Nine years, five months, and three days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, five months, and three days after the Great Resynchronization.
"You're a strange one, kid," the pilot sitting ahead and above him in the makeshift cabin of the skyhopper said confidentially. "Why waste your youth earning a few credits?"
Rederick, settled in the tiny cabin of the giant spaceship that looked more like an open umbrella with enormous engines attached, shrugged.
"I heard the pay is good here," he stated.
"Lando pays well?" the pilot chuckled. "But to be fair, the salaries on Nomad are higher than at other mining operations in this region of the galaxy."
"So Nomad mines a lot of metal?" Rederick fished.
"Not a lot, exactly," the pilot grimaced. "But we mine rare metals. Hfredium, kammris, and dolovite. They're used in starship construction. And Nkllon's crust is incredibly rich in them. Calrissian grabbed luck by the tail when he got this place. You can make a decent fortune here. Over time."
The skyhopper is en route to Nkllon.
"So neither the Empire nor the New Republic bothers you?" Rederick was surprised.
"Well, let them try," the pilot snorted. "Think this thing," he patted his seat but clearly meant his huge ship, "is here for nothing? No, Calrissian keeps a dozen skyhoppers so nothing gets fried here by the star's radiation. Even Nomad stays exclusively on the dark side of the planet. On the side facing the star — certain death in a couple of hours. Take my word for it — that rule was written in blood. Even the 'diggers' work only on the dark side."
"'Diggers'?" Rederick pretended not to understand.
"Plasma drills," the pilot apparently disliked the more or less official name for the mining rigs. "The things that drill…"
"I'm a mine administrator by training," Rederick reminded him of his cover story. "I know what plasma drilling rigs are. But this is the first time I've heard them called 'diggers.'"
"Well, there you go," the pilot said wearily. "Oh, hell, how I hate this tedious course calculation for the jump! Lando, that tight-fisted bastard, could have bought at least somewhat modern hyperdrives and nav computers! These things remember the Old Republic back in its founding days."
"Wait," Rederick frowned. "The skyhopper has hyperdrive engines?"
"Of course," the pilot stated with a hint of pride. "If it didn't, I'd spend half a day just flying one way. But this way — I get the access codes to the nav computer, and I jump quick. No, there are idiots who are afraid to transmit the codes, then I offer them a ten-to-fifteen-hour flight on sublight — everything gets settled immediately."
"Is that so," Rederick nodded. "I thought only slow flight was possible…"
"No, that would be sheer idiocy, no one would agree to work here then," the pilot laughed, slapping the armrest of his seat. "You'd die of boredom here."
"Then skyhoppers are truly a wonderful invention," Rederick agreed. "I don't understand why Calrissian doesn't spend a couple of million on proper equipment for the ships…"
"We'd go broke," the pilot said. "We have fifteen skyhoppers, and each one costs half a million a month in maintenance — they're falling apart as they fly. If we started modernizing them or building new ones, we'd be ruined for sure. How much money do you think Nomad makes selling its mineral stockpiles?"
"Depends on the output, how many drills are working, how often deals are made, how much the market prices for this or that metal fluctuate," Rederick began listing the criteria.
"We have just over fifty 'diggers,'" the pilot grimaced. "And the warehouses on Nomad are small — we ship them out for sale every six months. Lando doesn't really trust the exchange — we do direct deliveries. Lando must be netting twenty to thirty million, for sure."
"What makes you say that?" Rederick clarified. "Does he show you his accounts?"
"Accounts are only for customer settlements," the pilot said confidentially. "And Lando is old-fashioned. He likes to look at his money. Hell, we have a bank vault the size of a cruiser. Though it never quite fills to the top," the pilot laughed.
"With that kind of income, it should have," Rederick remarked.
"That's if you don't play sabbacc and make reckless investments," the pilot laughed. "Calrissian loves to take risks. Almost as much as he loves making money somewhere he can be a monopolist. And Nkllon is the only hfredium, kammris, and dolovite mining operation in at least the nearest ten to twenty sectors. So he makes good money. No wonder even the miners here get paid twice as much as at ordinary excavations."
"You know, I was just thinking, if Calrissian does hire me, I'll need to think about security," Rederick stated. "With that volume of mining… that kind of money… At least a couple of fighter squadrons and a small ground detachment wouldn't hurt."
"Oh, kid, you're not the only smart one around here," the pilot assured him. "You think Calrissian doesn't know how to fight off those who want to get a piece of him? Give me a break. After they took Cloud City on Bespin from him, he's ready to buy a whole fleet. But there's never enough money," the pilot laughed again. Then he became more serious and added:
"We have some junk, like fighters decommissioned back in Republic times," he revealed. "So don't waste your effort on that. We've got maybe ten to twenty security personnel too. Better think about how to increase output — Lando will definitely kiss you for that and give you a higher salary."
"Well, I'll have a probationary period," Rederick stated. "I'll look around, see what's what, and then start brimming with ideas. Thanks for telling me how things work. At least I'll have some information. I owe you one."
"You can buy me a Corellian whiskey sometime," the pilot set the price for his help, "and we'll call it even."
"Deal," Rederick agreed. "How much time do we have left? Can I get some sleep?"
"Of course," the pilot said with unexpected frustration, tapping his finger on the nav computer monitor. "It's dead. We'll have to fly on sublight. You've got about ten or eleven hours to spare. You can lie down while I contact Nomad."
"The comm system is probably ancient too?" Rederick smirked.
"Well," the pilot lamented. "But you can kill time by connecting to the HoloNet. If some idiot is flying on sublight, I pass the time watching a holo-film. Want to join?"
"No, I'd better sleep," Rederick stretched, faking a yawn. "Lots of work ahead."
"Okay, kid," the pilot pointed to the hatch. "I'll seal myself in so I don't bother you. And don't forget — you owe me whiskey."
"Of course," Rederick assured him.
Making sure the pilot had kept his promise and actually sealed the hatch, Lieutenant Rederick of Grand Admiral Thrawn's Fleet Intelligence pulled a compact communication device from a hidden pocket. Preparing a brief report on everything he had heard from the pilot — the number of "diggers," the defense systems, the enterprise's profitability, and especially the presence of hyperdrives on the skyhoppers — he spent a few minutes remotely connecting to the ship's long-range communication system and masking his transmission as the regular data exchange the pilot used to watch entertainment videos. It would take several hours before the message passed through dozens, if not hundreds, of HoloNet system relays and reached the Chimaera. But reach it, it would.
Imperial Fleet Intelligence Operative, Lieutenant Rederick. (Undercover)
That was the mission for him and his colleagues — to find everything necessary for the Grand Admiral to ensure the Empire's triumph over the rebels.
After wiping the device and data logs — which to the uninitiated appeared to be an ordinary, stylish comlink — the lieutenant returned it to his hidden pocket and leaned back in his seat.
Now he could actually sleep.
* * *
The return — or in my case, the first appearance — at the fleet's operational base in the Linuri system was not accompanied by anything like parades, salutes, or anything of the sort.
Just the fleet's warships returning from their missions, having completed their raiding strikes against rebel communications.
The Chimaera was the only ship in my entire fleet among the nine Imperial-class Star Destroyers classed as second-generation. The difference between the Imperial I and the Imperial II is not too noticeable at first glance, but in reality, it is striking. And it is all the more regrettable that only one such magnificent vessel is under my command.
When Captain Pellaeon informed me of our return to base, I was already finishing reading Colonel Astarion's report. Modest, but tasteful. It should work if the intelligence data is correct.
Now all that remained was to make the final preparations for the operation, issue instructions to some, receive reports from others, and announce my plan regarding what we would accomplish in the future. In the near future.
Leaving my quarters, I took a number of data chips with me to have the opportunity to read useful materials in my spare time. I noted that Rukh had attached himself to me like a silent shadow. And although the Noghri gave no indication that he was tormented by pangs of conscience, everything was clear enough.
Though we covered the distance from the system where we met with the mercenaries to the Linuri system in a relatively short time, thanks to using regional hyperspace routes, we could have, if we wished, stopped by the Noghri homeworld — Honoghr. The world of these gray-skinned killers was, as they say, "along the way," and a meeting with the clan leaders would not have taken much time. However, I ignored Pellaeon's proposal to do so, demonstrating that Rukh's failure still troubled me.
Yes, it could be said that he is a bodyguard, not a saboteur; that he might have made a mistake somewhere; that he has different tasks and different training. But the problem is that all Noghri who transfer into commando units and leave the planet have the same type of upbringing — as killers and saboteurs. And Rukh is no exception. His failure will serve as a reminder to the other Noghri that letting me down is not advisable. And it will give them an extra chance to think about their loyalty.
To be honest, I didn't particularly dream of plans to release the Noghri into the "big world." As long as they are on Honoghr, they won't meet, even hypothetically, with the Anakin Skywalker family, won't scent them, and won't realize that they are descendants of their beloved "our master Darth Vader," which would cast doubt on their loyalty to me. But I also have no desire to ignore them for long. A lesson is good when it is understood and learned. But moving to outright bullying and humiliation is a sure path to animosity. The political officer used to tell me that back in the army. A good man. Stern as the Arctic frost, tough as a paratrooper jumping off Everest, and full of worldly wisdom. In many ways, it was thanks to him that, after experiencing considerable difficulties with physical training during my conscript service, I understood, accepted, and realized that the desire to serve the Motherland lies not only in the ability to be a soldier. The brain is also a weapon. Or, as the political officer said: "The brain is first and foremost a weapon. Only then comes the Kalashnikov assault rifle."
Therefore, in the near future, I should show them my attention. But only after the dress rehearsal of the attack on Sluis Van.
"Captain," I greeted Pellaeon, who met me on the bridge near the turbolift doors — the shortest route from the Chimaera's living decks to the combat information center.
"Grand Admiral," he returned the greeting. "The fleet is assembled, ship commanders ready for the briefing."
"Has Lieutenant Colonel Astarion already left the Chimaera?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," confirmed the Star Destroyer commander. "The commander of the Steel Aurora is awaiting confirmation of the order. His ship is ready to move out."
"Let's go," I ordered, heading to my chair at the front of the bridge. "Do we have confirmation from Nkllon?"
"Affirmative, sir," said Pellaeon as we walked along the central walkway. "Half a year's output of refined rare-earth metals. Lando Calrissian has sold previous stocks and has significant cash proceeds from auctions at the facility. No less than twenty million credits. Resistance is minimal. Plasma drilling rigs — fifty units, possibly more. It is additionally known that the local ships, which shield from stellar radiation, are equipped with hyperdrives, but not of the best class."
I did not answer. It was clear without that: the risk was worth it.
For briefings and various sorts of meetings, the Star Destroyer had special compartments, but at the present moment gathering all the officers who would be involved in the operation aboard the flagship was a minimal waste of time. Half a month had already passed in various administrative travels, and that was lost time no one would return to me. Especially in light of the approaching events.
Settling into the chair, I placed my hands on the armrests. I paused for a moment, studying the motionless starships orbiting the planet Linuri. Only the combat wing of the fleet was concentrated here — Star Destroyers and medium cruisers. The frigates had their own basing locations in Imperial Space, and until they were needed for their primary profile, it was pointless to drag them here. I could talk to their commanders right now via the communication systems.
But first — a conversation with those on whom the outcome of the Battle of Sluis Van largely depended.
"Captain Kalian," I greeted the first hologram.
Commander of the Imperial Victory I-class Star Destroyer, Captain Kalian.
Relatively young — he did not look forty yet — the commander of a Star Destroyer whose power once struck absolute terror into the enemies of the Old Republic, during whose era the first modification Victory-class ships were created, formally greeted me, listening with full attention.
"Your task is to proceed under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Astarion to the planet Abafar," I outlined the mission's objective. It was on this little planet in the Sprizen sector of the Outer Rim that the Separatists, during the Clone Wars, had mined rhydonium to fill that very hijacked Venator-class Star Destroyer for a ramming mission to destroy a Republic military station in the Carida system. "Provide the lieutenant colonel with maximum support in his mission. Upon completion of the work on Abafar, report."
"Order received and understood, Grand Admiral," the commander of the Steel Aurora reported smartly. "Permission to execute?"
"Proceed, as soon as the lieutenant colonel is aboard your ship," I ordered.
"Yes, sir." The hologram faded.
Pellaeon, standing behind my chair, sniffed disapprovingly.
"Questions, Captain?" I inquired, not even thinking of turning my head. Instead, I watched as the gray hull of the Victory I moved, leaving the fleet formation, and after a few seconds lunged forward into the blackness of space, transitioning to lightspeed.
"Kalian is young, sir," he said. "He took command of the Steel Aurora only a couple of weeks ago, following the death of its previous captain. I doubt everything will go smoothly. If they run into rebel ships, they'll have a hard time. Perhaps the Nemesis or the Stormhawk would have been much better suited for this mission."
"The captain has served on that Destroyer for more than ten years," I recalled the data from the freshly minted captain's personnel file. "And more than three years as executive officer. Not a single reprimand during his entire service. Diligent and tactically proactive. Let's give him a chance to prove himself. Or do you doubt that executive officers can become suitable captains?"
"No, sir," Pellaeon answered hastily, realizing that this hint was meant for him personally.
"Let's continue," I decided, contacting another commander, but this time a more experienced and proven officer.
"Captain Brandei," the commander of the Star Destroyer Overlord met my address with a grim face. But that meant nothing — this officer was always dissatisfied with life. "Report."
ISD-1 Overlord, Captain Brandei.
"Admiral, sir," Brandei ignored Pellaeon as if he didn't exist. It might seem disrespectful to the flagship commander, but no — regulations required that during such communication sessions, only the senior-ranked officer be addressed. "The Overlord is prepared for the mission to Nkllon. We have removed from the hull all equipment that could be damaged by radiation or thermal emission during the mission. Maximum safety measures have been taken to keep the hull and crew in combat-ready condition."
"Proceed when ready," I ordered. But immediately added: "You will be forwarded a report from our operative with detailed information on the facility. Pay attention to the docking yard that screens the freighters that deliver cargo to and from the planet for buyers from stellar radiation. After you complete the seizure of valuables at Mr. Calrissian's facility, those ships must be destroyed. Our agent at the site will coordinate with the ground team commander and contact you. Good luck."
"Yes, sir," Brandei nodded, and his hologram dissipated.
"Admiral, you did not brief Brandei on the information about the hyperdrives on the shield ships," noted the Chimaera's commander. "That could have helped him avoid damage to the Overlord during the mission."
"If Brandei is even slightly worthy of his service record, he will show tactical initiative," I said. "He has the information, and the directive to pay attention to the shield ships has been given. I don't intend to explain basic truths to him — I have no need for uninitiative ciphers; I have enough stormtroopers."
The captain was silent for a while.
"Perhaps we should send our other Victory, the Anvil, there as well?" asked Pellaeon. "As a backup. After all, Brandei will have to operate behind enemy lines. Calrissian may call New Republic ships from the nearest base for help… If the ship is damaged so that it cannot leave Nkllon's orbit on its own…"
"If that happens, Captain," I said patiently, "then Captain Brandei definitely does not deserve his position. And the Overlord's crew, if it allows irreversible damage to the ship they serve on at the hands of a few ground-based Nomad fighters or the scrap metal that the rebels might send from the base on Sluis Van right now, is not worth a deci-credit."
"One fighter managed to destroy the Executor's bridge at the Battle of Endor," Pellaeon reasonably noted. "The rebels are generally good at using their small craft."
"First, that was an RZ-1 A-wing interceptor," I corrected. "Second, with fully charged proton torpedo launchers. Third, the situation where small enemy forces can destroy a nineteen-kilometer-long Star Destroyer — and repeat this trick more than once — is very sad statistics for our shipbuilders. And especially for those who still haven't learned to use what they have."
"Understood, sir," Pellaeon said, somewhat distantly and even surprised.
"Now, regarding your proposal to use the second Victory we have," I continued. "Excellent idea. We'll do just that."
"Sir?" There was outright incomprehension in the Chimaera's commander's voice. Not because he was surprised by what I said. He just hadn't received specific instructions.
"Inform the commander of the Anvil to proceed to the orbit of Wayland and ensure the planet's security until further orders," I ordered. "Also, send one of our medium strike cruisers, the Statny, to the Pakuuni system to secure the outpost. Inform the cruiser's commander that from now on he is responsible for the safety of our control over the system, as well as for the technical condition of the ships that will be delivered by the mercenaries."
"Will they be?" Pellaeon doubted.
"In two, at most three days, we'll know for sure," I stated. "Arrange to move our hostages to the base on the surface and place them under reliable guard. We won't need them in the near future of our campaign."
Poking my finger at the icon of the Star Destroyer Relentless, I sent a connection request to its commander.
Commander of the ISD-1 Relentless, Captain Dorja.
An intriguing game was beginning.
A miniature hologram of an Imperial officer appeared above the holoprojector built into the armrest of my chair.
"Captain Dorja," I addressed him. "The Relentless under your command is heading to the Garos system, in the Msst sector of the Mid Rim."
"Quadrant R-7," Dorja quickly orientated. "Border territory. Contested sectors that provide support to both us and the rebels."
"Exactly, Captain," I confirmed. "The system is formally loyal to Imperial Space, but it occasionally supports our enemies. Your objective is the mining complex on the western coast of the main continent. It produces a substance known as hybidium. Also, according to our intelligence, rebel groups are active on the planet, which is unacceptable. I entrust you with solving this problem."
"Of course, I will carry out the order," Dorja said through gritted teeth. Oh, what an angry face he had. The commander of a Star Destroyer was being sent to deal with some rebels… At a time when an operation against the rebels was being planned and there was a chance to distinguish himself…
The problem also lay in the fact that Captain Dorja was a man who had joined my fleet not of his own free will. He had been sent here by the Imperial Space government because of his quarrelsome nature, his inability to keep silent when superiors were unjust. Demoting a Star Destroyer commander for such a fault was foolish. Killing him even more so. But sending him to someone who operated far from Imperial Space was easy. It was Dorja's character that had led to the discord between him, Pellaeon, and Thrawn in the events I knew. As a result, the combat commander had been pushed aside and did not truly participate in Thrawn's campaign. Despite the fact that he was objectively a talented officer.
That was why I sent him to Garos IV. I needed hybidium for cloaking systems. Lots of hybidium. The presence of a rebel cell and growing anti-Imperial sentiment on the planet interfered with supplies. Since Dorja was hard, almost impossible, to use in the overall deck, let him serve where he could be his own commander with broad authority. This should smooth over some of the distrust between us and flatter his ego, proving that he was consulted and valued. A small psychological trick aimed at self-absorbed people with a painful sense of their own greatness.
"The complex and the mineral it extracts are a strategically important element of the plan to destroy the New Republic," I said coldly. "We cannot allow someone incompetent to let the enemy deprive us of this planet. I need a thinking officer there. That officer is you. The speed with which we can accomplish this depends directly on you and your actions, Captain Dorja."
Hearing that he was an essential part of a grand plan, Dorja didn't exactly believe it right away. But he thought. He definitely thought. Whether he would regard this as a small concession from the command or as logical recognition of his merits was not important now. A positive result was needed. And I was confident he would achieve it.
"I depart immediately… Grand Admiral," he said clearly, in regulation tone, ending the conversation with a short nod.
It seemed progress was made. The difference in how Dorja began and ended the dialogue was noticeable. A small step toward a bright future and a comfortable working atmosphere.
"Captain Pellaeon," I addressed the Chimaera's commander. "Contact the commander of the Sentinel," I named one of the Interdictor-class Star Destroyers in the fleet. "Send him, in my name, to the Chasin system to secure the logistics traffic there."
"Sir, but there is already a 'torpedo sphere' and two frigates there," the officer noted. "A whole Interdictor will be…"
"… not superfluous if our acquaintance, the pirate Yazuo Vain, tries to take control of the ships stationed there," I explained. "A Star Destroyer with gravity well projectors and an experienced crew will discourage such desire much faster."
Plans are plans, but we must not forget the security of the territories loyal to me. That pirate was quite a slippery and resourceful guy. He might take the risk — it wasn't for nothing he invented the legend about the Chasin system. At the very least, he had considered enriching himself with ships there. I should not leave him even a chance for that.
"Captain, urgent message," Lieutenant Tschel's voice came from behind. Turning the chair, I looked at Pellaeon studying the report.
"Sir, this is data from the beacons on Myrkr," he said, handing me the datapad with the despatch displayed on the screen as if it were a treasure. "Someone changed the standard signal…"
" 'Hapspir', 'barini', 'korbolan', 'triaksis'. And I'm supposed to understand what all this means?"
"The decoders claim it's a top-priority access code," said Lieutenant Tschel, looking at me curiously.
"Could it be her?" Pellaeon said in amazement.
"Inform the Nemesis," I ordered, looking at Lieutenant Tschel. "Let them pick up our person from Myrkr."
"Yes, sir." The lieutenant saluted and headed to the communications bay.
"Sir," Pellaeon twisted his mustache. "The Nemesis was supposed to participate in the operation in the Sluis sector. Like the Overlord."
"I remember, Captain — a logical response to a logical question. Our plans have been adjusted. The raid on the Sluis sector is postponed… but not canceled."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon answered briskly, though doubt sounded in his voice. "Shall I inform Master C'baoth of the change in our plans?"
"No," I forbade. "His task is to coordinate. He does not need to know about the adjustments to the plan."
Gilad nodded silently. But his face expressed doubt. Furrowed brow, concentrated gaze looking aside… Apparently, he clearly thought sending an entire Star Destroyer for Mara Jade was a great waste.
"The Emperor's Hand," I said, tickling the ysalamiri under its chin, "is a very valuable resource. If she left Karrde, then her trust in him is undermined. Consequently — let us demonstrate to our guest that she is so welcome in the Empire that we use a Star Destroyer to bring her to the meeting place."
"And if it's an ambush?" Pellaeon clarified. "If she has betrayed us and is luring us out?"
"Not impossible," I agreed easily. "That is exactly why the Nemesis is sent there, not the Imperious, the Bellicose, or one of the Strike-class cruisers. An experienced crew and a level-headed commander are what is needed. And now, let us turn our gaze to the past, Captain…"
* * *
Atmospheric turbulence brutally battered the X-wing, trying to throw it from side to side. Just like then, during Luke's first arrival on Dagobah.
R2-D2 chirped and whistled excitedly, reporting that despite everything, the fighter was still intact and nothing had fallen off. A good ship, sturdy.
It was not for nothing that Wedge Antilles, commander of Rogue Squadron, and Anakin Skywalker himself loved the Incom Corporation's invention for its reliability.
But…
"R2-D2," the Jedi addressed his astromech. "Are the scanners functioning normally?"
The droid responded with an affirmative chirp.
Strange. The first time, the instruments had seemed to go haywire. Though, on second thought, maybe there was no mystery at all. Simply, Master Yoda had tried to "blind" the ship's sensors so that the Force would lead the young Jedi to the right swamp. After all, without that happy accident, how long would it have taken Anakin Skywalker to find both Yoda and his dwelling? Hard to imagine.
And now there is no one to guide him on the right course. Yoda is no more… And Ben Kenobi is no more…
As is his father…
Luke swallowed the lump in his throat, pushing away the wrong thoughts.
Awareness of loss and memories of the departed should not haunt him all his life. One cannot live in emotions — that is not the way of the Light Side of the Force. Even though he had become a Jedi Knight, he should not forget self-control. Including learning to let go of past pain.
Ben did not cling to life, dissolving into the Force. Yoda departed with peace in his soul. Even his father was, in a way, glad that he had been able to do a good deed. Even at the cost of his own life.
Such is the Jedi way — self-sacrifice. And there is nothing supernatural about it. Life and death are the natural order of things, which should not be disturbed. And since the end of existence is provided for by the very laws of nature and the Force, who is he to even think that such a thing could be wrong?
The X-wing descended on an antigrav cushion, its hull piercing the dense clouds and lower layers of the atmosphere.
Luke reached out to the Force to understand how suitable the surface below him was for landing. Adjusting course so that the fighter's nose was aimed directly at Yoda's dwelling, he noted with satisfaction how the landing gear touched a relatively solid surface. On Dagobah, everything is relative. Even the ground.
Barely had the canopy opened and the pilot removed his helmet when he felt the full bouquet of Dagobah's smells hit his nostrils.
Slightly decaying plants and the pungent odor of the surrounding swamps. Distant sounds of the inhabitants of the forest and waters, invisible in the mist. How familiar this was…
Memories of the time spent here flooded back. Conversations with Yoda over dinner of a strangely smelling but tasty and nutritious stew. Training that was mentally and physically exhausting, so much so that by evening he could barely move his legs or wave his arms. But he still walked through the forest on foot with the infinitely wise teacher on his shoulders, who tirelessly repeated to him that fatigue was only in his head. That the Force helped him and gave him what he needed — he only had to sense his body and everything around him correctly.
Luke jumped out of the cockpit, surprised at the solidity of the surface on which he had landed his ship. Quite strange, considering that most of Dagobah's surface was either swamps or moisture-soaked moss and intertwined tree trunks. Only near the cave could one find a relatively solid surface, and…
The cave!
Luke jerked to the side, pressing his back against the X-wing's hull. How the lightsaber ended up in his hands, he did not understand. But he felt that Darkness was emanating from behind the ship's stern. A very familiar feeling of the Dark Side.
He almost groaned. How, how had the Force led him here? And most importantly — why? He had been in the cave. He had learned the lesson Yoda had wanted to teach him, and…
Or perhaps he had not learned it, and that was why the Force itself wanted him to be here?
Taking a few steps to the side, he winced as if his teeth hurt.
Indeed — the stern of the X-wing was positioned directly opposite the entrance to the cave where he had experienced a vision many years ago. A couple of dozen meters from the fusion engine nozzles, a conspicuous tree grew, like a fierce and unwavering guardian, protecting the entrance, shrouded in a light haze of swamp vapors…
R2-D2 beeped in puzzlement.
"Everything's fine," Luke assured him. "It's just…"
With a soft hiss, the astromech droid left its socket in the X-wing's interior and rolled over to its master — the faithful friend didn't like being left alone.
A distant, piercing shriek of some bird rang out, completely scattering from Skywalker's mind all the arguments he'd told himself about why he had to come here. As important and vital as the journey to Dagobah had seemed during his mission on Bimmisaari, and during the flight, that was how hollow and unfounded it felt now.
What made him think the Force even wanted him to come to Dagobah?
Or was he just looking for some kind of anchor, a way to calm his inner turmoil over the disturbances in the Force he'd sensed?
Remembering that doubt leads to the Dark Side, Luke forced himself to push those thoughts away, trying to clear his mind.
"Do or do not." That's what Yoda said. Even if Skywalker was wrong now, he had still come. And he should see it through.
R2-D2 beeped questioningly, waiting.
"It occurred to me that Yoda might have left some recordings behind," he said. "Like Ben leaving his journal on Tatooine. Maybe Yoda did the same, and there's something useful here that I missed the last time I was here." The droid whistled, suggesting they start their search with the dead teacher's dwelling.
"Yeah, you're right, old pal. We'll start there."
The distance between the X-wing's landing site and the ancient Jedi's dwelling turned out to be relatively short. And Luke, invigorated by the proximity of the Dark Side, moved cautiously, recalling how hard it had been in his first days as a student.
One way or another, after almost falling through treacherously soft moss a couple of times, the Jedi Knight reached the squat hut — so familiar and… practically swallowed by the swamp.
Dagobah's lush vegetation had spared no mercy on the structure, piling onto it with all its mass, nearly drowning the hut in the bog and crushing it under the weight of vines and curved tree trunks. How much had changed here in just a few years…
The resourceful astromech extended a small sensor from his domed head. Luke just smiled.
"I think it won't hurt us to take a look with our own eyes," he said, glancing at his lightsaber.
He wondered: did Jedi of the past use their "weapon from a more civilized age" to clear their path? Or would they shake their heads in disapproval at such a thing?
It took only a few minutes to cut a path through the overgrowth and reach the ruins of the hut. Even on his last visit, he'd noticed that most of the building was made of clay, but quite sturdy, which was a credit to its builder. Wondering whether Yoda had built it himself or someone else had, Luke finally managed to squeeze inside. Even before, it had barely reached his waist; now it seemed like a cramped little nook filled with vegetation and luminescent moss.
After sifting through the broken pieces of clay pottery and rotten chunks of wood that had once been shelves and beams, Skywalker sadly concluded that there was nothing valuable here. If anything had been, it had either sunk long ago or been carried off by local inhabitants.
"Nothing here," he announced, climbing back out. "And I doubt Yoda could have hidden anything. That wasn't like him… He would have given it to me, knowing I'd need it in the future. But if not…"
R2-D2 beeped questioningly.
"No, pal, I don't think so," Luke said with a rueful smile. "You can try searching for something, since I didn't find anything in the hut, but I doubt there's anything useful. Yoda never had any high-tech items. I even think he didn't much care for them, for his own reasons. Remember when he whacked you with his cane for trying to take his nutrient bar?"
The droid hummed thoughtfully, still rotating its sensor. Of course it remembered. You don't forget something like that — especially when you're stuck outside in the pouring rain while your master and the ancient green little guy stay warm inside.
The droid suddenly froze, pointing its device toward the X-wing.
"Found something?" Luke asked, puzzled, looking in that direction. He thought for a few seconds, then a warm smile spread across his face.
"Congratulations, R2-D2, you've found our X-wing. Only this time we didn't lose it…"
The astromech chirped indignantly. Luke felt his ears starting to redden from R2-D2's tirade.
"Sorry," he muttered. "No, I don't think you have a problem with your electronics. Past the ship? What could be out there? There's only…"
The cave.
As they moved back, Luke thought his little friend had made a mistake. So when R2-D2 uncompromisingly rolled out behind the X-wing, still aiming his sensor toward the cave, Luke had trouble swallowing the sudden lump in his throat.
So he hadn't made a mistake.
"Are you sure?"
The droid beeped indignantly, asserting his professionalism. And if a human didn't like something, he could calm down, stop trembling like a leaf in the wind, and go check it out himself. Which of them was the Jedi, anyway? And honestly, all these distrustful types…
"I believe you," Luke said sadly, noticing that his right hand — the prosthetic — was gripping the lightsaber hilt so hard the servos were whining. And his left hand really was trembling. An unpleasant feeling of his own growing panic. "But I don't think Yoda would have left anything there. Not there. That place is full of the Dark Side of the Force, and Yoda, like me, was a Jedi. We serve the Light…"
If R2-D2 had eyes, he would have rolled them in time with his trill, which boiled down to the idea that Yoda hadn't chosen the clearing near a Dark Side cave as his exile site for nothing.
"There's logic in what you're saying, R2-D2," Luke admitted. "I've thought about that too. Positive and negative electrical charges do cancel each other out when they meet…"
The astromech burst into a trill devoted to correcting the illiteracy of one particular boy from Tatooine.
"Okay, okay," Luke conceded. "I'm a little on edge and misspoke. Of course it would be a short circuit…"
He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Repeated the process once more.
"I am a Jedi," he repeated firmly to himself. "Fear leads to the Dark Side of the Force."
Heading toward the cave entrance, he unclipped a comlink from his belt and turned it on.
"I'll be in touch, R2-D2," he said. "Track my position and tell me when I'm close to that object you found, okay?"
The droid whistled.
"No, stay outside the cave," Luke asked. "This isn't a good place for droids."
The feeling of cold — thick, viscous — carried his memories back to the first time he'd approached the cave. He'd been scared and curious then. He hadn't listened to Yoda and had brought his weapon. Maybe he should do the same now?
But he decided there was no point in turning back. After all, just because he had his lightsaber with him didn't mean he had to use it.
Step by step, he approached the place where he'd once fought the vision of Darth Vader. A battle he'd lost. Though… had he ever truly defeated his father? As a Jedi, without giving in to anger?
Hard to say. It was unknown what his swaggering would have led to when he'd thrown aside his lightsaber aboard the second Death Star, nearly falling victim to Emperor Palpatine's lightning.
But this time, nothing happened. No hissing breath from the shadows; no Sith Lord. Nothing.
Skywalker stopped, looking around. Strange that Yoda's hut had been swallowed by the jungle, but here everything was the same as before. The same tangled vines, the same dimness…
The young Jedi ran a hand over his face, releasing the tension. It seemed he had worried for nothing. He'd already faced this trial of fear. Whether he'd passed or failed — that was history, immutable. Yoda had never said whether young Skywalker had succeeded or failed. Or maybe he had, but Luke just hadn't understood.
Or maybe Yoda himself hadn't known. What if the cave never gave definitive answers, and everyone had to decide the outcome and accept the consequences on their own? Luke accepted them. Just as he accepted his own imperfection, fully aware that he should never, ever stop improving. His father had essentially destroyed the Jedi Order. Luke was to rebuild it.
The sins of the fathers…
One way or another, there was nothing more to fear here. He had conquered his fears and wouldn't let them overpower him. An empty fear of something wrong, something he couldn't understand, had sent him — the only Jedi Knight in the galaxy — rushing headlong across thousands of light-years in search of… what?
That's not how a Jedi should behave. He'd practically abandoned Han and Leia. Chasing after a phantom of who knows what…
Time to end this.
Maybe he shouldn't have started this search at all.
"R2-D2, you still with me?" he asked.
The droid chirped affirmatively.
"The signal source," Luke reminded. "Am I near it?"
The astromech hummed a reply, indicating there was very little left.
"Good," the Jedi decided. "I'll find it soon and we'll be done with the search. I came here for nothing…"
He didn't finish the sentence when he realized the cave's dimness was no longer dim. Instead, shadows and mist began to coalesce into something…
Luke felt his body burning again in the merciless heat of Tatooine's suns: Tato I and Tato II.
He felt a push in his back. A very familiar shove. At the same time, he took a step forward onto a narrow metal "plank" from which they intended to drop him… Nine years ago.
Luke looked around.
There was no doubt. He was again awaiting his execution and the death of his loved ones on Tatooine, at the Great Pit of Carkoon, where they were to be fed to the sarlacc.
He saw Jabba the Hutt's massive barge, from which the Hutt watched the execution. He saw and felt the triumphant, malicious thoughts of his cohorts. He saw the barely visible hull of R2-D2, waiting for the signal to begin…
"I know this is a vision," Luke said calmly. "I've already faced this trial. Nothing has changed since then."
But his words drowned in the clamor of the jubilant crowd. As if the Force itself was trying to make him understand that the young Jedi's opinion didn't matter to anyone here. They wanted to show him something…
He felt another shove — the one that sent him falling. Just like last time, he managed to twist and catch the edge. A fairly simple movement with his arms, and he shot upward, reaching out toward his own lightsaber flying toward him…
But his hand closed on only… nothing.
The weapon changed its trajectory and returned to the barge. No matter how hard Luke tried to call the lightsaber to him with the Force — nothing worked.
His lightsaber ended up in a woman's hands. Luke couldn't see her face, only a fiery mane of hair. And as he watched her wave it at him in a mocking salute, another shove sent him falling. Him, and Han, and even Lando. Only Leia, chained up, watched the scene with pain in her heart…
And then came darkness. Luke shook his head, hoping to dispel the illusion, but it was useless.
The darkness swirled, taking on new silhouettes.
Now he saw the same woman, clad in a tight black combat suit. She stood with her back to him, her posture suggesting she was trying to maintain independence, clearly opposing whoever stood before…
Luke's blood ran cold.
A massive high-backed chair. A figure sitting in the shadow of the furniture. A feeling that everything was wrong, a sense of unreality, as if none of this was true, wasn't happening to him.
But he kept watching.
He saw the white-clad figure rise from the chair. Skywalker's heart lightened. Thank the Force, it wasn't Palpatine. But… who was it then?
Like in the first vision, he couldn't see the face. Only a bluish, almost blue complexion, red eyes… The red-haired woman waited patiently as this being in a white uniform said something to her. Luke couldn't hear his words, couldn't make out their faces…
He went cold when he saw the white-clad figure pull his arm back, then bring it forward, handing something to the woman…
Luke struggled to swallow the lump in his throat. No, it couldn't be. It couldn't be! This wasn't reality! It was just a vision…
The Jedi Knight panicked as he watched further scraps of images… A terrible jumble… Darkness. As if there was no more likely future. Nothing at all.
And that was frightening. Young Skywalker couldn't even imagine such a thing was possible. And he was lying to himself when he said he'd conquered his fears.
He rejected what he had seen with all his might. And apparently, he managed to break the vision's hold.
He found himself back where he had been before the vision overtook him. He was breathing heavily, inhaling the scents of Dagobah's swamps. Large drops of sweat rolled down his face, and his flight suit was plastered to his body — which was practically impossible. He held his lightsaber in his hand, clenched so tightly he might have deformed the hilt…
And from the comlink came the frantic trill of faithful R2-D2.
"I'm fine," he said, not really believing his own words. "Everything's… okay…"
Skywalker paused, trying to gather his thoughts and remember what he was even doing here.
"The signal," he said, still struggling to catch his breath. "Am I close?"
The astromech beeped affirmatively.
"Good." Luke wiped the sweat from his forehead with his palm. "I'm moving forward. Stop me when I'm close."
He cautiously moved ahead, still reflexively clutching the lightsaber in his hand. It felt like the prosthetic had locked up, and the mechanical fingers couldn't let go of the weapon.
But nothing new happened. It seemed the Force had shown him everything it wanted to. And now he could finish what he had come to Dagobah for.
Hearing a whistle from the comlink, Luke froze.
"Here?" He looked at his feet. Looked around. Lowered his gaze to his feet again…
A few minutes of digging through the mud and decaying leaves, and he pulled out a small cylinder. A little longer than his palm. Five triangular buttons in a row. And an engraving covered in dirt on the opposite side.
R2-D2 beeped approvingly, confirming that Luke had found what he was looking for. The Jedi Knight shook his head. He'd expected something different. But he couldn't even form in his mind exactly what.
"I'm coming back," Luke said.
The return trip took much less time. Not because Skywalker wanted to leave the place quickly, but simply because he didn't get lost and paid attention.
Outside had grown dark. Even the faint glow penetrating through the haze of mist and clouds was gone. It seemed he had lost a lot of time while trapped in the vision. R2-D2 had already returned to the X-wing's socket and turned the ship so its nose faced the cave entrance. Luke climbed out, waving amiably at the astromech rolling toward him, emitting a series of worried whistles.
"I'm fine," Luke assured him, crouching in front of his faithful friend and holding out the cylinder he'd found. "Any idea what this is?"
The droid changed the color of its optical sensor several times, then began to whistle slowly, as if thoughtfully. Luke, quite exhausted from his time in the cave, didn't interrupt, and was surprised to find that his mental fatigue allowed him to understand the astromech perfectly.
"Are you sure?" he asked when R2-D2 finished his tirade. "I've never seen Lando with a thing like that."
The droid burst into another trill.
"Okay," Luke concluded. "I was busy, you were busy. Let's get you back in place and get out of here. We'll stop by Calrissian's place — he invited me once."
He cast one last glance at the cave. There was no reason to stay here any longer.
Letting R2-D2 run the preflight checks and take the ship into Dagobah orbit, he felt emotionally drained. As if the cave had squeezed all the life out of him.
The astromech hummed questioningly.
"The Atega system," Luke named their next destination. "Lando has set up shop on the planet Nkllon, mining metals there that the New Republic can't afford to buy, given Calrissian's appetites and price tags. If you don't mind," he hesitated, "could you handle things yourself? I need to get some real rest."
The droid chirped affirmatively. Grateful, Luke settled more comfortably into the seat to enjoy the transition to the speed that would carry the X-wing past the light barrier.
Despite his promise to R2-D2, he couldn't fall asleep, his thoughts returning to what he had seen in the cave.
Strangely enough, that was exactly what helped him drift into a troubled sleep.
* * *
"Do you recognize this planet, Captain Pellaeon?" I asked, pointing to the holographic sphere spinning above the projector.
"Hypori," the commander of the Chimaera said without hesitation. "One of the Confederacy's worlds, their logistics base. Little-known, unlike Saleucami, which was called the 'Triad of Evil' during the Clone Wars, along with Mygeeto and Felucia."
"That's correct," I confirmed. "It was also once a stronghold of the Confederate Independent Systems' mechanized forces. You remember how effective their armies were, don't you?"
"One clone soldier could destroy anywhere from ten to a hundred Confederate battle droids in a single engagement," Pellaeon said with a wry smile. "Is that what you call effectiveness?"
"Effectiveness," I disagreed. "Remind me — how much does one clone soldier cost?"
Pellaeon stroked his bushy mustache.
"I'm not aware of that figure, sir," he said. "But I imagine it was a lot, since the old Republic Senate was constantly trying to cut spending on clone procurement. So typical of democracy — shooting yourself in the foot and pretending you can live with a hole in your thigh."
"Let's put the senators' positions aside and think about something else," I suggested. "How effectively were the Separatist droid production lines destroyed after the war?"
"Given that we were finishing off the Separatists for about ten years after the end of the Clone Wars was announced, I'm not sure things were done well," Gilad said.
"That's my thinking as well," I replied. "Only I know for certain that after the Republic was reformed into the Empire, some fragments of the Separatist legacy remained in use. And it's also a known fact that after the Battle of Yavin nine years ago, Tyber Zann, head of the criminal syndicate known as the Zann Consortium, managed to find and restart at least one Separatist droid production line. Not ordinary infantry droids, but battle droids."
"I've heard of that organization," Pellaeon admitted. "They caused quite a bit of trouble in the period right after the Battle of Endor. Half the galaxy was entangled in their corrupt networks. Now their influence seems to have waned. At least, their ships don't fly freely around the galaxy anymore."
"Well, let's look at this from another angle," I proposed. "We have cloning cylinders and we have donors for them. But we have a problem supplying our clones with uniforms and equipment. So it would be simpler to go back twenty-eight years. When the Empire's Stormtrooper Corps was first being established, they actively used battle droids and other Separatist droids to bolster their firepower. Building droids is easier — and cheaper — than waiting six months for new recruits to be trained on Carida."
"But we have Spaarti cloning cylinders," Pellaeon reminded me.
"Of course we do," I agreed. "And insufficient funding, not to mention supply issues. So we're going to prioritize the technical, aviation, and naval components of our forces. There's some stormtrooper armor in stockpiles in Imperial Space — and we'll borrow it. But not until we strike at Sluis Van and achieve a resounding victory over the rebels in that sector."
The expression on Pellaeon's face clearly said: "So, never? Given that you're sending Star Destroyers as courier ships."
"Patience, Captain," I advised. "First we'll take Hypori and establish a foothold on the planet."
"Why not strike at Geonosis directly, then?" There was impatience in the Star Destroyer commander's voice. "Those natives definitely know how to produce all kinds of battle droids."
"Again, let's turn to history, Captain," I sighed. No, I really need to work on my subordinates' self-education. Fine, I need to study the military chronicles of the past to find threads everyone has forgotten and accumulate my own military experience, even if theoretical. But they... Pellaeon went through all the Clone Wars—he should know part of that three-year war's history firsthand, and part from rumors and gossip. After all, these basics should be taught in academies! There are advanced training courses! There are, I know for sure, I've seen them. So why is self-development so difficult? It's clear that evolving is an unforgivable mistake in every bacterium's life, but we're sentient. We need to use what we have, including our brains. It's starting to form the opinion that Thrawn isn't some innate genius of military art, but a simple sensible sentient who saw opportunities where others, for their own personal inner convictions, tried with all their might to appear blind. "Geonosis several years ago began preaching a policy of isolationism, seeing that the Empire was crumbling into remnants. The Rebels helped them oppose us, and I'm sure that none of the democrats on Coruscant would hesitate to send a halfway strong fleet to deal with us, and also to demonstrate to the Geonosians how important they are to the Rebels. The outcome will be the same—even if we capture Geonosis, we'll lose it before we can get what we want. But at the same time, the enemy will understand exactly what we want and how we intend to achieve it. No, Captain, Hypori is an excellent target for our mission. A lone world abandoned by all, whose surface and catacombs will provide us indescribable support in rebuilding the Empire."
"I don't understand," Pellaeon finally gave in. "You wanted to launch an attack on the systems of the Sluis sector to test the enemy's defenses before storming Sluis Van. Why adjust the plan mid-execution?"
Because I want to live. A long time, in comfort, preferably at the head of a small but well-functioning state, far from the problems of all its enemies, and certainly not standing in the way of conquerors from a distant galaxy.
I remember the name of the planet where they will appear. I found it in a navigation guide. The Helska system. The very backwaters of the galaxy. And the 'backyard' of the Imperial Remnant. And if that's the case, then this region will burn very fiercely. Thanks, but I'd rather sit far away from such events.
And I also prefer not to fall into Palpatine's hands. And not to give him a single crumb of what I can conquer and subjugate one way or another.
"Plans tend to change, Captain," I said in an even tone. "And you don't have to understand the plan to execute it. That's the first thing. Second, since you want it so much, let's tickle the Rebels' nerves in the Sluis sector." Hearing this, Pellaeon straightened up, ready to hear what his heart so desired. "On my behalf, transmit the order to the cruisers 'Striking', 'Sharp', and 'Considerate' to proceed individually to the star systems Bpfassh, Innton, and Ordo. Well before arrival at their targets, report readiness. In the first two, locate and pinpoint the position of enemy bases; in the third, conduct a raid on the warehouses of ore ready for shipment from the mines. Keep detailed records in the ship's log. Do not engage superior enemy forces. That is all."
"Sir, no Strike-class cruiser can break through the defenses of any enemy ground base without support," Pellaeon noted cautiously.
"They don't need to," I said calmly. "Transmit to the remaining Star Destroyers—let them prepare for the voyage. We depart in two hours."
"We'll send the main fleet forces as a second echelon to distract the enemy with the cruisers, and destroy the Rebel bases ourselves?" the commander of the Chimaera asked hopefully.
"Exactly," I agreed with a sigh. "Since we are raising an army of clones, Captain, we need to take care to protect ourselves. And our rear. Order the ysalamiri to be unloaded onto the surface—we won't need them on this voyage. Except one."
Now I understood why Thrawn was 'mollycoddling' Pellaeon. It seems there is simply no one more perceptive in his circle. Except for those who, one way or another, had come into confrontation with the Grand Admiral himself. I'll have to test Pellaeon himself for loyalty to my orders. He has potential for development and independent initiative. But he has been in the shadow of more successful and more perceptive commanders for too long. Executing orders is important. But what is even more important is to do it with intelligence and savvy.
Even though the Captain is wrong, right now he... is right. However, at the same time, he is still wrong.