Nine years, five months, and eight days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, five months, and eight days after the Great Resynchronization.
Well, it's safe to say that Coordinator Sergius can be trusted. At least, he wasn't wrong about the Moff and Captain I-Gor's character.
Now let's test his loyalty in a more serious matter.
After informing Bravo-2 that I was interested in the crew of the ship on which Talon Karrde had previously served, I gave him half a day to prepare for the operation. This time limit was primarily needed so that our own naval intelligence scouts could check whether the coordinator would pass the information to his former "masters." He didn't.
Instead, it allowed Captain I-Gor to prepare his ship for the upcoming flight.
It cost me great effort to remember the exact place where, in the events I knew, the Empire had discovered the former commander of the Claw.
For independent information retrieval, I had only a few initial data points—what I could reconstruct from memory.
The captain's surname was Hoffner. He was discovered on a floating casino. Moreover, the establishment wasn't for the middle class. I also remembered that in the events I knew, the Imperials had to bombard an underwater casino in order to force the establishment to surface.
I spent considerable time alone at the computer before those meager "leads" yielded results.
The planet Pantolomin. This almost entirely ocean-covered world is located in the Core Worlds region, in the New Republic's sphere of influence. The Dolomar sector, the Panto system. On the tactical coordinate network—in square K-9. The planet indeed had many high-class casinos and entertainment centers located on underwater tourist ships.
But it proved impossible to determine exactly which of these ships contained Captain Hoffner, or whether he was even there now.
However, Mr. Coordinator managed to do so.
Which he did not fail to report to me at the end of the allotted preparation time.
"The Coral Vanda," the coordinator said. "It's an amphibious tourist vessel for high-paying clients. Captain Hoffner resides there in relatively expensive apartments. He spends indecently large sums of money. Well known to the staff for his 'generous' gestures. Gambling, arrogant. He doesn't play any machines or cards. However, he invariably participates in nearly every game. Of course, with sad results for his wallet."
To say that finding Hoffner in such a short time was lucky would be an understatement. But I suspect it's more a testament to Imperial Intelligence's professionalism than chance. The only question is whether Imperial Intelligence's work in this context might become that "act of betrayal" that would disrupt my plans.
"Is anything known about Karrde's other crew members?" I inquired.
"Only Karrde and Hoffner survived from the ship's crew," the coordinator replied. "The others either died in smuggler conflicts or were killed by Imperial law enforcement forces."
"You've done excellent work, Coordinator," I said calmly. "As I recall, not long ago, the Ubiqtorate's reputation suffered significant damage—the rebels struck Tangrene. We will not leave this act unaddressed. You and your people are to proceed to the Churba star system in the sector of the same name. On the planet New Cov, according to my information, there are agents of the person responsible for this crime. Your primary task is to contact the governor and persuade him to transfer part of the biomolecular mass being produced there to us, in exchange for his planet not being subjected to an Imperial invasion."
"A highly nutritious substance?" Sergius clarified. Receiving an affirmative nod, the coordinator thought. "If I remember correctly, it's been used in food additives for dry rations since the Grand Army of the Republic to increase the nutritional value of food."
"Correct, Coordinator," I stated. "Our armed forces are growing. And we need more food for our soldiers. Biomolecular mass will allow us to reduce food expenditures. Accordingly, the second task is to identify our enemy's agents and try to establish covert surveillance on them. We'll attempt to find their leader this way and exact retribution."
"Are there any instructions regarding the nature of the mission's execution?" the coordinator clarified.
"Yes," I replied. "Nothing should indicate our involvement. At the same time, insurance is needed to guarantee stable work in the future."
"I understand, sir," Sergius assured me. As always—imperturbably calm. Whether that's good or bad, we'll find out.
After departing on the Crusader for his mission, the coordinator left me to my thoughts.
* * *
Despite the fact that the Crusader had left the slipways at the end of the Clone Wars, the Victory I-class Star Destroyer was still in excellent condition.
Nine hundred meters in length from bow to stern thruster nozzles. A class 1 hyperdrive, making the ship one of the fastest in the entire Imperial fleet—even the Imperial-class Star Destroyers were equipped with class 2 models. Quad turbolaser batteries, twin turbolaser batteries. Two squadrons of TIE fighters. Nearly five thousand crew members, of which four hundred and two were gunners. Just over two thousand infantry, with a full complement of armored vehicles on board—walkers, drop pods, transport ships… But as the pinnacle of military genius, only this type of ship carried the ultimate weapon of destruction—launch tubes for eighty proton torpedoes.
If such a salvo of "unpleasantness" were to rain down directly on the enemy's head, it would cause enormous problems.
It was no coincidence that both modifications of the Victory-class weren't decommissioned to reserve when the Imperial-class became widespread. Sure, officers and crews of more powerful Star Destroyers claimed that the only reason the tiny Victories weren't scrapped was the need for someone to perform patrol duties in remote sectors and hunt the numerous pirates and raiders.
Partly, perhaps, that's true. But in one respect, the crews of the Victories were strikingly different from their "younger brothers" serving on the Imperial-class.
There were no momma's boys or other aristocratic upstarts here, whose ranks grew less due to service to the fatherland and more for political reasons. And even though everyone who had the honor of serving on a Victory knew that their career would most likely end on their first Star Destroyer, there were no shirkers from duty.
"Reactor room reports readiness," said the Crusader's commander, I-Gor, walking down the central catwalk that divided the ship's combat command center into two halves, each containing officers responsible for one area or another. A middle-aged man in his prime, he listened to the officers' reports. And although he was pleased with the clarity of the reports, as well as their content, he showed no expression.
"Engine room fully ready!" another officer reported.
"Artillery combat-ready!"
"Missile launchers normal!.."
Commander of the Imperial-class Star Destroyer type Victory I Crusader, Captain I-Gor.
Reports came from every combat division of the starship, and all without exception reported excellent condition.
This was good.
The Crusader had not been on campaigns for quite some time, let alone in battle, so the best thing the Star Destroyer's commander could do now was to properly tune the crew.
After all, they had a mission ahead—not the routine patrol work they'd been doing for the past weeks while the Ubiqtorate fleet lazily drifted in Tangrene's orbit, and then vanished in an unknown direction.
No, this time the Crusader had the honor of demonstrating to the rebels that they weren't so invulnerable, resting on their laurels in the Core Worlds.
Standing before the central transparisteel viewport of the bridge, I-Gor clasped his hands behind his back, drilling his gaze into the blackness of space, where an entire squadron of starships was approaching Tangrene's orbit in an uncertain formation. Considering that the Crusader was moving away from geostationary orbit, preparing to jump to the designated coordinates, their sensors had detected them in advance. Planetary controllers can only identify a target when it enters orbit—if there are no sensor beacons in the system. In this case, there weren't. Because each one cost millions of credits, the Ubiqtorate in the past hadn't particularly wanted to or liked spending money on fleet needs. So a little help for the controllers wouldn't be amiss—especially given that the ships were coming from the system's star side. That meant the crews of these starships didn't want to end up directly in Tangrene's orbit. And that could be a surprise for everyone.
"Watch officer," I-Gor addressed the officer in charge of the current watch. "Contact the control tower. Report that we have unidentified marks on our scanners. Classified as twenty Tartan-class patrol cruisers, one DP-20 frigate, two CR90 corvettes. No hostile intentions displayed. Accompanied by two quasi-civilian vessels—modified and armed freighters. Escort—one Strike-class medium cruiser transmitting valid Imperial identification codes." I-Gor glanced at the tactical monitor. "Correction—a total of three armed freighters. The last arrived via an unknown trajectory. We are within enemy engagement range. Awaiting orders to respond. Prepare turbolasers, pilots to their fighters. Yellow alert level!" The last two phrases were addressed directly to the ship's crew.
"Message sent," the officer reported. A moment later, he announced:
"Received a response from the Chimaera's OCC."
"Read it," I-Gor ordered.
"Targets are friendly. Do not open fire. Continue mission," the watch chief read. Looking up from the monitor, he reported:
"Signed 'Grand Admiral Thrawn.'"
He pronounced the new information with a certain breathlessness and even superstitious fear.
"Lieutenant," I-Gor addressed the watch chief. "Cancel yellow alert. Have our guests from Imperial Intelligence boarded?"
"Yes, sir," he reported.
"Jump coordinates calculated?" I-Gor clarified. The watch officer gave another affirmative report. "Crew! Attention! Prepare to break the light barrier! Our raid into enemy territory begins now."
A moment later, the gray hull of the Star Destroyer disappeared into the blackness of subspace, heading toward its target.
* * *
I had no intention of informing Bravo-2 about the true reasons for locating Captain Hoffner at this stage. He doesn't have my full trust right now.
But I trusted the various mercenaries who had arrived on Tangrene with the acquired ships even less. For Imperials, honor was not yet an empty phrase, but mercenaries and pirates would break an agreement at the first sufficiently significant sum that exceeded what I was willing to pay them.
There was certainly a significant risk that the Imperial Intelligence operatives would betray me. For now, I had no reason to trust them, so other people would handle the capture of Captain Hoffner. Sergius himself and his fighters would be sent on a secondary mission. It was no coincidence that he had been told about the search for the culprit behind the attack on the Ubiqtorate base — a fairly simple way to make him contact his command and report on the overall situation. We'll see if it works, or if this man truly has no intention of betraying me.
From the outside, it seems like foolish games and a huge risk of failure.
But, after all, we are in a state of war — risk is always an inseparable part of war. Especially since, for this occasion, I had a safety net.
As reliable as a Swiss watch.
As before, I sat in my cabin aboard the Chimaera, studying a holographic map of the galaxy. In addition to dividing territories into spheres of influence among states, there were tiny dots in several places — the deployment locations of our starships. A small modification to the standard data visualization system. Only for me — no one else had such information. The computer made calculations based on data about distance, the presence or absence of major and regional hyperspace routes, and so on.
And right now, one of them was moving along a dashed line toward the planet New Cov.
No state in the galaxy, not even the Galactic Empire at the height of its power, possessed technologies that would allow sealing its borders. There weren't enough ships and equipment to maintain operational formations somewhere in space devoid of planets and stars to guarantee border impenetrability. Therefore, standard tactics relied directly on patrolling hyperspace routes and creating fortified worlds — fortress planets from which fleet ships could be dispatched at any moment.
The only effective method at present to prevent an enemy ship from moving through one's territory was interdiction cruisers, which, using their gravity field generators, could create an artificial gravity region in places where none existed before.
Hyperspace travel technology in this galaxy was very dependent on gravitational fields. Ships could not jump, breaking the light barrier, within a planet's gravitational zone, and could not continue their flight within its area of effect — the navigation computer's safety measures would activate, warning ships against collision with solid bodies. A rather... debatable point. Based on that, one could assume that in this galaxy, a ship moving at superluminal speed was still vulnerable to kinetic impact. An intriguing point. My knowledge of astrophysics in my home universe was too superficial to judge the logic or absurdity of such a phenomenon — critically small — so I would have to take it on faith. And later study this area of science in the Far, Far Away galaxy myself. Which, in fact, I did in my free time.
Hyperspace routes in the Far, Far Away galaxy are like roads in the world I knew. There were only five key "highways" in the galaxy: the Perlemian Trade Route, the Corellian Run, the Corellian Trade Route, the Rimma Trade Route, and the Hydian Way. As was evident from most of the names, they were primarily created for and served trade relations at the dawn of the vast galaxy's formation. Their use for troop deployment began much later, when various territories of the galaxy started rattling their sabers. But these were just the five main ones — secondary and regional routes were thousands of times more numerous. And some were completely unknown to the majority of the galaxy's population.
Using hyperspace routes allowed traveling across the galaxy much faster than flying directly from planet to planet. A trip on a highway versus a dirt road — that was the most fitting comparison for describing the choice between using a hyperspace route or flying straight. Therefore, a paradox arose: if the distance between two planets, say a thousand light-years "as the crow flies," could be covered (depending on the hyperdrive type) in, say, a week, then by using a hyperspace route that went "the long way around," with a distance five or six times longer, you could reach the destination in a couple of days. For some reason, at that moment, I drew a comparison to traveling between two settlements by a road that went around the forest separating them versus cutting through the forest "directly."
Either way, navigation computers and hyperdrives allowed one to accelerate travel across the galaxy significantly. The higher the hyperdrive class, the faster the ship moved in hyperspace. Most starships in the galaxy had a primary hyperdrive — on the Chimaera, for instance, it was Class 2 — and a backup hyperdrive of a much lower class, whose use significantly increased travel time.
Why not install only "standard"-class hyperdrives on ships? Because it was insanely expensive. A significant portion of the cost of capital ships was precisely the cost of the hyperdrive. The larger the ship to be moved by such a unit, the larger the unit itself. So there was a linear relationship between the size of the starship and its hyperdrive. Thus, if the projection scale was correct, the hyperdrive on the Chimaera was the size of a nine-story building — and that was just the unit itself, without supporting systems. Naturally, such a hyperdrive wouldn't fit on a freighter — it would be much smaller there. But then the freighter itself was sometimes hundreds of times smaller than an Imperial Star Destroyer.
If I understood correctly, traveling between planets also involved having departure coordinates — starting point — and arrival coordinates — destination. The better the hyperdrive, the more intermediate coordinates it could calculate. Yes, that's right. Another comparison with roads: to get from Vladivostok to Moscow, you either had to stop in some cities and towns along the way, or, if there were bypass routes, zoom past them. The Class 2 hyperdrive was inferior to Class 1 only in travel speed, but worked essentially the same. It cost orders of magnitude less, and in terms of maintenance, a bit simpler. Given that the Empire, after its reorganization from the Galactic Republic, assumed it would no longer have to "race" with the remnants of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, the "economists" in the Imperial Senate concluded it was simpler to install Class 2 hyperdrives on capital ships — cheaper, but essentially the same effect.
This, incidentally, illustrated the main tendency of the Imperials in the military-industrial aspect: cheaper, but more in quantity. The New Republic did the opposite, but I had already mentioned that.
So, depending on the size, make, and class of the hyperdrive, it could calculate a specific route between the start and end points, including "intermediate coordinates." The better the hyperdrive, the more of those you could skip, without needing to drop out into realspace and correct course. On the fighters of the Grand Army of the Republic equipped with hyperdrives, that threshold was in most cases a dozen coordinates. On modern X-wings of the New Republic and their other small craft, much more advanced hyperdrive versions were used, allowing pilots to make jumps of significantly greater duration. The range of such jumps depended directly on the fuel tank capacity.
Another interesting point: a ship in the middle of a hyperspace jump could abort it at any moment — both in known space and in space unknown to navigation. The latter was especially dangerous — beyond the explored hyperspace routes, it could be so hazardous that no trace would remain of such "experimenters." Fortunately for me, the region of space where the ship I needed was located
Meanwhile, after glancing once more at the dashed line indicating the Crusader's movement, I sighed and shifted my gaze slightly "northward," where there was another similar trajectory.
A decision inconsistent and rather desperate, not in keeping with the actions of Thrawn himself. But necessary.
Activating the holoprojector, I placed a call to the second ship, which was moving toward the planet Pantolomin.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn," the commander of the Nemesis greeted me with a barely perceptible nod.
"Captain Von Schneider," exchanging pleasantries was also part of Imperial Navy traditions. "Plans have changed. You are ordered to drop out of hyperspace shortly and set a course for the planet Pantolomin in the Dolomar sector."
"A resort planet, sir?" the commander of the Nemesis clarified.
"That's correct," I confirmed. "On the underwater casino 'Coral Vanda' there is a man I need. His name is Captain Hoffner. This man is connected to the attack on the Ubiqtorate base on Tangrene. I need him alive. Special instruction — no one must know that you came specifically for Hoffner. Our main adversary is an information broker. If he learns the true purpose of our raid, he might realize we intend to deprive the rebels of a valuable source of information. In his person. This could lead to irreversible consequences."
"I understand, sir," the commander of the Nemesis assured me. "I will begin the mission immediately. Should I inform Lady Jade about this?"
A good question. Her involvement was an excellent way to test loyalty. And at the same time — in case of failure, if Hoffner let slip even for a moment what he actually knew about the location of the "Katana Fleet," Jade might act very rashly. What a pity that one couldn't be completely frank with anyone. I had to use people "in the dark" until confirmation of aligned interests. Or should I take the risk?
"That's exactly right," I declared. "Send her and several stormtroopers under cover stories aboard the 'Coral Vanda' to locate and capture the target. As soon as you receive confirmation from them, stage it all as a routine raid and robbery. I'm sure there are plenty of credits aboard the 'Coral Vanda' that will be useful to us."
Judging by the tightening muscles on Von Schneider's face, he didn't much like the idea of participating in a raid as a common robber.
"I understand the order, sir," he said. "Permission to proceed?"
"Proceed," I said, turning off the holoprojector.
Well, the bets are placed, no more bets.
"Grand Admiral, sir," the comlink came alive with Captain Pellaeon's voice. "The arriving ships have been inspected by boarding parties, they pose no threat to us. They are ready to dock at the external nodes of the orbital repair yard for thorough inspection and necessary repairs. The mercenary ships are currently staying outside our weapons range in accordance with the filtration protocol — until we determine that they pose no threat to us."
"Excellent, Captain," I declared. "See to it. Also inform Misters Ferrier and Bane that I will meet with them in an hour."
"Aye, sir," said Pellaeon.
"Captain," I recalled the data from Captain I-Gor's report. Alright, Gilad, if you didn't notice this yourself, I'll do it for you. "Three civilian freighters have arrived. But we only invited two guests. Who is the third?"
"One moment, sir," there was annoyance in Pellaeon's voice. "Our cryptographers are trying to verify his identification data. They are undoubtedly forged; we're looking for matches on engine signatures in the database... Ah! We've got a lead! 'Rabid Ewok.' A pirate ship. Captain — someone named Tyberos. Wanted for crimes in seventy sectors of the New Republic."
"Any messages from this ship?" I inquired.
"No, sir," Pellaeon answered. There was quiet cursing. Nothing major, just swearing. "Sorry, sir. Apparently they've realized we've identified them. They're sending a message: 'Arrived to work for the Empire.' Signed by Captain Tyberos. Shall we destroy the ship?"
"No, Captain," I sighed. "Invite them all to a meeting at the Moff's residence on Tangrene. Without escort or weapons. Inform the Moff to organize surveillance of their ships. And yes, arrange for my shuttle to be prepared. By the time of the meeting, I want to have information on our potential employee in hand."
* * *
There was something ironic about arriving at the Imperial Moff's residence accompanied by a company of Imperial stormtroopers. Just six years ago, these guys were chasing him across the entire Mid Rim, hoping to properly punish him for attacks on Imperial aristocrats and his pirate trade. And now they themselves were offering work to those they had recently considered scum. Moreover, if the rumors in pirate circles were to be believed, a rather handsome reward was promised.
The commander of the "Rabid Ewok," the pirate Tyberos.
However, if this wasn't the case, he could always "go his separate way" Tyberos had done absolutely nothing to the current Imperial government. But he had given the New Republic a good trimming.
Looking at the poser and braggart Yazuo Vain, and at Niles Ferrier, who never stopped puffing his cheap cigar for a moment, Tyberos thought that twisting the heads off these two irritating individuals would be a fairly easy way to make life easier.
But apparently they worked for the Imperials. And Tyberos wanted to work for them. So, he'd have to accept the inevitable.
So he was glad he was sitting in his respirator mask. Its story was quite interesting — he got it from a Mandalorian renegade warrior, whose skull he had cracked open back in his youth when he fought in the pits of gladiator battles. Since then, he had never parted with his trophy. Nor with two war picks made from an alloy of beskar and several other metals. His first battle trophies, which he had kept for more than ten years. Ever since he ended up on the street, having lost his parents.
He found nothing remarkable about the Imperial building they were taken to. Simple, angular, made of gray duracrete. Boring, in a word.
Tyberos barely reacted to the stormtroopers' commands, emotionlessly laying out from his belongings a pair of blasters, throwing knives, a flail with a folding handle, several grenades, another blaster, a mine, a stiletto, several detonators, a garrote, and fighting gloves. Only when they demanded he hand over his main weapon — the war picks — was he not particularly pleased.
Looking at the stormtrooper, towering over the sizable soldier in white plastoid armor, he sized him up with a look. Then he looked at the pair of soldiers nearby, who had trained their blasters on him. Back at the stormtrooper in front of him. With a heavy sigh, very reminiscent of the respirator hiss of the late Darth Vader, who was something of an idol to him in some respects, he placed his weapons on the table next to the metal detector. He obediently walked under the scanners, wincing as they beeped.
The stormtroopers tensed, instantly backing away from him several meters and raising their blasters in unison so that he would be caught in crossfire if a firefight broke out. Judging by the sounds, Niles Ferrier, standing nearby, had fouled the air. Yazuo Vain demonstratively pinched his nose.
"Weapons on the table!" the stormtrooper demanded. "All of them!"
"What weapons?" Tyberos said peaceably, pulling a few more vibroblades from the secret pockets of his worn-out vest. "Just little back-scratchers."
"More," the stormtrooper demanded. He probably didn't know for sure, but he certainly suspected that things weren't so simple with his hidden weapons. These guys seemed smarter than they first appeared.
Tyberos demonstratively lifted his armored-booted leg, then pulled another pair of throwing knives from the gaiter. Without waiting for the stormtrooper's realization, he pulled another blaster from his second boot. And only after the stormtrooper didn't even attempt to move or lower his weapon did he detach the soles from both boots, demonstrating that he was also leaving behind the custom-made portable mines.
"Is that all?" the stormtrooper clarified.
"If you want, you can crawl under my trousers and look for a large-caliber cannon," Tyberos offered, openly enjoying that the stormtrooper didn't get the joke.
"Either you lay out the blasters from the hidden holster yourself, or we'll do it, but from your corpse," the stormtrooper warned. Judging by the markings — a colored shoulder pauldron — he was clearly the commander of these white-stained bastards.
"Alright, alright," Tyberos assured him. "Just don't cry, 'doll,' okay?"
The stormtrooper commander pretended not to notice the insult.
"Dolls" was what Republican soldiers mockingly called stormtroopers, ridiculing their identical armor. Meaning, someday the Stormtrooper Corps soldiers would crawl out of their cocoons and turn into beautiful targets for rebel blasters.
Seeing that the stormtroopers weren't ready to continue their humorous banter, Tyberos demonstratively unbuckled his belt and stuck his hand down his pants. Touching the right holster, fastened between his legs, where even security personnel tried not to probe during a routine search, were hidden blasters — small ones, also called "lady poppers." But if they were properly upgraded, their power was awesome.
Having laid out the weapons from both the right and left holsters, the pirate smiled.
"If you want, you can check yourself whether I left anything extra in there," he offered.
"March," the stormtrooper stepped aside, jerking his head over his shoulder. Toward where a narrow corridor went. "You two," he shifted his gaze to Ferrier and Vain, "as well."
Accompanied by several stormtroopers, they were led down the corridor to some room, next to which another squad of "dolls" was stationed. Hmm, who were they so afraid of?
"Captain Tyberos," said one of the stormtroopers standing by the door, addressing the pirate. "You are expected."
"And are we supposed to wait?" Niles Ferrier grumbled, with a hint of opinionated complaint.
"Yes," the stormtrooper replied laconically. "Wait."
Looking at the losers with mockery, the pirate stepped through the door that opened before him.
The room he found himself in was not distinguished by the usual Imperial brightness. The light panels were deliberately dimmed so that semi-darkness settled into the corners of the room. Tyberos had no doubt that in those dark nooks, some surprises were deliberately hidden, like secret guards or bodyguards of the being he intended to meet. But they were clearly not stormtroopers — even in the half-light, their white armor would be visible.
"Have a seat, Captain," through the semi-darkness one could make out a rectangular table, behind which sat a being in Imperial officer's uniform. Judging by the white tunic, clearly someone who fancied himself a Grand Admiral. Yeah, this guy had no shortage of self-importance. After all, everyone knew that the rebels had killed Palpatine's twelve guard dogs. Still, ambition was running rampant among Imperial military after the Battle of Endor. And what difference did it make, really?
Tyberos approached the only unoccupied chair, sat down, and crossed his legs.
"So?" he inquired with slight mockery. "What next?"
"I'm interested in the very same question, Captain," the unknown being said in a smooth but authoritative tone. "What next?"
"I'd like to get a job," Tyberos shrugged.
"Does the Imperial base on Tangrene look like an employment agency?" the stranger clarified.
"Judging by the fact that the Empire is spreading information that it's hiring pirates and smugglers — yes," the criminal smirked. "From what I hear, you need privateers."
"And from whom did you receive such intriguing information?" the unknown inquired.
"Rumors," the pirate explained. "Here and there. They say the Empire gave the rebels a good thrashing in the Dufilvian sector. That's excellent news. Worthy of my interest in your offer."
"And what are your motives, Captain?" inquired the owner of the white tunic.
"I love my craft," Tyberos declared. "And when, besides the bounty on the target itself, they also pay extra on top — that's just fantastic."
"Indeed?" the unknown clarified. "Nothing else you want to say?"
"Yes, I do," Tyberos stated. "This whole semi-darkness irritates me."
"One might wonder — why?" the unknown smirked. "After all, your mask is equipped with night vision."
"So Imperial Intelligence doesn't draw its pay for nothing," Tyberos chuckled. "Though they're not thorough — the mask is broken. The visor processor fried in one of the recent battles, so, as you can see, I'm without such wonders. And repairing it is very, very expensive. I hope I'll get an advance so I can fix it."
"You're so sure you'll be given work?" the stranger was surprised.
"And why shouldn't it be 'yes'?" Tyberos was surprised. "The rumors that some Imperial warlord hates the rebels so much that he's ready to give them a roasting at every opportunity — that's not such a secret. A series of raiding operations a few months ago. An attack on a rebel base on the planet Ord Pardron. Plus an asteroid bombardment — you clearly dislike the current masters of Coruscant. I confess, so do I. Therefore, I'm ready, for a small amount of credits, to hunt their transport starships and diplomatic vessels. I heard they have a bad habit of using disarmed warships as freighters. I've always wanted a Mon Calamari star cruiser for myself."
"I thought your biggest dream was becoming a champion in gladiator fights across the Outer Rim," the stranger remarked. Tyberos narrowed his eyes. "As you can see — Imperial Intelligence really does earn its pay."
"Decided to flaunt your erudition?" Tyberos smirked.
"If I wanted that, I'd tell you facts from your biography," the stranger replied calmly. "About how your father — a gladiator in illegal fights — was stripped of all his titles and banished in disgrace. All because he lost a fight to Aurra Sing. Curiously, she later became your mother. I do think you shouldn't have hidden from your employer that your desire to cut down rebels arose from your parents' murder a little over seven years ago. That's when you started as a gladiator, and after your parents were killed during one of the Rebel Alliance's operations in the Outer Rim, you switched from robbing Imperial outposts and convoys to striking at the rebels. I wouldn't be wrong if I said you stopped because your ship was heavily damaged in the last battle, and now you need backing to repair your warship and keep getting on the rebels' nerves?"
"You know quite a lot," Tyberos noted. He felt neither anger nor irritation at what he heard. He'd gotten over it long ago. And his mother... had taught him much. Though not just her.
"On the contrary," the intelligent being sitting across from him said. "Some things that interest me particularly remain a mystery."
"So I take it you won't reveal the secret of your interest?" the pirate clarified to the stranger.
"Of course not," the other declared. "Tell me, Captain Tyberos, did you inherit Force sensitivity from your mother?"
The pirate felt everything inside him go cold. He wanted to curse foully. But he tried to remain calm. Instead, he concentrated, as his mother and Emand had taught him, to probe his interlocutor's mind, to understand what he wanted — to hire him or continue the Inquisitorius's glorious work, hunting down weak Force-sensitives...
But instead of a jumble of thoughts, he encountered only the fact that he couldn't sense a living intelligent being in front of him at all. It was like sitting across from a droid... No, that wasn't right. Droids could be sensed too. Not if the Force was present here!
The pirate tried to direct his weak efforts into the space around him... And realized he was in a room where, except for a tiny area exactly where he sat, the Force seemed absent.
"I see you've already figured it out, Captain Tyberos," the light in the room slowly began to intensify. The pirate shielded his eyes with his hand, avoiding instant blindness. Squinting, he saw the person sitting across from him... No, not a person!
Very humanlike, but with blue-tinged skin and burning crimson eyes. In this being's arms, some kind of lizard dozed peacefully, which the Imperial stroked on the belly like a pet.
That the last conclusion wasn't actually true, Tyberos realized when he looked around — in the formerly dim corners stood cages with similar creatures. And in one corner squatted a gray-skinned humanoid with a protruding jaw. Looked like a bodyguard, armed too.
"What kind of menagerie is this?" the pirate was taken aback. Little could throw him off balance. But the fact that he couldn't use the Force — that was frightening. Yes, he was weak and unlike the Jedi and Sith of the past couldn't use it constantly. No matter how Emand had struggled to train him after his mother's death — nothing worked. Guess he wasn't that "gifted."
"I don't think an answer is required, is it, Grand Admiral?" Tyberos inquired.
"It isn't," the other confirmed. "So I take it the Force helps you in your activities?"
"A little," Tyberos stated. Apparently, the Imperial didn't know about Emand's existence. Well, that was good. He didn't want to put his old friend at risk. "And now what? Will you kill me?"
"Why?" the blue-skinned "human" was surprised.
"The Empire hated Jedi," Tyberos noted. "My mother feared all her life that the Inquisitors would come for her."
"But they didn't come, did they?" the Imperial clarified.
"No," the pirate agreed.
"Did you decide to become a Jedi?" he asked a new question.
"Nope," Tyberos grinned. "On the contrary. I dream of meeting them face to face someday and..."
"And?" the Imperial looked at him curiously.
."..smashing their skulls in," Tyberos finished.
"And what's the reason for that attitude?" the non-human seemed interested.
"I hate Jedi," Tyberos explained. "My mother hated them, and I hate them. But they seem like good targets to hunt."
"Is that so?" the blue-skinned one smirked. "Then why haven't you dealt with Luke Skywalker yet?"
"Someday," the pirate shrugged. "I'm too weak in the Force to fight him as an equal. But if I got my hands on some Sith or ancient Jedi knowledge — then we'll see who's who."
"Well, I accept that answer," the alien declared. "But let's return to discussing why you're here."
"Yes, that would be a good idea," Tyberos smirked. "So, do I have a letter of marque?"
"You will get it," the Imperial said. "But only if we agree on the terms of cooperation. Otherwise — you're of no interest to me."
What an amusing Imperial, the pirate chuckled to himself.
"And what will the terms be?" he inquired.
"Don't rush," Thrawn advised. "This concerns not only you, but also our other guests. However, I must admit, you've intrigued me. What would you say if I told you I have a way to teach you Jedi arts?"
"If you pull out a lightsaber now and start levitating, I'll admit the Empire has something to surprise me with," Tyberos smirked. But remembering Emand's warnings, he added:
"I'm afraid I must decline. I'm satisfied with what I already have. I'm sure your offer would be burdensome for me. I prefer to act as an ordinary corsair. Damned lucky, but a corsair. Becoming a Jedi doesn't interest me."
"Well, that's your business," the Grand Admiral stated. There was some disappointment in his voice. "If you change your mind — let me know."
"Of course," Tyberos almost laughed out loud. But he remained calm.
"Now summon Messrs. Ferrier and Vane here, and make yourselves comfortable," the non-human said. "Let's talk business."
* * *
A damned pity this kid thinks he can so easily twist me around his finger.
The offer to train was nothing more than a test. Naturally, I'm not about to hand over a two-meter giant who looks human with gray-green skin (I wonder who his father was, to produce a son of that color?), and with some Force sensitivity, to C'baoth. And even though he's now sitting in his cabin, within the ysalamiri's field, I hope the old clone hasn't figured out a way to bypass their effect. He's gone quiet lately. Didn't even bother asking why his abilities didn't work on Wayland. I wonder, has the madman already connected it to the ysalamiri or not? I'll have to check when the opportunity arises.
Looking at the trio of criminals sitting before me, I glanced at Captain Pellaeon standing nearby.
"Begin," I permitted.
"So, gentlemen," the Chimaera's commander cleared his throat, starting to improvise. "The Empire offers you letters of marque..."
"Pass, right off the bat," Sly said. "I'm a thief, not a cutthroat."
"Rukh," I said quietly. The gray-skinned bodyguard rose behind the thief, demonstratively shearing off part of his stubble with his blade.
"The next time you want to interrupt an Imperial officer," I said softly, "will be your last, Mr. Ferrier. Take my word — my patience with you is rapidly shrinking. There won't be any more disciplinary talks. Is that clear?"
"Y-yes," the thief nodded vigorously.
"Excellent," I smiled. "As moral compensation, we'll thank you by having you hand over one of the CR90 corvettes to the Empire for free."
Ferrier ground his teeth but remained silent. I wonder how many times this trick will work? And why doesn't the thief just leave? Probably his business in the stolen-ship market is in a "bad way."
"Therefore, I suggest you leave our meeting and go inspect the ship you brought," I proposed. "Given your exceptional insolence, your payment will be calculated into this deal by deducting repair costs from a third of the stolen vessel's market value."
"Not one ship, but ships?" Ferrier clarified, wincing.
"Exactly," I said. "Any objections?"
"None," the pudgy man forced a smile and trudged toward the exit.
After the door closed behind him, I turned my gaze to the pair of pirates, genuinely pleased by the thief's departure.
"Continue, Captain," I suggested. "As close to the patent's wording as possible."
"So," Pellaeon began, spitting aside propriety and his own pride to read from the datapad the letter of marque project I'd developed. "You are offered to become privateers in the service of Grand Admiral Thrawn," the pirates exchanged glances. Apparently, they caught the implication of working for me personally. "The target of privateering — any military and trade ships of the rebels calling themselves the 'New Republic' and their allies, as well as their infrastructure. You are forbidden from conducting privateering or other illegal activity within Imperial Space..." the captain faltered. He looked at me, then back at the text, sighed, and resolved, ."..until receiving appropriate orders. Damage to your ships sustained during operations will be repaired at Imperial shipyards for a proportionate part of your fee. You are required to deliver captured ships for inspection by a prize court at locations your coordinators will specify. After inspecting the ships and evaluating their cargo, you will be paid half the vessel's and cargo's value."
That was essentially all I could come up with, drawing from my memories of my past homeworld. I never delved much into such topics.
"Now you may ask questions," I offered.
"So you and your subordinates will evaluate the captured 'prizes'?" Captain Tyberos clarified.
"The prize court will be headed by the moff of the planet we're on," I stated. "He and his specialists will evaluate the ships and goods you deliver. If you disagree with their assessment — please provide information indicating a discrepancy. In line with official markets, of course."
"Er," Yazuo Vane scratched behind his pointed ear. "Excuse my ignorance, but... why should we do piracy for you if we can just continue such activities on our own?"
"First of all, Captain Vane," Pellaeon said, "our intelligence will supply you with data on enemy convoy movements, their escort composition, and combat value. Without such information, any raid on those kinds of enemy transports would be suicide. Your gang may be large, but I'd bet my pay that encountering several cruisers, especially with an interdictor cruiser present, your fleet and its crews would suffer significant losses. Meanwhile, we can not only provide you with comprehensive information on major convoys but also send our own ships if needed to hold off enemy capital ships while your people loot the transports and pull them right out from under the rebels' noses."
"What's stopping us from just attacking lone ships or small convoys we can handle?" Captain Tyberos asked.
"How long before rebel search ships pick up your trail?" I clarified. "Right now they're reinforcing their ship escorts, so loners and small pirate squadrons will either be left without prey or get wiped out."
"The galaxy is big," Vane said meaningfully. "There's always some careless trader..."
"No one restricts you from finding targets on your own, gentlemen," I noted. "As long as they aren't Imperial. That's solely your initiative. You might earn ten, twenty thousand credits from his cargo," I continued. "And get more trouble than you can handle. Meanwhile, I'm ready to help you get rid of both 'tails' and problems from the Imperial government. You'll become official privateers and won't be pursued within Imperial Space. Neither you nor those who follow your example." And even if that's just wishful thinking, I doubt the Imperial Ruling Council would be disappointed getting a small "cut" from a pirate enterprise. Because New Republic convoys are valued in the tens, even hundreds of millions of credits. And we're talking about the cargo they carry. No one even mentions ships at those valuations.
"So I gather you'll take military ships for yourselves without any compensation on our part?" Captain Tyberos clarified.
"If you and your people participate in capturing it, you'll receive proportionate compensation for costs and losses," I explained. "If we act with our own forces — then the prize, and its cargo, are ours. The patent applies only to joint operations or your individual activities. Military vessels of Imperial design and construction ultimately come under our protectorate. And you receive compensation for your efforts accordingly."
"What about the crews of captured ships?" Captain Vane inquired.
"Under the letter of marque terms, they are prisoners of war and must be handed over to us as soon as you reach the rendezvous," I said calmly. Judging by both pirates' expressions — they were somewhat disappointed. But Pellaeon nodded approvingly. "Those who survive the boarding, of course. No one asks you to sacrifice your people for the sake of capturing more prisoners. Same if there's an attempt at mutiny during the transfer. I think I should clarify right away — violation of any letter of marque clause will, depending on severity, be punished by part of your share or by death."
An extra precaution in case the noble pirate gentlemen suddenly consider a live crew a nuisance for transporting them to our side. Why not just kill them all? Simple — officers from any captured ship are a valuable source of information. And also — free labor.
"Clever," Captain Vane smirked. "So I understand correctly that we should primarily capture, not destroy, New Republic ships?"
"You understand correctly," I agreed. "As mentioned, in these difficult times for their logistics, our enemy also uses military ships for their purposes."
"So," the half-breed scratched his ear. "What about cargo? Can we buy part of the captured cargo from you if we need it?"
"Yes, you can," I agreed. "Provided that cargo isn't military-grade and we don't need it. In that case, we reserve the right to take military cargo as our share of the operation."
"How will especially valuable information be paid for?" Captain Tyberos asked.
"Proportionate to its value," I replied. "And only if it's obtained not from prisoners of war after capturing ships."
"Judging by the fact that you're personally issuing letters of marque," Yazuo Vane said, "the other Imperial Remnants aren't aware of this initiative. The question arises — how fast will we be sent to Kessel if we end up in Imperial Space outside your spheres of influence?"
"I think it was made clear — Imperial territory is closed to your 'trade,'" I said a bit more harshly. "For attacking Imperial ships and territories, you will be executed as soon as my ships find you. No negotiations, no repentance, no apologies — justice here and now. It's enough that you'll also be acting on Imperial Intelligence leads."
"I understand correctly — providing us with such information will also entail you getting your share of cargo and ships, even if you didn't participate in the raid?" Vane clarified.
"If we provide you with information — that means we're already participating," I noted. "If you don't want to share — find targets yourselves. In the latter case, the prize, except for military ships and crew, is entirely yours, and we will buy it from you if we need it."
"So I take it, as with ships, you won't pay full market value for the 'prizes'?" Vane clarified.
"As with stolen ships, the assessment will be from half the market value of the 'prize,'" I explained. "With deductions for each damage. That's why the chief engineer from our shipyard will be at the prize court — his people will have to fix the damage."
"Let's sum up," Captain Tyberos suggested. "Everything we loot from the rebels will only be worth half. Acting on your leads or with your participation — you take part of the 'prize.' All military ships and cargo — you take permanently, and you pay us no more than half their market value."
"So far, correct," I stated. "If something doesn't suit you — you're free to leave."
"No, no," Tyberos smirked. "I'm actually fine with it. Rarely does anyone pay full price for goods and ships obtained by criminal means. Half is a lot of money. Especially if you work big. The question is something else — who will handle selling the goods that neither you nor we need?"
"There are no unnecessary cargoes," I noted, thinking that in our sector there was conveniently a port where any cargo could be sold. The main thing was to have such a person — or not quite a person — who could do it without drawing attention. "In any case, if such a situation occurs, we'll settle it amicably. Any more questions?"
"Will other pirates or pirate groups be involved in the privateering?" Yazuo Vane inquired.
"Afraid of competition?" Captain Pellaeon clarified with a slight mock.
"I'm afraid that our arrangement will become known from unreliable elements," a meaningful glance toward the departed Ferrier. "And then the New Republic will manage to send a battle group after our souls."
"So much the worse for them," I said calmly. "If you can lure rebel ships into an ambush — credit to you."
"Still, I don't trust Ferrier," Tyberos said openly. "He's a slippery type. He's been caught before stealing ships from one group for another. If they pressure him and offer a lot of money — he'll sell us all out easily."
"Undoubtedly," I smiled. "Mr. Ferrier loves only two things in this life. Money is the first."
"And what's the second?" Yazuo Vane asked with a smile.
"His own life," I said coldly. "And right now, it's very much in question."
The smiles on the pirates' faces became v-e-e-ry wide. And satisfied.