Nine years, five months, and ten days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, five months, and ten days after the Great Resynchronization.
To say that Lando Calrissian's Nomad was impressive would be an understatement.
The hull of the enormous Dreadnaught-class heavy cruiser, which the Rendili StarDrives shipbuilding company had once mass-produced, formed the basis of this mobile enterprise. Numerous alterations and modifications left little reminder of this ship's former status. And according to Lando himself, the starship could no longer be used for its original purpose—the engines (those that remained) had been removed and sold on the market, and numerous combat systems had long since been repurposed. This mobile giant didn't even have any weapons left. Its only defense was the handful of fighters parked in the ship's depths. A hangar for such six-hundred-meter cruisers was not provided by the manufacturer, but Lando and his craftsmen had managed to achieve the desired result.
Though, it had to be admitted, most of the Nomad's protection came from the hideous astronomical conditions in which it had to operate. Increased stellar radiation, the planet's remoteness from major hyperspace routes, the unbearable heat on Nkllon's dayside. The Nomad was saved from the latter only by the walking legs of forty horrifically mangled and repurposed Imperial walkers. By Calrissian's own admission, some of that equipment had been bought from scrap yards, stolen, won at cards, or acquired through means that were not entirely legal.
However, one thing couldn't be denied—the enterprise was truly excellent. Mr. Calrissian had a knack for profitable projects. And he didn't hide his entrepreneurial streak. If earlier he had dabbled in semi-legal schemes, then at present... The former general of the Rebel Alliance and New Republic was striving to make a living exclusively through legal means. Or, at least, he tried not to flaunt his "dark dealings" in front of his young employees.
"You know," a smile played across Calrissian's dark face, "I've never once regretted hiring you, Rederick. You're turning out to be an excellent administrator!"
Lando Calrissian.
The young administrator simply smiled in response to his boss's praise.
"Just think!" Calrissian continued enthusiastically. "Talking me into spending a million credits on buying a new batch of diggers! And on the very first day, those thirty new drills mined metal worth a third of their cost! Now all eighty-one of my beauties will unload, undergo maintenance, and in a couple of hours they'll be back to work! Oh, Rederick, you really are worth your money! To increase productivity like that—you must have a talent for administrative work!"
"That's not much of my doing," Rederick noted modestly. "I simply noticed that with more plasma drills, we could mine a greater quantity of metal. You don't need to be a genius in economics to understand the benefit of such a move. If you weren't so tight-fisted, you could have built another couple of Nomads long ago. I looked at the schematics of this enterprise—it doesn't seem all that complicated technically..."
"Now, now, kid," Calrissian wagged a finger at him jokingly. "First of all, it's not 'tight-fistedness,' it's 'sound financial policy.' Secondly—in this vast galaxy, even with a supernova, there aren't that many half-wrecked ships and Imperial walkers available at an affordable price. But you're right about one thing—a couple of new Nomads could significantly increase my revenue. I'll have to think about that."
"You know, I never cease to marvel at your ingenuity," Rederick said as they approached the Nomad's control center. "Such an ambitious project... A walking mining platform! It's a marvel! Just imagine how much could be done if you invested your money in developing this project!"
"Kid," Lando chuckled, entering the ship's helm first. "This Nomad cost me nearly a hundred million credits! For that kind of money, I could have bought myself a Star Destroyer from the New Republic."
"Oh, do they have a few for sale?" Rederick smiled, indicating he was only joking. Lando, casting a slightly wary glance at him, smiled back, appreciating the humor.
"No, of course not," he laughed quietly. "Even those hanging as dead weight at the Harm shipyards will never go on public sale. The young government doesn't really need free-roaming Star Destroyers cutting across the galaxy. I'll admit, if I'd known there was anyone around here with a Star Destroyer at their disposal, I'd never have dared to start such a project. And I'd been planning it since the time I owned Cloud City on Bespin! Ah, those were the days... If not for the Hutts, Vader, and his Empire, how good life in the galaxy would have been these last thirty years!"
"Sir," one of the central control room operators approached them. There were three on duty during a standard shift. When particularly complex traversals over rough terrain began, the number of personnel increased proportionally. "The wing-in-ground-effect vehicle base isn't responding to our requests."
"Is that so?" Lando frowned. "Maybe the transmitter is acting up?"
"No, sir, it's fine," the operator stated. "We checked twice."
"Right," Calrissian scratched behind his ear. "Probably problems on their end. Still, the ships are old, anything could happen. Especially since buyers for the metals are arriving tomorrow, maybe maintenance... Well, let's not guess what's what. We have a suitable shuttle—we'll send it to the base for a checkup. If someone's broken equipment with their clumsy hands again—they'll work for me for a month for free!"
"Actually, the shuttle is in for repairs," the operator said, glancing at Rederick.
"I don't get it," Lando looked at his administrator. "What happened to my rare bird? It just came out of the shop! Twenty thousand credits, by the way, were paid to get this bird flying!"
"Engine desynchronization," Rederick explained. "One of the repairmen left a calibration key under the right engine cowling. During a test start, the winding shorted out, and now the engines run unevenly. I ordered repairs—it'll take a few days. But that's better than flying in circles because one of the two engines is producing more thrust than the other."
"True enough," Lando nodded. "As a last resort, we have my Lady Luck. If I have to, I'll personally fly my ship to the WIG base and give someone a proper dressing down. Oh yes," the entrepreneur slapped his forehead with his palm, "we don't have a WIG craft on hand. And we can't call one... And without them, my little darling will just fry in the star's rays. No, can you imagine such disorganization!? Rederick, what are you looking at?"
"With all due respect, sir," the administrator smiled apologetically, "my authority extends only to the Nomad. The WIG base is outside my competence."
"Right," Calrissian frowned in displeasure. He was silent for a few moments, then his eyes lit up. "Got it! We'll have a WIG craft!"
"Sir?" Rederick was taken aback. "Did you take my advice and buy another ship?"
"No, no!" Calrissian protested. "I was informed five hours ago by the WIG base that an... old acquaintance of mine had arrived on his ship. And since he's having trouble with his hyperdrive, he had to fly all nineteen hours on sublight. That means, in," Calrissian looked at the chronometer, "in about fourteen hours, they'll be here. Still, Luke is an understanding guy..." Lando thought for a moment. "Yes, I think he won't mind too much if I ask them to take their WIG craft back to the base and contact us from there. At least then we'll know what's happening."
"Would it be proper to interfere with a client's plans like that?" Rederick remarked diplomatically.
"Oh, come on," Calrissian waved dismissively, approaching the communications panel. "What kind of client is a Jedi? No, he's a fine fellow, of course, but why would he need several tons of metal?"
"A Jedi is coming to see us?" Rederick's eyebrows rose. "Has something serious happened that I don't know about?"
"Everything's fine," Lando frowned, putting on a headset with a microphone. Oh, these ancient audio communication systems... "Except for losing contact with the WIG base. No, Luke is coming on personal business. So, give me a connection to WIG... four, I think... Yes, to number four!"
Rederick stood where he was, but his hand slid into his vest pockets. His fingernail caught on the thread of a hidden pocket...
"WIG-four?" Calrissian confirmed upon hearing the pilot's voice. "Excellent!" The owner of the Nomad was clearly glad the transmitter had connected to the ship. His voice even brightened. "This is Lando speaking. We have a..."
He couldn't finish, because he jumped back from the panel as if stung, tearing the headset off. A horrible, ear-splitting screech, as if someone was scratching metal against transparisteel, echoed through the central post. A disgusting instrumental accompaniment. Even Rederick got a headache.
"What was that?" he asked, grimacing, looking at Lando. Lando, in one motion, reached the communications panel and cut the sound.
"Electronic jamming," he said, instantly serious. "Could be a solar flare, it's happened before..."
"No, sir," the operator refuted his assumption, looking up from his instruments. "The pattern doesn't fit. Too regular, not chaotic..."
"Someone is jamming our comm channels," Calrissian stated grimly.
"Who?" Rederick put on a surprised face. "And, most importantly, why?!"
"I'd like to know that myself," Lando lamented. "That's usually what pirates do in the Mid Rim before an attack, or..."
He stopped mid-sentence. Throwing a despairing look at Rederick, he grimaced as if something very, very sour had gotten into his mouth.
"Or who?" the administrator clarified. Calrissian was about to open his mouth to answer, but one of the operators interrupted him:
"Sir, our WIG craft has emerged from hyperspace!"
"Now that's what I call Jedi efficiency," Calrissian beamed, clapping his hands. "I always said Luke's a great guy! As soon as he realized we had a problem, he decided not to mess around with the hyperdrive anymore, transmitted access codes to 'four,' and is here visiting us in a flash..."
"Sir," the third operator called out quietly. "It's not WIG-four. It's WIG-nine."
"It's supposed to be at the base," Lando frowned, approaching the orbital scanner console. "Don't tell me those blockheads decided to fly here themselves to tell me what happened... Oh, Hutt, are you kidding me?!"
"What's going on?!" Rederick, hands shoved in his pockets, walked over to the console where the third operator sat, Lando Calrissian biting his lip beside him.
"An Imperial Star Destroyer has dropped by for a visit," the latter said. "They're launching fighters and landing craft... Hutt, what a precise jump! Barely a minute outside the planet's shadow and now their TIE fighters are already on our tail! And here we sit, cut off from communications, wondering who's jamming us! In two more minutes they'll be battering down the front door!"
"We need to sound the alarm immediately!" the third operator suggested, reaching for a red button. But he didn't make it.
A scarlet lightning bolt shot from the right pocket of Rederick's vest, striking the man square in the back of the head. He crumpled from his chair straight onto the deck. The second operator, who had lunged to the side, fell to a blaster shot from the right pocket. The imperial fleet intelligence agent killed the third man, having already drawn the first blaster from his left pocket.
"What's going on?!" Lando Calrissian demanded angrily, brows furrowed as he stared at his administrator.
"Nothing you should worry about, Mister Calrissian," Rederick said in a flat tone, training both blasters on him. "Step away from the panel and don't interfere with the Empire doing its job. I promise you, if there is no resistance, you will all survive."
"And if there is?" Lando ground his teeth. He was probably thinking that the Empire was taking away his creation for the second time. And in such a cavalier manner!
"Then the TIE pilots will blow the supports of the Nomad, and within half a day the enterprise will be roasted by stellar radiation, since the Nkllon terminator line will reach you," Rederick replied simply. "And we'll still get what we want. Much sooner."
"Oh, I don't doubt that," Calrissian snorted. "Don't touch my workers! I'll do whatever's necessary. But you," he jabbed an accusing finger at the intelligence agent, "don't even hope to get your pay for this week!"
"Missed again," Rederick smiled. "I collected my three thousand credits from the cashier two hours ago."
Calrissian's tooth enamel seemed to be crumbling...
* * *
"Grand Admiral, sir." Seeing the Supreme Commander on the boarding ramp of an Imperial Star Destroyer that had just completed repairs seemed... utterly unusual for the Imperial Navy. So understanding the commander of the ship's wide eyes required no guesswork. "I'm pleased to welcome you aboard the Stormhawk, sir!"
"As you were, Captain," I said.
Captain Morgot Astorias had never been a timid man. Despite a common saying in the Empire's armed forces — "the Stormtrooper Corps takes the strong but stupid, the Navy takes the scrawny and brave" the commander of an Imperial I-class Star Destroyer was not lacking in physical fitness.
He was middle-aged, average height, average build. Moderately muscular, moderately proactive. The type called the ideal executor. That said, idiots were not allowed on a Star Destroyer's bridge. Usually.
But Captain Astorias was a man of exceptional quick thinking. His crew was one of the most competent and cohesive. The results of their gunnery and maneuvers inspired nothing but envy and grinding teeth in Captain Pellaeon and the entire crew of the Chimaera.
And despite all that, the commander of the Stormhawk was neither proud nor verbose. He considered himself above such human weaknesses and saw no need to pay any attention to the envious.
"I've been informed your crew is eager for battle, Captain," I said, walking slowly down the corridor. Rukh moved behind me as usual, positioned to attack at any moment at the slightest threat.
ISD-1 Stormhawk Commander: Captain Morgot Astorias.
"That's correct, sir," the Star Destroyer commander replied quietly but clearly, matching my pace. "Our damage is minor. We've already replenished our air wing losses. We're conducting training for the young pilots who've taken the vacant positions in the squadrons."
That's good to hear, I thought.
No, the Imperial Navy did have a practice of drills and crew training. But after the Battle of Endor, it had somehow been forgotten. Undoubtedly, there had been other things to do in that period — infighting and so on. But Astorias, as an adherent of the "old school" of personnel training, did not deviate from the skills and principles drilled into his head. With complete justification and objectivity, he reasoned: if these methods had worked for him, turning a junior officer into the commander of one of the most fearsome ships in the Imperial Navy, then why would these military pedagogy techniques be bad for his subordinates?
"How long until the training program is complete?" I inquired.
"By the end of tomorrow's day cycle, we'll know which potential recruits are fit for service aboard the Stormhawk," the Captain answered concisely.
News that Grand Admiral Thrawn had established himself on Tangrene, turning the former Ubiqtorate planet into his own base, was slowly but surely spreading through Imperial Space. On one hand, there was nothing wrong with that. In Imperial worlds, those who needed to know about my existence already did — it wasn't particularly hidden. The phenomenon of betrayal or information trading was virtually absent in the Imperial Remnants — anyone who had wanted to leave had already defected to the New Republic or to the warlords hiding in the Deep Core. So this information wouldn't leak "to the other side." At least, not so soon. Considering that by the time of my arrival on Myrkr, in the events I knew of, Talon Karrde was already perfectly aware that the Empire had a Grand Admiral, and even knew my name, there were still certain problems with secrecy. I understood that Karrde's contacts were quite high in the Imperial Remnant hierarchy, because ordinary soldiers weren't given this kind of information — who the commander was and where he was based — so as not to burden their heads with unnecessary data. Something truly more important might inadvertently "slip" from their standardized way of thinking. However, given the planned future events, the secrecy of my identity wouldn't last long anyway. For now, it wasn't critical. Among those Thrawn had served alongside in the past, most were either dead or with the Empire of the Hand. So the New Republic would get no information from them at all. There was still Mara Jade, of course. And tomorrow's operation on Pantalomin would determine a lot — at the very least the answer to the question: "Is she with us or is she pretending?"
On the other hand, rumors about my base had a positive reception among Imperial ranks. And that couldn't help but please me. If only because "volunteers" had started appearing in my command.
In principle, any soldier capable of formulating their request in the form of a standard report could request a transfer from a "garrison" unit to a "combat" one. Fortunately for everyone, the Imperial armed forces didn't accept illiterates. Or at least such people didn't survive until graduation.
A thin trickle of volunteers began flowing toward Tangrene. One by one, in pairs, and sometimes in entire groups, "volunteers" started arriving on Tangrene. Those who wanted to serve under my command. Naturally, they weren't command staff — just ordinary soldiers, pilots, technicians. Stormtroopers weren't even allowed such initiative — in Imperial eyes, a soldier in white armor had no voice or opinion of his own. That was beaten out of them on Carida and in other Imperial academies. So I had to make do with only the less "disciplined" part of the Imperial Army and Navy.
But it was something.
Grudgingly, I purchased small craft from Prince-Admiral Krennel. Two full air wings — twelve squadrons. Half of them TIE fighters, another four interceptors, and the last two bombers. For now, most of the ships were on the surface of Tangrene, with some already distributed among the Star Destroyers — the remaining ships couldn't yet be equipped. Not only would they be in repair for an indeterminate time, but creating the necessary documentation for them was a hassle. So, to replace damaged ships, they were sent to the planet's surface. As soon as a "free" pilot from among the new arrivals appeared — after skill verification on simulators — they were assigned to one of the destroyers. First priority for equipping with pilots and other specialists went to the ships with the least damage — they would be the first to become operational.
Yes, of course, there were the Spaarti cloning cylinders. And the first "batch" of clones was already "ready." Empirically, it was established that creating one clone using this technology didn't take a year. Placing ysalamiri near the cloning units completely cut them off from the Force, with the result that... the clones matured at a mind-boggling speed that literally sent a shiver down the spine.
Fourteen days from the moment the genetic material was placed in the incubators until a fully viable clone emerged, containing all the genetic donor's knowledge. Very convenient and simple.
However, I was plagued by concerns that side effects mentioned in Palpatine's records might manifest. "Clone madness" a side effect of rapid clone growth. I didn't need to guess long what that was — my flagship was carrying a whole Dark Jedi obtained by this method. But while I could vouch that his body was an exact copy of C'baoth's (at least that's how he looked in the archive holos found on the HoloNet), his mind and memories... I had a slight suspicion that all his skills were the result of a program Palpatine had implanted in the clone's mind, similar to the one we used for "training clones." Consequently, it was extremely unlikely that the clone was capable of truly teaching his followers anything. Great things are built from small ones, which led me to think that the Jedi clone was filled with knowledge but lacked life experience, free will, thoughts, feelings. The closest comparison to what C'baoth called "teaching" was giving a child a firearm. It wouldn't be long before the human larvae looked down the barrel and pulled the trigger. Extrapolating the likely consequences to this galaxy's reality, I could say with certainty that Force-sensitive subjects trained by a clone would become a very significant problem.
That was precisely why the first batch of clones, despite their "readiness," would be placed under my forces only after completing medical examinations at Mount Tantiss. Changes in brain synaptic connections characteristic of "clone madness" were perfectly detectable by the simplest medical devices. It was like looking at a poor copy of a text document: lines "floated" here and there, there were excessive toner "blotches."
So the situation was as follows: despite having clones, and the second batch already "in preparation," the week-long course of medical examination was not yet finished. So the first batch of technician clones would only arrive in a few days on a Star Galleon. And those were technicians. They would go toward manning the crews of new ships and expanding the personnel of the ground base and shipyards. The stronger the rear, the easier the fight. Since the prospect of fighting alone against the entire New Republic was a harsh reality, I needed my rear not just strong, but unshakable.
And I really hoped that today's operation on Nkllon would give us a small respite in terms of funds and resource reserves to speed up repairs. Also, the "miners" would arrive, around which the success of the mission at the Sluis Van shipyards depended.
Buying six squadrons of TIE fighters (at a standard complement of twelve birds each) from my meager budget cost five million and forty thousand credits.
Forty-eight TIE interceptors cost four million three hundred and twenty thousand. Two squadrons of bombers emptied my "pocket" of two million six hundred forty thousand.
Total — twelve million credits in combined expenses. And out of all that multitude of ships, almost nothing was left "on the ground." One more full-scale battle, and I'd have to buy fighters all over again. And all this without even touching the matter of equipping the air wings of escort frigates and other vessels.
I urgently needed money. A lot of money. The spoils had barely touched the black market and wouldn't bring in a quick influx of funds. For now, it was just a trickle — a thin stream filling a large pool, where the custodian periodically opened the drain valve all the way.
Continuing active operations required capital.
And as paradoxical as it sounded, that was precisely why I was now aboard the Stormhawk.
From my interactions with the Imperial Ruling Council, I drew a simple conclusion: we had to fend for ourselves. Nothing moved them — just fight with what you're given. And don't ask questions.
The original Thrawn had managed this successfully through his genius and creative reinterpretation of sentient psychology. I, no matter how much I tried to examine the holograms, saw only works of art before me — some beautiful, some ugly, some simply crude or, conversely, immensely beautiful. But I couldn't find the pattern, no matter how I analyzed the patterns and images, the shape of objects and other characteristics in my head.
The only thing I could do at the moment was act logically. In conditions where the Imperial Remnants weren't particularly inclined to help, letting things take their course, only one option remained — to seek funding for my projects independently.
No matter how much I wanted it, trading in captured property wouldn't cover even a small part of my planned expenses. I needed additional funding sources. I really hoped I could obtain them during this short voyage.
"You are a native of the planet Nez Peron, Captain," I said, addressing the commander of the Stormhawk.
"Yes, sir," he replied.
Nez Peron was the capital of a region of the galaxy known as the D'Astan sector.
D'Astan Sector.
This was an area of the galaxy adjacent to Morshdine. I probably wouldn't have remembered it or paid it any attention at all if not for the notable name of a planet within this sector.
Serenno. The homeworld of Count Dooku, former Jedi, former apprentice of Darth Sidious. The leader of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, who died in orbit of Coruscant. An aristocrat who possessed an enormous fortune.
And he wasn't the only one in the D'Astan sector.
"Tell me about your homeland, Captain," I suggested. Catching Astorias's surprised look, I simply ignored it.
"Planet Nez Peron is an agricultural world providing a wide range of products to a vast number of star systems both within the sector and beyond," the Captain said. Commonly known information, available in any reference network.
"Set a course for the capital of the D'Astan sector, Captain Astorias," I ordered.
"Yes, sir," the officer responded without delay or unnecessary questions, giving the appropriate instructions via comlink. "May I offer you my quarters?"
"That won't be necessary," I stated. "The flight will only last a few hours. Allocate an empty compartment for me and my bodyguard. That will be sufficient."
"As you wish, Grand Admiral," the commander of the Stormhawk saluted. "The Star Destroyer's senior officers' wardroom is at your disposal."
"Thank you," I said. Reaching a junction, Rukh and I, without taking leave of the Captain, headed toward the designated room, while the native of Nez Peron walked in the opposite direction toward the turbolift leading to the starship's bridge.
No questions, no suspicious looks, or anything of the sort. Simple, routine execution of orders.
The ideal executor.
Although, on the other hand, Astorias might have known that the Chimaera was delayed in returning to service. The chief engineer of the shipyards, Niel Reyes, after prolonged silence and work on the blueprints, had finally issued a verdict — installing the deflector generator from a New Republic MC30c frigate onto the Star Destroyer was possible. But it would take a day to pull apart the armor plating, install additional equipment, and tune and debug all systems before the ship could enter service with the intended modifications. Yes, I didn't have any Super Star Destroyers at my disposal, but that didn't mean I'd resign myself to fighting with whatever the gloomy Imperial genius provided. No, if there was a chance to improve the starships under my command, even in such a makeshift way, such projects would be implemented.
The Empire fought with quantity, the Rebels with quality.
In the events I knew, the Galactic Empire lost the war for control of the galaxy to the rebels. The New Republic, in the end, also lost. But not to the Empire as I knew it. And not in the foreseeable future.
Therefore, since such an opportunity existed, why not adopt a good tactical approach from the enemy? It would be interesting to watch Imperial quality fight against New Republic quantity.
And once I had enough starships, personnel, and resources — that's when we would see if my opponents were capable of truly fighting. On all fronts...
But for now, judging by the trembling of the deck, the Stormhawk had begun to move and was preparing for a hyperspace jump. Very soon, I would meet the ruler of the neighboring sector. And I would have to be impossibly eloquent to convince Baron D'Asta to finance my campaign against the rebel scum.
* * *
When the last fires were put out, the breaches sealed, and the wounded delivered to the infirmary, Lando didn't know what to think: whether to cry or to laugh.
Or to be proud of his men, who, without any order from above, had fought off the Imperial stormtroopers, or to cry because it was all over.
Again.
First he had lost his business on Bespin, now Nkllon. The Empire had taken from him, time and again, everything he had built through superhuman effort, pouring his knowledge and funds into enterprises, teetering on the edge of success and failure. And what about the bribes he had paid to New Republic officials?! That was almost thirty million credits!
And now the Nomad was dead. Without the motivators for movement, they wouldn't make it to the planet's dark side in time, and the terminator would catch them. Just as that traitor Rederick had predicted! Hutt! The scoundrel had even managed to get his pay for the week he had spent thoroughly studying the Nomad and planning the attack.
Lando no longer doubted it — the base of repulsor sleds had been taken out of commission. It wasn't for nothing they were silent; it was as clear as day. And the shuttle that could have gone to check — that had also been disabled for a reason. Those damned Imperial spies, curse them! And Rederick had laid it on so sweetly... A million in investments — and thirty new miners! Look, our metal warehouses are already overflowing...
And now it was all over.
The Nomad, while still moving, was doing so with difficulty. They would never make it out, never escape.
The long-range communications antenna was destroyed, and calling for help was impossible. Even if clients arrived in a few days, they couldn't reach Nkllon without the repulsor sleds. And those, it seemed, were destroyed...
And the stockpiles of mined metal — also appropriated by the Empire. As was all the accumulated money! No, he still had some left in shell accounts in banks, but Calrissian had no doubt — the Imperials, who hadn't just robbed them but also wiped all the information databases, would definitely get to his emergency reserve. And there was a tidy sum of fifty million accumulated there! That would have been enough to start a new venture!
Or to buy himself a new yacht... It was hard to say what he missed more — the business he had lost once again, or the loss of the Lady Luck. The Imperials had taken her too!
Well, he could always shake the dust off and start collecting debts from old friends and partners... A couple of hundred thousand could be scraped together. He could think about where to invest it, but...
His thoughts were interrupted by a tone from the internal comm panel.
"Lando speaking," he said quietly.
"Sir, there's good news and there's bad news," came the dreary voice of his second administrator, Lobot. The cyborg he had been through so much with... "Which one should I start with?"
Lobot.
"Surprise me." It was laughter through tears, but how else could one keep their sanity in this mad world?!
"The motivators will fail in one hour," the cyborg reported. "And we will stop moving."
"We can replace them," Lando suggested. "In the warehouse..."
He cut himself off, biting his lower lip until it hurt. And what was left in the warehouse anyway? Dust and the aftermath of the firefight? The Imperials had taken everything — even the two Z-95 Headhunter starfighters he had bought about a month ago. Yes, they were relics from the Clone Wars, but the machines were still operational and could still "bite." "Could bite," Lando mentally corrected himself.
Z-95 Headhunter Starfighter.
"Yes, sir," Lobot replied calmly. "There's so little in the warehouses that even a rancor would hang itself out of boredom."
"You've learned to joke?" Lando was surprised.
"I'm trying to keep you from losing heart," the cyborg replied. "Now for the bad news."
"Hold on," Calrissian stirred. "You're telling me that the fact we're dead in the water and about to be roasted like meat on a grill was the 'good news'?"
"Yes, sir," the cyborg replied without a hint of humor.
Calrissian rubbed his temples with effort. What else had happened?!
"Spit it out," he said wearily.
"The enemy took all our plasma drills," Lobot replied.
Hutt! Hutt! And Hutt again!
He had thought he could salvage the situation by selling off the remaining property, but now...
"Wait, hold on," the man rubbed his forehead. "We had fifty-one operational, and the same number in the warehouses in non-working condition, cannibalized for spare parts..."
"And you purchased thirty units at the insistence of Administrator Rederick," Lobot noted. "I remind you, I was against spending money on working units, suggesting we repair the ones we already had."
"Yes, yes, yes," Calrissian grimaced. "But you had to invest so much in them... It's easier to buy new ones — these don't hold atmosphere, and the engines are junk... were... Wait. Don't tell me the Imperials took our non-working ships too!"
"They took everything," Lobot replied laconically. "Even the security force's personal weapons, the crew's money and valuables, our arsenal, medical supplies, and parts for our fighters. Though, who needs this old junk..."
"Enough with the grilling already," Lando grimaced. "We need to think about how to get out of this mess..."
"I do have some good news," Lobot said unexpectedly. "Oh, really?" Calrissian almost said, but bit his tongue just in time.
"How good?" He wasn't actually expecting anything positive.
"Our Ekranoplan-4 is in orbit," Lobot reported. "We can use the shuttle to evacuate the wounded to it and..."
"Hold on!" Lando perked up. "The Fourth Ekranoplan! That's where Skywalker is!"
"No, sir," Lobot replied. "The Jedi Knight isn't there..."
What kind of day is this?!
"So where is that Jedi..." Calrissian fumed, turning toward the exit, when he heard a delicate cough behind him. "Oh, Luke!"
"Hey, Lando," the young Jedi smiled modestly. "Sorry I didn't make it in time to help you. The flight to your ekranoplan base was rough, and I entered a meditative trance to rest... And the pilot somehow didn't report that we'd lost contact with you..."
At first, Lando wanted to hug Skywalker. Then he changed his mind and wanted to strangle the ekranoplan's pilot. Then he thought it over and decided he wouldn't do anything at all...
"There's not much you could have done, Luke," he waved his hand wearily, sitting down in a chair next to some console. "A whole Star Destroyer was here. They stripped us clean... Over two thousand dead, seven hundred wounded."
"That's very sad, Lando," regret appeared on Luke's face. "I didn't make it... I'm sorry."
"Don't blame yourself," Calrissian smiled bitterly. "One against several squadrons of TIE fighters and TIE interceptors... You're a fighter, sure, but not that much of one."
"Yeah, I really screwed up," Luke summed up. "Again."
"Again?" Lando repeated.
"Don't worry about it," the young Jedi advised. "Better tell me, what did the Imperials want here?"
"Everything that wasn't bolted down to the decks," Calrissian sighed. "So, did the Imperials destroy the second ekranoplan before jumping out?"
"Yes," Skywalker said. "There's just scrap metal all over the orbit."
"I think our ekranoplan base is in the same condition," Lando concluded. "Tell me your X-wing's long-range comms are working."
"Yeah, of course they're working," Skywalker nodded. "But with Nkllon's radiation, the connection probably won't be good, but..."
"I don't care!" Lando waved his hand. "We need to contact the nearest New Republic base! If they send us even one assault frigate, or better yet, a pair, we can evacuate the Nomad from the planet under the cover of the last ekranoplan! We'll dump it somewhere near the ekranoplan base, and then repair it!"
T-65 X-wing starfighter.
Even on paper, the plan sounded insane. No guarantees that even if the ships arrived, even if they could lift the Nomad off Nkllon's surface, even if they towed it to a safe place... And a hundred other "ifs."
Judging by Skywalker's expression, he was thinking the same thing.
"Are you sure the Nomad can't be made to move on its own?" he clarified, clearly not eager to deal with the New Republic's bureaucratic machine. Lando grew gloomy... Even a Jedi was backing down...
"No," he sighed. "We'd be fried before we could zip to the other end of the galaxy, buy a new modified motivator, and bring it back. And we can't even burrow under the surface! The Imperials took all my plasma drills!"
"A... what do they need them for?" Skywalker wondered.
"How should I know?" Calrissian snapped. Apologizing to his friend, he sighed bitterly:
"All those things can do is melt rock and metal ahead of them, flying to a target on remote control. I guess the Empire decided to set up its own mining operation. Or they're just not the most decent people in the galaxy and decided to spite me a second time."
"Or there's something more behind it," Luke said thoughtfully. Suddenly, as if remembering something, the Jedi Knight asked:
"They didn't come just for your plasma drills, did they?"
"I'm more than sure they came for the metal and my credits!" Lando snorted. "I have full warehouses of ore and a vault stuffed to the brim with money... Nineteen million credits... Equipment, droids, weapons, medical supplies, fighters..."
"What kind of metal were we mining here?" Skywalker asked with his characteristic straightforwardness.
"Just about everything in the galactic periodic table," Lando sighed heavily. "Hfredium, Kamnris, Dohlovite — everything that was in the warehouses. I'm sure if they have some durasteel, they could build themselves a couple of cruisers. Maybe even enough for a Star Destroyer..."
"How much metal did you have?" Skywalker was surprised.
"About half a year's output and a bit more," Lando sighed. "At market prices — just over twenty million."
"I didn't know your operation was that profitable," Luke admitted.
"You bet," Lando sighed. "If the New Republic had more money, they'd have got their fleet in proper shape long ago. As it is, they buy a small batch once a year and that's it. They look at you with pitiful eyes, appealing to your conscience and patriotism..."
"Then I think it won't be a big problem to negotiate with Coruscant to send someone, get the complex off the planet, and get it running again," Luke said confidently. "Especially after what happened in the Dufilvian sector..."
"What happened there?" Lando asked.
"The Empire easily smashed our sector fleet," Luke explained, watching the entrepreneur's eyebrows shoot up. "Found out when I was flying to you from Dagobah. Leia, Han, and Rogue Squadron are already there, trying to fix the situation."
"Hope it went better there than here," Calrissian winced.
"I wouldn't say so," Luke shuddered. "They destroyed the sector fleet base, took out a medical base... Total devastation."
"Strange they didn't take the sector for themselves," Lando said. "By the way, what were you doing on Dagobah?"
"Oh, right," Luke shook his head and pulled a small, flattened cylinder out of his pocket. "Found it where..." The Jedi hesitated. "Doesn't matter, anyway. R2-D2 said he saw a toy just like it in your Cloud City on Bespin..."
Frowning, Lando took the cylinder in his hand and inspected it critically.
"A curious little thing," he said after a few seconds. "They don't make these anymore. If you hadn't reminded me about Cloud City, I wouldn't have known what it was — unfamiliar design."
"So what is it?" Skywalker asked curiously. "A data storage device?"
"No, my friend," Calrissian sighed. "No, there's some information in it, sure, but strictly operational. It's a homing beacon. Amazing it still works. Looks like it was built before the Clone Wars — the thing is clearly old."
"A homing beacon?" Luke repeated. "What's that?"
"We use a roughly similar technology to control our 'diggers,'" Calrissian explained. "The device works on a dedicated frequency — within a planet's range, I think. It works like a ship's beacon — but a much more advanced and complex technology. Imagine," Lando looked at his friend. "You have a ship. And to avoid keeping a crew on it, you invest in automation. You install advanced computers or buy a lot of droids. And you put equipment like this beacon on it. So when you need the ship — say, you're on the other side of the planet and don't want to waste time getting back to the spaceport — you press a button," Lando poked a row of triangular keys on the flattened cylinder, "and the starship flies straight to you."
"And it won't crash?" Skywalker doubted it.
Ah, blessed innocence... They say you can leave Tatooine, but Tatooine will never leave you.
"Some ships could not only dodge obstacles and choose the optimal course, but also fight, if they had guns on board. A useful thing, in general," Lando said. "They don't make them anymore — insanely expensive. I had a fully automated yacht like that in Cloud City, but the Imperials requisitioned it. And they probably disabled the beacon, because the ship didn't respond to the homing call, and I had to flee on the Falcon."
"Isn't the Lady Luck equipped with such a beacon?" Luke clarified.
"No," Lando sighed sadly. "Otherwise I'd have tried to track the Imperials and lead the New Republic fleet to them."
"You said your 'diggers' work on the same principle," the young Jedi reminded him.
"Well, almost," Lando admitted. "Actually, they're manually controlled; you can fit a small crew inside. But in case of problems, you can use a control panel and pilot the 'digger.' Within reason, of course. It won't jump into hyperspace, but it can definitely move back and forth."
"So can we track the Imperials through the 'diggers'?" the Jedi perked up.
Lando looked at him condescendingly. A Tatooinian, what else could you say.
"If they're not idiots — and they most likely aren't — they just disabled the beacons. I doubt we have a powerful enough transmitter to send a signal and wait for a reply across the entire galaxy," he said. "I told you — the homing beacon works within a planet's range, no more. No, you could, of course, use more powerful communications equipment, like a ship's relay — then you could work from orbit too — but that's all theoretical. Practically, if anyone's ever pulled that off, I don't know about it. Well, except for the Katana Fleet."
"Will you tell me about it?" Luke asked. "I heard it was a fleet of fully automated ships..."
"Something like that," Lando nodded. Realizing they'd been talking for a while, the former smuggler motioned for Skywalker to wait and ordered Lobot to arrange the transfer of the wounded to the ekranoplan. There wasn't much space there, but as much as there was...
"The Katana Fleet is a cluster of two hundred Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers built at the Rendili shipyards," he explained. "I spent a lot of time and money back in the day trying to find them. Sure, the ships are over a hundred years old or so, but they can still pack a punch, especially operating in groups. The ships there are the same type as the one the Nomad was made from. Six hundred meters long, good armor, a Class Two or Four hyperdrive, armament of ten turbolaser batteries, twenty quad laser cannons, ten heavy laser cannons, and ion cannons — honestly, I don't remember the exact number. No starfighters, just one docking port. Quite a few of these ugly things are flying around the galaxy now, because their crew requirements are simply enormous — over sixteen thousand sentients. But the Katana Fleet's starships had massive automation — they only needed two thousand crew members. Plus, the flagship could direct the fleet's ships on how to move, how to shoot — meaning you'd only need a crew of two thousand on the Katana herself and that's it — you can run the whole fleet. Well, of course, unless you're worried someone might board your heavy cruisers and slip them away under manual control while you're not looking."
"It's strange that such a fleet just vanished," Luke remarked.
"The flagship's crew was infected with a swarm virus," Lando explained. The Jedi flinched. It seemed even on Tatooine they'd heard of that scourge. "I agree, a nasty thing. Drives you mad, and your body devours itself. Madness, in a word..."
"And no one knows where those starships are?" Luke wondered. "The New Republic could really use them to fight the Empire."
"If they knew, they'd have shown up long ago," Lando sighed, remembering how many millions he'd sunk into the venture of finding the Katana Fleet. "But there's as much information on those ships as there is on Sa Nalaor. A legend, basically... Though, I wouldn't be surprised if the Old Republic bureaucrats found that fleet long ago and sold it for scrap. Or it was destroyed during the Clone Wars — there were battles so massive back then that our skirmishes with the Imperials look like a game in a daycare. Practically every day there was some battle like the Battle of Endor..."
Lando fell silent when he saw the young Jedi's mood darken. Calrissian mentally cursed. Few were privy to that secret — that Darth Vader was the father of Luke and Leia. He himself took that information calmly enough, and now he'd just blurted it out...
"Sorry," he said.
"It's nothing," Skywalker smiled stiffly. "Just memories. Too bad we can't use this beacon to find the ship it was linked to. I suspect it might have belonged to a dark Jedi from the planet Bpfassh who died on Dagobah. But maybe I'm just looking for the wrong thing in the wrong place."
They sat in silence for a few seconds, then Luke stood up decisively.
"Thanks for the information, Lando," he said. "I think I should head to the nearest New Republic base and ask for help for you. Since the Imperials jumped from the planet's shadow, what's stopping my X-wing?"
"I'll be eternally grateful," Lando walked over to the young Jedi and shook his hand firmly.
Lando watched Skywalker leave for a while, thinking that the kid from Tatooine used to be less focused and withdrawn. Maybe it had to do with his trip to Dagobah? As he said, a dark Jedi had been killed on that planet. But by whom? Maybe that old, peculiar Jedi Leia had told him about? The one who trained Luke before he came to Cloud City to save them all from Darth Vader.
Ah, the soul of a Jedi is a dark place. If it were matters of the heart, Lando could give him some advice. But when it came to the Force, Calrissian was a complete layman. Like most of the galaxy.
Exiting hyperspace beckoned me with its unnatural, captivating beauty. There was something in this physical phenomenon — breaking the light barrier with such ease and routine, while back on my homeworld, any physicist would give anything just to peek inside a hyperdrive. And under the hood of the solar ionization reactor that powered the Star Destroyer, not just with energy for the jump, but also feeding its systems with considerable surplus.
During the time the Stormhawk spent in hyperspace, I had the opportunity to thoroughly prepare for the summit meeting.
Nez Peron is located in square O-5 in the eponymous star system of the D'Astan sector. This sector is a vivid example of how industrialists and aristocracy can turn a region of space into a very, very profitable business.
* * *
The sector is practically a small empire. Self-sufficient, possessing a huge merchant fleet, having received and still receiving orders from Imperial Remnants for the construction of freighters and bulk carriers — enormous transport starships in whose holds a Star Destroyer could easily fit.
The sector is ruled by a noble family of aristocrats named D'Asta. The family is headed by Imperial Baron Ragez D'Asta, who was once a member of the Imperial Ruling Council, but in recent years has stepped back from foreign policy, shifting that burden onto his own daughter.
Ragez D'Asta is wealthy enough to maintain a fleet of warships. The largest private battle fleet in the galaxy. Built and competently organized. The Baron is a staunch supporter of Imperial values, but what's encouraging is that he's a moderate xenophobe. He holds no contempt for any race solely because of their skin color, hair, eyes, number of limbs, scales, tail, or fur. If a sentient is useful — they will work, even if they're a Bothe, a race whose representatives don't have the best reputation in the galaxy.
Currently, besides supplying food and transport ships, Baron Ragez D'Asta continues to sympathize with Imperial Space, despite the government based on the planet Orinda proving its incompetence and insatiable lust for power for years. And yet, the Baron considers the Imperial Ruling Council the legitimate government. But he doesn't agitate or war against the other Imperial Remnants either. In fact, having forces equal in number to several New Republic sector fleets at his disposal, the Baron doesn't seek to provide his ships to any of the Empire's warlords, limiting himself strictly to business considerations. The Imperials both feared and valued him — that's why his daughter was given such a high position.
A reasonable question arises — why, with such military power, doesn't he try to conquer a couple of sectors from the New Republic? The answer is simple: the private fleet of the D'Astan sector doesn't have a large number of major warships. His strength lies in numerous corvettes and frigates. Furthermore, in the same year Palpatine and Vader died, one Imperial admiral enlisted the Baron's support and received several cruisers from him to attack Republic shipyards. Despite the Imperial "points victory," the Baron's ships were not returned to their deployment points, having been destroyed by the enemy. And this significantly damaged the aristocrat's own authority. Rumors circulated that it was precisely this — the loss of part of his power — that made him leave the Imperial Ruling Council. But something tells me the reason for such a drastic decision is not so simple. Perhaps I will be able to solve this riddle during a personal meeting with the Baron. And perhaps — to conclude a full-fledged alliance.
Given the Baron's pro-Imperial stance, I could try to play the scenario: "I'll fight our common enemy — you give me money!" Whether it will work or not is hard to say now. But you don't know until you try.
Especially now, in light of the successful attack on Nkllon and the rich plunder obtained, I needn't fear imminent ruin. Oh, if Pellaeon only knew the storm of emotions raging in my soul when he reported the results of the Overlord's mission. But I had to remain impassive. One must play one's role so well that Stanislavski would change his famous phrase.
The victory on Nkllon allowed me to change the rhetoric of my visit. If initially I planned to voice the request for funding (oh, how quickly arrogance fades in times of need. I'd convinced myself: "I won't ask, they'll offer it themselves, they'll give it themselves!") on a mutually beneficial basis, hoping to intrigue the Baron with food supply contracts, now, with increased working capital, I had the opportunity to offer Ragez D'Asta much more. As an entrepreneur and politician, he should understand the benefit of contractual obligations with the Supreme Commander of the Empire. After all, besides food supply contracts, with additional funds, I could offer to sell him several CR90 Corellian corvettes currently in service with his fleet. According to our chief engineer's recommendations, these starships were the most suitable for mounting on struts in Star Destroyer hangars. And that's not to mention the fact that the private fleet of the D'Astan sector doesn't shy away from using TIE series equipment — in considerable quantities. Perhaps the sector has its own production line. And it would be cheaper to acquire equipment from the Baron than from the Prince-Admiral.
But all of this is just plans. We'll see how they come to fruition.
"We are being hailed, Grand Admiral," the commander of the Stormhawk reported.
"Return the greeting on my behalf," I ordered. "And inform the planet that I wish to meet with Baron Ragez D'Asta."
"Yes, sir," Captain Morgot Astorias replied simply and laconically.
The perfect executor.