all this, she should marry you."
Arista, even if she wanted to respond, couldn't.
It turned out she still had a reserve of gastric juice.