Nine years, four months, and thirty-five days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, four months, and thirty-five days after the Great Resynchronization.
Pakuuni star system.
Backwaters of the Imperial Space, near the Mon Calamari sector.
A small XQ1-type platform — an outpost modestly named NL-1 — the only Imperial stronghold in this part of the galaxy. Incredible, but true — the rebels haven't destroyed this space station yet. Then again, considering it's about a kilometer in diameter, armed with laser and turbolaser cannons, with a crew of just over eleven hundred personnel, and three squadrons of TIE fighters — destroying it would require something like a Mon Calamari star cruiser or an Imperial Star Destroyer. The rebels have neither freely "flying," so for now this station is safe.
XQ1-type platform — Outpost NL-1.
It's doubly gratifying to see that, outside the outpost's weapons range, there are a couple of battered hulks — the ships of those criminals who responded to my offer of cooperation. A pity there are only two of them.
Do I feel vile, stooping to work with criminals? Frankly, I don't care. Zsinj achieved quite a bit in his time from an alliance with privateers, corsairs, pirates, and smugglers. Yes, he paid them — and paid them well. Because the territory he controlled and protected paid him back in taxes, technology, and products. Zsinj knew how to make money from nothing. I wouldn't be surprised if he got command of the Executor-class Star Dreadnought — the Iron Fist — because he greased the right palms with the right things at the right time. Corruption in the Galactic Empire was, is, and will be — this scourge is as indestructible as the Jedi in this galaxy.
"Grand Admiral!" a nervous and demanding shout pulled me from my thoughts. But even realizing who was addressing me, I didn't slow my pace, continuing down the corridor towards the hangar. Rukh, walking beside me, casually placed his hand on his blaster and one of his knives. Even Pellaeon, flinching, gripped the cage with the ysalamiri tighter. Well, well, the order worked. If only he'd also stop poking his nose into other people's business and contradicting me. During the flight from Wayland to the Pakuuni system, I had a lot of time to think. A lot. And the conclusions are not the most comforting. Especially if I have to explain my actions to Pellaeon. But there's no other way.
I won't find friends here; a Grand Admiral is doomed to loneliness. Consequently, only a "commander-subordinate" relationship. Teaching Pellaeon the intricacies of analysis is pointless. Without the desire, there will be no results. I know from experience. Perhaps our first victory will make him see the light and get moving in the right direction. I need a competent deputy, not a risk-averse officer.
"GRAND ADMIRAL THRAWN!" Joruus C'baoth continued to shake the air with his bass voice.
I didn't even slow my pace.
"Sir, he's following us," Pellaeon warned.
"I hear it," I said indifferently, stopping before the doors leading to the section of the Chimaera's main hangar where my shuttle was located. "We're not going to pay attention to every tantrum, are we? We are the Imperial Navy, Captain, not a finishing school for young ladies. Remember your own words regarding Lieutenant Tschel."
"Of course, Admiral," the Star Destroyer commander hastily agreed.
Waiting until the mad dark Jedi had almost reached us, I turned to him with dignity, looking him straight in the eye.
"Did you want something, respected Master Jedi?" I inquired calmly.
"You promised to deliver Jedi to me, Grand Admiral," C'baoth's belligerence evaporated instantly. Now an old man stood before me, with gray, unkempt hair looking more like a mane. His gaze darted from side to side, as if seeking support. And he found it, immediately, as he took the medallion hanging on his chest into his hands. "And so far, I haven't seen a single one."
The last phrase was added in a calm, reasoned tone, with a regal look in his eyes and a proud posture. Decidedly, this strange trinket helps him concentrate and avoid falling into madness. That's good — it means there's a way to keep C'baoth within the bounds of reason. And that's bad — it means he can put his thoughts in order and logically structure his behavior. And from there, it's a short step to the abstract power he so despises. In the events I know, that's exactly what happened. As soon as he realized he couldn't get Jedi to re-educate, he moved on to global plans — building his own Empire. Comprised of sentients whose brains had been altered by his efforts.
"Corran Horn, among other things, is also a pilot in an elite starfighter squadron of our opponents," I noted softly. "Tracking him down and capturing him is not a task for one day. Or two. Or even three. If you want his corpse, we can arrange that in a few battles. But I was under the impression you wanted living Jedi, Master C'baoth. Have your plans changed?"
"No," the old man stated firmly. "But I don't intend to wait while you, Grand Admiral, play with your tin soldiers. We have a mutually beneficial cooperation, meaning your desires are as important as mine."
"No one denied that," I remarked. "However, unlike you, we have already begun searching for Corran Horn. You, on the other hand, have been occupied with self-contemplation in your cabin. I assure you, as soon as we begin our campaign, the New Republic will deploy all its assets to stop us. Including sending the unit in which Corran Horn serves against us. Minimum risk, maximum efficiency."
"Don't play games with me, Grand Admiral," the clone of the long-dead Jedi wagged a finger at me. "If I even suspect that you are somehow trying to deceive me and use me..."
"And what will you do?" I wanted to ask him. Half the ship is shielded from the Force using ysalamiri. The bridge, engine room, engineering sections, hangar, reactor, navigation section, pilots, troopers. The only person Joruus C'baoth could potentially try to control is the cabin boy responsible for managing the cleaning droids on the deck where the old man lives.
"There wasn't even a thought of betraying our ally," I declared, inwardly glad that the ysalamiri prevented the old man from getting inside my head. "The plan is developed, and it is being executed. For now, I advise you to relax and meditate — all your strength will be needed soon."
"I don't need your flattering speeches and feigned concern, Grand Admiral," C'baoth said gloomily. "I'm not a Padawan to be spoken to like that. Go about your business, hobnob with the galaxy's dregs; I'll return to my quarters and think about how glorious the future of my Jedi Order will be."
Without a word of farewell, the old man turned sharply and slowly walked away. However, the moment he lowered his hands, effectively letting go of the medallion, he immediately quickened his pace, almost breaking into a run.
I see right through you, "Master Jedi."
"Sir," Pellaeon addressed me quietly, as soon as the clone disappeared around the nearest corner. "We haven't even started searching for Corran Horn."
"I have no intention of wasting our resources on this," I said shortly. "As I already mentioned, the rebels will send Rogue Squadron to us themselves."
"So you lied to C'baoth when you said you wouldn't deceive an ally?" Pellaeon clarified.
"I returned to him the same play on words he tried to use on me," I noted. "No one ever promised to deliver Jedi to him. I permitted the use of our resources, including Imperial Intelligence, for their search. There is a significant difference between those two statements."
"Yes, sir," a note of approval appeared in Pellaeon's voice. The Jedi clone evoked mixed, mostly negative, feelings in him. So, he appreciated this little bit of "abuse." "The shuttle is ready, Admiral."
"I see," I followed with my eyes as the technicians closed the inspection hatches on the Lambda's hull. "Let's go, Captain. Time to talk to those who can help us."
* * *
Only two crews responded to the Grand Admiral's offer of cooperation. Not many, considering that a year or two ago, dozens, if not hundreds, of various groups were working for the self-proclaimed warlord Zsinj.
After Zsinj's defeat, most of his territories fell to the rebels, who treated the warlord's associates in a most unseemly manner, launching a veritable hunt for pirates and mercenaries. Some were destroyed, some imprisoned, and others decided to head far away from the sectors of Imperials and rebels. To places where no authority has yet arrived — or, conversely, has left.
The short flight to the outpost passed in complete silence.
The Grand Admiral sat in his chair, eyes closed, as if meditating. Rukh silently positioned himself nearby. Despite the Noghri not showing it, Pellaeon noticed he was upset by his failure on Myrkr. And Thrawn's emphasized coldness, never known for warmth and affection, towards his bodyguard clearly made Rukh understand that failures have far-reaching consequences.
Rukh alone had disgraced himself, but the Grand Admiral had ordered every single Noghri commando unit recalled to Honoghr. No explanation given — which was typical of his style. Interpret it however you wanted. But Pellaeon understood the essence: Thrawn was showing the Noghri how he felt about Rukh's failure. Rukh had no doubt reported his failure to his kin, and now the clans on Honoghr were surely racking their brains over how to appease their master.
Meanwhile, Pellaeon himself — though perhaps unconsciously — had begun to notice that Thrawn had... changed somewhat. He was not inclined to explain his actions or give lectures anymore — he simply set tasks. In better times, he offered hints so Pellaeon could find the answers to the questions posed on his own. Either Thrawn had grown tired of the Chimaera's captain being unable to assemble the entire picture from just a few pieces of data, or — after being left alone with that dark Jedi on Wayland — the Grand Admiral had softened, somehow.
As for the possibility that C'baoth might have somehow influenced the Chiss, the captain didn't even consider it. First, Rukh would never have allowed it — he wasn't in disgrace back then. Second, Thrawn never went anywhere without ysalamiri. The whole ship stank of those lizards, and he acted as if he didn't notice. The dark Jedi had even tried to complain to Pellaeon a few times, saying it annoyed him that whenever he walked around the ship, he kept losing his connection to the Force. Pellaeon wanted to tell him — in the accessible Corellian dialect common among the less intelligent strata of society — exactly where he could take his complaints. But instead, Gilad just redirected the grievances. The ysalamiri on the ship were the Grand Admiral's order. Didn't like it? Take it up with the blue-skinned man in the white uniform.
And yet, something about Thrawn's behavior was off. The entire journey from Wayland to the Pakuuni system — which Pellaeon's navigators had plotted to use the major and regional hyperspace routes, thus cutting most of the travel time — the Chiss had spent in his quarters. This had happened before, but with one exception.
Gilad had deliberately gone down to the Admiral several times himself with reports on successful raider group actions, just to verify his observations.
Thrawn had stopped studying his holographic art images. Yes, maybe he hadn't always been doing that, but it seemed the Grand Admiral had found more important things to occupy his time.
Yes, from Lieutenant Tshel, Gilad knew that every single information chip found on the level of Mount Tantiss designated as the library had been delivered to the Admiral's quarters. The Grand Admiral was probably studying the acquired information. And there must have been something colossal and terribly interesting there — during one of his reports, Gilad had noticed, just before Thrawn deactivated the holoprojector, that he wasn't looking at just an image, but at a technical schematic... of the Death Star!
Whether the first or the second wasn't clear, but if even such secrets were kept in the Emperor's personal treasure vault, it was frightening to imagine what else was there.
No, of course, Thrawn was unlikely to build another battle station, but that he would make good use of the discovered data was beyond doubt.
Well, maybe the Chimaera's commander was just overthinking things, maybe not. But it was still too early to draw conclusions about changes in the Grand Admiral. He would just keep noting what was happening, on the off chance that Thrawn's new behavior was part of another one of those instructive exercises in attentiveness.
But for now... for now, there was a conversation ahead with the biggest scum in the galaxy.
The moment they left the shuttle, heard the outpost commander's report, and headed toward the compartment where the "guests" were already waiting, Thrawn inquired:
"Any data on the identities of those we'll be dealing with?"
"Not much," Pellaeon admitted. "The timeline was short; Fleet Intelligence did what it could..."
"Get to the point, Captain," the Grand Admiral requested-demanded.
"The first is Niles Ferrier, known as 'Sly,'" it didn't escape Gilad's notice that upon hearing this name, the Chiss slowed his step almost imperceptibly, as if he'd heard something he didn't want to hear. "A ship thief. Quite skilled, I must say. In the past, he stole several Corellian CR-90 corvettes for Zsinj. Notably, directly from the Corellian Engineering Corporation shipyards."
Corellian CR90 corvette.
"Am I to understand these vessels now serve in the Rebel fleet?" Thrawn clarified. Pellaeon could only nod silently in agreement.
"Not bad ships — fast and well-armed for their class," the Star Destroyer captain said. "According to intelligence, Ferrier is currently looking for a buyer for a DP-20 frigate."
Corellian DP-20 frigate (gunship).
"Also Corellian," the Grand Admiral noted.
"Correct," Gilad agreed. "It feels like this guy has some kind of fixation on Corellians."
"His psychological issues are of the least interest to us," Thrawn declared. "Corellia produces ships that, while not the most heavily armed, are sufficiently maneuverable and possess enviably sturdy hulls. We could use such vessels. If we reach an agreement, send men to inspect the ship immediately."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon nodded. "The second 'character' is more interesting. The pirate Yazuo Vain. We have more information on him. Much more."
"Is that so?" Thrawn remarked. "For what reason?"
"Most of the data comes from the archives of Imperial correctional facilities," Pellaeon explained. "He has, shall we say, been behind bars more than once."
"Details, Captain," Thrawn requested. "Perhaps his problems will turn out to be to our advantage."
"Human, born on the planet Nimban in Hutt Space," Gilad didn't try to be clever; he simply opened the file on his datapad. "His father and mother worked for a mid-level criminal boss of the Hutt species. Ziro the Hutt — that name was notorious back in the Clone Wars era. The man served as the gangster's right hand, commander of the organization's combat wing. The mother was a concubine. Her exact origin is unknown, only that she was captured in a raid, after which his father made her his concubine — one of several. As a result of some local Hutt feuds, Ziro's organization was absorbed by his nephew, Jabba. The family fled, was caught. Only the child survived — Yazuo. He joined a pirate crew, worked his way up from the very bottom — from sorting stolen goods to first mate. He didn't get along with his previous captain, killed him, and went into independent privateering. He was caught trying to steal his first ship. Sent to Kessel, from which he escaped. The second time, he managed to steal the same ship and has commanded it ever since, raiding merchants. He was caught by justice twice more but avoided punishment. Once, he escaped custody; another time, he bribed an Imperial official with a very substantial sum. After the Emperor's death, he managed to assemble a small but well-organized pirate crew. Rumor has it they pulled off numerous operations, but there's no evidence to confirm or deny this. During Zsinj's attack on Kuat to steal the Executor-class Super Star Destroyer — the Razor's Kiss — the group suffered losses, shrinking from ten ships to two — his own Depraved Twi'lek and another garbage scow. Shortly before Zsinj's death, he was buying black market parts for the Iron Fist's repair in orbit around Dathomir. There's suspicion that he was the one who tipped off the Republicans about Zsinj, because Zsinj hadn't paid him the full agreed amount of credits for the parts."
"A story worthy of its own novel," Thrawn said. "Is that everything we know about him?"
"There's a brief psychological profile compiled by our agents," Pellaeon admitted. "Vain has no formal education. However, he possesses broad but superficial knowledge in several areas directly related to his trade. At some point during his work for Zsinj, he was married, or in a close relationship — it's not certain — with a Twi'lek dancer from Nar Shaddaa. After returning from Kessel, he found her in bed with a fellow from Ryloth. He brutally killed both. Incidentally, the lover was the captain of his second ship, and the crew consisted entirely of Twi'leks. The crew was slaughtered right after their captain. A psychologist's conclusion states that this incident somehow affected his attitude toward that species, as he hates them like a New Order supporter."
"The Empire's humanocentric policy does not imply a negative attitude toward any single alien race," Thrawn countered.
"I know, sir. We hate everyone equally," Pellaeon replied. "But that's what it says in his file..."
"Continue," Thrawn demanded.
"He enjoys authority among his crew and several fences of stolen goods, one of whom was an agent of the Imperial Security Bureau. Most of the information came from him. The fact that the agent was found hanged by his own intestines is linked to Vain having exposed our informant. This is also indicated by characteristic stab and blaster wounds matching the profile of a custom vibroblade combined with a blaster, which Vain uses as his standard weapon. He is considered undesirable even in his own circles."
"And what makes him different from other pirates, racketeers, and murderers, that he's considered an outcast?" Thrawn clarified.
"Too sharp-tongued," Pellaeon read the last line from the report. "It seems this guy has two Tartan-class patrol cruisers for sale. Condition unknown."
"Fascinating, don't you think, Captain?" Thrawn asked unexpectedly. "A pirate is selling the Empire ships designed on Imperial order to fight piracy. Most likely they were stolen from the Pentastar Alignment. Such ship types are not used anywhere else in Imperial space."
"Acquiring and using vessels stolen from the Alignment could provoke tensions with Grand Moff Ardus Kaine," Pellaeon warned.
"He's a reasonable man and won't ruin our relationship over a few ships he lost through his own fault," the Grand Admiral said. "Especially since we don't even know yet whether we'll buy those ships, or if they're in such a condition that building new ones would be cheaper."
'And who says we have a choice?' Gilad thought. Thrawn's fleet was comparatively small as it was. And compared to any Rebel battle group, it was downright modest. He had to grab any opportunity to increase the number of ships under the Grand Admiral's command. Yes, maybe repairs would be needed at the shipyards, but still — they were combat starships!
Walking past several members of the outpost's crew, their trio arrived at the compartment designated for negotiations with the mercenaries. A pair of stormtroopers, nothing like the fit and impeccably drilled soldiers quartered aboard the Grand Admiral's fleet ships.
Their bearing was inadequate — there were chips and stains on their armor, and one even had a cracked helmet visor! Disgraceful! What was the outpost commander thinking?
But Thrawn ignored this fact, merely giving the soldiers a cold look under which they instantly snapped to attention. But the first impression was already hopelessly ruined.
Judging by the setting, the compartment the commander had chosen for negotiations was a small wardroom. A medium-sized room with high ceilings and a spacious circular sectional viewport. In the center stood a rectangular metal table, behind which sat the two "guests."
The air reeked of tobacco smoke. Nasty stuff that unpleasantly tickled the nostrils. The source of this indecency aboard an Imperial military installation was a man dressed in simple but good-quality clothes, clearly not bought with spare change. Overweight, a cocky look, and a cigar in his teeth. His legs were propped up on the table, showing a complete lack of respect for those who had arrived. Niles Ferrier in the flesh.
Niles Ferrier, known as "Sly."
"Sir, allow me to—" Pellaeon began, clearly intending to restore order here.
"No need, Captain," Thrawn stopped him, turning to his second companion. "Rukh."
The Noghri reacted instantly. His hand, like a blur, flashed through the air, and then the glowing tip of the thief's cigar was severed, falling onto his shirt. "Sly" hissed, clearly displeased by both the burned clothing and the discomfort his own cigar had caused him.
The second man didn't even flinch. He continued coldly tracking the newcomers with his pale eyes. Pellaeon almost swore. One look at this sentient's ears was enough to understand that they were dealing with a non-human. An Arkanian, or a Sephi, or maybe a half-blood. How, pray tell, could such a mistake have been made in compiling the dossier? It seemed someone in Imperial Intelligence had been slacking off.
Pirate Yazuo Vain.
"Gentlemen," Pellaeon noted the half-blood's condescendingly mocking expression — "you are on an Imperial facility. Kindly observe the rules of decency, or be so good as to leave the station and return to the viper pits from which the smell of profit lured you. Am I making myself clear?" the Grand Admiral inquired at the end of his speech, taking a seat at the head of the table so that both representatives of the criminal rabble were before him, but as far away as possible.
It seemed Thrawn had decided to communicate with the mercenaries in their own language.
"Clearer than a Twi'lek," Yazuo Vain smirked, baring his snow-white teeth.
"Understood," Niles Ferrier grunted, examining the hole in his shirt and flicking the smoldering butt onto the floor with an almost imperceptible movement. Pellaeon felt a burning desire to grab the insolent man by the scruff of his neck and make him lick the deck clean with his tongue.
"Now, to business," Thrawn leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "As I understand it, you have something to offer us?"
"If you've got the credits, of course," the half-blood continued to grin cockily. "Sly" merely nodded his head.
"First, I want to know where these ships came from," Thrawn declared.
"Does it make a difference?" the mercenaries exchanged glances. Understandable — few people want to talk about their hunting grounds.
"I didn't want to deal with you at all," Yazuo Vain stated. "But when I heard you were so desperate for ships that you fled the Obroa-Skai system on a Star Destroyer from four falling-apart Republican frigates, I figured — why not? And this is the thanks I get..."
The Grand Admiral didn't even bother to reply; he simply began examining his snow-white glove. Thereby making it clear that he didn't intend to continue the dialogue until he got an answer to his question.
"One 'Tartan' I stole from the Grizmalt shipyards in the Core Worlds," the pirate broke the silence first. "It's in excellent condition; the Republicans had just pulled it out of mothballs. The second one tried to board my ship, and I took their crew by the balls. It's a bit used, a few hull breaches, replace a couple of cannons — and it's good as new. Good enough to parade out for the New Order's anniversary."
From his smirk, the pirate was extremely pleased with himself. And his flat jokes.
"The second 'Tartan'," Thrawn said slowly. "In whose fleet did it serve?"
"Uh..." the half-blood hesitated. "Well... I don't know..."
"Where was the second patrol cruiser captured?" the Grand Admiral asked a new question, still examining his glove.
"In the Chasin system," Yazuo Vain admitted. Pellaeon, standing to the right of the Commander-in-Chief, felt a surge of boiling rage. Chasin — one of the systems supporting the Grand Admiral! What kind of insolence was this!?
"I see," Thrawn said. "Where are the ships?"
"Money first, then the starships," the pirate smirked cockily. "We work on prepayment, bearer credit chips, trafficking in slaves is possible..."
"Watch your words, Mr. Vain," Thrawn's eyes flashed with fire. "The Empire does not support the slave trade in its systems."
"Uh... since when?" the pale-haired, pointy-eared man scratched his head.
"Always," the Chiss declared. "Remember this yourself and pass it on to your other colleagues. How many ships are in mothballs at the New Republic facility on Grimzalt?"
"I don't know," the other shrugged. "I'm not the Old Republic's Galactic Senate..."
"They didn't understand much either," Thrawn clarified. "So — how many?"
"I saw at least three more 'Tartans'," he stated. "It seems that after almost all the Imperials fled Anaxis a few months ago with their Super Star Destroyer and all combat-ready ships, the New Republicans decided to sort through what was left. From the ship's log, I know this vessel was undergoing major repairs. The others still there probably are too."
"I see," Thrawn declared. "Mr. Ferrier?"
"Stole it from Corellia," the man replied simply. "The frigate was in for repairs — something wrong with the main hyperdrive. I used the backup and took the little one away from its wasteful owners."
'Oh, if only you'd said that to my face,' Pellaeon mentally took offense on behalf of all Corellians.
"Captain," the Grand Admiral addressed him. "What is the cost of new ships of the same type that these esteemed gentlemen are offering us?"
'What?! He wants to pay criminals the actual market price for the ships?!' the thought seared through Pellaeon's mind.
But an executive officer always obeys an order.
"A Tartan-class patrol cruiser, fresh off the shipyards, was valued by the Imperial treasury at four million two hundred thousand credits," he said. "A DP-20 frigate — at four million eight hundred thousand credits."
Judging by the mercenaries' faces, they were already counting the money and imagining how they would spend it. Pellaeon preferred not to even think about how quickly their already modest budget of seventy million credits — enough to maintain the existing fleet for a year — would fly into the criminals' pockets.
"Well, then," Thrawn summed up. "I trust no one will object to our specialists inspecting the ships?"
Niles Ferrier snorted angrily, which led Gilad to suspect that not everything was as smooth with the Corellian vessel as the thief had claimed. The pirate, however, felt perfectly fine.
"However, everyone present here perfectly understands that the offered ships are by no means new," Thrawn continued, and Pellaeon rejoiced as he saw the criminals tense up. "Therefore, I believe a fair price would be half the market value of a new starship of the same type."
"Hey-hey!" Yazuo Vain waved his arms. "People would tear these ships out of my hands anywhere — in the New Republic, in other Imperial states..."
"You would be executed — in both places," Thrawn said calmly. "And for the same reasons. Stealing a combat vessel in the New Republic could be commuted to a life sentence on Kessel or another prison colony — that's not important. A similar crime in the Empire — any part of it — is punishable by death. And considering you also contributed to the deaths of Imperial citizens and servicemen, you're heading for the gallows for sure. The same goes for you, Niles Ferrier — Corellia is trying to be friends with both forces in the galaxy. And you both managed to harm both major galactic powers. The other minor polities won't scrape together even half of what we're offering you."
"That's not what we agreed on!" the thief declared. "The full amount was promised!"
When exactly was that?
"Exactly!" Yazuo Vain chimed in. "A deal is like a meteor..."
"A meteor burns up when it enters the oxygen-containing atmosphere of an astronomical body," the Grand Admiral cut the pirate off. "But since you decided to mislead me, Mr. Vain, regarding our agreements, I will meet you halfway. The 'Tartan' captured in the Chasin system — I will, I suppose, accept as a gift, as a gesture of goodwill on your part, for the mistake of choosing a starship to steal. You cannot steal ships from the Empire and its allies and then try to sell them back to the same Empire."
"I didn't steal the ship from you," the half-blood said sullenly. "And if I'd known it was your people, I wouldn't have tossed them out the airlock..."
"Any part of the Empire is my territory," Thrawn said firmly. "Except, perhaps, the Deep Core is of little interest to me. But thank you for reminding me about the merciless murder of our ship's crew members. Captain," Pellaeon was now barely hiding his smile — "what is the crew complement of a Tartan-class patrol cruiser?"
"Seventy men," he answered readily. "The minimum is ten."
"There were only about a dozen people on board!" Yazuo began to argue, clearly losing his temper. Rukh tensed, ready to spring at the pirate at any moment.
"Excellent," Thrawn declared. "As the maxim goes — the life of an Imperial serviceman is priceless."
"Who said that?" thief Niles Ferrier interrupted the Grand Admiral's conversation with Yazuo Vain.
"I did," Thrawn replied simply. "Just now."
"I see," 'Sly' hung his head.
"As I already stated — for your crimes, you deserve execution, not a monetary reward," Thrawn continued. "But today, the Empire gives a second chance to those who help it. For each killed crew member of the 'Tartan', Mr. Vain — you will steal and deliver one ship to me. Twelve in total."
Pellaeon thought he had gone deaf. What?! Since when did the Empire conduct business like this?! Even Darth Vader, known for his contacts among mercenaries, didn't give second chances. He just choked them with his supernatural powers and that was it. But to just casually put a pirate in his debt like that... Did the Admiral really hope he would carry out the order, even if he promised?
"I don't even know where to find a dozen 'Tartans'," the half-blood declared.
"You have information on at least three ships of that type," the Chiss reminded him. "However, I will accommodate your position. The ships can be of any type and any condition, but exclusively for military purposes. The higher the class and better the condition, the faster you will close your debt to me."
"You want me to board a Star Destroyer for you?" the pirate asked incredulously.
"There are quite a few of them in the galaxy," Thrawn agreed. "And not all belong to the Empire. I'm confident that if you obtain information about where the Empire's larger vessels are uncomfortable under the flags of our enemies, we'll help you resolve the moral dilemma of their ownership by applying the proceeds against your debt, Mr. Vane. In such a situation, you would most likely become a very wealthy man."
"A tempting offer," the pirate declared. "Well, I do have a couple of options, of course… The bottom line of the deal is certainly as impressive as sex drive on a deathbed, but… Two million one hundred thousand credits is better than nothing."
"Add to that your life, received in advance for completing the remaining assignments," Thrawn advised. "And also — don't forget to offload twelve crew members from your ship. They'll remain as hostages while you fulfill your obligations. Try to deceive me, disappear, or steal ships from the Empire — my subordinates will kill your subordinates very slowly and for a very long time, until you come to your senses. Not to mention that I will send every bounty hunter I can hire after your head. Captain, what do you think — are the rumors true that Boba Fett survived spending time in the sarlacc pit on Tatooine and is badly in need of money?"
"Undoubtedly, sir," the captain of the Chimaera noticed a shadow fall across Rukh's face. The Grand Admiral had just made it clear that he didn't rely on the Noghri as his enforcers. Shame weighed ever heavier on the ambitious little people. "Rumor has it he even does some jobs for pleasure — especially those that in one way or another involve those who once served the Hutt cartels."
"So, do we have a deal?" the Grand Admiral looked at the pirate. The man, who had clearly stopped enjoying himself, nodded in response. "Twelve killed Imperial military personnel — twelve ships. The better their condition, the better for you. Term: one week to deliver the first ship to me. If there's no news from you about a completed job within six days — you can start looking for or digging yourself a deeper hole for your own repose."
"Did you mean 'peace'?" the hijacker Niles Ferrier clarified.
"I said what I meant," Thrawn noted coldly. Pellaeon appreciated the play on words. He could even picture the pirate actually digging himself a hole somewhere in Tatooine's sands. Where he would then be buried. "But thank you for reminding me of your presence, Mr. Ferrier. You will receive two million four hundred thousand for your ship. However, as with Mr. Vane — the starships will first be inspected by Imperial technicians. Any unreported malfunction will cost you part of your fee."
The hijacker opened his mouth, from which the stub of the cigar he had been chewing without daring to light fell out.
"You should consider a career change, Grand Admiral," the half-blood advised. "You could swindle people out of credits that way… I think even Tyber Zann or Jabba, if they heard your speech, would say: 'Good one!'"
But the Grand Admiral said nothing in response, simply ignoring his words.
"You have ten minutes to contact your subordinates and arrange for the delivery of the proposed ships here for inspection," Thrawn said.
"Uh…" the half-blood faltered. "I'd need to get back to my ship, we have problems with the communications system."
"So do I," 'Sly' declared. Pellaeon almost laughed, hearing the old trick. Did they really think this chatter would have any effect on the Grand Admiral?
"Of course," Gilad thought he'd gone deaf. The Grand Admiral had agreed?! Actually agreed?! They'd go back to their ships and jump into hyperspace! Good luck finding them then. No mercenaries, no promised ships. "Captain, tell me, how accurate are your gunners?"
"Jewelers, sir," Pellaeon said, embellishing reality a bit. Well, maybe more than a bit.
"So, if we carefully shoot off the engines of our guests' ships, the reactors on their freighters won't explode?" the Grand Admiral clarified. The Corellian nearly burst out laughing. No, seriously, did Thrawn actually know how to joke?
"I'm not sure, sir," he said, suppressing a smirk. "You know, with all those gravitational distortions, solar wind — we might aim at one spot and hit straight through the living quarters or the reactor…"
"Your vaunted Imperial precision," Yazuo Vane grumbled. "Fine, at least give me a comlink. And I'd like to see the money first."
"Of course," Thrawn agreed suspiciously easily. "Captain, arrange for the required sums to be delivered here. In cash. Small-denomination credits."
* * *
The Millennium Falcon's engines roared with strain, telling the experienced ear of the captain of this battered starship that he really should get around to repairs. "After we get back to Coruscant," Han thought, lifting the ship off the landing pad.
"Well, that went pretty well?" he asked the cockpit occupants of the freighter rhetorically. Chewbacca limited himself to a short growl of agreement.
Leia smiled warmly.
"The Bimms are a peaceful race," she said. "We didn't expect the negotiations to go so smoothly. But here we are — another people has joined the New Republic."
"And that's your doing," her husband reminded her.
"Not entirely," Organa-Solo noted. "Your participation, along with Chewie and Luke's, in the negotiations was a pleasant surprise for the Bimms. I think they were flattered that three Alliance heroes took part in the signing process."
"Four," Han corrected. "You're a hero too, Your Worshipfulness."
"Whatever you say," Leia smiled modestly. She sat for a moment in a good mood, but by the time they'd cleared the planet's atmosphere, her tone had become more anxious:
"Something's happening with Luke," she said.
"What do you mean?" Han asked in surprise, seeing the Jedi Knight's X-wing position itself slightly ahead of them.
"I… I can sense something's troubling him," Leia said doubtfully. "He's usually always calm, but before we left Coruscant, I thought he seemed preoccupied. Sort of pensive, focused."
"I didn't notice anything," Han admitted. "Maybe you're overthinking it? He's a Jedi, and those guys are always pensive and focused. I think," he added somewhat uncertainly.
"Maybe I am overthinking it," the Alderaanian princess said. "But… you know, it seems to me everything went a little too easily."
"I'm not complaining," Solo grinned. "We arrived, welcome ceremony, walked around the markets, negotiations, more markets, signed the papers, and home. I'd be happy to take you on missions like this every day."
"I don't think the Provisional Council will have that many assignments for me," Leia noted. "Especially not ones this simple."
"So maybe you should ask for a break from work?" Han started the conversation from a distance again. "Say, for a year or so…"
"We've discussed this," the young woman said with a smile. "Right now the New Republic has too few trained, and more importantly, responsible diplomats."
"And that's a reason to make you work while you're pregnant?" Han said discontentedly. Chewbacca, sitting nearby, growled in approval. He, like his human friend, didn't like that Leia had to continue her political and diplomatic career. While also taking care of the twins. "Maybe we should remind her that two future Jedi depend on her for their birth?"
"Han," Leia lovingly stroked her already rounded belly. "Even Luke isn't sure yet that our children will grow up to be Jedi. Maybe they'll be ordinary people, like you and me…"
"Oh right, you're so ordinary," the former smuggler couldn't resist a little jab at his wife.
"Until I complete Jedi training — yes, I'm an ordinary person," Leia declared. "Although… maybe I should ask Luke to give me a few lessons in the Jedi arts?"
"Sounds good, huh, sweetheart?" Han turned to her. "And a lightsaber on your belt would look impressive…"
"Right over my protruding belly," Leia smiled.
"A beautiful sight," Solo stated uncompromisingly. "By the way, so we don't keep putting this off, let's ask Luke right now. Hey, kid," he ignored Leia's attempts to protest and opened a channel to the Jedi's X-wing. "How would you feel about giving Leia some training when we get back to Coruscant?"
"That's a good idea, Han," Solo frowned. Skywalker's voice sounded somehow distant. "But I'm not sure she can handle the full training course…"
"As gallant as a rancor," Han thought.
"I'm not that bad a student, brother," and now the princess's voice sounded wounded. "Besides, think of it as practice. Someday you'll have to teach the twins your tricks."
"Leia," warmth returned to Luke's voice. "I didn't mean you couldn't learn the Jedi arts. But… I just don't know if it's allowed to train in your condition… Heavy physical exertion…"
"Like female Jedi stopped fulfilling their duty when they were pregnant," Leia said with a hint of sarcasm. "Luke, please don't act like a protective older brother…"
"Is he older?" Han hastened to clarify. Chewbacca let out a low growl indicating he too was interested in a truthful answer to that question.
"We haven't decided yet," the princess admitted with a sigh.
"Leia, I…" Luke hesitated. "I don't know how female Jedi behaved in your condition… Honestly, I wanted to tell you both that I'm planning to go to Dagobah. To have a look around, you know, just in case Yoda left some records behind."
"That you haven't been able to find all this time?" Han asked skeptically. "Kid, it seems to me you're clumsily trying to come up with an excuse to sneak away from us."
"Is it that obvious?" Luke's voice held a sad chuckle.
"Let's just say — I wouldn't advise you to play sabacc," Han answered diplomatically. "Leia said something's bothering you…"
And with every fiber of his being, he hoped the Jedi would dispel his doubts.
But Luke Skywalker has one trait that makes him the kindest Jedi in the galaxy. He simply can't lie well. At all. He can't lie at all.
"She's right," Luke didn't even try. "I feel something… wrong in the Force. On Coruscant it was faint, but on Bimmisaari I was on edge the whole time. Like I was waiting for the negotiations to fall apart."
Han looked at Leia, whose very expression stated: "I told you so!" Oh, these Jedi…
"You think the answer is on Dagobah?" the Jedi's sister clarified.
"I don't know," no, seriously?! He wasn't even trying to sound reassuring! "But the Force is calling me to Dagobah. Maybe the answer is there. Maybe some clue. Or maybe I just want to see Yoda's grave one more time."
"Maybe you should tell Corran Horn?" Han suggested. "He's sort of a Jedi now too…"
"Han," Skywalker said peaceably. "Horn is on active duty, and training isn't in his plans. Maybe when we're done with the Empire…"
Solo looked at his wife. Was that their family excuse? As far as he knew, Darth Vader never looked for excuses — he just did things.
"Alright, Luke," Han looked at the navigation computer, which reported the jump to Coruscant had been calculated. "I'm sure you'll figure it all out. If you need our help — you know my comlink frequency."
"Thanks, Han," the Jedi Knight responded. "It was good to be on a mission with you all again. Chewie, Leia, Han," he named each of them in turn. That was his farewell procedure. Couldn't he just say: "See you, I'll drop by in a week!"
"May the Force be with you, Luke," Leia said.
"And with all of you," Skywalker responded. His voice became distant again.
The X-wing peeled off to the side, wiggling its wings in farewell. A moment — and the ship shot forward, disappearing from sight in a hyperspace jump.
Chewbacca whined ambiguously.
"Yeah, buddy," the Corellian said, glancing at his wife who had turned her attention to reading documents. "I too really hope this isn't the start of some new, wonderful adventures with galaxy-sized stakes."
* * *
Sitting in the chair on the bridge, set opposite the main viewport, I watched as two heavily modified freighters, belonging to the starship hijacker and the pirate, vanished into hyperspace. Sighing, I set aside my datapad on which I'd been studying a report.
Feeling something not too heavy settle on my shoulder, I turned my head. The ysalamiri had decided the perch near my head wasn't to its liking, but my arms — that was perfect. Just what the doctor ordered. Tricky cold-blooded creature.
Pellaeon approached and handed me a datapad. More encrypted messages from Coruscant.
"We're heading to Linuri to rendezvous with the fleet," I ordered, setting aside the datapad with intelligence data. The Delta Source's memos could wait.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said. And judging by his tone, he clearly intended to talk about something else.
"Is something troubling you, Captain?" I inquired.
"The mercenaries," the Chimaera's commander admitted. "I'm not sure they'll actually decide to work with us."
"So be it," I answered simply. "We've already acquired three ships — for a very modest sum."
"Three million seven hundred fifty thousand," Pellaeon said. "You know how to bargain, Grand Admiral."
"Uh-huh. You should try getting your service-required housing certificates out of our Ministry of Defense," I thought, recalling an episode from my past life.
"No bargaining at all," I declared. "When we offered them a job, the conversation wasn't about us being cheated out of our own money. The fact that they both took measures to get the stolen ships to their destination at all, despite extensive damage — it only shows how little we're valued on the galactic stage, if they think they can sell their last scrap for big money."
"And yet the Tartan, supposedly stolen from mothball storage, looked promising," Pellaeon said. "For a moment I even thought it had actually undergone serious repairs and was good as new."
"And you would definitely be swindled by our domestic used-car dealers at the first second-hand market we came across," I thought. Maybe I'm being picky, but this isn't the behavior and mindset I expected from a Star Destroyer captain.
"The calculation is simple," I said. "If a battle group of our ships was actually retreating from Anaxis, why would they leave behind four fully combat-capable starships while taking all the others capable of hyperspace jumps?"
"That's logical," Pellaeon agreed. "Do you think the other three will be of the same quality as this one?"
"When they're delivered — we'll assess them," I decided. "Guessing is pointless."
"We'll have to spend a couple of million just to fix the damage on these ships," Pellaeon said. "And rearming them to standard is also necessary."
"There's no other way," I said. "We saved some amount — the difference between planned and actual spending fully covers our repair and restoration costs. So consider that we've made a decent saving — instead of the planned thirteen million two hundred thousand credits, we spent barely a third of that on acquisition. Even if we spend another four million on repairs — it's definitely a saving."
"Yes, that worked once," Pellaeon agreed. "But what if they no longer want to sell us stolen ships for half their value?"
"Then I'll keep the promise I made them," did someone expect otherwise? "If Mr. Vane doesn't report success within five days — a hunt will be opened on him. And Rukh," the Noghri, as always sitting near the Grand Admiral's chair, twitched his ears — "will take out all his grief from my disappointment in him on our prisoners."
"Sir…" Pellaeon noted cautiously. "I didn't say this in front of them, but… a standard week is far too short a time even to reach a New Republic base. Not to mention scouting the situation, finding suitable starships, and stealing them."
"On the contrary, Captain," I declared. "That amount of time is sufficient. Surely you don't think the sentients in that crew travel on ships with standard hyperdrives?"
"I doubt they have anything faster than Class One," Pellaeon said skeptically.
"But they have a network of informants and accomplices," I declared. "Do you really think the military in the Chasin system is so understaffed that even their patrol ships — of which they don't have many — are deprived of full crews? Patrol cruisers, whose duties include pursuing violators and deploying boarding parties…"
"The pirate lied to us," Pellaeon sighed. Well, was anyone surprised by that fact?
"Of course he lied," I agreed, handing Pellaeon the datapad I'd been studying before he approached. "This is a report from the Chasin system. It states that both the torpedo sphere and both Tartan-class patrol cruisers are in active service. No pirate attacks or anything of the sort. What conclusion can we draw?"
"Yazuo Vane isn't just a liar — he has some ships in reserve that he passes off as captured," Pellaeon understood.
"Exactly," I confirmed. "Remember that curious detail in his biography? Escaped from Kessel, twice evaded punishment for proven crimes. At the time of Zsinj's attempt to capture the Star Destroyer Razor's Kiss at the Kuat shipyards, he already had five starships, three of which were destroyed. That leaves at least two. He arrived in one. Consequently — he has at least one more combat-capable starship on which he and his cronies ply their trade. What is the probability that a pirate trying to sell ships to the Empire would come to a meeting without backup?"
"If he has any brains — zero," Pellaeon expressed his opinion.
"Then our thoughts on this matter align, Captain," I declared. "The question is — is that companion starship currently on a raid, providing cover, or guarding a stash for previously stolen vessels?"
"Do you think they actually exist?" the Chimaera's commander doubted.
"Until we have factual data, we can only speculate," I admitted. "As a working hypothesis, let's consider that Mr. Pirate has or had connections in Imperial circles. Most likely, his 'stocks,' which no one has heard anything about, are nothing more than a legend to boost his prestige. Or at the very least, their number is greatly exaggerated."
"Then where did he get that Tartan he passed off as stolen from the New Republic?" Pellaeon clarified.
"Countless possibilities," I said. "It will become clearer when our specialists figure out what these ships actually are. Until then, all three of our acquisitions will remain at this outpost. The trick we pulled with Talon Karrde could be used against us as well…"
My attention was caught by hurried footsteps behind my chair. Someone in regulation footwear was moving toward us along the central walkway, which on the bridge divided the 'pits' where the duty station operators worked. At least it wasn't C'baoth — I wasn't ready for a conversation with him today.
"Grand Admiral, sir, Captain, sir," a heavy, well-projected voice reached me. Turning the chair, I found myself looking at a young man — no older than forty-five — dressed in Imperial Navy uniform. With minor differences — he had nothing to do with the deck crew or ship's company. His chest rank plates hinted at that. And while I still hadn't figured out which ones corresponded to what in this 'table of ranks,' I recognized these particular plates. I should steer clear of these plates — that's why I'd learned them first. And, damn it, I thought these 'comrades' were no longer carried as regular crew on Imperial Navy ships!
"Lieutenant Colonel Astarion," the captain greeted him. Glancing at me, he explained:
"This is…"
Lieutenant Colonel Astarion of the Imperial Security Bureau.
"I can guess who's before us, Captain," I said coldly, looking at the approaching officer. "How can we be of use to you, Lieutenant Colonel?"
"I tracked the request Lieutenant Tszhel made regarding the serial numbers of hyperdrives and other components of Tartan-class starships," Astarion said, clearly not intending to back down. "I'm interested to know where you obtained that data, Captain?"
Pellaeon was clearly getting nervous. And the reason was simple — the Lieutenant Colonel outranked him in both rank and position. And it was an established fact that the Imperial Security Bureau could question Star Destroyer captains, but not the other way around.
The Grand Admiral, however, could.
"My answer will disappoint you, Lieutenant Colonel," I declared. "Captain Pellaeon is not aware of what's happening. I personally gave the assignment to Lieutenant Tszhel."
"You?" the Lieutenant Colonel was slightly taken aback. "Sir, forgive me, but…"
"You're fighting on the wrong side, Astarion," I said. "Onboard the ships of my fleet, there is not a single traitor or sentient sympathetic to the Rebels. So, Captain, I take it this is the operative sent to us by the Ubiqtorate?"
"Yes, sir," the captain said hesitantly. "I… didn't get a chance to report."
Let's think this through. We've been in transit for several days with no stops. So either this sentient has been onboard the Chimaera for the last week, or he was waiting for us at the outpost and boarded during our absence. No, Captain. You didn't 'not get a chance to report.' The ISB man had you backed into a corner and 'asked' you to keep quiet. A typical counterintelligence officer, and on assignment to boot. Well, we'll put a stop to this quickly. Very quickly.
"Nothing to worry about, Captain," I declared. "So, Lieutenant Colonel, I see that during my absence from the explored part of the galaxy, the requirements of unity of command and subordination have been forgotten not only in the Navy but also in such a wonderful organization as the Imperial Security Bureau. So let me remind you, Lieutenant Colonel, who reports to whom in my Empire and who has the right to demand anything from the captain of my flagship."
ISB man blinked in confusion. Then again.
"Grand Admiral, sir, I…"
"Assume the push-up position," I ordered quietly.
I'll admit, even I was startled. The Lieutenant Colonel dropped to the deck without delay, landing perfectly in the required position. You could measure it with a ruler.
"Now you can report in the established format about what exactly interested you so much about the serial number data of those units," I suggested. "And don't forget to bend and straighten your arms, Lieutenant Colonel. Until your report is fully complete."