Nine years, five months, and sixteen days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fourth year, five months, and sixteen days after the Great Resynchronization.
"Fodeum Sabre De'Luz," the sentient sitting before the Jensaarai — the Chiss — seemed to taste his name. "You have an interesting approach to choosing a starship."
Not counting the two stormtroopers standing behind Fodeum, guarding the exit from the large compartment at the Imperial outpost in the Pakuuni system, only one sentient was present here. And he sat by the opposite wall of the office belonging to the outpost commandant. About six or seven meters separated them… The Imperials sure loved building with scale! You could set up a whole Gungan dormitory in here and still have room!
The commander of the Graceful Lady looked into the crimson eyes of the blue-skinned creature sitting before him, clad in a snow-white Imperial-cut uniform with a command bar on its chest. Any sentient knowledgeable about the insignia of the Empire could say with certainty that before him was a grand admiral. In the flesh.
Again.
An Imperial grand admiral. Before a simple trader. And not just any trader — a Hutt alien!? How was that supposed to be taken? The Imperial fleet, like the army, did not allow women or non-humans into command positions. Hmm… That was an amusing comparison. So, to the Imperials, women were non-humans?
But Fodeum didn't get to develop his thought.
"Your reward," a hand in a snow-white glove slid a credit chip across the table toward him. One glance at it would be enough to understand — there were twenty thousand here. Twenty, damn it, thousand Imperial credits!
Considering the exchange rate in the galaxy was five Imperial credits to four Republic credits, he now had an astronomical sum in his pocket! Not only enough to repair the Graceful Lady, but also to buy supplies for several years ahead! And still have enough left for a comfortable life for a few months. Just how important was this Captain Tomax Bren to the Empire, that they paid this kind of money to have him delivered?!
"Thank you," trying not to show his embarrassment, Fodeum reached out and took the chip, immediately pocketing it. "Uh… Can I go?"
"Of course," allowed the… what race was he from anyway? He looked human. But blue skin. Pantoran? Red eyes, like a Duros… Hmm… No, of course, it was wrong to judge others' preferences, but it seemed like humans didn't particularly like Duros in that regard. It looked like someone — either the mom or dad of this Imperial — liked the exotic. Anyway, that was irrelevant. The main thing now was to get out of here and… "But not now."
Fodeum, already standing by the doors guarded by a pair of stormtroopers, looked wistfully at the "dolls" blocking his exit.
Throwing a look full of pleading and resignation at the Imperial officer, he found not a hint of regret in him. Sighing, he returned to his seat.
So, what did he want? No, if this blue-face was a telepath, like the Umbarans, then he could apologize for his treasonous thoughts, but…
"Captain Bren informed me that you and your companion are somewhat short on funds," the Imperial said.
"Erm…" Fodeum imagined how Vex would sarcastically remind him that he shouldn't have been so open with Bren during the flight. It seemed he had created a problem for himself. "Your reward will be quite sufficient…"
"On the contrary, I insist that we are still in your debt, Mister Fodeum Sabre De'Luz," the Imperial said. So, blue-face, why do you keep repeating the full name? Decided to show that you've remembered it like that? "Our shipyard will put your starship in order. It won't take much time — half a day at most. After that, you'll go back to earning credits."
"Well… yeah. If we find a suitable contract," Fodeum scratched the back of his head. "When your cargo hold can only hold ten metric tons of cargo, not everyone will hire you. The YG-4210 was designed by Corellians about a hundred years ago…"
"Your starship is two hundred and four years old," the Imperial said. "And it's not in the best condition. Our engineers will correct that flaw. We'll also give you a freight contract."
Weeeell… This was no longer the kind of gratitude he'd been counting on.
"Thanks, of course," why was the back of his head itching so much? As if someone was tickling his subconscious. Unpleasant… It brought back memories of the days when the Teacher dug around in his brain. Good thing these were Imperials — they definitely didn't have Jedi. "We can manage on our own somehow…"
"I must insist, Mister Fodeum Sabre De'Luz. Repairs and modernization of your ship have already begun," the Imperial said. The Jensaarai felt his hands clench involuntarily. Good thing the Imperial couldn't see it, busy stroking his lizard. Who the hell keeps a brown lizard as a pet? Half a meter long too! Seriously, it looked like a living piece of sh…
YG-4210 — Graceful Lady.
"Sentients like you are a great rarity in the galaxy," the Imperial said, looking at Fodeum with such a gaze that… it made him feel uneasy. "Sensitivity to the Force among sentients is not as common as one might wish."
"Well, that's it, they'll take me to some dungeon and shoot me as a Jedi," Fodeum thought gloomily. He couldn't prove to them that he was a Jensaarai and had nothing to do with the Jedi. That he couldn't care less about that Light Side, that he was sick to the liver of all these exercises, meditations, and whatnot… And besides, he'd lost his lightsaber a long time ago…
"I am offering you a job, Mister Fodeum Sabre De'Luz," was this blue-skin mocking him?!
"Umm…" his mentor had told him — learn to control your thoughts and your tongue! He should have listened when his elders spoke, instead of running off and giving them the finger… "What kind of job?"
"We need freight," said the Imperial. "From one point to another. Your ship is equipped with a Class One hyperdrive instead of the standard Class Three or Four. That means you can make the round trip in a standard week — you won't have to fly through unexplored space, strictly along hyperspace routes. You deliver one person and return for the reward. Fifty thousand credits."
"As my father used to say: 'Don't be shy about the size of your salary,'" muttered Fodeum, completely bewildered. "And what's the problem?"
"Your abilities in the Force will likely be required," said the Imperial as if it were obvious. "To convince someone of something. You'll figure it out on the spot."
"You might think I'm a Jedi and capable of all sorts of tricks," Fodeum tried to evade, "but that's not the case... In reality, I'm very, very weak in wielding the Force..."
"I suggest we not stoop to petty deception, Mr. Fodeum Sabre De'Luz," said the Imperial in a tone that suggested polite conversation rather than addressing a member of that rare category of beings the Empire had been exterminating for the last twenty-five years. "My consultant noticed you have good Force sensitivity. Given that fact, I can assume you were either born into a Jedi family or are part of a Force-sensitive society. The first assumption is unlikely, since most such families have been, unfortunately, discovered and destroyed by the Empire — un...fortunately? I assume you fall into the second category. Tell me when my guess matches reality. Zeison Sha, Matukai, Jensaarai..."
"Jensaarai," sighed Fodeum. "But I didn't even become a Protector."
"So I take it this rank is equivalent to a Jedi Knight?" the Imperial clarified. Fodeum nodded in agreement, lowering his gaze. What was the point of denying it? If the Empire wanted, they'd beat the information out of him. "Very interesting. And what led you to leave the Jensaarai society?"
"I fell out of step with them," the man said. "You don't really want to live in constant fear of being found and destroyed, with no ability to change it. And then I lost my lightsaber, couldn't make my own armor, the condemnations started..."
"And who were you afraid of?" the Imperial inquired. Apparently, the details of his exile didn't particularly interest him.
"First the Jedi, who are certain you can't combine knowledge of the Light Side and the Dark Side, the way the Jensaarai do," Fodeum recalled from history lessons. "Then the Empire, which doesn't really care whether we're Jedi or not — they exterminate everyone."
"The Empire, like any other state, can make mistakes," the blue-skinned Imperial remarked calmly. "Some would say it's the providence of the Force, but consider yourself lucky, Mr. Fodeum Sabre De'Luz."
"In what sense?" the former Jensaarai looked at him distrustfully.
"I am the Supreme Commander of the Empire," declared the blue-skinned... well, let's call him 'the man.' He had to be called something, didn't he? "Of what remains of it, of course. I suggest you stop fearing for your continued existence and think about the future."
"That's exactly what I'm thinking about," admitted Fodeum. "That's why I don't really want to work for you..."
"Prejudices are speaking through you," the Imperial said, as if brushing him off. "Do you think you and your fellow Jensaarai could become Jedi?"
"Pff-f-f," Fodeum chuckled. Then, realizing that the 'man' sitting across from him was not his buddy and would hardly be pleased with such a reaction from his interlocutor. "No, of course not."
"For what reason?" the Imperial inquired. And judging by his expression, HE WAS TRULY INTERESTED IN THE CORRECT ANSWER! What was wrong with this Imperial?!
"Because the Jensaarai split from the Jedi due to differing views on the Force — oh, I should have spent more time studying history. As I already said — we accept personal attachments, start families, use techniques from the Dark Side of the Force."
"Like lightning?"
"Well... yes," some kind of creepily knowledgeable Imperial in such matters. What was he plotting? Fodeum concentrated, directing the Force toward the Imperial to read his surface thoughts... And realized he couldn't. Because the Force around this 'man' seemed absent. No, not that. As if it avoided him. He felt awkward... and scared.
"So the Jensaarai, if offered by the New Republic, would not learn to be Jedi?" the Imperial clarified.
"How should I know?" Fodeum shrugged. "Maybe some would. I haven't kept in touch with them for a while."
"Because of disagreements?"
"Because I stole a ship from them to get off the planet," Fodeum admitted. "It wasn't right, of course, but..."
"I don't condemn you," said the Imperial. "On the contrary. I'm intrigued. What prompted you to do it? Besides the failed trial and the thirst for freedom."
"I don't like that our leader planned to get close to pirates," Fodeum said. "I don't know what it's about, but... I'm sure it won't benefit our people."
"Is that so... Does the group have a name?"
"Which one?" Fodeum didn't understand the question.
"Pirate."
"Ah... Well, yes... the Invid," said Fodeum.
And he really didn't like how the Imperial's eyes flashed.
"Is that so," slowly said this strange being, whom even the Force avoided. "Interesting..."
"Not really," Fodeum grimaced. "The Jensaarai deserve better than helping pirates with their attacks."
"An interesting point of view," said the Imperial. "And what, in your opinion, do the Jensaarai deserve?"
"To develop," the would-be Protector said confidently. "To seek new knowledge. To become better. That's why we left the Jedi — we wanted to know the Force from the Dark Side as well. But at the same time — to continue contributing to order and prosperity, not to be the Senate's attack dogs. At least, that's what the elders told me."
"Yes, helping pirates attack peaceful citizens is not the most useful path to order and prosperity," noted the Imperial. "Perhaps then my proposal will be to your liking."
"I'll deliver your man," sighed Fodeum, perfectly understanding that the Imperials just needed a ship and pilot that weren't 'burned' in shady dealings.
"I'm not talking about that," the Imperial stunned him. "My point of view on Force-sensitive beings largely coincides with the one you expressed. Such beings — regardless of gender, age, and race — should serve for the good of the peoples. The Empire must also care for its citizens and oppose the arbitrariness and corruption that democracy brings."
"Yeah, right, and Imperials are saints," thought Fodeum.
"That is why the Empire itself must change," the Imperial said, as if reading his thoughts. "We can become something better than we are now. To rectify the mistakes of the past. To stop oppression and use the achievements of all races for a better future. Who but Force-sensitive beings, like the Jensaarai, can help us with this? Your knowledge of the Force and your abilities can help us gain and protect our piece of the galaxy."
"Well, you seem to manage on your own," Fodeum said distrustfully. There was something... attractive in the Imperial's words. But everyone knew how two-faced Imperials could be, didn't they?
"Not as I would like," admitted the 'man'. The blue man. "That's why I'm looking for allies. The Jensaarai could become them."
"And what's in it for us?" Fodeum still didn't grasp the point.
"You will be able to continue studying the Force," said Thrawn. "You will settle in the territory of my Empire, integrate into its life. No one will oppress you or hunt you. On the contrary — I assure you that the Empire will contribute to the development of your order. No more taking children from families, no forced study of only the Light Side according to the Jedi teachings. The Empire will provide you with a place, resources, and the opportunity to continue your work."
"And what in return?" Sabre De'Luz perfectly understood that he had no right to speak for all Jensaarai, but... Perhaps this was the very meeting the Jensaarai needed?
"At the very least, you won't have to help pirates anymore to avoid being bothered," said the Imperial. "Yes, I won't hide it — I will need the Jensaarai in the armed forces as well. And in research — everywhere your talents can be useful."
"Sounds too good to be true," the former Jensaarai didn't hide his thoughts.
"As I already said — stereotypical thinking," said the Imperial. "No one is forcing you to fly to your Jensaarai comrades this very minute and persuade them to take my side..."
"His side. Not the Empire's side," Fodeum noted automatically.
."..just keep that in mind," said the Supreme Commander. "From now on, in that part of the Empire I command, Force-sensitive beings are... welcome."
"I'd like to believe that's true."
"So, the Jensaarai are cooperating with the pirate group 'the Invid'," said Thrawn, when Mara, having made sure that the visitor and the stormtroopers had left the office, emerged from the secret door leading to the escape pod intended for the evacuation of the outpost commander.
* * *
She approached the Grand Admiral, taking a position to his right and slightly behind him. Where the Noghri bodyguard usually stood. In the saving coolness of the ysalamiri...
But now Rukh was aboard the Chimaera, docked at the outpost. An interesting 'trip' that turned out to be.
The Grand Admiral's flagship delivers supplies to a remote outpost, while a freighter captain arrives here, bringing an Imperial pilot, a bomber squadron commander... A coincidence? No, Mara didn't think so.
"Now at least the reason why the Invid remain unpunished is clear," Thrawn said, as if continuing a conversation with himself, removing from his ear the tiny device through which Mara had been feeding him information about their guest. She still couldn't believe what Thrawn had said to the visitor.
"Will this really happen? The creation of an order of Force-sensitive beings in the new Empire?" she inquired. Strangely enough, by appointing her his Hand, the Grand Admiral had set aside formalities in personal communication. In the old days, she couldn't even conceive of addressing the Emperor without mentioning his title. But the Grand Admiral... a couple of times during the flight to the Pakuuni system, caught up in the heat of conversation, she had addressed him informally, and he simply ignored it. But Jade made a mental note not to overuse that kind of address toward her superior. She could always come up with a more circumlocutory formulation for a direct question to the Chiss.
"It is planned," said Thrawn. "Even in his madness, C'baoth coordinates fleet forces superbly. Within certain limits, but he does it unerringly and with maximum efficiency. The example of the Invid's elusiveness only confirms this observation — the proper application of a trained Force-sensitive being can be very costly. In conditions of limited resources, we cannot afford to dismiss such an opportunity to qualitatively increase our combat effectiveness."
"It's unlikely any of the Jensaarai possess abilities on the same level as C'baoth," Mara cautiously noted. "They are probably trained like ordinary Jedi — to fight with a lightsaber."
"That doesn't matter," the Grand Admiral looked at her. "Even a rancor can be taught new tricks."
"Only if you know where to get those very tricks," Mara observed. "The Force is a box of surprises. If one starts studying it through independent learning, one can't expect the Empire's subservient Jensaarai to qualitatively surpass their predecessors in any way. And without progress, they might resent the deception."
"No deception," declared Thrawn. "There is no point in misleading an ally — when he finds out, you can expect a knife in the back."
Mara mentally repeated Thrawn's words...
"The Empire has Jedi records?" she finally understood.
"Possibly," Thrawn shrugged. "I don't know for certain. I certainly don't have such data."
"Should I start searching for them?" Mara proposed, assuming her first assignment in Thrawn's service.
"In due time," said Thrawn, looking at her. "Until you are freed from the Emperor's final order, there is no point in putting you at risk. Until we receive an answer from the Jensaarai regarding their agreement to work for us, searching for such knowledge will only distract us from our main goal. I don't want to expend your talents where other, less valuable personnel can manage. For now, we must focus on resolving the problem of the Emperor's order. That is a priority."
Mara felt claws scratch across her heart. In the past, even the Emperor had not worried about her in this way.
"The Overlord and its escort have arrived at Tangrene," said the Grand Admiral, staring somewhere at the wall in front of him. "As well as the convoys with supplies, spare parts, equipment, and personnel from Bilbringi. The repair of the remaining Star Destroyers will take several days."
"Are we setting out on a campaign?" Mara clarified.
"The Crusader, the Steel Aurora, all three Interdictors, two Strike-class cruisers, and three Tartan-class cruisers are moving to the rendezvous point. The Chimaera will join them a little later, just before the attack itself," said Thrawn. "We'll also check how well the trap is organized. The remaining ships are engaged in transporting transition crews and technician teams to the location of the Katana Fleet. We have a different objective."
She honestly wanted to ask — "What objective?" But she understood there was no point in voicing that question. Thrawn would tell her when the time came.
This type of ship had many names.
* * *
But only two had stuck in galactic society.
The Gozanti-class cruiser.
The Gozanti-class armored transport.
Just under forty-two meters in length, equipped with a standard Class Three hyperdrive, armed with four laser cannons, two quad laser turrets, and a proton torpedo launcher, the Gozanti was like no other vessel suited for escort duty.
A very long time ago. A very long time. Back when it was still considered a cruiser, intended to protect convoys from pirate attacks.
Now, however, these starships were used in the Outer Rim for a very different purpose. Freighters. Very well armored and protected. And the logic here was very, very simple — the better a transport ship was protected, the more interesting its cargo.
"Is the Rabid Ewok ready for action?" inquired Tyberos, turning his head toward Eymand sitting beside him. The Zabrak, scratching his horned head, nodded in agreement.
The Rabid Ewok, Captain Tyberos's privateer ship.
"Ready as always, Captain," said the Zabrak, scraping his skull. "Five minutes until we exit the asteroid field — then they'll start accelerating."
"They won't make it," Tyberos snorted, gazing through the cockpit transparisteel at the enormous space boulders drifting past.
Rumor had it that the Roche asteroids were the remains of the Verpine race's homeworld, destroyed in a bloody civil war of which no evidence remained. Though the Verpine themselves claimed they didn't know the name or location of their home planet, and only lived on the asteroids. And they lived in comfort — using massive repulsors, they could adjust the orbits of both the smallest and the largest asteroids, inside which the Verpine settlements and technical workshops were located.
And generally, these nearly two-meter-tall fellows were quite strange. Their vision could detect microscopic damage in any part without technical aids. They could perceive radio waves, and their natural exoskeleton could withstand the blow of any blade (except maybe a lightsaber) and even a blaster bolt.
The Verpine were known as some of the best engineers in the galaxy. From the very beginning of the conflict between the Galactic Empire and the Rebel Alliance, the inhabitants of the Roche asteroids had secretly helped the latter, building and repairing their combat equipment. And as soon as the New Republic was formed, the Verpine joined it and were still active members. Much of the responsibility for repairing a considerable amount of Rebel equipment fell on their shoulders.
Actually, that's why they were here.
Tyberos had no informants of his own on the Roche asteroids. And he wasn't about to trust anyone outside his group.
So the Rabid Ewok had arrived in the Roche system almost immediately after Tyberos received his privateer's letter of marque. They shut down the engines, lost themselves among the space boulders, attaching to one of them. And waited. Observed.
While other pirates either used their own agents to tip them off about where certain 'tasty targets' might be, or simply grabbed everything within reach during a raid, Tyberos preferred caution.
Caution and planning — that was what he had definitely learned from Eymand. Ambush tactics in a place where no one expected you — an excellent thing. It allowed for a pre-planned strike based on observation of the target.
And they had already identified their target.
A Gozanti-class armored transport bearing New Republic identification markings on its hull. The ship had arrived a week ago, escorted by a pair of X-wings, passed through the outer perimeter of asteroids to one of the repair docks, and docked there. Several times Tyberos launched reconnaissance drones to observe the situation, and confirmed he had understood correctly — the ship had arrived for retrofitting.
A Gozanti-class armored transport.
They had replaced its engines, changed part of its plating. What was happening inside couldn't be determined, but knowing the Verpine nature, they could have thoroughly improved that sluggish, slow iron. But to what extent — it wasn't yet clear. Still, the privateers could already assess the results of the repair — the ship was moving on its sublight engines faster than when it had arrived. So the sublight drives were definitely more powerful. And under the belly, along the side surfaces, new hardpoints had appeared, in which escort X-wings were secured. That same pair that had flown in under their own power. An interesting modification — it allowed fighter pilots to stay not in cramped cockpits during transit, but in the ship's cabins. If necessary, they could quickly get from their cabins to the fighters through transfer tubes pressed against the X-wing canopies and protected by faintly shimmering magnetic fields that didn't guard against cold but held the atmosphere around the docking point. Considering that X-wing pilots wore non-closed-cycle suits, going into open space in them would be risky — a very wise technical solution. Yes, a clear improvement. Now the pilots could rest and not have to worry about either holding it in or using extremely... interesting technical solutions.
And what interested Tyberos even more were the cargo containers loaded onto the ship before departure. They loaded them openly, so it wasn't secret cargo, just ordinary. But ordinary cargo from the Verpine could be very valuable to the Empire.
As could the data on the asteroid defenses that the drones had managed to collect. And also the information that the Verpine were repairing two old Marauder-class corvettes and an entire squadron of X-wings that had arrived shortly before the Gozanti's departure. The corvettes were good... once upon a time. Powerful artillery armament, the ability to carry an air wing of two or three squadrons, plus missile launchers... Yes, a dangerous enemy, whose combat power was comparable to the armament of an entire frigate, or even a light cruiser. For ships from the Clone Wars era — a worthy opponent. Now though... the ship was badly outdated. However, if the Verpine retrofitted it, something acceptable might come of it. It wasn't in Tyberos's nature to hunt in the same place twice in a short period of time, but you never knew with Sith.
A Marauder-class corvette.
And that was only on this asteroid. Tyberos prudently didn't poke around the others — from the outer part of the asteroid field, not much could be seen without sending reconnaissance drones, and Tyberos wasn't sure the Verpine didn't have good systems for tracking deep incursions toward their central asteroids.
"Your thoughts, Captain?" Eymand quietly asked, tracking the ship's trajectory on the instruments.
"They turned an armored freighter with guns into a fast armored freighter with guns and a semblance of an air wing," said Tyberos, studying the three-dimensional copy of the ship. A good ship. "I want it."
"Huh?" Eymand looked at the captain. As did the rest of the crew. "That's a military vessel. Thrawn will probably take it for himself. Look — the starship is faster than factory specs. It can carry two X-wings at once. I recall the Empire had variants where they carried four TIE fighters on external mounts on the Gozanti. No, Tyberos, they'll definitely take the ship."
"We'll see," declared the captain. "Thrawn has plenty of freighters and transports as it is. Maybe if we give up our share and pay extra on top, he'll hand it over. I've always wanted a cruiser that can be operated by just twelve beings."
"Let's just capture it first," proposed the former Jedi. "We'll see later. We can always come up with something as an excuse. For example, that the ship exploded during the mission, and we could only save part of the cargo..."
"If all Jedi were that cunning, why were you exterminated?" inquired Tyberos.
"There's always a bigger predator," Eymand shrugged.
"Alright," said Tyberos, looking at the trajectory. "Fire up the engines. We're going to board. First and second squads — operate as usual. Third — you must not let the enemy cut the engines or the pilots reach their X-wings."
He issued orders through the intercom, so every member of the group aboard the starship heard them. No need to repeat orders to each one. They'd been in this game a long time. They knew how and what to do. And if the fighters hesitated, the squad leaders would help them.
"Rabid Ewok" fired its repulsors, gently lifting off from the asteroid's surface. No one bothered to retract the mooring cables that had held the starship to the space rock, keeping it from drifting away — the stone was too small to have its own gravity and hold an object the size of a pirate ship.
After flying a few meters away from the rock, Eymand, in the pilot's seat, kicked in the main engines. Several fairly large asteroids lay between the ships, so the Jedi was at the controls. However confident Tyberos was in his pilots' skill, the Zabrak had Force sensitivity and could react at a level impossible for ordinary beings. In the hazardous navigation of an asteroid field, there was no better pilot to be found.
The privateer ship shot upward at full speed, leaving a pale trail of spent fuel behind. Thanks to afterburners and the former Jedi's piloting mastery, they closed in on the Gozanti-class cruiser before it could react.
The Republic ship's turrets and cannons were already pounding the void by the time Rabid Ewok had moved close enough to reach out and touch the vessel's antennae with a palm. But that's not what the pirates were after.
The ship hovered over the Republic starship's hull. Even upgraded main engines couldn't let the rebels pull away from Tyberos's swift little ship, which had undergone more than one refit in shadow ports.
Magnetic grapples engaged, and the starships docked. The enemy, now understanding the situation, began transmitting a distress signal. But it was futile. Tyberos had once spent a considerable sum to acquire an Imperial frequency-jamming device. And it was active now. No one would hear the cries for help, no one would save them. But there was no time for the privateers to gloat over the old pirate trick that had worked. The Rabid Ewok's engine output had surely been detected on the asteroid shipyard, so they had to hurry. Maybe the enemy couldn't use their comm systems, but they'd certainly react to the suspicious silence from the Republic ship.
There was no need to blow or cut through the airlock — electronic lockpicks would do. A few minutes of work, and it was done: the way onto the ship was clear.
A squad of Weequays charged ahead. Those guys just wanted to get in on any slaughter. They were expendable — even if they were wiped out, new ones could always be hired. And no time wasted healing the badly wounded. Everyone in the crew knew why they were here.
Tyberos went with the second squad.
No sooner had the five Weequays disappeared into the circular emergency airlock hatch than the sound of blaster fire erupted. The enemy had no intention of giving up their ship without a fight.
Well, that was just perfect! There was always room for violence and bloodshed!
Once aboard the Gozanti-class cruiser, Tyberos ducked, dodging the line of fire from enemies entrenched at the far end of the corridor. There was no cover here — just cargo containers, behind which New Republic soldiers had already taken up positions. And these weren't rookies — you could clearly see they were trained fighters. Maybe even some kind of anti-boarding unit.
Properly equipped, too. Heavy armor, good blaster rifles. Firing in short bursts, conserving ammunition. Smart, because they didn't know how many pirates were aboard Rabid Ewok.
Also because these four soldiers were probably all the rebels had to repel the attack. Having even a squad of troopers on every ship was costly. So the smaller the vessel, the fewer soldiers it carried.
"Third squad — flank!" Tyberos shouted, firing another blaster shot into the enemy. The first squad was already half gone — the rebels shot accurately and lethally.
Well, they were only making it worse for themselves.
The squad commander of New Republic soldiers in standard gear aboard the Gozanti-class cruiser.
The second squad, which Tyberos led, was armed with both armored vests and heavier weapons than the first squad's blaster pistols. So breaking through forward wasn't a big problem for them.
The corsairs died, cut down by accurate fire. The enemy was well entrenched behind the barricades, but who were they against pirates who were lawless and had pulled this sort of thing plenty of times?
While the defenders tried to suppress the boarding party with covering fire, Tyberos, easily grabbing one of the Weequays by the scruff and using him as a shield, moved forward. Several shots had already struck the poor creature's body, but they didn't reach the captain. And they weren't supposed to — that was the whole point of a "living shield."
Once the distance between himself and the rebels was down to one meter, Tyberos shoved the blaster-riddled corpse toward the defenders and shifted to close combat.
Rifles are good in tight spaces when you need to shoot at range. But when you're facing a powerful humanoid with two Beskar war hammers in his hands, it's better to think of something more practical for that kind of fight.
The female rebel — judging by the insignia on her armor, she was the squad commander — didn't have time to react when one of the war hammers cracked her blaster in two and knocked the remains from her hands. She recoiled, drawing a vibroknife from behind her back, her eyes fixed on Tyberos, ready for his next move.
But he didn't need that.
With a clear conscience, he smashed the second war hammer into the head of another rebel, who had taken his eyes off the privateers for just a couple of seconds. The sharp, cold-forged weapon pierced the skull, killing instantly. Two blaster shots that hit his body were essentially unnecessary at that point.
With a crunch of bone, Tyberos ripped the weapon from the enemy's skull, swinging it backhand to strike the human woman who had charged. She blocked the blow with her right shoulder and was sent flying sideways — the force of the impact was considerable even for her, armored from head to toe.
Tyberos closed the distance to another opponent, who had already figured out the score and drawn a pair of vibroknives. He was sheltering behind a pile of cargo containers, safe from outside fire. The fourth soldier kept firing his rifle to kill.
The Rabid Ewok's captain feigned an overhead swing. The enemy sensibly sidestepped to coordinate with his commander, who was coming to her senses.
The privateer slammed both war hammers into the back of the Republic soldier who had been firing, and with relish tore them out, watching blood gush from the huge, fatal wounds. The body of the fighter, who had reacted too slowly to the threat, collapsed to the deck.
The soldier who had jumped back toward his commander rushed at him, swinging his vibroknives. The female commander approached from the opposite side, trying to split his attention.
It took a couple of seconds to realize — the first squad was wiped out, and he was alone against the two of them. The second and third squads had moved down the corridor in the opposite direction — they had the bridge to deal with and the crew to counter. Tyberos was just drawing the attention of the most prepared fighters.
There was something to that — fighting the enemy's strongest. Always on the edge of a knife, always alert, always mobilized.
"Filthy pirates!" the male rebel snarled, lunging at him. The woman mirrored the maneuver, but Tyberos brushed her aside with a slashing strike of the war hammer in his right hand.
The squad commander avoided the blow, breaking off the engagement. But he hadn't intended to kill her — he let the spin carry him around, and with his left war hammer he chopped into the male soldier's shoulder. The man roared as the Beskar weapon pierced his armor and easily tore through muscle, shattering bone. For an instant, the opponent lost his reaction, and Tyberos struck his head with a reverse swing of the right war hammer.
The blade on the back of the weapon buried itself in the unarmored head, crushing the temple and tearing out a chunk of skull along with facial tissue. With a strike from the second war hammer, Tyberos split the soldier's disfigured head in two, splattering the corridor with drops and sprays of blood, bits of brain...
Turning to face his last opponent, the privateer realized too late that he had ignored her absence from the fight for too long.
He shifted aside, but the blaster shot still burned his left bicep. One of the war hammers clattered to the deck, but Tyberos was already moving. With his full weight, he hurled himself at the last enemy, slamming her into the corridor wall. The girl cried out from the impact — he crashed his massive fist into her jaw.
But the girl wasn't timid. And obviously better than she'd appeared:
"Tough jaw," Tyberos complimented, stepping away from her after first kicking aside the blaster that had fallen from her hand when she hit the wall.
She looked at him with eyes full of hate, rubbing the bruised part of her face. The vibroknife was back in her hand.
"Come on, girl, come here," the privateer chuckled, inviting her to continue the fight. He positioned himself to cut off her retreat down the corridor she and her soldiers had come from. And the woman understood perfectly: if she ran in the other direction, where his men had gone, either he'd kill her on the spot or his pirates would when they met her. She could try her luck either way, but... the outcome was a little predictable.
The woman chose to fight.
Tyberos had no objections.
Two minutes later, he pulled his war hammer from her torn chest, returned both weapons to his back, grabbed a blaster pistol, and stepped over the corpse. The captain of Rabid Ewok headed toward the cruiser's bridge.
Five minutes after that, after dumping the still-living and not-quite-dead crew members of the Republic armored transport, the pirates took the Gozanti-class cruiser into hyperspace.
The Republic patrol, based on the central asteroids of Roche, arrived at the scene of the battle a shameful seven minutes too late.
* * *
"You performed excellently on Nkllon, Lieutenant Rederick." Praise from a Grand Admiral, and during a personal meeting at that, was worth a lot. "Unfortunately, the rest of your colleagues did not achieve similar success."
"They were taken prisoner?" the fleet intelligence lieutenant asked warily.
"No, they simply could not infiltrate to a sufficient degree to match your result," Thrawn said. "However, that is not important now. You have a new assignment."
Rederick, dressed in his fleet uniform for the first time in several weeks, thought with an inward sigh that he wouldn't get to enjoy some rest at the base on Tangrene. Word was that since food supplies from the D'Astan sector had started arriving, the sickeningly monotonous menu had become... more varied. And after the Star Destroyer Crusader-class corvette had returned, it was also more caloric.
"I'm ready, sir," he said firmly, hoping the Grand Admiral wouldn't notice that the young officer felt uneasy having a conversation in the Supreme Commander's quarters in a semi-dark atmosphere. And that Noghri, lurking in the shadows of the antechamber... Brrr! What kind of joke was it to talk from the darkness? And to draw a sidearm without permission?! If that gray-skinned being weren't the Grand Admiral's personal bodyguard, Rederick wouldn't have forgive such behavior. Sure, he probably wouldn't have been able to tie that inhuman into a knot, but he'd have at least made himself feared.
"This is the Hast system." A hologram of a star system appeared before Rederick's eyes. Nothing unusual, except—
"Shipyards, sir?" he clarified.
"Exactly," the Grand Admiral said. "Secret New Republic shipyards, to be precise." It grated on his ear that the Grand Admiral referred to the Empire's enemies not as "rebels" or "insurgents," but by the name they used for themselves. As if he agreed that the state that had overthrown the Galactic Empire had a right to exist. Rederick noted that fact, resolving to find out the reasons for Thrawn's phrasing on his own. More subtly and carefully than a direct question. "Have you heard anything about the Battle of Hast, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir," the fleet intelligence officer confirmed. "In official reports it is called the 'Battle of the Hast Shipyards.' A battle that occurred shortly after the Battle of Endor. Admiral Llon Banjer secured the support of the private fleet of the D'Astan sector, as well as the renegade warlord Zsinj, and formed a fleet to strike at the secret rebel shipyards discovered by our intelligence. The strike was not in the Empire's interests, only served Zsinj's need to eliminate the threat of a surprise attack the rebels were preparing against him. The Imperial Ruling Council turned a blind eye, because Admiral Llon Banjer convinced them that in the long term, this attack would weaken both the enemy and Zsinj himself. The attack ended with mixed success. Although Llon Banjer's combined forces managed to destroy or damage over thirty enemy starships, the shipyards themselves were not completely destroyed due to the arrival of enemy reinforcements from the Mon Calamari sector. Based on data obtained from analysis of Admiral Banjer's actions, it is reliably known that during the attack, at least seven MC80 star cruisers, at least five Nebulon-B escort frigates, and at least twenty CR90 Corellian corvettes were heavily damaged and have not been observed in rebel possession to this day. It is also known that at the time of the attack, two Star Destroyers previously captured by the enemy were undergoing moderate repair at the shipyards — the Adjudicator and the Accuser. In the enemy fleet, they are named Liberator and Emancipator, respectively. Additionally, based on mathematical analysis, there are grounds to believe that the shipyards sustained significant damage during the attack. Tactically, the enemy preserved most of its fleet and repair-and-construction capacity. Strategically, we have a significant enemy fleet grouping that has been disabled and under repair for over five years. The shipyards on the planet are completely destroyed and cannot be restored, but the orbital ones remain — the enemy has two of them, both Type I. However, at the same time, significant forces were lost during the battle — in particular, cruisers of our allies from the D'Astan sector, which resulted in a tense political situation. Unfortunately, I am not privy to the details of the latter."
"You are well-prepared, Lieutenant." Praise from the Grand Admiral a second time in one conversation? Yes, indeed, he must be performing his duty well.
"Thank you, sir," he replied reservedly. "Knowing as much as possible about the enemy's armed forces is my job."
"How long have you served in your position, Lieutenant?" the Grand Admiral asked unexpectedly.
"Three years, sir," he answered without hesitation. Why had that question been asked? Did the Grand Admiral consider him insufficiently qualified?
"It is a short time for a man capable of slipping into another role so masterfully," Thrawn observed. "How did you manage to deceive Dendo Calrissian?"
"My parents are actors, sir," Rederick said. "Not the best, but they wanted the same life for me. Through my childhood and youth, I studied at acting schools, attended relevant courses in the craft. But instead of the acting career my parents had chosen for me, I submitted my application for enrollment in the Imperial Military Academy. In my third year, I received an offer from intelligence representatives to partially change my course of study and undergo training under the field agent program of military intelligence. I naturally agreed."
"For what reason, Lieutenant?" the Grand Admiral asked in the same seemingly indifferent tone, not taking his eyes off him.
"In my third year, I was due for a new medical commission," he didn't hide. He had never seen his personal file, so he wouldn't count on the intelligence representatives having kept their promise and altered certain documents. Not in a conversation with the Grand Admiral. "Its results made it clear that I would be expelled due to heart problems. I grew up in the Mid Rim worlds, and my parents weren't wealthy. Doctors had overlooked my condition, and it turned out to be impossible to treat in time. Since that closed the door to an acting career, my father made an arrangement with someone, and those data were never reflected in my applicant file. I took advantage of that situation and submitted my documents to the Academy. When the medical commission revealed concealed illnesses in my file, a tribunal awaited me."
"The intelligence officers made you an offer you couldn't refuse," the Grand Admiral said with understanding. "Either the tribunal, or say goodbye to your prospects of becoming a fleet officer. You chose the latter."
"That same year, the rebels killed the Emperor and Darth Vader," Rederick said. "At Endor and during the subsequent battles, we lost a great deal. I have studied the Battle of the Hast Shipyards thoroughly because, in my opinion, Imperial Intelligence, which uncovered the location of those shipyards, underestimated the enemy's ability to deliver reinforcements in a timely manner. As a result, the tactical objectives of the attack were not achieved. Sooner or later, the enemy will repair those starships, and they will be used against us."
"You believe it would be more useful to destroy them?" Thrawn inquired.
"Or capture them, sir," Rederick replied after a moment's thought. "Two Star Destroyers would significantly strengthen your fleet, not to mention that the ships undergoing repair there would also fit well into the units under your command."
"Is that so," Thrawn said. He reached forward, and his hand ran across a keyboard. The hologram vanished for a moment and reappeared, now covered with additional markings. "This information is several weeks old. Obtained from our allies. As you can see, the enemy has taken care to prevent another attack on their shipyards."
Rederick looked at the hologram with interest. From what he had the "pleasure" of seeing, it wasn't good. The two Type I orbital repair yard lattices hanging over Hast were protected by four Golan-type orbital defense stations. From their appearance, two were Type I, one Type II, and the last... Type III. Meaning it could fight on equal terms with an Imperial Star Destroyer and could potentially even emerge victorious from such a confrontation. Those stations had small air wings — one or two, with rare modifications carrying six squadrons. Both shields and armor defense were top-notch.
His eyes glided over the markings of the starships that were either in the "lattices" or docked to them. He realized that all the starships he had mentioned as damaged during the Battle of Hast were still laid up. So they were still damaged.
"Obviously, they're banking on proximity to Mon Calamari, just like last time," Rederick noted. "Four orbital platforms are, of course, a great way to delay the first strike and drag out the battle for half an hour to an hour, but without a support fleet... These shipyards won't last an hour if we attack."
The young intelligence officer thought for a moment, looking more closely at a few unusual markings.
"Am I correct in understanding that Imperial equipment is being dismantled on the planet?" He looked at the Supreme Commander. The Grand Admiral merely nodded affirmatively.
"The key question is how effective their defense is," the Grand Admiral declared. "Your assignment is to infiltrate the Hast shipyards. I want complete information on how many ships are at the shipyards, their condition, whether they can be transported, what forces the rebels have on the planet's surface and at the shipyards, and whether they maintain patrols. You have one month to complete the assignment."
"Will I be provided with a cover story, or should I develop it myself?" the intelligence officer clarified.
"You will be supplied with forged documents and transport to the shipyards," Thrawn said. "Currently, Hast no longer holds a secret status, and we don't have time for deep infiltration. Your partner possesses... some talent for persuasion." That last part Rederick didn't particularly like. "But you should not fully trust him. The infiltration will follow the template of free traders looking to earn some credits delivering goods for the New Republic. The rest is at your discretion."
"Yes, sir," the intelligence officer saluted. "May I go?"
"You depart in twenty-four hours, Lieutenant," Thrawn said, and for some reason his gaze softened. "For exemplary performance of the mission on Nkllon, you are entitled to twenty-four hours of rest. I have arranged it."
"Very good, sir." Turning over his left shoulder, Rederick headed for the cabin door.
"One last thing, Lieutenant." Thrawn's voice caught him at the very door. The intelligence officer stopped instantly and turned to face his commander. "How long you wear active command rank insignia will depend on the completion of the task assigned to you. You are dismissed."
A blatant hint. If he succeeded, he'd be promoted. If he failed...
No, he would not fail. The Second Battle of the Hast Shipyards would be a triumph for the Empire.
With such thoughts, Rederick left the Chimaera.
* * *
"This is clearly some kind of hallucination." Niles Ferrier wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. It didn't help — new ones appeared immediately.
Despite the fact that he was standing under the overhang of the dispatch platform, and there was no source of natural light or heaters around that could make him feel hot, the hijacker felt as if he were boiling alive in his own sweat.
"Stop drawing attention to yourself, idiot," came a voice from the depths of the dark chasm of the small corridor leading from the landing zone into the inner areas of Station Bannistar's dock. Once an Imperial fuel depot, the station had been damaged by rebels, then abandoned and virtually left to rot. Only a few years ago, someone had taken it over, given it a proper repair, and turned it into a relatively safe and well-known place. Rumors said the station's owners were directly connected to the New Republic, but it also gave shelter to smugglers and many well-known big shots from both legal and not-so-legal businesses.
"Y-yes, of c-course," Niles stammered. "I'm... afraid of Booster."
"You should be afraid of me right now, you oaf," came the same serpentine whisper from the darkness. "If this operation fails — I'll tear out your rotten heart and shove it somewhere you won't find it. Got it?"
"Y-yes," Niles sighed in resignation. Glancing to the side, toward a pile of tool crates casting deep shadows, he sighed again as he saw the shadow shift. His companion, a Defel, was waiting for his moment.
Meanwhile, a ship sliced through the white-blue atmospheric shield of the landing bay, shooting into the dimly lit hangar.
A ship he knew well.
Painfully familiar.
The yacht's pilot cut the main drive, switching to repulsors. The graceful Sting-Pulsar, the personal yacht of Booster Terrik's daughter, Mirax, was coming in for a landing. And the maneuver took suspiciously little time.
Sting-Pulsar.
The girl had clearly gotten even more skillful with her vessel.
With a hiss of compressed air venting from the system, the yacht's lower hatch opened, and a ramp extended, touching the hangar floor with a soft clang. A Sullustan came out first — small, pudgy, unremarkable. A repair droid rolled out after him. Both stopped by the ramp, waiting for the ship's commander. Well, damn — she still wasn't flying alone!
Niles swallowed hard. He wasn't a timid guy, but... tangling with Booster and his daughter... That was risky.
"Sly" closed his eyes and silently prayed the Grand Admiral's plan would work.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw a young woman stepping down the ramp, no older than thirty. High boots with magnetic soles, leggings hugging her shapely legs. A heavy blaster holster hanging from a wide belt that looked like a miniature corset. Black hair cascading like a dark waterfall over her shoulders. A simple but attractive face...
Mirax Terrik Horn.
A girl who made half the underworld drool at the sight of her, dreaming of getting her into bed — while the other half trembled in terror, knowing what her not-exactly-reasonable father would do to them for it. She looked around. Checked her chronometer. Impatiently kicked the hangar floor with the toe of her boot. Looked at the chronometer again.
"If he's not here in five minutes, we're leaving," she said to the Sullustan. "I made a considerable detour to see what this collector has to offer... If it turns out to be some junk..."
"Go!" hissed the voice from the darkness.
Niles licked his dry lips, stretched a wide smile across his face. And stepped forward.
"It won't," he said in the cheeriest voice he could manage. The younger Terrik turned at the sound, aiming her blaster at him at the same time.
"Sly," she said through clenched teeth. "Should've known this was a setup. We're leaving!"
She took a step back. Niles waved a paper envelope in front of her face. Well, not exactly an envelope...
"Mirax, nobody lied to you. Killik Twilight really is here!" he said, pointing at the envelope. "I just knew you wouldn't meet with me..."
A strange expression flickered in the girl's dark eyes. She stopped but didn't lower the blaster.
"Is that so?" she said. "Because of you, I lost contracts!"
"I know," Niles said. "Believe me, I'm not thrilled about what happened either... That's why I'm here!"
"To set me up again?" The girl waved the blaster. "Where would you even get Killik Twilight? That painting fell into Imperial hands last year, and there's been no word of it since!"
"I was working with the Imperials not too long ago," Ferrier said. "It didn't go very well..."
"It never does with you," the smuggler noted.
"Anyway, I stole it!" Sly, wasting no more time on talk, tore the paper wrapping off the painting, showing the artwork to Mirax.
Niles didn't know who created it. He'd never been interested in art. But he had accurate information that the painting — depicting the now-extinct Killik species fleeing an unavoidable threat, which, according to the artist's intent, had led the race to extinction — was extremely valuable on the antiques and art market.
Because it was painted by an Alderaanian artist. It was made from moss that grew only on Alderaan. And only a coincidence — its presence at an art exhibition on Coruscant at the moment of the attack — had saved it from destruction by the Death Star, just as the planet itself had been saved.
"Hmm," was all Mirax said, studying the artwork. Niles felt his shirt soak through with sweat during the short five minutes the girl spent examining the painting. "No doubt about it, that's the one... Sly, did you ever wonder if this reservoir," she pointed to a small transparent flask built into the canvas, "isn't just for decoration?"
"Uh... no," Ferrier admitted. "What is it?"
"A humidifier," the younger Terrik said, shaking her head. "The painting is made of living moss, if you can call that creation style. The moss needs moisture, or it'll be destroyed. I don't know how you managed to steal it without ruining it, but if it's not given water immediately, it'll dry out in a couple of days, maybe sooner."
"Alright, alright, alright," Ferrier waved his hands. "You'd know best. How much is it worth?"
"Depends on who you sell it to," the girl didn't take her eyes off the painting. Neither did her co-pilot — the Sullustan. Thanks to which, the pitch-black Defel quietly crept aboard, using the shadows as cover. "If it's on the black market, maybe five to six million. If it's an official auction, you could get ten, but it'll take longer."
"I'll take any amount," Ferrier smiled ingratiatingly. Meeting eyes with Mirax, he immediately looked away. "Alright. I remember I really screwed you over. Half the proceeds — will that work for you? The other half is mine."
"What, still haven't paid off your debts?" Terrik snorted.
"I tried," Sly admitted. "Went to the Imperials, but they swindled me big time. Debts are hanging, the 'meter's' ticking every month. I got a good order — for buzz droids. I tried your father, but..."
"I wonder how far he sent you?" Mirax laughed cheerfully.
"Far enough that I had to swipe the painting from the Imperials before they decided to shred me too. Lucky that idiot I was working with left the office. So I grabbed the painting and ran. Half the guys died breaking out. Now I want to sell the painting, use part of the money to pay off the debt, and use the rest to get as far away from Imperial territory as possible and crawl into a deep hole."
"You're good at that," Mirax smirked. "Alright, I need a week to find a buyer..."
"In the name of the Empire! Stop!" boomed a voice amplified by armor voxcoder. Without a second thought, the girl dashed toward her ship, opening fire on half a dozen fighters in black armor with sealed helmets. They were running from the main entrance, firing aimed shots at everyone standing near the Sting-Pulsar.
"Run!" Ferrier's eyes wide with terror, he shoved Terrik aside, theatrically holding a paper envelope in front of his flabby body — supposedly with the painting: in reality, it was already hidden under the younger Terrik's jacket, and the girl herself was running up her ship's ramp, trying to shoot back on the move.
And whatever anyone said about Imperial soldiers, they did their job effectively.
The first shots hit their targets.
Ferrier, struck in the leg by a crimson bolt, crashed onto the landing platform, cursing and howling like a fat sea creature being carved up by fishermen without bothering to kill their prey first.
The repair droid scattered into a heap of mangled metal, and beside it, the Sullustan co-pilot fell face-first onto the floor. The Imperials reached the ramp just as the Sting-Pulsar, retracting its landing ramp, burst out of the hangar, leaving the space station.
"Get him!" a soldier indistinguishable from the rest ordered the other fighters, pointing at Ferrier writhing on the floor. But apparently, this black-clad fighter was the leader of the attackers. "Bring him to the ship and organize pursuit of the girl. She and the painting must remain intact!"