"Welcome aboard, ma'am," the steward said with a broad smile, returning her boarding pass and stepping aside to clear her passage to the suite. "Your cabin is on the third deck, in the VIP zone. Direct access to the restaurant, the observation deck, and..."
"The casino," Mara smiled captivatingly, continuing to play her role as a wealthy aristocrat. "I'd like to test my luck first and spend a pretty penny with you."
"I'm sure a splendid young lady like yourself will have luck on her side today and throughout the entire seven-day reef tour," she'd heard this standard phrase many times. "The casino exit — second right turn from your cabin. The lift will take you straight to the main entrance. Only," his gaze slid over the girl's shoulder. "Your, like any, security is forbidden from entering first and second-class passenger entertainment and recreation areas — the casino, restaurants, and so on — the sections are marked with signs," he pointed to a small, glowing sign at the far end of the corridor, where the inscription "First Class Passengers Only" was lit.
"What's with these restrictions?" Mara frowned.
"These are the rules of the Coral Vanda's security service," the steward said, lowering his gaze slightly. "We apologize for any inconvenience, ma'am."
And now she had two obvious options — make a scene, which was unlikely to change anything but would draw unwanted attention to her and the soldiers, or keep quiet. In any case, she only had two stormtroopers disguised as civilians — the Nemesis hadn't had more people with less fierce faces on board.
"Well, if that's the case, then I hope your security service is competent enough," she theatrically wrinkled her nose, creating the image of a young rich girl who didn't like what was said but decided to give the establishment a chance or be pleasantly surprised by its service and comfort. "I won't have to worry that some robbers will take me hostage somewhere on the decks and start threatening me with a blaster to steal my jewelry or honestly won credits, will I?"
"Absolutely not, ma'am," the steward's eyes widened. Apparently, it was the first time he'd ever heard such a complaint leveled at the company or its employees. Not that Mara was worried about anyone needing her cheap jewelry and small stash of credits. Her provocative questions served a completely different purpose. And the young employee was unlikely to figure that out. "We have real-time visual surveillance cameras on every deck — no blind spots! Only security personnel carry weapons, and believe me, there are no thieves or robbers on board..."
And no card sharps, con artists, Imperial spies, or undercover stormtroopers either, Mara finished the thought for him. Quite the place. But she had no intention of interrupting her veiled interrogation. The kid knew a lot. And he was ready to spill everything for a few smiles. Men, Jade thought with a touch of weary judgment, stealing a glance at the mirrored panel in the corridor. A tall, red-haired beauty stared back at her, dressed in a stunning form-fitting gown, her hair done up in a gorgeous style from one of the best salons on Coruscant. Huh... she really had done a good job. Maybe she should become a hairdresser — she'd put this look together all by herself.
"Well, you've convinced me," she said, offering the steward a pleasant smile. "I see my friend Hoffner wasn't exaggerating when he praised your establishment."
"You're a friend of Mr. Hoffner's?" the steward perked up.
"Yes, why?" Mara smiled, inwardly on alert.
"Oh, he's a regular customer," the steward beamed. "Very generous..."
You little extortionist! Mara thought. But breaking the cover story she'd built for herself — a wealthy lady — was out of the question. Otherwise, there'd be no getting aboard the Coral Vanda — only first- and second-class passengers were allowed. And a ticket for the seven-day cruise cost one hundred thousand and fifty thousand credits, respectively. Cheaper options weren't part of company policy.
Snapping her fingers, she reached for her purse, pulled out a credit chip worth a hundred, and handed it to the steward. He pocketed the reward with a swift, almost imperceptible movement.
"Thank you, miss," he grinned, clearly planning to slip away now that he'd gotten his "tip."
"One moment, please," the girl called after him, luring him back with another chip of the same denomination. "Is my friend Hoffner currently on the ship?"
"Of course, ma'am," the steward smiled, tucking another batch of credits into his pocket. "He's been living here for the past couple of years."
"So that's why I haven't been able to reach him," Mara smiled. "He's been having a good time. Would you happen to know where he is right now?"
"The usual place," the steward said, receiving yet another credit chip. "The casino."
"Thanks for the tip," the girl smiled. "By the way, is the cruise about to start?"
As if answering her question itself, the ship began to tremble slowly, clearly descending into the ocean depths.
"It already has," the employee smiled. "If miss doesn't need anything else..."
"If I need anything at all, I'll be sure to find you," Mara said with a perfunctory smile, using her keycard to unlock the door to her suite. She'd gotten all the answers she needed. Time to begin the mission.
When the door closed, and half an hour later the trio of Imperial spies finished searching the quarters she hadn't even intended to properly use, she walked over to the mirror and easily removed the necklace of expensive-looking stones. Tossing it to the nearest "guard," she said:
"Assemble the transmitter and notify the Nemesis that we're ready. They'll be here an hour after receiving the signal — that's more than enough time to find Hoffner and isolate him."
The stormtroopers silently began tearing into the suitcases, whose walls concealed the disassembled transmitter components. Security would likely find them, but that would take a while. More than enough time to visit the casino.
The girl grabbed an exquisite but comfortable dress from the suitcase and headed for the bathroom to change.
A mission was a mission, but it felt so good to feel like a gorgeous woman again. And even if this operation had already cost the Empire a good quarter of a million credits, she had no doubt that if it succeeded, Thrawn wouldn't complain about the expense.
The Grand Admiral never worried about spending money anyway.
* * *
The orbital defenses of Nez Peron were impressive in their monumentality.
Over twenty orbital defense platforms of the Golan II type — and that was already a lot. One such defensive station cost about twenty-nine million credits. A simple math exercise — and you could confidently say that the D'Asta family had once invested five hundred and eighty million in their defense. And they'd spent it wisely. That money could have bought three Imperial Star Destroyers or ships of a similar class. But here was the snag — three Star Destroyers wouldn't last long against a serious siege of Nez Peron. The Golans, however, were an entirely different category. These stations packed firepower and defensive capabilities equivalent to a Star Destroyer's. And they were extremely durable. If you surrounded a planet with enough orbital stations so they could provide crossfire and support each other's turbolasers — breaking through such a barrier wouldn't be easy. Without colossal losses, at least.
Of course, that condition didn't apply to those who had Super Star Destroyers or battle stations equipped with axial superlasers like the ones on Eclipse-class ships or battle planetoids like the Death Star.
The ships involved in the attack on the Krondor system had faced just one such Golan II station — and it hadn't been easy for them. And there had been four Star Destroyers. It wasn't even worth seriously arguing that they'd taken losses after getting bogged down in a fight with rebel ships — on the contrary, it was a clear demonstration of how effective such a defensive line was. Orbital stations and support fleet ships... Strong. Especially considering this defensive tactic was widely used across the galaxy on planets with high cash flow and strategic importance.
I had enough funds to buy two, maybe three such orbital stations, but what would be the point? I'd just be left with no money to maintain a fleet. Once I had a bit more credits, then yes, I could think about securing Tangrene with another station or two. But only after our crippled prize arrived and the chief engineer delivered his verdict on the professional viability of our makeshift DIY vessel under factory conditions.
It was also worth noting that Nez Peron had a natural barrier against a surprise attack — an asteroid field that ringed the sector's capital world. And if I understood correctly, most of the system's entry vectors were aimed directly at having to punch through a cluster of space rocks. A safe passage corridor could only be provided by the control station — and I was sure the number of parties that could receive such information was extremely limited. Not to mention the space mines hidden in the asteroid field. The shapeless chunks of rock themselves also served as fighter bases — the largest asteroids. And the space mining stations in the belt clearly weren't out for a joyride. Not to mention the ships of that infamous private military fleet drifting in orbit. I had no doubt that even a couple hundred CR90s would be enough to make any enemy fleet pay in blood.
Either way, the D'Asta family made an unmistakable and lasting impression as Imperials who clearly understood not only the fortification of defensive systems but also a pragmatic approach to making smart use of available resources. Nez Peron wasn't just an agricultural planet for nothing — the Baron and his associates got all the metals they needed from the asteroids. And after mining out the rock in the most suitable ones, they could even set up space bases. Now it was clear why the New Republic didn't poke around in this sector — and it was more than "tasty." If the locals had approached the defense of their other planets even half as thoroughly — there was nothing to be gained here. Unless you had a Super Star Destroyer or a battle planetoid. Ironic...
Baron Ragez D'Asta's residence didn't give the impression of a dwelling belonging to someone with immense wealth controlling a thriving sector of the galaxy.
Looking at the building — strikingly similar to the palaces of European monarchs from my past life — I couldn't help but admire how organically the spacious three-story structure fit into the landscape of the agricultural planet Nez Peron.
Adorned with stucco, columns, delicate scrollwork, statues, and figurines made from precious minerals, the grayish-blue building stood amidst endless fields planted with grain crops. From the shuttle's flight altitude, I could see figures of workers in the fields, agricultural machinery harvesting crops, alleys of neatly manicured greenery, spacious duracrete pads ringing the residence's perimeter, alternating with avenues lined with perfectly straight trees painfully reminiscent of the ones I'd seen on Earth... Well, only in photographs that acquaintances had brought back from their vacations. For obvious reasons, a fleet analyst never had the chance to travel abroad to the successfully "rotting West."
Baron Ragez D'Asta's residence
The shuttle touched down on a landing pad marked with reflective lines and patterns. The landing gear contacted the durable construction material, and a sharp hiss of venting pressure from the cooling systems sounded. Harmless white-gray steam whistled and hissed into the atmosphere.
The loading ramp clanged softly against the duracrete, revealing a view of the sunlit surroundings, where a squad of escort stormtroopers from the Star Destroyer had already spilled out. Watching the perfect synchronicity with which Captain Astorias's men formed two short lines on either side of the ramp, I wondered if I shouldn't acquire my own ceremonial squad. It might even be pragmatic — to secure my own shuttle, customized to my liking. To pick a suitable crew, a well-trained escort team... Yes, I had Rukh — he was even now stalking behind me, glaring in all directions, identifying threats. But a Noghri wasn't a front-line fighter. He was a spy, a saboteur, an assassin, a bodyguard. But if the need for a full-scale battle arose — that was precisely when professional soldiers were needed. Superbly trained specifically for that purpose.
Hmm... This idea deserved careful consideration. Very, very thorough, weighing all the pros and cons from every angle.
A caustic thought stung me: And what am I capable of in a fight myself, setting aside the abilities of my soldiers and the Noghri? There was seemingly no need for me to pick up a blaster myself — I was a fleet commander, with an entire squadron of Star Destroyers at my disposal, capable of slagging a planet's surface — and more than one. Why would I need blaster practice? I hadn't been particularly fond of service weapons in my past life either, and here...
No. It was definitely necessary.
I watched as, ten meters from the Lambda that had brought me to the surface, smart young men from the regular army stood at attention, wearing gray uniforms and light body armor with Imperial insignia, and thought: If they opened fire right now — what would happen? A whole company of armed infantry against me, a Noghri, and a stormtrooper squad. How long would we last?
Yes, I was wearing a light cuirass under my tunic that could stop less serious blaster shots and kinetic projectiles, but still? Shouldn't I think about getting a personal energy shield too? I recalled such things existed in the galaxy — if I remembered the plots of some games set in a galaxy far, far away, there was no doubt about that. So here was another puzzle to solve: figuring out why personal shields weren't used in current reality. Maybe they didn't exist right now. Or they never had, and were just a game mechanic.
But that was all for later.
Right now, I was more interested in the colorful figure of Baron D'Asta, who was greeting me in person.
Baron Ragez D'Asta.
A tall, stockily built man with slightly sharp features, dressed in simple clothes in crimson tones and strikingly contrasting gray hair, exuded authority. His piercing yellowish-brown eyes assessed the little show I'd put on in a few seconds. And I was sure he wasn't fazed by the stormtroopers or the weapons on the Lambda — after what I'd seen in orbit, I was firmly convinced the residence had very good internal defense systems. Planetary turbolasers disguised as something else — like an angular "water tower" made of gray stone, whose top strongly resembled a ship-mounted gun's camouflage dome. Maybe something else was hidden underground or inside the palace itself. If not, I'd be disappointed.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn," the Imperial aristocrat greeted me courteously, displaying an enviable posture. He matched my height but was broader in the shoulders. He'd obviously engaged in strength sports in the past, packing on "mass." These days, it was clear the man had lost a bit of his former physique but still kept himself in decent shape. Somewhat reminded me of myself about five years before my death — as long as my health held up, I tried not to let myself go soft. After the diagnosis, I stopped caring about that...
Another thought: Shouldn't I set up a small gym in my quarters? Analysis was certainly good, but a trained body was important too. Noted.
"Baron D'Asta," I returned the courtesy. No nods, no handshakes — nothing social. His sector was connected to the Empire, to which I also formally belonged, by treaty obligations. He was respected and valued by the Empire's rulers. Because he was a ruler himself. I, on the other hand, was a military commander. Only the status of Supreme Commander added any weight and allowed me to match my interlocutor in authority.
"May I invite you for a walk, Grand Admiral?" the gray-haired man inquired.
"I will certainly accept your offer," I replied. Noticing that the aristocrat was heading toward one of the avenues while his soldiers remained on the landing pad, I tossed over my shoulder to Rukh:
"Wait," and then followed the Baron at a calm pace. Out of delicacy, he pretended to admire some plant in a flowerbed, giving me time to catch up.
The Baron spent several minutes observing a carpet of wildflowers planted in the bed. If you didn't know for sure, you might think the flowers were arranged haphazardly. But from above, it was clear that the plants formed the image of the aristocrat's family crest. Not too ostentatious, but... quite simple and tasteful.
"I heard the New Republic suffered heavy losses in the Dufilvian sector," he finally said, stopping his examination of the flowers and beginning to walk slowly along the flowerbed.
"Not that significant," I replied, not exaggerating my accomplishments. Again, a point for reflection: whose victory was this? Mine — because I'd planned the attacks, designed the logical trap for the mad C'baoth that forced him to use his Battle Meditation, and developed the plans for storming the bases on Ord Pardron and Krondor so that the New Republic still hadn't figured out the purpose of destroying those bases with "meteorites"? Or was it the victory of a mad clone who'd managed to subjugate an entire fleet and used the deep knowledge of hundreds of thousands of minds to achieve results?
"As I heard, the entire line formation of Star Cruisers survived," the Baron noted.
"Command withdrew them from the sectoral fleet," I explained.
"So you struck at the weak?" the Baron inquired provocatively.
"I struck at the enemy," I replied calmly, which sparked interest in the aristocrat's eyes.
"Do you consider the New Republic our enemy?" he asked. A very interestingly phrased question.
Because Imperials preferred to call the new rulers of Coruscant "rebels" and "insurgents." Always with contempt in their voices. But the Baron used a completely different turn of phrase. One I used from time to time myself. Because the Imperials needed to understand something long ago. The rebels were no longer "the kids from Coruscant."
"I believe our states have mutual grievances that can only be resolved through force," I explained. "The ossified mindset of our military won't even allow them to say 'New Republic' out loud to designate the enemy."
"Yes, that amusing wordplay," the Baron grinned. "And what do you think, Grand Admiral? Who are they? Rebels or New Republicans?"
"By calling them 'rebels,' we try to awaken a nostalgic longing for the times when the Empire held most of the galaxy in its duracrete fist, and the insurgents were just a handful of desperate beings," I noted. "Through their greed and shortsightedness after the Emperor's death, our commanders failed to notice that they had destroyed with their own hands what was meant to stand and prosper for thousands of years. That was the plan, at least."
"I think one could say that the execution of the Emperor's plan to create a galactic state has undergone... significant deviations from the plan," the Baron noted diplomatically.
This man was not operating simply. Devilishly not simply. It seemed as if he spoke everything lightly and casually — as if voicing his thoughts without any filtering. Meanwhile, I was certain that every phrase he uttered and the meaning behind it was the fruit of long deliberation and analysis of the galactic situation. He was playing a verbal game, evaluating my own responses. And you didn't need to be a prophet to understand that his reaction to my proposals would depend entirely on whether we saw eye to eye on key points.
And I saw no reason to be dishonest, to contort myself into pretzels just to get some crumbs from his table.
"The execution of any plan depends on the implementers," I noted. "The conception can be perfect, ideal, and humane — but if those entrusted with carrying it out don't understand its essence, the final result won't meet any criteria of sustainability. The Empire's collapse demonstrated that clearly."
"You think collapse awaits us?" the Baron clarified.
"I assume we'll continue fighting with varying degrees of success if we don't change our attitude toward the enemy," I stated. "They are no longer 'rebels' they are a power to be reckoned with. They control Coruscant, and possession of that world is considered by most inhabited planets as possession of the entire galaxy. Their fleet outnumbers ours, and their armed forces have excellent training. If before we fought a handful of fanatics and selfless idealists, now they've been replaced by battle-hardened pragmatists and strategists who are no worse — and in some places superior — to what we have at our disposal. Underestimating them is dangerous for the Empire's very existence. Once we understand that, we will find an acceptable way out of this situation."
"And what would that be, in your opinion?" the Baron inquired quietly, but with undisguised interest.
I didn't bother with a dramatic pause.
"Peace, Baron." His gray eyebrows shot up. "Only a peace treaty with the New Republic will save the Empire from complete annihilation."
* * *
The Coral Vanda was a well-advertised pleasure resort. Under other circumstances, Mara might have been impressed by the scale and decor of the rooms, but today she had a more important mission.
The spacious casino lounge was staggering in its scope. If there was a single gambling game in the galaxy, at least a dozen tables for it were represented here. Sabbacc, lagjack, treghald, holochess, roulette, slot machines… Even outdated pazzak had tables. And no shortage of players eager to sit at them.
An enormous bar split the spacious room into two symmetrical halves, filled with bottles of such a diverse variety of contents that Mara nearly whistled. The resort's owners had clearly gone all out to ensure clients and passengers could drink anything their souls desired while celebrating a win. Or — more often — to drown their sorrows in comfort and style.
The gaming hall's completely transparent wall allowed for views of the ocean's beauty: the cruise liner's low speed didn't disturb the schools of silvery, curious fish, who had surely grown accustomed to watching this enormous marvel of technical thought blazing with artificial lights.
The intricately curved coral reefs through which the ship's course ran harmonized beautifully with the blue-green, nearly transparent coastal ocean water. Yes, under other circumstances, she could have spent a lot of time here.
Especially considering the Coral Vanda had seven such lavish gaming halls. The red-haired beauty had now reached the last one, not betraying her irritation at her failure to locate her target.
"Would milady like a drink?" the bartender inquired as she approached the counter to get a look at the half-asleep drunks sitting there, who had spent a fortune in the first hours of their stay on the liner. But they were all wealthy beings, one way or another. They had more. Plenty more.
"Something non-alcoholic," she requested. Not that she was worried about spending too much — she had credits — but drinks and meals were included in the first-class cruise fare. The less wealthy second-class passengers could enjoy these luxuries for an extra fee.
However, the red-haired beauty absolutely hated consuming alcohol on a mission. No need to cloud her mind and pump her body full of substances if it could be avoided. In the past, she had often celebrated completing particularly difficult missions with a glass of expensive wine... Perhaps that would be the case again this time.
"Here you are," the bartender said, setting a glass of freshly squeezed juice in front of her, the straw adorned with a colorful little umbrella. "Can I help you with anything?"
Standard professional courtesy. Backed by the practical reality that wealthy sentients were mostly willing to spend a small amount of money for tips related to their interests. A simple trick that often worked.
"I'm just enjoying the view," Mara said, tearing herself away from her feigned contemplation of the coral reef — in reality, she was studying the players sitting facing her. Hoffner, whose appearance she had studied thoroughly from Imperial files before the mission, was not among them. Well, she'd finish her reconnaissance this way and then start wandering through the hall, pretending to look at tables, choosing which one to join.
But she definitely wouldn't play — her trained eye, despite lacking long professional practice, had identified that nearly every gaming company included a professional card sharp. They were probably working for the company's management, helping passengers get rid of their money faster. Simple and straightforward. No matter how you looked at it, the casino always came out ahead. That's what it was designed for.
"Magnificent view, don't you think?" the bartender said, picking up another glass and polishing it with a snow-white towel. "These corals are quite old..."
"Yes, I've heard about that," Mara replied casually, turning toward the bartender. After all, why not make her job easier? "From an acquaintance of mine. Perhaps you know him? Hoffner..."
"Yes, miss," the bartender said, breaking into a professional smile. "He's a regular."
"Is that so?" Mara expressed surprise with practiced skill. "Strange that I don't see him among the casino's clientele."
"He left," the bartender said simply. "Lost again and went off to his suite with some lady. You missed each other by about an hour. He was pretty drunk, of course, but at least this time they didn't have to drag him to his room."
A talkative and well-informed employee — the lifeblood of any enterprise. And even of the Empire — how many such blabbermouths had Mara personally silenced forever? But right now, she needed this boy — he could significantly ease her work.
She had spent nearly all the time available on her search — in about ten to twenty minutes, the Nemesis would arrive. By then, Hoffner should be ready to move to a less comfortable suite.
And this guy seemed to be busy building his personal life while simultaneously burning through insane amounts of money. She wondered where he got it. And in such volume, too — enough to be a regular customer... If her memory served her correctly, such treatment of guests came after several years of stable "partnership." And if that were the case, how did someone who lost "to zero," judging by the bartender's reaction...
She needed to find out exactly where Hoffner was. Hacking the cruise liner's computer network was not the best idea. It was probably well protected — given the large number and high-profile nature of the clientele... Hmm, she wondered how Thrawn had found out this man was here. And what did he need him for?
Well, she'd add those questions to her list. And she'd voice them when she met him in person. And she had no doubt about the latter.
"Is something wrong?" the bartender inquired. Mara mentally cursed, realizing she had been lost in thought and her emotions had shown on her face. Losing her touch, it seemed.
"Yes," throughout her career as the Emperor's personal agent, she had played out various pre-prepared scenarios more than once to get what she wanted. And she had plenty of ready-made schemes in reserve. She was about to demonstrate one of them. "Can you help me?"
"If it's within my power," the bartender smiled.
"I'd like to know which cabin Hoffner is in," she said. The bartender shook his head negatively.
"Sorry, but I can't share that information with you," he stated. "We don't distribute clients' personal data."
"Yes, but it would help me immensely," she smiled, adding a note of longing to her expression. "You see, Hoffner is my fiancé. He proposed, and my father is ready to give me away to him. The wedding is about to happen, but if Hoffner is cheating on me... You seem like a decent young man — I could tell at first glance! And you must understand that if I marry someone unfaithful, I'll be disgraced! And in our circles, such a stain can't be washed away — even if we divorce, I'll never be able to arrange my fate again..."
She extended her hand across the counter toward the bartender. He continued polishing the glass, not taking his eyes off her. Mulling over what she had said. Small psychological tricks — appealing to his ego. Would it work... or would she have to take both stormtroopers and start kicking down every cabin door?
"Suite eleven thirty-eight, first class," he leaned forward, covering her hand with the towel. Mara smiled and slid a thousand-credit chip toward him. It was unlikely this kid made that much in a week, so he'd be happy with the gift. "I'm always for honesty between partners."
"I'll remember that," Mara said with a playful smile, winking at him. The persona of an ambiguous, beautiful aristocrat had often saved her. Now she just needed to embellish the cover story properly. "If you see Hoffner with a lady's palm print on his face — stop by after your shift. Suite ten twenty."
"I get off in seven hours," the guy said, encouragingly touching her fingers. He seemed to have no doubt he'd have a good time that evening. After all, even the position of a toy in the hands of a wealthy aristocrat could offer a much more prosperous future compared to working here.
"I'll remember," the girl winked at the bartender and headed for the exit. The credit chip disappeared into the folds of the towel.
Stepping out of the gaming hall doors, the girl took a small compact from her clutch, pretending she was going to powder her nose. In reality, this simple-looking device was one of the few she had left from her glorious days working for the Emperor. And she had never parted with them in all the time since.
The disguised holocommunicator projected a tiny figure of one of the stormtroopers. The size of a little finger, it was conveniently hidden by the compact's lid.
"Any orders?" the Imperial confirmed.
"Suite eleven thirty-eight," she said. "The target is presumably there. Block, but don't assault. We'll begin simultaneously with the Nemesis's arrival."
"Yes, ma'am," the figure vanished.
Mara approached the turbolift doors. She had half a minute to return to her suite, a couple of minutes to change into a more practical combat jumpsuit made of fabric armor. And a few minutes to reach Hoffner's cabin and assess the situation.
Then the real fun would begin.
* * *
The Baron was silent for a while. Judging by the fact that his face was trying not to show any significant emotion, my answer had surprised him. Well, I had no intention of adapting to the worldview of every sector ruler just to get something substantial from them. I was willing to spend money to obtain the resources I needed. I was open to mutually beneficial cooperation — within acceptable limits, of course.
But not to curry favor with the wealthy.
I knew what they didn't know. And I wasn't sure it would be wise to talk about mythical conquerors from a distant galaxy — the smarter ones would demand proof. After all, modern science had already proven that leaving the galaxy was very, very difficult — the gravitational anomaly blocked hyperdrive function, and it would take an unjustifiably long time in subjective terms to overcome it. Not everyone would risk that. And even fewer who attempted it would succeed.
As for the less intelligent "comrades," they wouldn't believe me at all. Self-importance and rigid thinking — that's what hinders development. And I didn't want to fight that. I was certain that the galaxy had plenty of planets, systems, and sectors that, for one reason or another, would want to become part of a restructured Empire. The kind I envisioned. But building such a state was beyond my power right now. That didn't rule out carefully probing the ground and my surroundings for potential allies in my endeavor. I had time before Palpatine's return.
"What is your opinion based on, Grand Admiral?" the Baron inquired. "On the potential strength of the New Republic? On their numerical superiority?"
"On logic," I refuted his assumptions. "The Galactic Empire occupied a much larger space, had a massive military fleet and army. Yet we were defeated. Not even a decade had passed since the Emperor's death, and most sectors of the galaxy had united around those we call rebels. Moreover, among them are not only territories of non-humans, whom the New Order oppressed, but also human systems. Kuat, for example. The Emperor bet on them; they were the main contractor for our military-industrial complex. What made them abandon us, turning into a semi-independent state loyal to the New Republic?"
"Strength?" the Baron suggested. From his look, I understood that he himself knew the real answer. But he was testing me. An interesting man. With brains. He could be useful to me. But to that end, I first needed to understand what he himself wanted.
"Kuat possesses a fleet that neither Imperial Space nor the New Republic could break," I reminded him. "Not without enormous losses, of course. They're attracted by New Republic contracts, that's undeniable. The Kuatans are entrepreneurs, and profit is as important to them as their own prosperity. They couldn't have maintained their status for millennia, multiplying their wealth and developing technology, if they didn't calculate their moves ahead of time. It's no accident that they maintain a position of benevolent neutrality toward the New Republic — it brings them profit and stability. If the Empire tried to conquer them, they could repel the attack and demand protection from the New Republic. And they wouldn't be refused. Now let's look at the situation from another angle. What can the Empire offer them? Without going into detail — much less than our opponents. Hence their choice — the New Republic. Simple pragmatism. I have no doubt that over time they will integrate into the young state as full members. The New Republic's confederate structure allows them to conduct their own internal policies, and that suits them."
"My daughter is a member of the Imperial Ruling Council," the Baron said unexpectedly. "I'll tell you in confidence — they have information that Kuat has already begun the process of integrating into the New Republic. It's just not being publicized."
"Kuat is merely a clear example," I explained. "Other sectors are seeking similar advantages from their suzerain state. The galaxy has been at war for many years. Sectors change hands. The common population is simply tired of constantly shifting authority. So they make their choice for those who represent the future. And that is not the current Imperial Remnants."
"Grand Moff Ardus Kaine might disagree with you," observed Baron D'Asta, watching my reaction.
"That is his right," I replied neutrally. "In my view, the greatest mistake in implementing the Emperor's plan to build the Galactic Empire was that this authority was imposed by force for one-sided gain. He destroyed the Old Republic, but in reality, everything remained as it was. I'm not talking about resolving the issue of piracy or the slave trade, which the Empire fought extremely harshly. That was a plus, without a doubt. But at the same time, the Empire used slaves. Double standards make sentient beings wonder — won't they be next, when the Empire wants to build a new 'Death Star'? And that drives them to resist their own fears. Even if those fears are illusory."
"Let's say that's true," the Baron stated. "But what solution do you propose? Surrender territories to the New Republic? Capitulate?"
"Absolutely not," I declared. "Change internal policy to something more benevolent. Tell me, Baron, how many representatives of non-human races live in the D'Astan sector?"
"Hundreds, if not thousands," the aristocrat replied with interest.
"Are they your slaves?" I inquired.
"No," understanding flickered in his eyes. "Workers in the enterprises."
"Let's look at this from a pragmatic point of view," I proposed. This man was interesting. He had deftly seized the initiative in the negotiations, "probing" me before moving on to discuss my own proposals that had brought me to Nez Peron. "Any state rests first and foremost on its population. By demeaning certain races, we create grounds for social explosion, breed discontent. It was from such discontented beings that the Alliance to Restore the Republic was formed. By defeating the Empire, they didn't make things better — they returned everything to its origins. The same embezzlement, bureaucracy, inefficiency of the state apparatus. But sentient beings are willing to tolerate it — at least for now, because they know what the alternative could be — a slave's position under the New Order. And yet, there are examples of the Empire treating non-humans loyally because they were useful. My bodyguard is a representative of such a race."
"Quite an interesting one, by the way," the Baron said. "I've never seen one before."
Ignoring the aristocrat's hint that he wouldn't mind learning more about the Noghri, I continued:
"The New Republic has shown us an example of how non-human races can be just as useful in state affairs as humans. Their supreme commander, Admiral Ackbar — a Mon Calamari who served under Grand Moff Tarkin as a powerless slave. But he absorbed all of Tarkin's best qualities, which speaks to his outstanding talents. He grew and has demonstrated time and again that his ability to win is not a set of tactical maneuvers he could have learned from Tarkin. It's a mindset. Representatives of his race build a fleet for the New Republic that successfully stands against our Star Destroyers. Which, in turn, were created by outstanding shipbuilders. The Verpine, for example, are excellent engineers who can detect metal flaws without any instruments. The Colicoids created war machines that even we didn't hesitate to use — because they were effective. The Neimoidians effectively created their own state, if we apply an exaggerated interpretation to the Trade Federation, absorbed by the Empire after the Clone Wars ended. The Givins are excellent mathematicians who can, at the very least, chart hyperspace routes — which they did during the Clone Wars for the Trade Federation and other Separatists. The cyborg General Grievous, who commanded a droid army before his prosthetics, was a successful commander on his homeworld. And he managed to cause no small amount of trouble for the Old Republic during the Clone Wars. There are thousands of such examples. Doesn't this suggest that these sentient beings deserve at least some attention? Now let's imagine what would have happened to the Rebel Alliance if the Empire hadn't pursued a policy of oppression toward non-human races?"
"You tell me," the Baron offered. "Would the Alliance not have formed?"
"On the contrary," I observed. "The creation of the Alliance was driven by humans. Those dissatisfied with the usurpation of power. No ideology was at the core of the Alliance's formation. Simple pragmatism. The Alliance was formed against usurpation and the trampling of freedoms. It's impossible to eradicate the discontented — only to limit their numbers. But the Empire could have avoided such a scale of Rebellion if not for the New Order's policies. Why would someone with a job, civil rights, and freedoms rebel, someone protected by law who knows how severely the authorities would treat them if they joined the rebels? Yes, there would be those willing — but it would be a poorly organized crowd, easy to handle. Because those capable of calculating their actions in advance, for the most part, wouldn't get involved in such adventures. This reasoning is certainly abstract, as the issue is complex rather than categorical. But I am confident that if the Empire hadn't used the same Mon Calamari as slaves, their star liners wouldn't have been converted into star cruisers. Certainly not in such fleet numbers."
"Interesting conclusions, Grand Admiral," Baron D'Asta said after a pause. "You're not human yourself, are you? What you're talking about — is it your personal experience of persecution during service, or something else?"
"Logic and nothing more," I declared. "Hardship forges character and allows one to objectively allocate resources to counter it. So if you're implying that my point of view, contradicting official Imperial doctrine, is an attempt to get revenge on the Empire for some imagined persecution, you're wrong. The Empire made me what I am. I am grateful to it for that. And it strikes me as strange that after everything that has happened, the people positioned by the New Order as the superior race failed to learn lessons from past mistakes and draw conclusions about the destructiveness of several of their current concepts."
"Not all of them," the Baron noted laconically, looking me in the eye. "So, you are confident that abolishing the Empire's human-centric policy could yield positive results?"
"I am confident that we should learn from our mistakes so as not to repeat them over and over," a diplomatic and vague answer, in which everyone would find something for themselves. "That is precisely why I believe we should not continue the war against the New Republic under current conditions. For the Empire to survive, we must change it."
"But you are continuing your military campaign against Coruscant," the Baron observed. "That contradicts your position on peaceful negotiations."
"Which peace is more stable?" I asked. "When the weak negotiates with the strong, and the latter knows that the peace is far more necessary to the former than to itself? When the strong knows it can keep pushing and eventually get everything? Or is a negotiation between two equal powers, equal in political weight, more acceptable, where each understands that continuing the war will only lead to unnecessary casualties and discontent among the population?"
"The galaxy's population is largely apathetic toward the authority that rules them," the Baron observed. "Sentient beings are willing to work for anyone."
"And we return again to the lesson of the Rebel Alliance's emergence," I observed. "The majority of the population is indifferent to those who rule them, content with fulfilling their minor needs. A minority wants power and knows how to exploit the situation. And among them, there are always those who will oppose any legitimate authority for the sake of their personal ambitions. And if they find support in the hearts of sentients weary of ruin, a new civil war will begin. The idea that one should overthrow the old authority that brought them to this state, install a new one, and everything will immediately become fine — is absurd by its very nature. But it works — yesterday's rebels rule the galaxy. Peoples groan under the conditions of their pitiful existence, but they are willing to wait, hoping for a bright future. And when their hope is exhausted — a new rebellion will erupt. And yesterday's liberators will become today's oppressors. The circle is closed. The wheel of events has made a full revolution and returned to the starting point."
The Baron looked at me with a long, wary gaze. He was silent. He was thinking.
He sighed heavily.
"My daughter has informed me that the Imperial Ruling Council is considering your candidacy for the position of new Emperor," he said. I showed no reaction. Firstly, I already knew that; secondly, it wouldn't happen. "Even without knowing your thoughts, they are ready to place at the head of a human-centric state... someone not entirely human. If they find out what you told me today, if they understand that you don't intend to fight to the bitter end to return the Empire to its starting point... Ardus Kaine will become the new Emperor. And the chance to end the war and achieve a normal life will be lost."
"There are always those who cannot live without thoughts of war," I remarked philosophically. "Even my arrival here is dictated by military necessity."
"That was clear without words," the Baron frowned, looking away. "I am no longer young, Grand Admiral. My time will come to an end someday. And I would like to see a peaceful sky overhead, not the hulls of orbital stations and a fleet on orbit, waiting for the New Republic's patience to run out and for them to come. I want to see my daughter happy, and I don't want her to live her entire life in war, as I have. You came seeking support, Grand Admiral. I am ready to give it to you — within reasonable limits. But in return, you must promise that you will achieve peace with the New Republic."
"That is not within my power," I noted. "Among us and among them, there have always been, are, and will be those who want revenge in this war. Without mutual desire, there will be no treaty. All I can do is make efforts to make it happen."
"That is why you intend to rough them up a bit, to force them into peace," the Baron recalled my own words. I simply nodded almost imperceptibly in affirmation. "That could stretch on for many months."
"More accurately — years," I clarified. "Imperial Space has limited my resources, and a quick result is not to be expected. You must understand that at any moment, the militaristic faction of the Imperial Remnants could realize what lies behind my actions. And then the consequences for me and my allies would be, at best, unpredictable."
"Don't worry about me, Grand Admiral," the Baron smirked. "My sector won't be cracked so easily by any enemy. Not even the New Republic."
"And all the more so — the Empire," I finished the thought for him. This man clearly knew his own worth. And he understood what risk he was taking. He couldn't not understand that in moments of extreme need, the Empire and the New Republic could unite to destroy him. They'd already pulled that trick with Zsinj and his state. A second time would be even easier — both sides had the experience.
"It's lunchtime, Grand Admiral," the man said unexpectedly, looking toward his residence. "I would be glad if you joined me. And after the meal, we'll talk business. I'm sure we can help each other."
Very interesting phrasing. But no one had expected that allies wouldn't demand reciprocal services for their help. The best alliance is one bound by blood.
On the way back, we were silent. Each was lost in his own thoughts. The baron's thoughts were unknown to me. And I myself, for some reason, remembered the children's tale "The Wizard of the Emerald City." I had the impression that today I had taken the first step toward a beautiful city where all my problems would be solved.
Just so a witch didn't eat me along the way.
* * *
But on the ground, things weren't as good as one would hope.
Apparently this first-class passenger zone was reserved for the enterprise's particularly valuable clients. Whose safety was the concern of the ship's security personnel.
Otherwise she couldn't explain why as many as two colorful — muscular and stern-faced — security personnel were loitering in the corridor, and with weapons in hand.
But what strained her most was the presence of two supposedly bored men in expensive suits, engaged in casual conversation in the corridor. They stood leaning against the corridor wall and seemed relaxed. But Mara easily identified concealed carry weapons on both, strapped to the inside of their jackets. And very obvious bodyguard mannerisms.
The question is — whose people are they? Hoffner's guards? Possibly. If he regularly lost huge sums at the casino, it's plausible that the ship's management allowed him to have security on exceptional terms. But they were standing too far from room eleven-thirty-eight. So something was clearly off. If they were permanent guards, the security service shouldn't be staring at them with such a tenacious gaze.
Or maybe they were guarding someone else? For example, that girl with whom Hoffner had secluded himself. Or they weren't connected to the current situation at all and their target was in one of the rooms near their position. Bodyguards would do that… But officially hired bodyguards wouldn't use concealed weapons. If they had an arrangement with the establishment's management, it would be enough for them to carry weapons in simple shoulder holsters…
And this pair was clearly trying to pretend they were ordinary, peaceful guests. If Mara hadn't seen plenty of this in the past, she wouldn't have paid them any significant attention.
At the back of her memory, an unsettling thought stirred.
These guys weren't bodyguards.
They were agents. Even if professionally trained, there was a carelessness in their actions. The kind that seasoned spies allowed themselves — young and experienced operatives wouldn't stand in such a way that the jacket could be seen from a certain angle.
Professional carelessness, or…
She wanted to slap her own face.
She remembered where she had seen such disregard for secrecy before.
CorSec agents — the special service and law enforcement body of Corellia. Like any Corellians, CorSec officers loved fast ships, risk, spat on caution, and had phenomenal luck. Which, it was said, stemmed from their tendency to treat all their life problems with a large dose of stoic carelessness.
So, Hoffner was needed by someone else. Probably CorSec. Why?
Rhetorical question. We take him, we'll find out.
"We have a problem," she whispered to both operatives after walking down the corridor, pretending to be lost. The good-natured security personnel explained to her that the cabin number she had made up on the spot was on another deck. Which was exactly what the girl had counted on — no one paid much attention to her stylized combat suit. After all, there wasn't a vibroknife, thermal detonator, or blaster sticking out of every pocket. Well, if a rich girl wanted to stroll around in a tight-fitting jumpsuit — so be it. The security staff had probably seen stranger things in their time. "Hoffner is needed by someone else."
They spoke in a small vestibule in front of the elevator. There were no cameras here, and those aimed in their direction didn't capture anything important. The other thing was when the elevator doors opened — then they'd fall into the view of the camera inside the cabin.
"Orders?" inquired one of the shock troopers.
"Move around," she ordered, looking at one of the subordinates. "Cut off their escape route on one side. You," a glance at the second fighter, "come in from this side. I'll run back down the corridor, as if I'm fleeing from you. Make your face meaner." The shock trooper bared his teeth. "Not that much. Fine, no time for theatrics. General task: first, take out the two in suits — they're more dangerous than the security. Once we get their weapons and neutralize them, move to Hoffner's cabin. We can't let him get to the escape pods! Start now, before the Nemesis appears — otherwise panic will break out…"
She didn't have time to finish. A low hum and rumble, like the distant roar… of engines.
"They're here already," Mara sighed. "Everyone, to your positions."
Hurriedly, but without unnecessary fuss, the first shock trooper, who was supposed to cut off the escape route, moved toward his target. Mara, disheveling her hair, rushed back down the corridor, doing her best to impersonate a victim of a failed attack. Figuring the first shock trooper needed some time, she paused at the corner, waited a dozen seconds. Screamed shrilly several times.
Turning into the target corridor, she rushed toward the pair in expensive suits.
"Help! Please! I beg you! Help!"
The men were taken aback for a moment, then Mara threw herself into their arms. A simple psychological calculation.
"Lady, what's happening?" one of them asked grimly. But at that moment, a shock trooper came around the corner with a face twisted in rage. That is, in his normal state. "Hey, you, what do you want from the lady?"
"Gentlemen!" the security personnel approached them, intending to sort out the situation before the clients started asking questions. "Step away from the girl! All of you!"
Mara noted that the second shock trooper had already appeared behind the backs of the security pair. Who would have thought that guy could move so silently?
And at that moment, the cruise liner seemed to shudder slightly throughout its hull.
Receiving confirmation from Mara with a slight nod of her head, the first shock trooper lunged at the pair in suits. And the second attacked the backs of the security personnel.
"Lady, step aside!" demanded the man in the suit to whom the girl had pressed herself "seeking protection." He even tried to move her aside, putting an arm around her shoulders.
"A Corellian for sure," she realized, applying a pain hold on his mischievous limb. The man groaned in pain, bent, following the trajectory of his arm, immediately receiving a knee to the face and slumping against the wall.
The second, hearing noise behind him, turned, trying to draw a blaster on the move. And at that same second, the second shock trooper's fist struck him in the back of the head. Judging by how the man went limp, the blow wasn't lacking in force.
The ship shuddered again.
Another crash, this time not so distant. It seemed the Nemesis had found the range.
Mara turned, barely staying on her feet. The first shock trooper had already snapped one guard's neck and was struggling with the second. Mara hit the security man in the leg with a precise shot.
"Run!" she ordered, seeing that both companions now had weapons in hand. Moreover, the one who had been fighting both security personnel had two blasters.
Burning the door lock was a matter of seconds.
The first shock trooper kicked the door open and burst into Hoffner's cabin. Shots rang out. Mara somersaulted in after him, letting a burst of crimson rays pass over her.
With an unimaginable acrobatic pirouette, she dodged the enemy shooter's line of fire, noticing it was a middle-aged woman. Hiding behind a bulkhead, she waited for the right moment, abruptly changed her altitude by crouching, and peered out from cover just as the first shock trooper began suppressing fire from the other end of the cabin. The woman took cover. She froze for a moment, realizing the disadvantage of her position…
Mara didn't let her change her mind.
A crimson energy beam pierced the stranger's throat, and she collapsed to the floor.
Well aware that the second shock trooper was guarding the cabin entrance, the red-haired beauty stepped out from behind her cover.
"Who the hell are you?!" came a voice from somewhere below the first shock trooper.
Mara glanced at the trooper sitting on something.
"Captain Hoffner?" she grinned.
Captain Hoffner.
"Yes," said the man. Dark skin, short haircut, expensive clothes, finely trimmed facial hair. A man of low birth trying to pass himself off as wealthy. How boring. "Who are you people, and what do you want from me?!"
He was lying face down, and the shock trooper's knee was pressing down on the back of his leg. Very painful, considering the hand-to-hand combat skills taught to fighters on Carida. Mara herself had undergone similar training in her time, so she understood how difficult and painful it was for this man to move now.
"All that a little later," the girl grinned.
At that moment, the Coral Vanda shuddered again. This time the crash was accompanied by the groan of tearing and vaporizing metal — the Nemesis had breached the hull. Now the ship's crew had a small choice — either surface and give themselves up to the Empire, or play heroes. But, as she understood it, there weren't many heroes here. Hired workers from non-combat specialties wouldn't risk their hides — they weren't paid enough for that. The security service, though…
"We're getting out of here to the escape pods," she said. The shock trooper silently pulled handcuffs from his pants and cuffed the prisoner to himself. Comparing Hoffner's build and the Stormtrooper Corps fighter's, the comparison was clearly not in the former's favor.
"Come with us and you'll live," Mara hissed into the dark-skinned man's ear. "Disobey my orders and I'll kill you on the spot. I wasn't paid to deliver you alive. But I'm sure you can outbid that price."
"Yes, yes, of course!" the man declared. "There, in the closet! A case! It has three hundred thousand credits! I don't have any more!"
"I'm sure you have something to buy your life with." The shock trooper didn't react to her words. After all, he was from naval special forces, a master of boarding combat, not an intelligence operative. It didn't occur to him that she was now crushing Hoffner's will to extract as much information as possible from him.
Before leaving, the girl looked in the indicated direction and retrieved a metal case, stuffed to the brim with cash. Thin precious plates of various denominations… And judging by the empty space, there had been much more.
Grabbing a pleasant bonus for her work, Mara and her escorts left the cabin. Taking advantage of the panic among the passengers, diligently trying to stay on their feet after another shot from the Star Destroyer, the girl and three men moved toward the escape pods.
* * *
The Nemesis's turbolasers spat another stream of green plasma. Most of it went into vaporizing the ocean above the hull of the submarine liner, but some reached the plating.
Watching the shot trajectories on the holographic display, Captain Von Schneider smirked:
"Inform the gunners — have them use the second turret."
"Aye, sir!"
A second later, eight more turbolaser beams rained down on the elongated cylindrical body of the Coral Vanda. A couple of seconds later — another eight…
"Second hull breach!" reported from the pits.
The captain quickly glanced at the monitor. A huge amount of water was now pouring into the cruise liner. And very soon the casino would either surface or sink.
Although, given how many wealthy people were on board — and on fifteen first-class decks and thirty second-class decks there were over five hundred cabins — they would prefer to try to slip away rather than surrender to the Empire. The crew of this tub had certainly managed to identify the ship. And they were unlikely to think that a Republican ship would deliberately put them on the brink of destruction.
"Boarding troops in position?" he clarified.
"Six units in transport ships are already above the ocean surface, waiting for surfacing," came the reply. And a moment later, another:
"Sir! Registered one escape pod on the surface. It's transmitting our identification codes! Decrypting the code transmission… 'Bird in a Cage.'"
"Send a ship after them," ordered Von Schneider. So the mission was complete. "Continue the bombardment until they surface."
"And if we sink them?" the senior gunner asked doubtfully.
"Then we'll recall the shock troopers back to the ship," Schneider gave a logical answer. "Either way, it will look as prescribed by the Grand Admiral…"
"They're surfacing," came a voice from another pit. "Ballast blow is in progress."
"Well, pass the order to the shock troopers — act as fast and hard as possible," ordered Schneider, glancing at the chronometer. They'd spent a good ten minutes on this tub. Considering that rebel patrols would arrive here in three hours — we don't have much time. "But the mission must be completed regardless."
Ten minutes after the Nemesis's departure, two Mon Calamari star cruisers arrived with an escort. But all they could do was watch as the fire-ravaged hulls of the cruise liner Coral Vanda and its escape pods rested on the ocean floor. The Empire had carried out another painful raid deep into New Republic territory, killing a considerable number of its wealthy citizens, including several high-ranking military officers who had been spending their leave here. However, no matter how much the New Republic intelligence later strained to find out through which channels this information had leaked, they achieved no results. The raised Coral Vanda could not clarify this issue — the Imperial butchers had destroyed all data banks before sinking the liner.
Nor did the rebels learn that before destroying all witnesses to their attack, the Imperials had enriched themselves by over two hundred million credits.