Nine years, five months, and thirteen days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, five months, and thirteen days after the Great Resynchronization.
"One hundred seventy-four thousand design defects."
That was the nickname circulating among those who had the honor of serving on Imperial-class Star Destroyers. Or rather, the misfortune of being part of that enormous ship's crew.
In any case, Booster Terrik was firmly convinced that the Errant Venture had far more defects than a standard Star Destroyer in the service of the Empire or the New Republic.
And it wasn't even that most of the Errant Venture's standard armament was missing as a given. Such were the terms of the deal with the New Republic.
And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that, instead of the regulation thirty-seven-plus thousand crew members, the ship had only a little over five thousand on board.
Blast the reactor, it wasn't even that the Imperial II-class Star Destroyer owned by Booster Terrik was painted red (though there was still plenty of unpainted space on the armor for advertising particularly wealthy clients).
It was simply that anyone who had ever been on board Terrik's ship and its military counterpart could feel the difference. If they were Imperials, they'd definitely have heart and brain problems. And the New Republic soldiers probably wouldn't appreciate the Errant Venture without developing a nervous tic either.
Because there wasn't a single Star Destroyer in the galaxy that had undergone such radical internal reworking. Or external, for that matter.
Booster had turned his ship into a true mobile lair, where every client who had been shown high trust could find everything they needed.
The Errant Venture was a shadow port in the truest sense. Whole decks had been repurposed, redesigned so that instead of endless barracks and technical bays, spacious shops appeared, where resourceful legal, semi-legal, and outright illegal entrepreneurs could sell their wares to a small but well-heeled clientele. And many of them dealt in exclusive products. To obtain them, smugglers and other not-so-honest sentients in the galaxy were willing to line up — just to be told the coordinates of the red Star Destroyer's next stop.
Booster Terrik's Imperial II-class Star Destroyer, the Errant Venture (yes, I'm serious — it's painted red)
But today, Booster wasn't in the mood for philosophy. Today, he was waging an unequal battle against his most hated enemy. An adversary that had appeared in his life the moment the Errant Venture came into his hands. The only one before whom Booster Terrik, scourge of the galaxy, a man with authority even among the most hardened scoundrels and swindlers, faltered.
Mighty physique and a ferocious look that instilled fear in everyone — from thugs to his own son-in-law, a command hand that would make even a Tatooine krayt dragon retreat to its lair — none of this helped Booster Terrik in his war.
And the old smuggler knew it. Knew and clearly realized that he was losing the most important battle in the entire history of his commercial activities.
Booster Terrik was fighting paperwork.
Invoices, cash orders, checks, estimates, technical documentation, blueprints, plans, diagrams, charts...
And anyone who entered Booster's personal quarters, seeing the stacks of paper, each as tall as a man, laid out on every horizontal surface, sometimes obscuring the ship's owner himself, understood that Booster Terrik was losing his war. And losing badly.
But no one dared to say it to his face — because no one wanted to poke an enraged rancor. Everyone on the ship — crew members, merchants, bounty hunters, smugglers — risked their lives pointing out this unfortunate flaw in the otherwise magnificent array of qualities of the famous smuggler. For in anger, Booster Terrik was terrifying. Truly terrifying.
Booster Terrik.
And at that moment, hearing the sharp sound emanating from the holoprojector in the former captain's quarters, the owner of the Errant Venture let out his own battle roar.
There were several reasons for it.
The first, and most significant — the holoprojector was an extremely convenient stand for three stacks of various documents. Moreover, it was practically the only place in the room where they could be set down without getting mixed up with other, still unsorted papers.
The second reason — the frequency of this projector was known only to the most select circle of smugglers and con artists of all stripes in the galaxy. Maybe three hundred sentients, maybe five hundred...
"Okay, okay, enough haggling with my conscience," Booster sighed, getting up from behind his desk and walking towards the beeping panel. The holoprojector bothered him extremely rarely, which is why it was used as another shelf.
Because the third reason for his mixed mood — communication via holographic communicator had always brought him nothing but profit. A very, very large profit! But rarely. And in Booster's life, it was the most profitable shelf for papers.
He lifted the first stack of papers carefully, without dropping a single sheet, and gently placed this snow-white flimsiplast tower on the floor next to the communication device. The second followed the first, but this time, due to Terrik's haste, part of the tower collapsed, and the documents scattered in all directions like a nimble flock of birds. The old smuggler gritted his teeth and reached for the third tower of papers, still looking with pain in his heart at how the processed documents were mixing with stacks and piles of unprocessed ones. Well, not all was lost — just go pick them up, that was all. But if they'd fallen the other way...
And only at that moment did Booster realize that reaching for a tower of papers while looking in the other direction was a bad idea. He realized this thanks to a packet of documents from the last tower that had collapsed onto the holocomm. The hefty packet slapped him on the head and scattered all over the office. And as for the tower itself...
"Someone is going to pay dearly for this," Booster decided, watching as the third tower of papers, toppling from the holoprojector, sent two more man-high stacks of unsorted papers into chaos. And those, in turn, sent another four. And those four, all eight... "Pay very, very dearly!"
When the collapse of the flimsiplast columns was over, Booster's entire office was littered with documents, covering every inch of the compartment in a thick layer. And only the holoprojector, by some strange twist of fate, was completely clear. And still beeping with an incoming call.
Booster activated the device, hoping that at least this event would bring him some joy...
And the moment he saw his interlocutor's face, he realized how wrong he was.
"Sly," Booster growled, adding three layers of unpleasant and outright derogatory epithets that would make any civilized person's face flush and their ears curl up.
One of the best, and certainly the most vile — thief in the galaxy stared at him from the holographic projection, puffing on his ever-present cigar. Arrogant, pleased with life, self-absorbed.
"And it's good to see you too, Booster," Niles Ferrier said, blowing a smoke ring. "Been a while..."
"Where did you get that frequency?" Terrik barked at the obnoxious personality. He had no desire to talk to the thief. After what that bastard had pulled with his little Mirax... Quartering 'Sly' would be merciful, but the thief knew how to hide in the various dark corners of the galaxy. Even the Claw wouldn't give Booster information on Ferrier's whereabouts. For a reasonable price, of course. And Terrik could always find something to do with three million credits anytime.
"I have a business proposal for you, Booster," Sly continued, smoking with the same mockery.
"Go to the Sith," the smuggler didn't give in to the thirst for profit.
"It's a worthwhile deal, Terrik,"oh, how he wanted to use his fists right now and wipe that smug grin off Ferrier's face—"For seven million credits..."
The thirst for profit stirred in Booster's soul, feverishly whispering that with that kind of money, he could fix an entire deck and open extra shops... But the desire to kill the thief was far more important.
"Listen, you punk,"from the height of his position and years lived, Terrik could call almost any smuggler, thief, or bounty hunter that and not get a backlash. But in the context of Sly, he used almost every word with an insulting undertone. Well, except for conjunctions and prepositions, which remained neutral—"I'll twist your leaky head off the moment you come within my line of sight."
"Still sulking about Mirax?" Ferrier asked with feigned sadness. "That was a long time ago and..."
"Long time ago?!" Terrik exploded. "You rancor belch, you tried to drag my daughter into the slave trade! And you robbed her on top of it! No matter what fairy tales you tell among your thief friends, every single smuggler in the galaxy knows they'll get a fat bonus from me if they give a hint where to find you. So run and hide, sucker, before my people track your crappy transmitter and I fly over to twist your head off, after counting every rib first."
"Booster, what's done is done," Ferrier said with an annoying smile. "I'm offering a deal..."
"Shove it..."
."..worth seven million..."
."..then shove it deeper with a rancor's foot and twist it counterclockwise..."
."..and it's ready cash..."
."..then take a swig of reactor coolant and..."
"I need buzz droids," Ferrier interrupted in a thin falsetto, unable to take the avalanche of curses about to fall on his head.
Booster thought for literally a couple of seconds.
"You never had that much money, and you still don't, Sly," he declared.
"But I have a paying client," the irritating thief stated, not without self-admiration for his supposed importance. "With a lot of money. I know you have buzz droids—you traded them to Zann a few years ago. And my client needs those droids—for seven million."
A little less than five, to be precise.
Another two seconds to process.
"No, Sly,"Booster openly relished how the thief winced again, hearing his unpleasant nickname given to him in illegal circles by the owner of the Errant Venture himself—"If your client was as good as you say, he would have contacted me directly. Or the Zann Consortium..."
"Oh, who needs those brain-frozen thugs," the thief grimaced. "They already lost almost all their capabilities and territories when the fracas between the Imperials and..."
."..and if he came to you," the owner of the Errant Venture continued voicing his conclusions, "then he's just as brain-frozen. And I'm not going down that road. Your deal stinks of a setup from a hundred parsecs away. But..." Booster pretended to think. "You know, there is one condition under which I might agree to a deal with you."
"Never doubted you'd get your share," Ferrier's eyes lit up with greed even on the hologram. Booster just snorted contemptuously. "Yeah, I understand, it's a huge batch, you'll have to fill the whole hold with them, but I'm sure your Errant Venture can deliver the cargo to the recipient and..."
Terrik wouldn't have lasted so long in his business if he hadn't learned to extract critically important information from his interlocutors' speech and behavior. Buzz droids in huge quantities, an offer to deliver them to the destination on a Star Destroyer with a skeleton crew and reduced armament, rumors that the Imperials were looking for warships... and in the middle of it all, Sly. With a tempting offer.
Booster wasn't strong in sciences, but he was quick-witted, especially when what was happening directly concerned him personally, his family, his business, and his close circle of trusted beings. For any of these components, Terrik Sr. would, without a shred of conscience, walk over heads right into the mouth of Palpatine himself. Well, except maybe his CorSec son-in-law... Booster mentally
"I'm ready," Booster agreed, breaking into a magnificent smile. Ferrier puffed on his cigar contentedly, not expecting a trick. If he knew Booster even a little, like the others who did business with him, he wouldn't be happy about that smile.
"You won't regret trusting me," Ferrier assured him. "The client is solid, generous—if you have more buzz droids beyond this price, bring them, he'll buy everything."
"Of course I'll bring them," Booster became serious. "I'll even give them away for free."
"Uh..."Sly was, of course, a rancor belch, but he could smell danger—"What are you talking about?"
"Simple," Terrik bared his teeth. "I'm ready to give your client buzz droids worth twenty million credits—figure out how many that is yourself."
"Four hundred units,"Ferrier could count money and goods—"I know you, Booster. You don't do anything for free. What's the catch?"
"No catch," Terrik assured him. "I just need something from your client. And then we'll make the deal."
"How can you need anything from him if you don't even know who it is?" Ferrier was nervous. So much so that he bit through his cigar.
"I have a guess," Terrik grinned. "So, I'll give the Empire four hundred fully combat-ready Separatist buzz droids. And I'll even throw in a Lambda-class shuttle on top. If they send me something in return."
"What are your terms, Booster?" Sly didn't deny it. He knew perfectly well that such a trick wouldn't work with the owner of the Errant Venture.
"Your head," Terrik stated calmly. "Body optional."
Ferrier gave him a heavy look.
"Not a funny joke, Booster," he said. But deep down, he suspected no one was joking here.
"No one's joking, Sly," Terrik grinned. "Tell your employer my offer. And you'll end up in my hands very quickly. The Imperials will get what they want. Everyone's happy. The Empire will do something good for this galaxy—get rid of you. Sounds like a very profitable deal to me. Everyone wins."
"Except me," Ferrier hissed through clenched teeth.
"And nobody gives a damn about you, you scumbag," Booster said and shut off the holoprojector.
He surveyed the cabin cluttered with papers. Cursed under his breath. And began gathering the hated documents back into piles. Piles turned into stacks. And by the end of the day, towers of documents had reappeared in Booster Terrik's cabin.
And one more item on the list of his hatred for Sly was added.
* * *
"That strike frigate would be very useful to me, Grand Admiral," Moff Ferrus looked at me almost pleadingly. "To be honest, I'd like it to become the flagship of the fleet based on Tangrene."
"There are other plans for that ship," I replied calmly.
"The shipyard has been ordered to disarm it and dismantle several nodes," the Moff began from a distance.
"That's the plan," I answered calmly. "As already discussed—you'll have three medium cruisers, not counting vessels of lower classes. Besides, the platform has also arrived. Your defensive capabilities have increased by orders of magnitude."
We were meeting again with Moff Ferrus at his residence on the planet. Our company once again included the chief engineer—Neil Reyes. As it turns out, a sort of triumvirate had formed: the Moff provides political and logistical support for the fleet, I provide military support, and the shipyards and production complexes on the planet provide technical support. And yet, in the established hierarchy, there is a clear leader—me. The other two—both the Moff and the chief engineer—act as deputies 'by department.' This approach will allow me to offload Pellaeon from most issues, leaving him only with oversight of military assignments. Ferrus and Reyes will handle the rest. It would be more correct to receive their reports separately, but therein lies the rub.
First, my self-education is only at its beginning. When I thought I could simply study the entire Imperial officer training program in a couple of months, I had no idea what I was talking about. It's a massive amount of information. Very thoroughly developed, analyzed, filled with observational statistics, resource cost assessments, and material parts... It's practically a visual guide on how to win, logical and consistent. But there were two weak points in this information.
First—that information is available to our enemy. And he is already well prepared to counter such tactical schemes.
Second—there are almost none left who have such data in their heads. The younger generation, like Lieutenant Tschel, are trained on an accelerated course. They are only taught the Imperial concept of warfare. Everything that was developed over millennia by the Republic and other states has been cut off as unnecessary. So, unfortunately, it turns out that the New Republic's victories aren't just due to their soldiers' heroism and skill. But also to certain problems with training the fleet's officer corps in the Empire itself.
As strange as it might be, and no matter how hard Moff Ferrus tried to hide his surprise, he carried out the order I gave twenty-four hours ago: on Tangrene, 'advanced training courses' were opened. Where the gaps in knowledge are being filled. I'm starting to get very concerned that the incoming 'volunteers' are very young and, at best, have only served a couple of years on some ship. Although, in modern Imperial realities, even that length of service is almost considered 'veteran status.'
At least the mechanics and engineers at the shipyards, according to their director, are being trained in full according to Imperial methods.
The latter had just arrived to report the first piece of information in a series crucial to me here and now. And the first piece already pleases me—the Golan-II defense platform we captured from Krandr has finally arrived. It took over a month for such a transfer, but it must be said, according to preliminary estimates, it was worth it.
After exchanging greetings with the engineer, I asked him a question:
"How bad is it?"
"The platform has sustained significant damage," Reyes declared. "The hyperdrive has outlived its usefulness and using it now is simply dangerous. But the principle of operation itself—yes, it is viable. Perhaps, if we had a hyperdrive for larger spacecraft, we could make the platform move. But there's a lot of work ahead—not only on that part, but also to restore the hull's integrity. A large reserve of metals will be required to restore the structural framework and internal structure. Up to half of the weapons are either destroyed or irreparably damaged. But some of them we can restore from our own stocks, and some we'll install with the rebel strike frigate's guns."The Moff cast a thoughtful glance at me, now understanding the purpose of disarming a ship that didn't particularly fit into the military concept—"By the end of the month, we'll have completed the repair work and restored the station to factory specifications. Actually,"the chief engineer looked at me with his artificial eye—"by that time, we'll also finish equipping the Golan with a cloaking field. If we have a suitable hyperdrive by then, say, for a Questor or Imperial-class Star Destroyer, we'll complete the full modernization within the same timeframe."
"And the shipyards?" I clarified. "How soon can you camouflage them?"
"It will take longer," he said. "More resources and more manpower. Approximately—two months."
"Moff," I addressed the governor of the Morshdine sector. "Have you found out when the Empire's cargo transport competition will take place?"
"Yes, sir,"in fact, discussing this and a number of other points was why we met yesterday after Pellaeon's report—"In about two and a half months. But applications need to be submitted in a month and a half."
There's the time crunch. Eighty to ninety days. In that time, we need to develop a plan to attack the Kharrm shipyards. Not much, but acceptable. By then, we should have the resources to hide both the station and the shipyard under a cloaking field. Because if a counterstrike comes—they will inevitably suffer. If the station isn't much to grieve over—it was designed to take a hit—then the orbital repair shipyard... That's something more valuable.
"I understand you, Moff," I said. "Reyes, have you reviewed the data I sent you?"
"Nothing supernatural or impossible," he admitted in his raspy voice. "However, I don't understand why we need design data for converting Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers with flight decks if we don't have a single one in the fleet?"
"At the moment—they are absent," I didn't hide it. "But in the future, everything could change."
No one asked for clarification.
"Plasma drills?" I inquired.
"It will be easy to implement your wishes," the chief engineer said. "We can place some fully armed soldiers inside—I'm talking eighty-one units without compromising seal integrity. As for the damaged ones... We'll spend enormous money and resources to get them in order."
"And yet?" I asked.
"We'll install an additional rhydonium fuel tank without any problems," the chief engineer reported. "But I must say right away—in that case, these will be single-use mechanisms. Their engines will become unusable."
"We won't need these mechanisms more than once," I lifted the veil of secrecy a bit. "For the decompressed machines, patch the breach points with simple metal—they won't need to hold atmosphere for long. The main thing is that air currents don't interfere with course alignment. The control is still the same—remote?"
"It's prioritized and written into the basic code of the drills' software," the chief engineer declared. "Of course, passengers can control them manually, but if the transmitter activates and a command comes in, the machines will react to it regardless of the crew's actions."
Bad. That's exactly how the Sluis Van operation was botched in the events I know of this universe.
"Can you rewrite the program code?" I asked.
"Theoretically—yes, practically..."the chief engineer's expression vividly demonstrated the full extent of his thoughts on the matter—"It won't be fast. If we navigate perfectly through the main programs written in a standard programming language, the remote control system is... peculiar. The manufacturer works in an operating system unfamiliar to us, the numeral system is not binary, but decimal, with its own aspects. The programming algorithms, like the language of the control programs, are completely unknown to us—it will take months to understand them confidently. For some reason, the manufacturer created the program code in several programming languages, and each one controls its own systems on the drills... My apologies, Grand Admiral, but this is civilian equipment; we are not trained to work with this kind of thing.
That's nonsense. Why complicate a simple job? This isn't a spy starship, just simple geological equipment.
"Indeed," I said. "An unusual approach. Overly inventive."
"I think the issue is that the manufacturer has no in-house developments in ship remote control technology," the chief engineer speculated. "They took some program, likely created by Verpines or other insectoids, then combined one with the other, applied temporary patches... It's unlikely anyone would have legally sold them Imperial remote control programs, and besides, they're not very sophisticated in terms of the number of executable commands, but they have a larger signal reception range. I suspect the design intention was to make independent repair of the equipment's software very difficult in the field, requiring service from the manufacturer."
Well, possibly. I don't know if I could figure out something like that myself. Another plus for having a 'deputy' for technical matters. I have enough to figure out in my own 'swamp' without racking my brain over things I don't understand at all. Unfortunately, I'm far from technology. Completely far. No wonder many in this universe use mechanic droids: the simplest way to avoid unnecessary headaches over issues not directly related to one's work.
Still, I don't like this. I really don't. No guarantees that someone, as in the events I know, won't try to use the remote control trick?
And then the plan is finished; I can write off capturing ships using the drills... Hmm...
"Can you remove the remote control system?" I asked.
"Well..."the chief engineer almost imperceptibly grimaced—"There's no big problem with that, of course, but it will be a hassle, certainly, cleaning out the program code on each unit..."
"Do it differently," I suggested. I think there's an interesting solution to the problem. Very interesting. "Rewrite the program code of one drill, removing the manufacturer's remote control system and install the Imperial version. It should work on the same frequency as before. Can you do that?"
"I was going to suggest this to you, but without the control systems," said the chief engineer. "The drills are stolen. Their control codes may already be known to the New Republic. You said the units are needed for striking the enemy. Based on the machines' technical data, I assume they will be used as boarding pods—a short rush towards the target, penetrating the deflector field, plasma-cutting the armor while ensuring the breach is sealed, and deploying boarding parties. But it's not that simple. There's a slight chance they could exploit this loophole... sir, with all due respect, I would recommend using only manual control."
"Your assumption is correct, Reyes. But do as I said," from the various assignments I'd given my subordinates, a different plan had taken shape. Why install rhydonium thrust on the 'diggers'? So they can reach their targets much faster. And so the beings inside can climb out of their capsules and capture the bridges of warships converted into transports. I was counting on only a few dozen 'diggers,' but now I have one hundred and thirty-two of them, if I remember correctly. Fifty-one with hull integrity issues. That means inside, we'll have to place not just stormtroopers, but space marines in armor capable of keeping a soldier alive in open space for an extended period. But all this will be a farce if some Republic smart aleck intercepts control and makes the 'diggers' punch straight through the ships' hulls, wasting all our efforts. So, my original plan to capture as many enemy ships as possible—not all of them, just the ones I really need—will have to be adjusted.
Thinking about why the data in Palpatine's vault was purged, but such valuables as Spaarti cylinders, the cloaking field, and others remained there, led me to certain thoughts. Which pointed directly to Palpatine. And his Resurrection. And to avoid falling into his hands, I would have to either run far, far away—but that's hardly a panacea—or die.
And in the moment of realizing this thought, a plan was born. How to have both the wolves fed and the sheep safe. And also—to have only the loyal beings remain with me. Loyal to the very end. And the plan to capture Republic ships at Sluis Van—the original one, I mean, under the title 'Take everything that isn't nailed down, and let the trophies fight while you look for a way out'—underwent changes today. Radical ones.
The more damage dealt to the New Republic, the weaker it will be by the time it meets the Revived Palpatine. I have no intention of wiping out the former rebels entirely, even if I had the strength. And I do have it, generally speaking. I could skip the New Republic and go directly to several locations to get Imperial equipment, even a semblance of the Death Star. But then there's no guarantee that in the remaining time before Palpatine's attack (if he keeps the 'schedule' I know and attacks next year), I can win over a large number of Imperials from these 'stashes.' So, I'll work with what I have. And continue studying the available data.
And also—continue striking the New Republic. Those watching (and I'm sure, besides the Imperial Remnants, Palpatine's emissaries are also watching me) should have no other opinion but 'Thrawn continues his crusade against the enemies of the Empire.' The role cannot be played poorly. Otherwise, there will be questions.
So, in light of this new problem, I needed to modernize my plan. The calculation for success will still rely on the 'diggers,' but in a different way.
And yet, to find out if I'm right about my assumptions regarding Mount Tantiss and the 'assets' stored there, I need to talk to C'baoth. And I really don't want to...
But, time to get back to the details.
"As you wish, Grand Admiral," the chief engineer resigned himself to a pile of new problems.
"That's not all," I declared. Mr. Reyes let out a quiet, displeased sigh. "The program for eighty-one sealed drills must be configured for manual control only."
"Sir, forgive me, I don't understand," the chief engineer's crimson implant eye blinked. "But why write the code for remote control at all?"
"Because we'll have two drill projects," I replied calmly. "You'll have to strip the compromised units of all unnecessary equipment, including life support. The primary and backup tanks must be filled with our new fuel. However, in the remote command code, you need to add an additional algorithm based on the time elapsed since receiving the command, the plasma drill's speed, and most importantly — a specific condition: landing on the hull surface and drilling an entry hole for the boarding party. If after those conditions are met a remote drill command arrives, regardless of its content, the following must occur…"
When I finished my thought, the Moff and the chief engineer exchanged glances.
"Sir, that's outright suicide for our troops," the Moff said. Not that he was particularly upset about it, but… He'd just heard a plan for the cold-blooded massacre of the entire landing force.
"Exactly," I agreed. "With the exception that…"
* * *
"I apologize for my lateness to the meeting," Karrde said, settling into a chair in the Millennium Falcon's wardroom. "Business, as I'm sure you understand."
"Of course," assured the Alderaanian princess, sitting across from him. Solo, however, standing in the corner leaning against the wall, was clearly not thrilled with the situation. "Meeting you is one of the reasons we're here. A delay of a day or two won't matter much."
As expected, Karrde thought. He'd had to make a small detour to sort out matters on Rishi, his organization's new operational base. Since he hadn't really expected to gain much from this meeting, there was no reason to rush. But apologizing for being late was simply his duty — as any civilized and well-bred sentient would.
"So," Claw interlaced his fingers. "How can I help you?"
"What do you know about the Imperial force that attacked the Dafillevean sector?" Organa-Solo opened her mouth to say something, but her husband was faster. And earned a gentle, reproachful look.
"Is this an official inquiry on behalf of the New Republic or a personal interest, Captain Solo?" he asked, looking the Corellian in the eye.
"Hasty, not very polite, but official," the princess interjected. "You informed us about their asteroid-collection activities. The leadership decided you might help clarify certain points…"
"Beyond a doubt I can," Karrde smiled. "However, you must also understand. The nature of my work doesn't allow me to provide especially valuable information for free."
"But you told us about the asteroids," Solo reminded.
Yes, and saved you a couple of weeks of searching, Karrde thought. And it also made a perfect hook that the New Republic took.
"I only helped, out of old friendship, to clarify where the Imperials got the stones you found on Krondr and Ord Pardron," the smuggler explained. "After all, my organization and the New Republic had many ties in the past. Mutually beneficial contracts, for example."
The princess pretended this blunt hint had nothing to do with outright extortion. Solo, however, didn't restrain himself with diplomatic tact, letting out a meaningful snort. Another reproachful look. Well, well — it seemed the rumors were true; the captain of the Millennium Falcon was indeed under the thumb.
"The New Republic understands that everything has its price," the young woman said. "And we'd like to discuss what you can offer us."
"To see if it's worth spending the last credits from an already meager budget?" Karrde asked with a condescending smile. Solo coughed into his fist. The princess rather theatrically scratched her nose.
"The information about our financial difficulties is somewhat exaggerated," a vague phrase for the less pleasant constants of the dialogue. "We simply prefer not to squander money."
Because you don't have any, Karrde thought. He had some connections in the New Republic's leadership. And he knew very well the financial capacity of Coruscant's rulers — they could spend very, very little on valuable information. He'd just clarified that on Rishi. And he realized the Republicans simply couldn't afford a large volume of information. So it was best to steer them toward transport and logistics matters. With a heavily inflated price tag, for instance.
"Very well, ask away, and I'll name the price," he offered. "But I must warn you upfront — it will be very expensive."
"Which Imperial warlord attacked us?" Organa-Solo asked.
"Twenty-five million." Solo started coughing. The princess put on a bored expression, as if she spent more than that on lunch.
"Where are they based?" she asked next.
"Twenty million," Karrde smiled.
"What is their next objective?" Solo asked unexpectedly. Talon looked at his wife. She thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement, indicating she was interested in that information too. And if she was, then so was her superiors in the New Republic.
"Seventy million," Karrde quoted a price ten times too high. Because he didn't know the answer himself, but couldn't show it. No way — that would be bad for business.
"Are you planning to buy yourself a Star Destroyer?" the Millennium Falcon's captain gasped.
"I've been thinking about it," Karrde confided, smiling at the Republicans. Did they really think that with their paltry two million in pocket they could get him talking?
The Solo couple exchanged glances.
"Are the attacks on ships and bases in the Dafillevean sector systems and on systems in the Sluissi sector the work of the same Imperial commander?" asked the princess.
Talon initially wanted to jack up the price, since this news was extremely fresh and confirmation had only come recently. And the problem was, it wouldn't be useful to anyone significant and solvent. But to the New Republic…
"Five hundred thousand," he stated the price.
"Consider it yours," the princess sighed. "I hope my word is enough assurance for the transfer?"
"Money first, then information," Karrde beamed. "Sorry, but that's the rule of the deal."
"But you've worked with us before," Solo noted. "And you've never been cheated…"
Yeah, and some equipment from Thyferra is still sitting on Rishi, waiting for its moment, Karrde thought. But he remained silent, letting the couple make their own choice.
It was all decided in a couple of minutes — and Karrde's untraceable account was credited with the specified sum.
"Yes, they're connected," he confirmed. "The attacks were carried out by starships under the command of the same Imperial commander, and the orders were accordingly given by him. As was the attack on Nkllon." The last conclusion Talon had drawn based on observations. When Thrawn sends one of the Star Destroyers from his personal armada on a mission to the other end of the galaxy, that was telling. On one hand — the work of Imperial military on 'salary' from Imperial Space and the Pentastar Alignment; on the other — information from a Republic base and from unemployed miners on Nkllon.
"Very valuable information," Solo grimaced. "And its price is certainly justified…"
"Additionally, I can tell you that the attack on Pantolomin was also carried out by the same group." Hmm, he'd slightly overpriced it. Well, he could throw in a few minor facts for free. "As were all previous Imperial raids on your territory. But I'll say right away, not to give you false hope — I don't know why the Imperials choose their targets."
"So we're facing a separate Imperial fleet group?" Solo displayed his erudition. The princess looked questioningly at Talon. The information dealer just gave a diplomatic smile.
"How much?" the Alderaanian princess asked, resigned to the inevitable.
"One million," Karrde smiled.
Solo coughed again. It seemed it hadn't occurred to him that information, even so simple, could cost more than his entire ship from the moment it left the Corellian Engineering Corporation's production line up to the present, including the value of all the spare parts and modifications installed on it over decades by various owners.
The princess sighed and contacted her leadership again…
After the transfer was complete, Karrde diplomatically explained:
"Imperial Space allocated an operational task force from the fleet, placed under independent command," Karrde explained. "As far as I know, they sent neither the best nor the worst. The ship commanders have combat experience, and considerable at that. According to my information, this flotilla's combat readiness was barely better than rookie cadets last year. But as you can judge from the battle in the Dafillevean sector, they learn fast. These ships are the ones operating against you. To my knowledge, this fleet doesn't coordinate its objectives with the government on Orinda, Ciutric, Yaga Minor, or anywhere else in the Imperial Remnants. Full operational autonomy, independent mission planning, freedom of target selection. As an additional bonus, I can tell you that in a month and a half, the slow-paced construction of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer will be completed at the Bilbringi shipyards. A Mark I. But it will join this flotilla. How and where — that's separate information with its own price."
"We could have found all this out ourselves," Solo snorted.
"Really?" Claw asked in surprise. "Then why are you asking me? As I recall, after the victory over Zsinj, General Cracken's department made seventy-four attempts to infiltrate their people into the Imperial Remnants. All of them were discovered and eliminated." The Solo couple exchanged glances. "Yes, consider that information complementary to what you paid for. And don't clench your jaw, Captain Solo. I warned you — my services are very expensive."
"You know, Claw, I'm looking at you," the Millennium Falcon's commander pushed off from the bulkhead and walked over to his wife, "and I'm trying to figure out: whose side are you on?"
Not a muscle twitched on Talon's face. At least he hoped so.
"My own, Captain," he replied calmly. "Your squabble with the Empire doesn't interest me or my organization. I have clients on both sides of the front line."
"Yeah, but you're feeding us verbal fluff — what are you selling the Imperials?" Solo asked with caustic irony. Karrde looked at him with interest. No, he didn't really think that. Just pent-up frustration, nothing more.
"The same things I sell to all other clients," Karrde said calmly. "The New Republic pays for one kind of information, the Empire... However, I can tell you completely free of charge that the Imperials who can afford my services aren't interested in the New Republic in the slightest. They're busy with their own problems and looking for solutions. But Imperial Space, the part controlled from Orinda — yes, they're interested in many things. But I have no interest in trading in war," Claw declared. "Business goes much better when the galaxy is at peace. A shaky peace, but peace."
Talon didn't mention to the couple that, from Zsinj's death until Thrawn's offensive this year, the absence of Imperial galactic campaigns was guaranteed only by well-sold disinformation to the latter. On a separate tariff plan for General Cracken. No, he wasn't an altruist — Republican intelligence had paid well for that information. Besides, in such uncertain times, smugglers really did have an easier time — while Imperial and Republican ships sat at border zone bases instead of patrolling hyperspace routes or guarding planets in the deep sectors of their territories, smuggling income grew exponentially. War, on the other hand, was an unpleasant process that often interfered with smooth business. And if he needed to play along with one side to restore armed parity, Karrde would do it without a qualm. Within reason, of course. It was more profitable for his organization.
"Suppose we believe that," Solo said, still suspicious. "Do the Imperials really believe a single flotilla can destroy the New Republic? They're not waging war to expand their territory — they're only attacking our military installations."
"I don't have an answer," Talon admitted frankly.
"So Jabba's heir doesn't have his own people in the most belligerent part of the Empire?" Solo said in surprise. And this time — sincerely.
"I didn't say that," Claw noted calmly.
"So we spent a million and a half to learn information we can't really use, because we didn't get any specifics anyway?" Solo clarified. Talon glanced at his wife. Judging by her expression, the princess agreed with her husband.
"If you have the sums I mentioned, we'll move on to specifics," he said. "Otherwise, for the money you've paid, this is all I can offer. Unless you'd like to discuss a proposal about participating in cargo transport for the New Republic's needs."
No, really, that couple exchanged quite intriguing glances.
"Wouldn't participation in such an endeavor mean you're no longer a neutral party?" the princess inquired.
"No," Karrde replied. "Personally, I won't be involved — it's not my field." And yet, a dozen freighters had already been purchased, crews formed, and they were just waiting for the go-ahead. A risky initiative — not for money, but to strengthen his agent network within the New Republic's camp. But if anyone found out about his initiative, losing his 'neutral' status and reputation would be the least of his problems. Every Imperial Remnant would hunt him. As would the New Republic, if they understood what he really needed it for. "But I can put in a good word among the smugglers — whether they should get involved in such an adventure or not."
"And what would your positive answer depend on?" Han Solo asked with a voice full of skepticism.
"It depends on whether the New Republic can offer my fellow smugglers adequate compensation for their work," Karrde smiled. "If memory serves, two of your small convoys with medical supplies and food for the victims in the systems of that sector were attacked by pirates. And just a couple of days later, two more — ten parsecs from Elom."
"And why am I not surprised that you know about that too," the Alderaanian princess smiled good-naturedly.
"What can I say," Claw returned her smile. "It's the job."
* * *
"Jedi Master," I greeted C'baoth, who entered the officer's wardroom of the Chimaera with majestic gravity. The old man looked more composed than usual. A clear, understanding gaze, proud posture. He'd even combed his beard, and his hair no longer resembled an overused toothbrush. "I'm glad you joined me."
"Where is my Jedi, Grand Admiral?" There was a hint of aggression and impatience in the clone's voice.
"I assure you that we are moving to active measures to lure and capture Corran Horn," I said, watching as the Jedi took a seat across from me.
"My patience is not limitless, Grand Admiral," the Jedi said, looking me in the eye. Now that was a threat. Not to my life or authority — a threat to break our agreement. And it was hard to blame him. Like a capricious child, he wanted what he wanted right now. Patience was not his virtue.
What had made him so bold? One glance at the torso of this elderly but sturdy man was enough for me to understand — he was still holding onto his medallion. And it was also clear from previous conversations that a sufficiently unambiguous and direct answer would leave the Jedi confused, losing the thread of the conversation.
"As is mine, respected Master," I said, stroking the ysalamir sitting on my lap. "But the question now is different."
"And what is it?" he asked with irony. "That you can't grab, tie up, and drag to me one Force-sensitive sentient who doesn't even possess proper Jedi talents?"
"You keep rushing me to make a decision, to deliver the Jedi to you," I reminded him indifferently. "And yet, have you ever wondered — how successful would Horn's training with you be if we captured him and dragged him here, threw him at your feet and left him?"
"I don't see any problem," C'baoth snorted. "If he has a modicum of brains, he'll understand that regardless of circumstances, he needs to become a Jedi and take his place in the galaxy."
"Rule over a chosen people?" I clarified.
"Yes," the Jedi clone replied simply. "To understand what true power is, not that ephemeral, intangible nonsense you crave."
"You don't know what I want." My objection amused the clone.
"I don't need to try to read your thoughts, Grand Admiral," he said, pointing a finger at the lizard in my arms. "I know how your people regard me. 'Crazy old man,' 'madman,' 'Jedi spawn.' I hear their words, their thoughts. I heard and saw all this in the past. And I don't care about your ignoramuses. Even your lizards, blocking my Force, cannot rob me of my knowledge and understanding of human souls. You simple sentients cannot understand — a Jedi doesn't need constant contact with the Force to read what is hidden in others' hearts."
So that was it. The clone had realized that the ysalamiri were interrupting his abilities. Unfortunate, but expected — he might be insane, but he had moments of clarity. And in such moments, correlating the absence of his powers with the presence of a lizard nearby wasn't difficult. Though it was anticipated that C'baoth would figure out the trick — perhaps that's why he hadn't been so active lately.
I had no intention of disabusing him of anything. He'd drawn his conclusions and would stick to them to the end. For me, an attempt at deception could only backfire in the future. If the mad Jedi realized he was just a resource being used, and that they planned to dispose of him afterward to keep him from ruining everything I was working toward, he would cause far more trouble.
"In that case, I think we should discuss the very essence of how Horn will be delivered to you," I said. "In the near future — within a month — your future student will be deprived of something dear to him and his family. He will search for it with all his might. You are interested in him coming to you. I am no less interested. Not much data on Jedi abilities has survived — the Emperor and Darth Vader did their work well. So I want to clarify — can you call Corran Horn? Not with your voice, using the Force."
"Another test of my abilities?" C'baoth snorted.
"You may consider it in that context too," I said indifferently, glancing sidelong at Rukh sitting by the wall behind the Jedi. In the half-darkness of the room, within the ysalamiri's field, he should be undetectable to the Jedi clone. "As far as I know, Horn is a Corellian. And they are a stubborn, hard-headed people. As you rightly noted, we have been preparing for his capture for a long time — but only so it all succeeds. As I said, Horn will be deprived of what is most precious. And he will rush to search. It would be ideal if you could contact him and call him to you, promising him help and knowledge to find the valuable thing…"
"How vulgar and careless the Jedi have become in my absence," C'baoth snorted. "To drop everything just to search for some trinket…"
In this galaxy, sentients have things more valuable than abstract knowledge of higher matters, I thought.
"And yet?"
"Yes, I can," C'baoth confirmed my assumption. "It's not difficult. I've seen his appearance. So I can find him in the Force. He will hear my voice and everything I tell him…"
That was probably how Palpatine maintained his mental connection with Mara Jade.
"Then this simplifies my plan," I said, stroking the lizard. How good it was that thanks to her, no one tried to get into my head.
"Can you find in his mind something he doesn't want to show or tell you?" I asked. And... in truth, this question wasn't directly about Corran. Rather, it was more of a test of the validity of my fears about whether Palpatine could get into my head and extract what he wasn't supposed to know.
"In the galaxy, only a few species have immunity to mental Force techniques," C'baoth said wearily. "Hutts or Toydarians, for example. But humans — they are always an open book for as powerful a Jedi as I am."
And therefore — my assumptions about the danger of appearing before Palpatine's bright eyes were not just superstitious fears but very real problems. Which meant I absolutely could not fall into his hands alive.
Nor could I allow C'baoth to realize that part of our conversation had nothing directly to do with Horn.
"During the time you will be teaching him, I would like to ask you to find out where the rebel bases and outposts are located." A distinctly bored expression appeared on the clone's face. "After all, training in Jedi arts is not a quick process. And while you train your student, we will be without your participation and Battle Meditation. That will slow our progress toward the goal somewhat, so information about the enemy's hidden lairs would be very, very useful."
"You are like a savage who strikes a rock with a complex device hoping to create sparks," the clone said. "Yes, I can do that."
"Can an untrained force-sensitive, someone who hasn't studied the Jedi teachings, plot a course where no one has ever flown before?" I asked. And I wasn't wrong in my assumption — C'baoth was looking at me with great suspicion.
"And what do you need this information for, Grand Admiral?" he growled softly. "Do you want to learn more about the Jedi so you can finish what the Emperor and Darth Vader started?"
"Not at all," I replied calmly. "I intend to honor our agreement that the Jedi Order should be revived, and to take a meaningful part in that. Do you think that if Corran Horn comes to you in response to your call and finds you sitting on the bridge of an Imperial Star Destroyer, he'll want to believe you?"
"I will reveal the truth to him," the Jedi clone snorted. "He will follow me, paying no attention to such trivialities as external trappings. I will raise him so that he doesn't dirty himself with petty squabbles between the Empire and the New Republic."
"You forget that Horn's ancestors were exterminated," I said, slightly distorting the facts. In truth, Horn's biological grandfather died during the Clone Wars, and not at the hands of the Empire at all. And his father lived a relatively peaceful life on Corellia, knowing he was Force-sensitive. "The New Republic constantly demonizes the Jedi Purge, and that's known throughout almost the entire galaxy. Corran is a New Republic fighter. And a future Jedi, nurtured by you. I have no doubt that you can train him under any circumstances, but it seems to me that if he or his associates don't know about your connection to the Empire, the training process will go faster."
"Hm..." C'baoth pursed his lips. "Yes, that's probably true. Stubbornness and freethinking can be harmful. But what does that have to do with the ability to find a path among the stars?"
"Only that any sensible person would ask: 'How could a Jedi have hidden from the Empire's sight for nearly three decades on some easily accessible planet?'" I said with the most indifferent expression. But in my thoughts, there was a completely different reason that prompted me to ask this question. Simply because there is one such 'cache' in the galaxy, with Imperial ships, scientific and technical personnel, and huge technological achievements. Come and take it. But there is one big problem — the path there is blocked by black holes. In the events I know, the problem of accessing that region of the galaxy was solved by a future Jedi. And since in the events I know, this episode will occur about half a decade after Thrawn's death and the resurrection of Emperor Palpatine, there is every reason to believe that there is currently no need to go there and take what is 'lying around.' But in the future, when everything settles down, when the global problem is resolved... Who knows, who knows...
"The Force grants me unprecedented abilities," C'baoth said somewhat uncertainly, frantically fingering the medallion around his neck. "Jedi... some of them... very powerful... they could conceal their presence in the Force..."
"And do you possess such skills?" A very interesting revelation. I remember something similar. "Don't think I don't trust you, but if Horn asks you to demonstrate this skill?"
"I won't be able to teach him," C'baoth's eyes darted around. That's good. So even he has limits in his arsenal of superpowers. Useful information. "My talents... they are above such childish pranks!"
"In that case, wouldn't it be most convincing to say that you've been hiding all this time on a planet located in such an inaccessible corner of the galaxy that it was simply impossible to extract you from there?" I continued my research, extracting information from the mad Jedi.
"Yes, that sounds reasonable..." The old man crossed his arms over his chest and stared blankly at the tabletop in front of him.
"I have several such planets in mind," I continued to navigate the line between lies and revelation. "But it would be pointless if Horn, following your call, couldn't get there. You're not going to lead him by the hand like a kindergarten teacher, are you?"
"Well... no, I won't..." The Jedi had completely switched to barely distinguishable muttering. It seemed he had retreated into his thoughts. "Yes, a strong Jedi can find the right course in a difficult situation in space," he said. "But it requires a lot of strength..."
"Well, at least that test will show how ready Horn is to study with you, whether he respects your wisdom and can understand it even partially," I continued my interrogation. "But it seems to me that it's not worth risking such a promising student by sending him into the wilds of galactic anomalies to search for you. He is too valuable to lose so easily." The Jedi clone nodded affirmatively, agreeing with me. "Do you remember saying that those who wished to meet the Keeper came to Wayland?"
"Yes, there were such..."
"Surely among them there were also Force-sensitive beings," I persisted, seeing that C'baoth was starting to withdraw into himself. The door to the wardroom hissed open softly, and a visibly agitated Captain Pellaeon appeared in the doorway. I snapped my fingers, signaling Rukh. The Noghri rose silently to his feet. Gilad was momentarily flustered at the sight of the bodyguard approaching him, but quickly regained his composure and began typing something on the screen of his datapad. Obviously something urgent and pressing, requiring immediate attention. But it would wait — I needed to clarify a few more points and get our mad Jedi into the right frame of mind.
"A couple of people," the clone replied. "I destroyed them all."
"I had the honor and pleasure of witnessing your power," I said. "Did any of them manage to get inside the mountain, do anything there?"
"There was one group," C'baoth said thoughtfully. "They arrived in a shuttle, and thanks to landing it right in front of the entrance to the mountain, they weren't destroyed immediately. I found them inside the Mountain and destroyed them, but they managed to reach the Emperor's information database before I got rid of them. But," he took the medallion in his hand again, "how does this relate to Corran Horn?"
"It's simple," I allowed myself a smile. It doesn't. But in my mind, another piece of the puzzle had emerged and taken its place. Now I had even more desire to avoid meeting Palpatine. "I want to be sure that if unforeseen circumstances arise, if someone tries to sabotage your plans to restore the Jedi Order, you won't let that happen. So that all the work done doesn't go to waste."
The clone's eyes, previously as if veiled by a whitish haze, seared me with the cold fury of his pupils. I'm sure that if the ysalamiri weren't here, his irises would already be colored amber. That's precisely how blind, uncontrollable rage manifested in the Sith.
"Rest assured, Grand Admiral," C'baoth said with a kind of serpentine hiss, not taking his eyes off me. "This galaxy has lived without Jedi in its ignorance and darkness for too long. I will destroy anyone who stands between me and the restoration of the Jedi Order."
I looked away, accepting a small datapad from Rukh's hands. On its screen were only two sentences: "The Nemesis has arrived. Mara Jade requests an audience with you."
"I gladly believe you, respected Master," I said. My calm words seemed to enrage the mad Jedi even more, who was clenching his medallion in his fist with fury.
Moreover — that was exactly the reaction I was aiming for.
Now he certainly won't forget to eliminate all obstacles in his path.