Moff Ferrus's residence was built by his predecessor. Thoroughly, according to all the rules of fortification.
The thickness of the walls, made of super-strong construction material, meant there was no worry about them being collapsed by even moderately serious fire. The lower floors were a veritable labyrinth of corridors and rooms, constructed in such a way that it would be convenient to fight inside them. The presence of cover, stylized as Imperial decor, columns, ceilings — everything was designed so that fighters holed up inside the building would have maximum cover. The attackers, on the other hand, would have a hard time — the 'designer' fortifications were built with the idea of giving the advantage to those inside the building. Apparently, the builders proceeded from the assumption that in case of war, only Imperials would be in this building. Because if the enemy managed to capture the building — a seemingly simple, squat, four-sided pyramid — then the Imperials themselves would be bathing in blood during the assault.
I noted all this on the move, accompanied by Rukh, making my way through the corridors to the underground levels. Casemates housing heavy weapons arsenals, barracks for the stormtroopers guarding the residence, the central computer, utility and communication systems... The sacred rule: "Hide everything valuable underground." A peculiarity of human psychology and thinking — people tend to place their most important valuables where they'll be hardest to find. Given the numerous checkpoints on every floor of the residence, which had turned into duracrete pillboxes, once we reached the first underground level, it immediately became clear — breaking through here in combat would be very difficult for hypothetical enemies. Especially considering the mounted heavy repeaters. "Repeaters," not "machine guns."
There's a certain misunderstanding about weapons in the galaxy far, far away — at first glance.
The most common type of damaging element in shipboard and small arms is... plasma. It's created using tibanna gas, through which an energy charge is passed, the power of which can be varied on most types of weapons — from a blaster pistol to a turbolaser. I haven't fully grasped the process, but as far as I understand, after the plasma is formed by an energy discharge, the resulting substance is enclosed in a kind of magnetic cocoon, resulting in not a shapeless charge of something unspeakable flying toward the target, but an oblong projectile, shaped like a segment of light. This is called a "blaster bolt." Or a turbolaser bolt. Or a laser bolt — it depends on the type of weapon.
The rate of fire of small arms is not particularly high compared to the firearms I was familiar with in my past life. Otherwise, a burst would merge into one continuous stream of energy — until the tibanna gas cartridge was depleted or the power cell in the blaster was drained. It goes without saying that on modern ships, the principle of energy and gas storage is different from that in blasters. However, during the Clone Wars, powerful weapons were widely used, powered not by one huge reactor or power unit, but using "ammunition" with tibanna inside. Such a "projectile" was loaded into the weapon, energy was supplied to the gas, a shot was fired, and the empty casing was ejected like a spent shell casing.
There are also "slugthrowers" in the universe — that's the name for firearms here. The principle of operation is the same — the expulsion of bullets from cartridges under the influence of expanding gases from a chemical reaction. Slugthrowers have their advantages compared to blaster weapons — they easily penetrate light or fabric armor (again, in modern times, in specific cases). But a global disadvantage has not been overcome even in the galaxy far, far away.
The weight of ammunition.
One power cell and a gas cartridge in a standard Imperial E-11 carbine was enough for several hundred shots, which is equivalent to a good-sized battle. At the same time, the weight of such containers is about the same as one magazine of a Makarov pistol. If my memory serves me, the latter weighs a little less than a hundred grams, maybe eighty. And that's only eight shots. A soldier takes several power cells and gas cartridges into battle — depending on the unit he serves in. But in any case, even if a soldier carries one kilogram of power cells and the same amount of gas cartridges, that will be enough for continuous shooting for several days, if not more. At least, I've come across such mentions in reports on protracted battles during the Clone Wars. In this time, such protracted operations — like months of sieges or blockades — are practically non-existent.
So, despite the fact that slugthrowers are still relevant — and even widespread in the Outer Rim and the Unknown Regions — blasters are preferred. Simply because the weight of ammunition for several hours of continuous shooting with a slugthrower is prohibitive. That's why tactics like "suppressive fire" are widely used — you don't have to worry that right in the middle of "area saturation fire" you'll run out of ammo. Not to mention that due to the magnetic field surrounding the plasma after a shot, depending on the power of the latter, there is also a kinetic-stopping effect, capable not only of burning through armor and reaching the body, thereby inflicting damage, but also of knocking over or throwing back the hit target.
However, I'm sure there are other reasons for rejecting firearms, but... At least I couldn't find them during a superficial study of the issue.
Well, just like in my past life: bows and crossbows still have their place and are even effective, but firearms have replaced them in widespread use in most countries of the world.
So, "repeaters" are the same as "blaster machine guns." They have a massive power unit and a tibanna container, allowing them to sustain a long fire of blaster bolts whose power is much higher than a standard blaster shot. There are also handheld analogues, but the fact remains — the Imperial infantry and the Stormtrooper Corps have "heavy machine guns" in their arsenal. Only very good and very expensive armor can save you from them.
In fact, that's why the prison level was covered by precisely those heavy mounted repeaters, and the "gunners" were behind duracrete pillbox domes. Reading the descriptions of duracrete, permacrete, ferrocrete, and similar materials, I wanted to say "asphalt" and "concrete," since in consistency and appearance they were very similar. Except that permacrete roads didn't wash away as soon as the snow melted. But they do keep repairing and maintaining them here in the Empire, endlessly. In construction, the Empire has a principle: "build once and forget." However, we shouldn't forget that corruption in Palpatine's state existed just as it did under the democratic system of the Old Republic. And some ISB reports available in the archives indicated that this "enterprise" under Palpatine was on a scale perhaps even greater than during the Republic. Only in the military sphere — noticeably less. By orders of magnitude.
Well, that's all lyricism... But it's useful to educate yourself from time to time to understand how badly I might be mistaken in my judgments, based on the books I've read about this universe. Because in most cases, all the works of fiction covering the "post-Endor period" focused on seeing the situation from the perspective of the New Republic's heroes, for whom the Empire was almost the scourge of everything and synonymous with absolute evil.
I had already become convinced of this before meeting C'baoth, when I was passing the time studying the issues of slavery and other internal policies of the Empire, to better understand "where exactly they went wrong." And even from superficial reports, it became clear to me that the "Empire oppressed non-humans" wasn't so categorical. Those who rebelled — yes, punishment awaited them. But with most other races that submitted to Imperial policy... the difference wasn't that noticeable. The "global oppression" I had discussed with Baron D'Asta was observed only in some sectors and systems. But in the early years of its existence, and after the Battle of Yavin and Endor — yes, the Imperials "tightened the screws." But not on the scale that had formed in my head. However, it was precisely this image that was maintained by New Republic propaganda — they presented isolated cases as "systemic." And, as you know, if you repeat the same thing often enough, over time it will be perceived as truth.
So, it can't be said that the Empire is a "prison of nations." It's not "good," of course, as the New Republic positions itself, but things aren't that bad either. Significantly "not that bad."
Of course, "a pig will find dirt everywhere," but such intriguing data required significant verification. On the one hand, the Imperials could have thoroughly cleaned up their archives, and the Republicans could have exaggerated what happened. Everyone has their own goals, and that's a normal state of affairs.
One way or another, I shouldn't be as categorical in matters of foreign and domestic policy as I was during my conversation with the Baron. The interesting fact is that he didn't correct me. Why? Because he agrees? Or because he thinks I'm a fool? Or does he know perfectly well that Thrawn appeared in Imperial Space not so long ago, after Endor, when the policy of humanocentrism was gaining momentum in its most perverted form? It's no coincidence that now in the Imperial Remnants, the majority of the population are humans and representatives of races genetically very close to them. And 'non-humans,' even if they live on Imperial territory, are still 'second-class,' and the best they can achieve is to occupy not the most significant posts in the Imperial bureaucracy. And if we remove even these particulars from the equation, we must state that non-human races in the Empire at present are merely a source of taxes and labor resources in industry.
This needs to be addressed. And it shouldn't be delayed — there could be extremely negative consequences. And it's also worth 'enriching' myself with a significant portion of information about 'how it was.' So that 'what will be' turns out much better. If it turns out to be a feasible task, of course.
And the Morshdine sector, given the presence of 'non-human races' in it, can always be used as a testing ground for renewed internal policy. After all, it will come under Republic control after the Battle of Bilbringi anyway...
I felt like I should have cursed thoroughly.
The Battle of Bilbringi — the end of Thrawn in the events I know. The New Republic attacked those shipyards hoping to capture the mechanism that would allow them to neutralize the invisible asteroids with which Thrawn had blockaded Coruscant by dropping them onto the planetary shield of the New Republic's capital. And as a result of the capture of Bilbringi, the Republicans, after Thrawn's death, subjugated Tangrene and the entire Morshdine sector. However, considering that I planned to make the 'final battle' precisely the campaign in the Sluis Van system, it's not so obvious that they will conquer the sector. Or capture Bilbringi and its shipyards. And an interesting episode is associated with the latter — an attempt to capture the Lusankya... Which is still whereabouts unknown and undergoing repairs after the events on Thyferra a year ago, when Ysanne Isard was defeated. At least, that's what the Republicans and Imperials have believed until recently. And only three people in the galaxy know the truth about its fate. And the truth, paradoxically — fifteen or so. I am one of them. But not the real Thrawn, his self-proclaimed successor.
"The prisoner has been delivered to the interrogation room, Grand Admiral," the shift commander of the stormtroopers on duty in the prison block of the casemates reported to me. Locked in snow-white armor, he stood next to a massive metal door, behind which the required room was hidden.
And there was no need to clarify who exactly he was talking about. These cells were created to hold political and especially important prisoners. There hadn't been any of the former since Moff Ferrus came to power — the Ubiqtorate preferred to use its own secret prisons. But the latter category had changed an hour ago from 'zero' to 'one detainee.'
Entering the interrogation room, I confirmed that Rukh had followed me. The door clanged shut behind us, leaving only four beings in the small, almost cube-shaped room. And only three of them were human.
Rukh remained behind me as usual, sitting down near the entrance to my right... I took a seat behind a small metal table, on the other side of which, on a chair welded to the floor, sat a dark-skinned man. His face expressed a measure of suspicion and fear. The face bore several bruises and scratches — traces of his attempt to escape from Mara Jade and her support group. That was actually why the man was now handcuffed to a metal loop, also welded to the table. The fourth being, standing by the right wall of the interrogation room (probably why Rukh chose his position), was Mara Jade, dressed in a tight black jumpsuit. The golden-red hair of this woman framed a very attractive face, and her green eyes looked at me so attentively, so pointedly penetrating...
Yes, this woman is beautiful. And dangerous. Very dangerous.
And she also very much wanted to talk to me before this meeting. But I refused. Not only because it was necessary to return C'baoth to the Chimera under the guard of stormtroopers and ysalamiri — under no circumstances could I allow the mad Jedi to learn of the very existence of Force-sensitive beings in my entourage — be it privateer Tiberius or Mara Jade. In the event of such a failure, I could forget about using that devilishly dangerous old man to increase my own military strength and divert the attention of several Republican heroes from the active events that were about to occur. Yes, many of the New Republic's heroes have an enviable degree of luck and simply irrational fortune. How often have their opponents, seemingly not lacking in intelligence, so simply fallen into a trap and lost everything? Every other one. I call it 'plot armor.' And to be honest, I'm not eager to test its effectiveness on my own hide. No way. If I'm right and a certain category of beings in this galaxy are kissed on the forehead by the Force itself, and getting rid of them in a simple way is impossible, then why not use this peculiarity of theirs where I need it?
I refused the direct meeting with that woman, so beautiful in every regard, because I likewise needed to prepare for the questions she would ask me. I understood that from the very second I tried to secure her support during the meeting on Myrkr. And the fact that she carried out my order and captured the prisoner didn't matter much just now.
If I failed to convince her to become my supporter of her own free will — she would be lost. Of course, there were always options for using her genetic material in case of refusal, but something told me that as long as the originals for Force-sensitive beings lived, their clones would not be lucky.
It was very tempting — to get a blood sample from Mara Jade and make a few clones of her. But… those would be nothing but empty shells, devoid of the original's memories. Yes, we could copy Jade's very mind, as we did with all donors for the Spaarti cylinders. But wouldn't that create a monster like C'baoth? The ysalamiri's ability to repel the Force was, without doubt, excellent, but would it work? The idea of cloning Force-sensitive beings while the living original existed, who could be used for my purposes one way or another, I preferred to keep as a backup.
Let's see where the original Jade and I agree. If she proves loyal — she will remain a single copy. If not…
Well, it's never too late to hedge with a clone.
I wanted her voluntary cooperation. That was why she was here, at this interrogation, where, as I planned, the data she needed to hear would be revealed.
"How was your flight, Captain Hoffner?" I inquired of the dark-skinned man.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, with poorly concealed hatred.
"Information," I replied simply. Jade continued boring into me with her green eyes. I wondered whether she was indignant that I had refused to talk to her, or because she had been denied interrogating the prisoner immediately after his capture and during the flight. According to Captain Von Schneider's report, that lovely lady had been very upset about it. Onboard the Coral Vanda the stormtroopers had prevented her, and on the Nemesis, the crew. Essentially, cut off from access to the central computer, under round-the-clock surveillance, the red-haired beauty was as angry as possible by the time of arrival. Well, that was a proportionate risk — letting her near any panel on the ship was dangerous for the mission. I remembered very well from Timothy Zahn's books that this beautiful lady possessed priority access codes to Star Destroyer central computers. And that was another reason I wanted voluntary help from her.
"I'm a simple man, an Imperial," Hoffner threw at me. "I don't possess anything that could interest you."
"We can go two ways, Captain Hoffner," I said. "First — you voluntarily provide all the information I'm interested in, and even receive a certain monetary bonus and a job offer, after completing which you can become a very rich man and go wherever you wish…"
"Not a bad option," the man snorted. "Can we skip straight to the latter?"
"Rukh," I called to the Noghri in a flat tone.
Like a gray shadow, the bodyguard covered the distance separating them and ended up behind Hoffner. A sinewy hand grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and slammed him forcefully onto the table.
"You keep quiet when you're asked questions," my bodyguard mewed threateningly into his ear. He expressively showed the tip of his knife, now close to the man's eye. "Got it?"
"Y-yes, yes, got it!" the man shouted as Rukh drew the flat of the blade across his cheekbone. Releasing the prisoner, the Noghri was almost instantly back where he had been.
Looking at Jade, I noted that her gaze had shifted from angry to appraising. She herself had used threats more than once to make sentients do what they didn't want to. And it was unlikely this short improvisation had affected her opinion of me in any way.
"As you understand, Captain, the second option is filled with pain," I said. "We are civilized people, and I really don't want to resort to it. Therefore, I would like your cooperation according to the first of the options I mentioned. Because the second, though it would take longer, would still give me the necessary answers to the questions I'm interested in and save me the funds I intended to offer you. You understand yourself that in the event of the second option, you are unlikely to continue life with the same set of organs and state of health you have at the present moment."
"You… explained everything… quite clearly," the dark-skinned man replied, licking his split lips. "What exactly interests you?"
"A few years ago, you were the commander of a freighter under the authority of such a well-known person as Jorj Car'das," refreshing the prisoner's memory a bit and hinting at the extent of my knowledge usually shortened my interrogation time. That trick wouldn't have worked with Karrde or Han Solo — too stubborn and independent. But Hoffner was cut from a completely different cloth. You could see it in his darting eyes, in the uncertain, tense posture in which he sat before us. He felt extremely uneasy, uncomfortable, and feared things would get even worse.
"Yes, there was such an episode in my life," Hoffner admitted. If he suspected what was about to be discussed, he was trying too hard to disown that thought.
"A member of your crew was a young navigator named Talon Karrde," at the mention of her former boss's name, Mara Jade looked at me with openly interested suspicion. "Now he is known as an information broker and smuggler nicknamed 'the Claw.'"
"Yes, he was on my crew," Hoffner agreed. From the change in his facial expression, he had already guessed what would be discussed. People of this sort might seem frivolous, but in truth their brains "cooked" better than many others. Especially when their own lives were at stake.
"In your work together, there was an incident where, fleeing an Imperial patrol, you jumped to random coordinates," I continued. "And upon emerging from hyperspace, you ran into ships that you took for another Imperial armada."
Hoffner swallowed loudly. Now he had no more doubts about the reason for his presence here. And he was afraid — in a well-lit room, pupils dilated under the influence of adrenaline. The causes of its excessive presence were well known to science. And most of the options didn't fit the context of the current situation.
"You already know everything anyway," the captain said resignedly. "Why ask—" He jerked back, seeing Rukh deliberately slowly getting to his feet. "Yes-yes-yes! There was such an episode!"
"I need the coordinates of that place," I said calmly.
Hoffner sat in silence for a few seconds. He was far from stupid and understood that after his answer, he would no longer be needed — as soon as reconnaissance confirmed the coordinates were correct. And he didn't want to trust me either — the Empire's reputation didn't favor mutually beneficial relationships. Mr. Calrissian, who had participated in Darth Vader's trap for Luke Skywalker and his friends at Cloud City on Bespin, had done good work in making that information public among the relevant audience.
"You mentioned a reward," so, he had already moved from the "Denial" stage to the "Bargaining" stage. Excellent. "How much are you willing to pay me for this information?"
"Depending on how quickly we can come to an agreement, because those coordinates are also available to your former navigator, Talon Karrde," I said. "As well as on how many Katana Fleet Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers are in working condition, and how many you have already sold to General Garm Bel Iblis."
Mara Jade made an inarticulate sound that was difficult to identify in any way. Looking at the girl, I confirmed she was fine. It was just that her beautiful face wore an expression of bewilderment mixed with rage (I hoped — at her former employer) and irritation (and that was clearly a stone in my garden, for making her "play in the dark").
Hoffner, chewing his split lips, wiped the blood dripping from his nose, sniffed to clear his sinuses, then uttered:
"I sold six 'Dreadnaughts' to the Corellians," his lips twisted into a contemptuously bitter smirk. Judging by the fact that he didn't even try to look my way, he was only condemning himself. "Another four are now in optimal technical condition, or at least can move under their own power. I sold them for five hundred thousand credits each."
That was seven million below their factory price when these ships were "popular." Now their value rarely exceeded even a million on the arms market. Too much investment was needed to maintain even one such ship, too large a crew required, too much expense on finding and buying spare parts. And many more "too muches."
"You are a businessman, Captain," I said after the smuggler wrote the coordinates on the sheet of flimsiplast I handed him. And he did so in a way that Mara Jade couldn't read what was written. "You couldn't have failed to hear that the Empire is acquiring warships. Why didn't you come to us? Or offer them to the New Republic? After all, a state of that size has far greater financial resources than one rebel cell."
"Because both the New Republic and the Empire have budgets tighter than a drum," Hoffner stated. "If I contacted Coruscant, I'd get at most a tenth of the money for each ship that Bel Iblis offered me. And the Empire… You would just take them all from me and send me out into the world with empty pockets."
"Don't think in prejudices," I advised. "At least regarding me. I buy ships at a fair price. And I am sure you must have understood that your financial luck couldn't last forever. You would sell a dozen, maybe another dozen, maybe fifty, a hundred ships, and then someone would just shake them out of you when they realized you had more than you were telling."
"Yes, but I would have had time to get a good amount of money for the ones I could sell," Hoffner smiled. It seemed Rukh had knocked out a few of his teeth.
"I gave you my word — you will receive a fair reward for these ships. And for all of them," the former smuggler's eyes widened. "The calculation is simple — two hundred and fifty thousand will be the maximum price for a fully operational 'Dreadnaught.' From that sum, the cost of repairs needed for each ship will be deducted. The resulting amount will be paid to you immediately and in cash, if that's what interests you. You will also be refunded the funds that my operatives requisitioned from you during your detention."
"Generous," Hoffner didn't try to haggle, understanding that this was an offer he couldn't refuse. "What's the catch?"
"Consider it an advance," I said. "You will be assigned a number of tasks, upon completion of which you will become richer… Let's say… by twenty million credits."
"Are you sure you're an Imperial?" Hoffner clarified, looking at me suspiciously.
"Any doubts?" I inquired, glancing at the red-haired green-eyed woman. Judging by how she narrowed her eyes, she was asking herself the same question as the smuggler.
"None," Hoffner declared. "So what will my work involve?"
"It depends on how well known you are among a certain contingent of sentients," I said. On one hand, it was wrong to discuss the details of one of my client's work in Mara Jade's presence. But that played into the rhetoric of our presumed conversation, which would definitely take place. "How familiar are you with the black market?"
"I know a few guys," Hoffner shrugged, convincing himself he was in no danger. "What's needed?"
"To move a certain type of merchandise," I wasn't going to go into such details. "Also, I want you to contact General Iblis or his people and set up a new meeting. As I understand, your negotiations on the Coral Vanda were interrupted?"
"Well… yes," Hoffner glanced sideways at Mara Jade. He reflexively touched his chest. Evidently the beauty had given him a good going-over during the capture or while trying to escape. "But there could be problems with that."
"What kind?" I asked.
"They always contacted me themselves," he said. "I was living on that liner, and the last deal was supposed to be the sale of four heavy cruisers."
Is that so… Interesting. I didn't recall anything like that happening in the events I knew.
"Do you know why they are looking for these ships?" I inquired.
"The Empire stirred up a mess in the Dufilvian sector," he said. "As I understand it, Bel Iblis decided to increase the number of ships in his fleet to fight back if your ships find him."
"Do you know where his base is?" I was surprised.
"No," the man shook his head negatively. "We only met on the Coral Vanda. They brought a prepayment for each ship to an arranged location, I went to the fleet's deployment point, picked out a better Dreadnaught, and flew it to a place from where I gave them a signal on a coded frequency they gave me at the meeting. They would arrive, pay the second part of the sum, and we'd part ways until the next deal."
"Were you given frequencies for a new meeting?" I asked. It seemed a chance to lure Bel Iblis into a trap had appeared. And if not him, then one of his underlings.
"No," Hoffner dashed my hopes for an easy victory. Well, if one option couldn't be realized, it didn't mean others wouldn't work. For example, Coordinator Sergius on New Cov might be far luckier. Or… Frequencies… Six deals. After each, the smuggler contacted the buyers. Now the buyers certainly already knew about what happened on the Coral Vanda, specifically about the death of their operatives. But did they know Hoffner was with me? Unlikely, but such an option shouldn't be dismissed outright. On the contrary, it could be used. But it would only work if the Corellians didn't know about Hoffner's capture. And were monitoring the previous frequencies to find out if he would try to contact them again. "They hadn't even given me an advance. We were right in the middle of negotiations — they were ready to buy all four ships at once, but I understood I couldn't pilot them all myself and was bargaining for more time."
"The high degree of automation on the Katana Fleet ships allowed you to make jumps without crew members?" I inquired as calmly as possible.
"I have a small team — two technicians and droids," he informed me. "With a lot of effort, they can help with a jump, but we mainly made deals within one or two parsecs of the whole fleet. In a much longer flight, many things could happen…"
"Do you still have the frequencies from previous deals?" Mara Jade suddenly asked. I looked at the girl; Rukh rose but was immediately stopped by me. Actually, she had said exactly what I was about to ask. Obviously, we thought the same thing.
"Yes, of course," Hoffner replied. "If needed, I'll give them to you."
"Needed," I confirmed, giving Jade an approving nod. With her question, she had demonstrated that she too was considering the possibilities of hunting Bel Iblis. She didn't need him personally, which meant she was showing me she was ready to help.
Good, I'll note that.
"Is that everything you want from me?" Hoffner blinked.
"Can you offer anything else?" I inquired with restraint. "Perhaps the coordinates of Booster Terrik's Errant Venture? Or the location of the Sa Nalaor? Or any other interesting starships?"
Hoffner hesitated.
"I'm not on good terms with Terrik, like everyone I know well, he's a different bird altogether," he said thoughtfully. "Sa Nalaor… Didn't know Imperials believed in myths," he looked at me probingly. I didn't answer him — it was obvious the smuggler was trying to grab any piece of information. Better let him think it was a bad joke rather than a question from the "What if it works?" category. "As for interesting starships… Judging by the fact you asked about the Errant Venture, you're looking for something big and with lots of guns?"
"An interesting synonymous expression for the term 'Star Destroyer,'" I assessed. "Judging by the look on your face, you are clearly ready to share information. I am ready to hear you out."
"Well… it's common knowledge," he faltered. "In the Corporate Sector, there are still a huge number of Victory-class Star Destroyers — about a thousand. I've heard some can be bought at throwaway prices, though their technical condition is, of course, not the best."
Yes, I knew that fact as well. And that until Palpatine's death, the Corporate Sector had been a pro-Imperial region — which is why they received privileges in the form of an entire fleet of _Victory_s and other Imperial equipment from mothballs. They have a lot of things — except the desire to cooperate with Imperials. Because they were doing business with the New Republic. Rare, but largely promising. And they definitely wouldn't go for an open agreement to sell Star Destroyers. But secretly…
"Are you able to facilitate such a deal?" I inquired.
"Um…" Hoffner hesitated. "I can't say for sure, but… I could try."
So, at the moment, it was an extremely unlikely scenario. _Victory_s, even if not the strongest ship in the Imperial fleet, were largely combat-ready, required a small crew for maintenance and operation. And their cost compared to the same _Imperial_s was significantly lower — about three times. And considering the New Republic also had a large number of ships with low military power — there was always a suitable job for _Victory_s. If only there was money to acquire them.
"Any other options, Mr. Hoffner?" I inquired.
"There was a rumor that Hirael Chindiaiya, a flunky of the Black Sun, had a Star Destroyer about a year after the rebels blew up the Death Star, supposedly even an Imperial," the former commander of Talon Karrde said thoughtfully.
"He scrapped it," Mara Jade said, casting a cautious glance at me. Is that so? A warship scrapped? Especially after the Battle of Yavin? Interesting, and how did this "comrade" manage to get his hands on such a marvel of technology?
"Not the most dignified end to a warship's service," I said.
"Well, it could have been worse," Hoffner snorted unexpectedly.
"It seems there's a rather interesting story behind that phrase," I had a feeling this man knew much more than he wanted to tell. Maybe I should indeed have him interrogated under duress? Though no, without even a minimum of information, I might end up with nothing useful. And only spoil a useful information source.
Well, I'll try cooperating with him. I hope he won't now start telling me about Imperial equipment at the Harma shipyards?
"Have you heard of the pirate group 'Invid'?"
"No," I admitted. There were a vast number of pirate groups in this galaxy. And not every one could be pulled from memory so easily. And conducting a "brainstorm" in front of these two wasn't in my interest. It didn't fit the image. "For a long time, my attention was focused… in another direction."
From Mara Jade's direction came a barely distinguishable snort. She knew full well which part of the galaxy the real Thrawn had been in on Palpatine's orders.
"Anyway, this is a very cohesive and well-organized pirate group," Hoffner explained. "They are commanded by a former Imperial Moff, Leonia Tavira."
Something familiar stirred in my memory. I couldn't recall it reliably now, but… it seemed that name was connected with Corran Horn in some way. And an interesting group of Force-sensitive beings. But that was only if my memory didn't fail me.
"The Invid are a very secretive group," Mara Jade chimed in again. "No one knows where they are based or what targets they choose."
"Well, that doesn't stop them from operating in the Mid Rim," Hoffner smirked. "Though yes, their base location is quite a mystery. The New Republic would pay well for that information. After all, they really get on the rebels' nerves and pluck their convoys."
"The problems of the New Republic and piracy on their territory worry me to a lesser extent," I said.
"But you said you could use information about warships," Hoffner was surprised.
"How is that connected to Leonia Tavira and her pirates?" I inquired.
"The Invid have several good cruisers," Mara Jade said, clearly searching her memory.
"And Tavira's flagship is a 'two,'" Hoffner grinned crookedly.
Is that so? In this galaxy, does every Tom, Dick, and Harry have their own…
"Imperial-class Star Destroyer," the smuggler explained his terminology, evidently thinking I hadn't understood him. "Second modification."
Strange are your works, far-far-away galaxy…
Maybe I should become a pirate? Apparently, it works out for just about everyone. You only need your own Star Destroyer.
"Intriguing information," I tried not to betray my interest. "We will verify it, but after we settle the account for the Katana Fleet ships with you. But first, our doctors will examine you and fix you up from the… excesses of your invitation to visit us."
Beyond any doubt, I could have simply taken the fleet by force and paid Hoffner nothing. After all, even in the best-case scenario for us, that could amount to up to a hundred million in expenses. But I intend to use this individual more broadly. And over a much longer term. So force and intimidation aren't quite appropriate here. Besides, I'm not a fan of torture, really. I prefer to negotiate. And money... you can always earn more.
Especially if the information about Leonia Tavira having a Star Destroyer turns out to be true, I need to try and take that ship from her. Negotiating is unlikely to work, and recruiting her... also unlikely. If she wanted to join, she'd surely have responded by now. I'm certain this group has a large network of informants — how else would they manage to pull off their raids right under the Republic's nose and never get caught? I have no doubt that Republic Intelligence, in the person of Mr. Airen Cracken, is tearing the ground apart trying to find them and bring them to justice. Because a Star Destroyer in uncontrolled hands... that's terrifying. They barely agreed to let Booster Terrik keep the Errant Venture as it was — and even then, only because that smuggler is "conditionally loyal." But an Imperial Moff, a woman, leading a pirate group with cruisers in her arsenal, and also possessing a Star Destroyer... yes, that kind of information could make anyone wake up in a cold sweat at night.
I looked at the line of figures written on flimsiplast. Hmm... if I'm picturing this correctly, that place is somewhere in the "southern part of the galaxy."..
"Yes, about the coordinates," Hoffner suddenly spoke up. "May I have the sheet back?"
"Want to keep it as a souvenir?" Mara Jade smirked.
"No," Hoffner grimaced, looking at me guiltily. "It's just that I made a bit of a mistake there... You don't want to end up in a black hole, do you?"
Measuring him with a cold gaze from my scarlet eyes, I silently handed him the sheet of paper for corrections. A hint of mockery appeared in Mara Jade's eyes. It vanished instantly the moment our gazes met.
No, I was wrong. After a stunt like that, the cost of acquiring the Katana Fleet would drop by an order of magnitude. You don't pull tricks like that on me.
That's beneath your station, Captain Hoffner.
* * *
The insertion went according to plan.
The old freighter landed at the New Cov spaceport just a few minutes before the Crusader's attack began. The appearance of a Victory-class Star Destroyer in the sky above the planet caused a commotion in the town.
And instantly cleared the area of customs officers and security services. Yes, they had no business being there with landing shuttles appearing over the city near the biomolecular mass synthesizers. The locals, as planned, were preparing to repel the landing force.
And the fact that Captain I-Gor was concentrating his forces directly in the industrial district, around those very biomolecular mass production facilities, allowed the enemy to expose other parts of the city, pulling patrols and guards away from there. The reputation of "they came to loot the factories" spoke for itself, and the plan was built on it — the local government's attention was focused in one place, while the key aspects of the operation would be carried out in another.
Effortlessly hacking the security systems of an abandoned airspeeder, Sergius and Major Molo Himron's team set out towards the planetary governor's residence.
During the Empire's reign over the galaxy, no Imperial troops were stationed on the planet, and there was no Imperial appointee. Everything was run by local officials, so they had no major problems getting where they needed to go. New Cov continued to pretend to be an independent planet, beholden to neither the Empire nor the Rebel state. And so the resistance in orbit was minimal. A pair of ancient ships, old enough to have seen the Clone Wars, were nothing more than an appetizer for the Crusader. And no main course would be served here — there was no one to ask for protection. With minimal destruction, the local government wouldn't hysterically call for help from the Rebels. And once they could negotiate with their ruler, there wouldn't be any problems at all.
The central town hall building, where the planetary governor was located, was quite conspicuous. Despite being a two-story structure that had clearly seen better days, exuding the architecture of outright backwater — like most of the buildings in this town.
No serious guards or security systems. Just a couple of soldiers at the main gate. Judging by their posture and weapon handling — clearly locals. All the better.
The Imperial scouts climbed over the low fence, crossed the ten-meter lawn in a few seconds, and were now pressed against the town hall walls. No one was watching them — the citizens were hiding in their homes, the officials in more secluded spots. Only the planetary governor and a few of his trusted aides intended to ride it out in the town hall. Because in their minds, it was an impregnable fortress.
Well, it was time to disabuse them of that notion.
Using grappling hooks, they ascended one by one to the second-floor balcony. A quick check — the corridors were empty. Cutting the glass in the door with laser cutters was a matter of seconds.
Setting the transparent material aside so as not to give away their position, the scouts slipped inside, switching their weapons to stun mode.
There was no point in killing anyone here in the town hall. The officials of New Cov — or any other planet, for that matter — were extremely touchy about the deaths of their underlings. They cared little about soldiers — you could always find new ones. But officials... when multiple criminal schemes are "tied" to a single worker in the bureaucratic apparatus, it creates a certain discontent among the higher-ups towards those who kill those very individuals.
So, everything had to be done without fatalities.
Moving down the empty corridor to the governor's reception area, Sergius raised his fist. The squad reacted correctly to the "attention" signal, fanning out to cover possible attack vectors.
There were three guards in the reception area. In worn-out body armor, armed with weapons that were outdated but still capable of killing, they had set up a defense. No face or head protection. No additional armor. Not professionals — militia. The position wasn't ideal — too much open space for a potential attack. So they clearly weren't here by choice. Which meant they were directly protecting the governor.
Well then...
Sergius gave a hand signal.
Two soldiers, pulling a flashbang grenade each from their numerous pouches, lobbed them towards the defenders. The helmet visors of the Imperials darkened, external audio channels cut off to protect their eyes and ears from the blast.
Gunfire rang out. Then a roar and a flash of light. Cries of despair.
A short rush forward, firing stunners at the screaming guards — and three bodies stiffened on the floor.
Molo Himron, detailing one soldier to guard the local troops and another to monitor the situation, proceeded to the door leading to the governor's office. The soldiers, including Sergius, stood against the wall on either side of the entrance, ready to burst in. The commander of the Imperial scout squad hit the panel, and the metal door slid aside, disappearing into the wall.
At that very moment, crimson blaster bolts poured out from inside. No pattern, no hint of aimed fire. It was a desperate gesture. Judging by the sound of the shooting — two or three people inside. Firing simultaneously. Based on the characteristics — they had identical light blasters, civilian models. That meant gas for ten to twenty shots, max. And they were firing together. So they would be reloading together as well...
The local fire stopped at exactly two-thirds of the expected duration — it seemed not all the blasters were the same model. But that was enough.
Sergius lunged through the doorway, timing the interval between shots.
Once inside the office, he ducked behind a cabinet standing by the door, into which two blaster bolts immediately slammed. At that same moment, Major Himron's soldiers entered the office.
Two guards were taken out with stunner fire, but the governor — a short, pudgy, balding man dressed in exquisite, expensive fabrics — barely saw half a dozen heavily armed, medium-armored soldiers appear on his doorstep. Startled, he threw his blaster aside, plopped back into his oversized chair, and raised his hands.
"I... I surrender!" the governor squeaked.
"Perimeter," Molo ordered his men, while Sergius was already dragging the governor, chair and all, out from behind the desk. As the scouts searched the guards for weapons, the coordinator pulled the nearest chair closer and sat down facing the governor. The major positioned himself behind his right shoulder like an avenging angel.
"How many more people are in the building?!" the coordinator gave the fat man a light slap across the face.
"J-just me and f-five g-guards," he stammered. "T-today's a d-day off, no one's working."
All the better. Though, I wonder what you were doing here? And why didn't you mention the two downstairs? Never mind, the second group left on the planet will handle it and keep an eye on the fat man if they can come to an understanding with him. Besides, a message came from Himron on the helmet display that the slackers downstairs had already been relieved of their life problems.
"I have a proposal for you, Governor," Sergius began without preamble.
"W-what kind?" the fat man nervously glanced between the coordinator and the other Imperial soldiers, not understanding who they were or what they wanted. Identifying them by appearance was impossible. Each wore a helmet with an opaque visor. No insignia. Their gear was expensive, but easily purchased on any black market.
"Biomolecular mass," Sergius continued. "How much of it do you produce?"
"Wh-what?" the fat man blinked. "W-what does that have to do with anything?"
"We need your product," Sergius explained. "Not all of it, just a portion."
"The Imperials are taking it right now," the governor blinked.
"Don't judge things by first impressions," Sergius stated. "There are plenty of organizations in the galaxy that have ships taken from the Empire. We're one of them. Apologies for this mess, but there was no other way to negotiate with you."
"C-could have just called," the governor looked at the holoprojector built into his desk. "We sell our mass to over a thousand clients across the galaxy. Anonymously."
Sergius almost slapped his forehead.
He'd been in the coordinator's chair too long, overlooking a detail like that.
Good thing Molo was chuckling almost inaudibly.
"We have a trust issue and communication system problems," a pathetic excuse, sure, but who cares. "Let's just say this raid is a demonstration of what we can do to your planet if you decide to betray us. The terms are simple — we need your biomolecular mass. We'll negotiate volumes separately. A ship will come to you once a week. We arrive, take the volume of biomass we need, and leave. You store it in containers right after production?" The fat man nodded affirmatively. "Good. That makes it easier for you. Our shuttles will land at your facility under the guise of a raid, take everything we need. After we verify the product is of adequate quality, you will personally receive the agreed amount of credits. Not the facility," Sergius emphasized. "You. For everyone else, it will still be a raid. Anyone who tries to stop us will be destroyed. Is that clear?" The fat man nodded. Very energetically. Pliable, which is good. "It's in your interest to make sure no one is nearby during the raid. How you manage that is your problem. If you think about deceiving us, we'll deal with you. If you think about betraying us and calling the Empire or the New Republic, or mercenaries, or anyone else — we'll find a way to turn your planet into a slag heap. Have you ever seen what a broadside of proton torpedoes from a single Victory does to a city?" the coordinator asked.
The governor shook his head vigorously and very negatively, his second and third chins nearly going on an independent journey.
"It's not much of a sight," Sergius said. "I don't advise testing our patience. We have nothing to lose, but backed into a corner, we are very, very dangerous. Is everything clear?"
The fat man broke out in large, incredibly foul drops of sweat. Judging by the smell and the wet trousers — he hadn't just sweated. The coordinator switched off the external air intake on his helmet.
"Good," Sergius stated, looking at his chronometer. "Mission two."
He placed an infochip on the desk.
"Here," the coordinator pointed at the device, "is data on individuals we're interested in." In reality, it was a list with holographic images of all known supporters of Garm Bel Iblis who had disappeared from view around the same time he did. Plus — a substantial list of Bothans from Councilor Fey'lya's clan. The Grand Admiral had insisted on including the latter. "You will instruct your people to keep an eye out. If you find any of them on your planet — and we know they visit here — report to us on the frequency found on the chip. Don't do anything yourself — we'll handle everything. For information leading to the capture of at least one of these individuals, we guarantee you a reward of one hundred thousand credits." The governor's eyes widened. "After their capture, of course, if your information proves correct. If we have more tasks for you, we'll let you know. Not a word of our arrangement to anyone, if you value your life and the lives of your children, parents, relatives, and all three mistresses. We know about the bastard too, and believe me, he won't hide from us even on Coruscant. Is everything clear?"
"Y-yes," the governor replied. "But... the attack... The soldiers will remember being attacked... I don't want problems..."
"Don't worry about that," Sergius's smile was invisible beneath his mask. He signaled to Molo, who yanked the fat man to his feet and dragged him over to the nearest guard lying on his back.
Sergius made sure one of the operatives, having finished placing listening devices in the reception area and office, demonstratively activated a portable holocamera.
"Blood baptism, dear Governor," Sergius continued playing his corsair role, placing his own blaster into the hand of the governor, who was trembling with fear and the realization of what was about to happen. A short click announced that the weapon had been switched to lethal fire mode. "If you want to cooperate and receive money from us, you must bloody your hands. Kill him."
The fat man stood, shifting uncertainly from foot to foot, clutching the blaster pistol's grip with sticky fingers. He looked around frantically, as if seeking support from the seven people in black gear. But he couldn't read their emotions, as their faces remained hidden by helmets.
"Come now, Governor," Sergius said. "Either you, or our millions will flow into the pockets of other officials!"
The mention of money that could be his personally, even though it exceeded the planet's entire annual budget, was the deciding factor. The fat man shot them a greedy look. Looked at his victim.
And made up his mind.
A crimson beam erupted from the barrel, instantly piercing the guard's thin armor and inflicting lethal injuries on his body.
"Excellent, Governor," Sergius praised him. "You're almost one of us."
"A-almost?" The fat man clearly didn't like that.
"Of course," the coordinator said. "There are still four witnesses left."
By this time, the soldiers had already arranged the bodies so that their deaths from the attackers' fire would look more believable. All that remained was...
A couple of Himron's soldiers, armed with the guards' blasters, opened random fire in the reception area and office, simulating a firefight. The rest spread out through the town hall for the same purpose. Impact marks on the walls and furniture would indicate that there clearly must have been casualties here. The professionalism of the execution was another reason for someone to get on their trail.
A minute later, the operation was repeated, but using the attackers' weapons. If anyone was bored enough to conduct a deep analysis of the damage, they would undoubtedly find that the blaster shots from the guards originated from inside the rooms heading outward, while those from the attackers went in the opposite direction. Spectral analysis of the impacts would allow them to identify the guards' weapons, while the agents' blasters were a very expensive custom build. Available on the black market. Imperial Intelligence had always preferred reliable standard-issue weapons.
When the governor, trembling with fear and the realization of what he had done, handed the weapon to Sergius, drenched in sweat, the latter deftly caught the blaster in a specially prepared paper bag he had pulled from a pocket on his belt.
"Nothing personal, Governor," he explained. "Your skin cells are on the weapon you used to shoot your own guards to eliminate witnesses and continue profiting from our illegal operations. Any analysis will confirm they were killed with this weapon. Any genetic test will conclude that you held it in your hands. If you decide to pull a trick on us, this weapon and the holo-recording will end up with New Republic Intelligence. And within a couple of weeks, they'll 'liberate' your planet from the 'bloody tyrant.' Is everything clear?"
"Y-yes." The fat man now belonged to them, body and soul. And only to them.
"Well, excellent," Sergius grunted. Taking another blaster from Molo's hands, he switched it to combat mode and quickly fired into the fat man's leg and arm.
Howling in pain, the heap of fat crumpled to the floor.
"F-for what?!" sobbing, he asked, watching as his own blaster — the one that had just decorated the entire office's walls — was placed in his hand.
"Well, who would believe your story that five guards died at the hands of the attackers, but you escaped unharmed?" Sergius laughed. "On the chip, you'll also find a cover story to feed your inner circle. Good day, Mr. Governor."
Five minutes later, they were back at their airspeeder. They crossed the city quickly — TIE Interceptors were still circling overhead, occasionally firing at some ruins. Judging by their angular, unprofessional flight paths, the pilots were trying their best to look like clumsy amateurs who had ended up at the controls by mistake.
By the time the Crusader had left and the second scout group had found a secure hideout, Sergius and his team had already disposed of their special gear and changed into civilian clothes. The same clothes that the spaceport's cameras had recorded them wearing after landing.
"So, what's your cargo?" the customs officer appeared half an hour later. Along with the rather battered local soldiers, who had gotten a serious scare when they encountered the stormtroopers. But now they were swaggering through the streets and surrounding the town hall, trying to show the locals that everything was fine, they'd protect everyone, and so on down the list of standard powerless demagogue talking points.
"Grain," Sergius said, playing the role of a provincial, and noisily blew his nose onto the landing pad surface. "Does this happen often around here?"
"First time," the customs officer admitted. "They took two weeks' worth of our biomolecular mass production! What the hell do they need that much seasoning for? Enough to feed a couple of legions."
"Damned if I know," Sergius wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Let me unload your grain for the minimum price quickly, and I'll get the hell out of this inhospitable little planet."
"Yeah," the customs officer nodded approvingly. "I wouldn't mind doing that myself."
* * *
As paradoxical as it sounds, the Moff's residence had a throne room.
The size of a football field, intended for receiving various petitioners and official meetings. No doubt various celebrations were also held here. Well, it doesn't matter anymore.
The main thing is that this room is very similar to Palpatine's throne room in the Imperial Palace. The ambiance necessary for the conversation ahead of me. Not the one I was just having. But a more... dangerous one.
"So, Booster Terrik refused to deal with you, Mr. Ferrier," I said, summing up the hijacker's report, gazing at the hologram projected by a device located a few meters to the right of my position. Because the massive chair — the spitting image of the one the Emperor liked to sit in aboard the Death Star — could rotate on its axis, I had no problem looking directly into my interlocutor's eyes.
According to what Moff Ferrus had told me, the fashion for these high-tech throne-chairs began after the Emperor exterminated the Jedi. Such a chair was in his office during his tenure as Supreme Chancellor. An identical one was in the throne room inside Mount Tantiss. And from my memories, Sidious was sitting in it during the duel between Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader during the Battle of Endor.
The low stepped dais on which the chair sat allowed the person in it to tower a full meter above everyone else. A small, cunning ploy to emphasize the high position of one person over those who came into this hall. Psychology of suppression in its purest form. It wouldn't work on intelligent beings with high IQs who knew their own worth, but on the rest... which constitutes the vast majority...
"Yes, that's right, Grand Admiral," "Sly" grimaced displeasedly. "It seems we won't be getting the buzz droids through him. We'll have to turn to the Zann Consortium. Plan Besh, so to speak."
Besh... the second letter of the main Galactic language, also called Basic. Or, scientifically: "Aurebesh."
"For what purpose?" I clarified. "Plan Aurek is still in effect."
"Sir?" The hijacker blinked. "But Booster Terrik refused to sell the buzz droids. You didn't fall for his offer to trade the mechanisms for my head, did you? He'll cheat!.."
I didn't even pay attention to the hijacker's further howling. Buzz droids in exchange for the hijacker's head? Yes, a tempting offer, saving a ton of money, time, and nerves. Besides, Terrik — even if he hasn't figured it out yet, he already suspects that Ferrier works for the Empire. And there definitely won't be any fruitful cooperation with a smuggler. Not that it was ever intended.
Paradoxical as it may seem, the outcast in his illegal element, "Sly," is more useful to me than Booster Terrik. And less harmful, if the issue is approached correctly. And "Sly.".. a very convenient supplier of Corellian ships, which I need to increase the power of my Star Destroyers as much as possible.
"Moving on to phase two, Mr. Sly," I interrupted his stream of verbal effusions. Most of it was nonsense, but one point was extremely intriguing.
"Grand Admiral?" His eyes bulged. "I... don't understand. There was a phase two?"
"Every trick consists of three acts," I said. There's no point explaining to Ferrier that I need more than just buzz droids from Terrik. But those too, of course. However, if the hijacker didn't grasp that during our last conversation — that's his problem. And his alone. "Act one is complete. Act two is just beginning."
"And... what will it be?" "Sly" asked cautiously.
"As far as I know, Mirax Terrik is one of the most renowned antique dealers," I recalled. I was hoping desperately I wasn't mistaken. "Is she still in that line of business?"
"Yes, of course, it's very profitable," the hijacker said, stunned. For a moment, I remembered that the labyrinth beneath Mount Tantiss houses a maze full of art objects and rare jewels. It turns out I have a goldmine right under my nose. Funny how I only ever considered Palpatine's stockpiles in a military context. The fact that these valuables could be sold for a huge amount of money... Well. I'm not Thrawn. He would surely have found a way to get rich by selling the antique items Palpatine had so carefully collected as symbols of his victories. I wonder how much they're worth? "And..."
"Contact Captain Pellaeon," I said. "He will give you coordinates for a meeting point. You will receive several antique items there." No, we hadn't reached Palpatine's collection yet — the labyrinth is incredibly cunning. But even in Thrawn's own stores, if I recall correctly, there are a couple of interesting pieces. There was even a race for one of them with Princess Leia and her family. Thrawn got the art piece, but the Rebel cipher hidden inside it went to the Rebels. "With these valuables and a support group, you will find Mirax Terrik and offer to sell them through her mediation."
"Sir, I don't understand the point..." the hijacker admitted.
"You don't need to," I replied. "Just do as you're ordered. And, yes, your offer is accepted."
"What offer, sir?" The hologram's eyes blinked.
"Didn't you just promise me more Corellian ships of the DP20 and CR90 types?" I asked, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. "Five units of each type in exchange for ignoring Booster Terrik's proposal. As I recall, you offered it just now, in exchange for your life."
"Yes, Grand Admiral," the hijacker said resignedly. "I... will do everything."
"I don't doubt it," I said without any farewells, and switched off the holoprojector.
A second later, the doors of the main entrance to the throne room slid apart with a loud hiss.
Inside, walking with a model's "from the hip" gait, clad in a tight black combat suit that emphasized the beauty of her trained figure, her green eyes blazing straight into mine from a beautiful face framed by golden-red hair, stepped the Emperor's Hand. She carried herself proudly, independently, demonstrating she knew her own worth and wouldn't prostrate herself at the mere sight of me, regardless of my position or the loyalty to the Empire drilled into her head. A predator capable of removing any obstacle in its path. A predator who had come for answers.
The finale of my first grand trick in this galaxy was approaching.
It was time to recruit Mara Jade.