Nine years, five months, and twenty-first day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-fourth year, five months, and twenty-first day after the Great Resynchronization.
Still, there's something captivating about observing, through the transparisteel of an Imperial Star Destroyer's battle bridge, the impenetrable blackness of space dotted with grains of stars, whose waves and particles of light will reach this very star system... In how long? Thousands of years? Tens of thousands?
That's not particularly important right now. What concerns me is that the Chimaera and the formation it leads have successfully completed the journey to the Rugosa system.
Located in the eponymous system of the Sanbra sector in the Outer Rim, this moon had a rather interesting history.
The Sanbra Sector.
According to old Republic and later Imperial research, this world was once within the sphere of influence of the now-extinct Rakata race. According to rough estimates, the Rakata settled here a little over thirty thousand years ago, as evidenced by some architectural monuments found on the planet itself.
Much later, the moon was discovered by Toydarian scouts — fellow countrymen of that flying junk dealer from Tatooine named Watto, who once owned the slave Anakin Skywalker.
Its pleasant climate and warm oceans made it an attractive vacation spot for the Toydarians. According to Imperial researchers, by the time Rugosa was discovered and actively colonized, the Toydarians had already established relations with the Hutts. The latter quickly subjugated the Toydarians, but they managed to keep the planet's location a secret from their masters for a long time. When this deception was uncovered, the Hutts released a plague of unknown origin upon the astronomical body, which altered the climate, dried up the oceans, and stripped the moon of its appeal. Now it is effectively a dead world, its surface littered with genuinely beautiful giant corals that are of interest to a certain circle of specialists and researchers.
However, none of the latter were observed here. Even the Toydarians themselves preferred not to appear here unless necessary. There were no settlements in this practically dead world, and the only known and stable hyperspace route had been leading here for many hundreds of years. Since the planet proved poor in mineral resources, extraction of which was too costly to be worthwhile, no sane human or other sentient being in the entire galaxy had any other reason to show up here.
In fact, this was precisely why Rugosa had been chosen as the meeting place.
"Admiral, sir," Captain Pellaeon approached me. "All ships of the flotilla have arrived. We're picking up Major Himran's signal. The scanners have registered the Skat-Pulsar and Niles Ferrier's ship docked to it."
"Excellent, Captain," I said. "Send a message to Major Himran aboard the Crusader that his job is done. He and the prisoner are to report to the Chimaera immediately. The Skat-Pulsar is to remain at the designated coordinates with a remote detonation charge. Mr. Ferrier may go free. Remind him that he owes me ships for sparing his life."
"It will be done, Admiral," the commander of the Chimaera said without a hint of mockery in his voice. "A message has arrived from Moff Ferrus. Lord Fodeum Sabre De'Luz has successfully completed his mission on Hast and is returning to Tangrene."
"Inform the Moff to properly evaluate our courier's work and obtain a detailed report from him," I ordered. "Any new data from the Nemesis and the Deadhead?"
"Only confirmation of the latest information — they are moving at cruising speed, arriving thirty-nine minutes ahead of schedule," Pellaeon reported. "Honestly, I'd like to know if they jettisoned their cargo and passengers into space instead of actually landing them on the ships."
"Well, after the operation is complete, you'll have time for such questions, Captain. Initiative in carrying out assigned tasks is exactly what we need right now," I said philosophically. "Make a note that Captains Schneider and Astorias are to be commended for their efficiency."
"Grand Admiral, sir, will there be orders for the fleet?"
"All crews are to go to Yellow Alert. Give the order to the Sentinel," I named one of our Interdictor-class Star Destroyers, which, despite the coordinated maneuver, unlike the rest of the fleet's starships, was positioned outside Rugosa's gravity well. Two Victory-class ships — the Crusader and the Steel Aurora — along with a couple of other Interdictors that had arrived before us and were lying in ambush, had re-formed into a cruising formation, exactly as the plan prescribed. "Proceed to the designated point and activate their gravity projectors. Have the Strikes and Tartans provide escort. After all, the Sentinel will be the first to engage. Make sure the Sentinel's captain transmits the projector deployment vectors to us and the rest of the flotilla. And invite Master C'baoth to the bridge in half an hour."
"Aye, sir." Pellaeon gave a short salute, turned over his left shoulder, and headed toward the comms section.
"You don't intend to wait for Booster Terrik at the agreed-upon coordinates?" Mara Jade, standing beside me, asked in surprise.
"I never planned to," I replied. "The Sentinel will pull his ship and everyone he's bringing with him out of hyperspace ten minutes ahead of schedule. Which means," I glanced at the ship's chronometer, "we have about forty to forty-five minutes before it all begins."
"You think Booster Terrik will arrive for the meeting a full day early, ahead of his own deadline?" Jade asked in surprise.
"I'm certain of it," I said, watching as the Sentinel, after a short hyperspace jump within the system, took up its designated point in space along the vector of approach to Rugosa's orbit. The rest of the fleet was making its way to their positions on sublight drives. While it might seem simple to just make a micro-jump within a single star system, it actually turns into a significant nightmare for navigators. Given the distance separating us from the Interdictor, it would take several hours to reach the target. The expected and unexpected guests should arrive much sooner. This fit within the revised plan. "Do you know anything about this planet's involvement in the Clone Wars, Lieutenant Jade?"
The woman looked at me with a painfully surprised expression, then turned her gaze toward the moon's surface, which was rapidly moving away from the Chimaera's course...
"Negotiations took place here between the king of the Toydarians and the Jedi," she said. "Despite Toydaria's initial neutrality in the war, the Jedi managed to play on the Toydarian ruler's goodwill and drag him into the war on their side. The Separatists came here to disrupt the negotiations but failed. The ambush they set for the Jedi didn't work, and the Separatists withdrew, unable to either sway the Toydarians to their side or kill their king to negotiate with his successor."
"Do you know which Jedi conducted the negotiations?" I inquired.
"No, of course not," she looked at me in astonishment. And she couldn't be blamed for not knowing. In the Imperial history textbooks I had studied, the Jedi were depersonalized. Their names were not given, and their accomplishments were generally downplayed. "As far as I remember, a whole squad of Jedi and a large force of clones were deployed here to defeat the Separatists."
"A slight manipulation of the facts," I commented. "In reality, only one Jedi participated in the negotiations. And a small squad of clones — less than a platoon. And yet, they won a battle against Separatist forces that vastly outnumbered and outgunned them."
"Just one Jedi?" Mara Jade looked at me skeptically. "That can't be!"
"Unfortunately for the Empire's official position, that's exactly how it happened, just as I told you. However, as far as I know, the history textbooks devote much more time to stating the fact that the Separatists in this battle, as in many others, were led by a former Padawan of the Jedi Order who also happened to be the assassin of the leader of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, also a former Jedi, Count Dooku. Don't you find that fact curious?"
"No, should I?" the red-haired hellion clarified.
"Perspective, Mara Jade," I said, looking into the young woman's eyes. "Sometimes too much depends on it. In the past, the Empire put a great deal of effort into blackening the name of the Jedi and their followers, and then destroying them. I noted a very curious fact — in the historical chronicles, Palpatine's editors either largely excised or adjusted the Jedi's achievements, either minimizing them or attributing them to those for whom it was more convenient, such as unit, squadron, and fleet commanders, and so on. For example, Grand Vizier Sate Pestage, after the end of the Clone Wars, falsified posthumous accusations against the Jedi on orders from above, justifying the destruction of each of them by Imperial forces. This, to no small extent, forced the surviving Jedi to repeatedly crawl out of their hiding places to try to clear their names, rescue artifacts and their heritage, and also attempt to eliminate their opponents, whom they believed were responsible for what happened."
"Frankly, I can't grasp the essence of what you're hinting at, Grand Admiral," Mara Jade said after thinking over my words. "The situation you described is somewhat similar to what's happening... but only at first glance."
"Really?" I asked in surprise. The girl, without hiding anything or fearing to appear ignorant, nodded. "We pulled the same trick with Booster Terrik that the Empire did with the Jedi. Falsified the data to achieve our own results and get the opinion we needed. So, given this sentient's character, his love for his daughter, and his hatred and distrust of Mr. Ferrier, I never had any doubt that he would bring backup. People like him always have a couple of friends ready and willing to shoot at the Empire. That's why we have three Interdictors, two Victory-class ships, a pair of medium cruisers, and an equal number of patrol Tartans, which are perfect for hunting small craft and armed smuggler freighters. But the estimated arrival time Terrik gave... In this part of the galaxy, the density of hyperspace routes is very high, so if he were really 'nearby,' within twenty to thirty sectors of the Outer Rim, with his destroyer's class-two hyperdrive, he would have arrived at the meeting place much sooner. According to my calculations, a day, maybe a day and a half. But he's not here."
"So you sent the Crusader and the Steel Aurora ahead, along with two Interdictors, to catch him," Mara Jade said understandingly. It was obvious the girl was well-versed in intrigue, multi-layered schemes, and espionage. Fleet matters, however, didn't particularly interest her. Still, at the moment, she was the only one I could discuss the situation with. Pellaeon had to prepare his ship for battle. "And having his daughter on the Crusader, one of the four ships that would have attacked him, ensured he wouldn't go all out."
"He couldn't have anyway. The Errant Venture is undoubtedly an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer," I said. "But it's too heavily disarmed to keep New Republic leadership from waking up in a cold sweat at night. Four ships would have been enough to hold that ship with gravity projectors and damage it enough to disable it. And we have enough spare parts in our holds, obtained from Tangrene, to bring the starship back to life. Well, I see that Major Himran and his group have already arrived aboard the Chimaera. Officer of the watch," Lieutenant Tschel instantly appeared beside me. I wonder why, whenever I need a watch officer, this young officer is always nearby? In any case, this mystery of fate will continue to remain one for the entire crew. Along with Mara Jade's true position, who is currently listed as my personal adjutant. And I must say, the Imperial officer uniform suits her. "Lieutenant Tschel, inform Major Himran that I am expecting his companion on the bridge."
The young Imperial officer saluted and practically vanished to carry out his order.
Looking at the chronometer, I nodded in time with Pellaeon's report that the Sentinel, thanks to its deployed gravity projectors, had 'fished' a good dozen armed freighters and ancient light ships out of hyperspace, transmitting Yazuo Vain's identification signals.
"Inform Captain Vain that he and his subordinates are to provide cover for the Sentinel," I ordered, stroking the ysalamiri comfortably settled on my lap. "Well, almost all the players are in place. The show will begin shortly... Captain Pellaeon, transmit the order to our ships: 'Engage lightspeed.' It's time to spring the trap."
* * *
No matter what corner of the galaxy it is, arriving there, especially at an orbital station, is always disgustingly routine.
Right now, before him stood the traditionally sullen customs officer of the Sluis Van orbital complex. This wasn't some Rebel officer — it was local customs. Yes, it was part of the Rebel customs service across their entire state, but the quality of work, the staff's qualifications — much lower. That meant everything would be even easier.
Human. A little over thirty. Plump. Sergeant's rank. Judging by the reddish whites of his eyes — sleep-deprived. Uniform sloppily ironed. Bags under his eyes — health problems or chronic fatigue? Too harsh with the passengers of the shuttle Sergius had arrived on. So the customs officer was in a foul mood.
There were several other sentients ahead of him — both humans and exotics. And each of them, regardless of how they behaved with the customs officer, received a barrage of disparaging remarks from him. A Zabrak, who — in the customs officer's opinion — was too slow pulling documents from his backpack, was sent for a personal search. It was already obvious the exotic wasn't carrying anything forbidden; the customs officer was just taking out his frustration for the few extra seconds he'd waited for the passenger's documents. A Twi'lek who tried to put on a friendly face was sent for a medical scan — the customs officer decided to check him for smuggling drugs like spice inside his body. A trick as old as the world, and one that hadn't worked for a long time — given the quality of customs scanners, that kind of thing was basically impossible. Had been for about twenty years.
A woman with a child, going through the check right before Sergius, was sent by the customs officer to the immigration department — something about their ID cards didn't sit right with him. Some minor formality that he could have easily resolved by simply scanning the parent's ID card and checking the citizen database directly. Sergius knew this; the customs officer was just bullying civilians.
A petty little man with a little authority... And who says the New Republic is better than the Empire? The regime changed, but the immoral types in the government structure were there under Palpatine and remain under democracy.
However, he wasn't here to restore order. A petty power-lusting fool in a responsible position — that was the problem of those who put him there.
Well, what he'd seen changed his behavior pattern with this individual.
"Documents," the customs officer said, measuring him with a grim look and extending his hand. Sergius placed his ID card in it.
A fake, of course. As was the identity he was operating under.
Forging documents for a Ubiqtorate coordinator was easier than opening a data file. Despite the Empire having lost its position in most of the galaxy, one way or another, there were still 'safe houses' where one could obtain the necessary equipment and gear. In its time, Imperial Intelligence had put a lot of effort into ensuring its agents never wanted for anything when going on missions. Thousands and thousands of secret caches were scattered across the galaxy where agents could always find what they needed to complete a mission. And which cache to give to which specific agent was decided by the Ubiqtorate. It determined the means that would be provided to intelligence agents to resolve the tasks assigned to them.
Having broken free of the Ubiqtorate's control, Sergius had left, slamming the door loudly on his way out. As a sector coordinator, he had access to the Ubiqtorate's archives. Finding and copying a list of still-active caches that hadn't been compromised wasn't the hardest thing. It was from one such cache that he had gotten the armor and equipment for Molo Himran's squad to carry out the operation to capture Mirax Terrik. The major and his men were continuing the operation now, and he had a different task. For that, a different cache was needed — one with a real machine for making ID cards. The same kind that issued credentials to all citizens of the Empire.
The New Republic, despite being the dominant power in the galaxy for years now, still uses Imperial equipment — they simply don't have the money to develop their own technology like this. So a New Republic citizen's ID card is barely different from an Imperial citizen's.
Except that now the New Republic maintains an electronic citizen database, borrowed from the depths of the Imperial one. And while Imperial law enforcement used to only check IDs for authenticity (is it a fake?), the Rebels, to give them credit, had gone a step further. But they hadn't really thought it through.
They simply copied the Empire's databases into their own information space, and so the fake identities that had been created for years to cover all sorts of Imperial special services ended up there as well. So Sergius wasn't afraid of that kind of check.
"Well, what does a low-grade power systems mechanic want on Sluis Van?" the customs officer asked, returning his ID. The question was beyond his authority — he only checked documents for authenticity and searched transports for contraband, nothing more. Questions about the purpose of a visit were asked in a different office. But Sergius hadn't gone last for the check for nothing. By this point, the customs officer was already fairly tired, the supply of cynical humor in his arsenal was somewhat depleted, and his bad mood from a sleepless night had slightly improved thanks to making life difficult for ordinary sentients.
"Well, you see," Sergius scratched his nose, continuing to play the part of a simple lad from Tanaab who'd made it into the big world. "I can, uh... fix ships. You know, wiring, various systems. Even tune a hyperdrive if needed. And this place, well, it's a shipyard. There's probably work, right?"
Portraying a simple country bumpkin was one of the most difficult acting skills taught to intelligence operatives. The instructors always said: "Pretending to be an idiot is much harder than being one." An intelligence operative shouldn't play a role. He should immerse himself in it so deeply that the legend becomes a second skin. So there was nothing unusual about him picking his ear while talking to the customs officer. How would a country bumpkin from an agricultural world know how to behave in the polite society of big cities? Yesterday he was still herding nerfs and driving them into his father's shed, and then going to fix the falling-apart freighters of the local farmers.
"With that kind of qualification, you're not really needed here at all," the customs officer snorted. "This isn't some dive like Mos Eisley on Tatooine. This is a perfectly respectable outfit. Fly home, kid, before you end up without a last credit in your pocket."
"Sergeant," a middle-aged woman in a customs uniform appeared beside him. But with officer's insignia. Judging by their relationship — the post commander for this dock. Obviously, one of the passengers had already complained about the employee's misconduct. Well, it worked faster than he'd planned. "What's this all about? You've sent ALL the passengers either for inspection or..."
"Well, they all look suspicious," yes, the culture of subordination in all its glory. Or rather, its absence. It was clear — the sergeant had served longer than the young female boss, and she hadn't managed to establish herself properly yet. So the experienced employees simply ignored her, continuing to work as they were used to. All the charms of local security services. If this were happening somewhere at an Imperial customs post, the duty officer would have wiped the floor of the entire spaceport with this sergeant after the first or second incident — a man clearly stuck in his rank at his age for a reason. Of course, if it involved humans. But the ordinary Imperial officials tried not to terrorize them with procedures out of boredom. Exotics were a different matter... Strange that the girl with lieutenant's pips on her chest had only run over at the end of the shuttle check. Either most of the passengers silently endured the rudeness, or they didn't care. "So I sent them. Leslie, what's got into you?"
"The spaceport director told me about your antics!" the girl said, her eyes flashing. Judging by how guiltily she glanced at Sergius, who was still noisily chewing gum and feigning interest in the clean spaceport hall, the young lieutenant was clearly not interested in him as a suspect for illegal border crossing and espionage. Well, of course — he'd just wiped his nose with his jacket sleeve.
There are certain stereotypes — that spies or operatives try to look 'average' in every way to avoid attracting attention and not be remembered by passersby. How many agents have been 'burned' by that kind of infiltration tactic? Thousands. And it's a good thing they were ISB agents. Imperial Intelligence wouldn't have allowed such mistakes. Or rather — if such cases had occurred (and they must have over the years of the Empire's existence), they would simply have been hidden from the public. Nothing more. Disowning a failed agent and deleting his personal file from the archive was a matter of two keystrokes on the Director of Imperial Intelligence's computer. And no trace... Every operative must understand that when infiltrating a foreign structure, and especially when penetrating the territory of a hostile state, if he fails, he's on his own.
"So what?" the customs officer asked lazily. "The old bastard is mad at me because he lost a thousand credits in sabacc last night, so he decided to sic all the rancors on me. He can go..."
"Anyway, I've warned you," the girl-boss wagged her finger at him. Sergius openly appraised her figure, which embarrassed her even more. And finally cemented in her mind his image of a country bumpkin unfamiliar with the rules of decency. "Finish checking this citizen and get to inspecting the shuttle."
"Well, I'm telling him he came here for nothing," the fat man grinned. "Who needs a low-grade power systems mechanic here? They won't let him into the shipyard, he'll just hang around and annoy the security guys..."
"I don't think it's all that bad," the girl said, walking up to them. She wrinkled her nose as she took Sergius's ID from Fatty's sticky little hands. "Hmm... Have you ever worked for state-owned enterprises?"
"N-no," Sergius drawled, breaking into a trusting smile. "I mean, I grew up on Tanaab. Out there it's just agricultural business with the state. No, I mean, I can fix a mower or a combine there, but I like ships more — fixing wiring, removing and installing equipment..."
"Who'd want someone like you around here?" the girl muttered quietly, still studying the data on his ID card.
That card contained practically all the data about the life of his fake identity — not just places of study, but also work history, medical information, records of arrests and offenses... All the necessary hooks that could ensure either a quick or a gradual insertion. But the Grand Admiral was primarily interested in a safe insertion, one that would allow the agent to remain on the enemy's shipyards for as long as possible.
Minor positions — the kind only someone from a backwater or province could apply for — suited him perfectly for that. Less attention drawn, and the bosses always try to dump all their work on you.
"Sir," she finally remembered the etiquette for addressing citizens. She looked up from the computer and met his eyes. "You have experience working in warehouses, correct?"
It seemed the Sluissi corporate customs office really did have a bonus for finding suitable job candidates, given how interested they were in his capabilities. Hmm, so the rumors weren't lying.
"Well, yeah, sort of," Sergius blinked innocently. "I worked at a friend of my dad's, sorting through spare parts in a warehouse. You know, tidying up, making parts catalogs... I'm, like, meticulous and nauseating." The customs officers exchanged glances. Sergius frowned, pretending to think. "Oh, no! Me-tic-u-lous!" He grinned at his own triumph of mind over vocabulary. "Anyway, they dumped all sorts of work on me there — stuff nobody wanted to do. And me? Well, I'm meticulous. So I just do it..."
One of the most important rules of infiltration is not to claim more than you can actually do. It would have cost him nothing to provide them with information that he'd graduated from some technical university and could work as a chief engineer. But the problem was that Sergius didn't understand technology at a high enough level — only slightly better than the average layperson. So inflating the credentials of his fake identity could lead to undesirable consequences.
"Here," the girl returned his ID chip. And a small sheet of flimsiplast with an address on it, which Sergius immediately began to examine. Some address. "You'll go to Level Five, to the warehouse complex. Find the warehouse manager and give him this." She pressed another card into his hand, one she had just written to from her portable computer. "This is a referral from customs. They'll place you in the warehouses. Work there for a while, prove yourself — you'll earn a lot of money. On Sluis Van, your dreams always come true." She gave a fake smile and winked at Sergius.
A simple trick. A marketing stunt that hadn't been used in... how long? Ten years? It seemed he had wasted a lot of time preparing for his infiltration. He could have flown here on a freighter stuffed to the brim with jewels, dumped a pile right in the middle of the terminal, and said he'd come to fulfill his dream, then order the construction of some yacht. No one would have said a word — the security here was completely unsuspecting.
"Oh, thanks, thanks," he pretended to pick a piece of food from between his teeth. He took it between two fingers, examined it, and put it back in his mouth. The customs officers barely suppressed their disgust. "I'm, like, grateful, you know. Maybe we'll meet up sometime, huh?" He deliberately made his flirtation attempt repulsive to ensure rejection. But that way, the girl would be left with the impression that she had done a good deed and received gratitude from him. A psychological trick designed so that if there was a later check on arriving passengers, she wouldn't scrutinize his dossier too closely, remembering him as a simpleton she had helped find a job. And help is a good deed. Who would dig through their own good deeds in the heap of workdays and routine? And the invitation to a date... Well, he had to cement the image of a simpleton. As the simple maxim of the intelligence academy says: "No self-respecting girl would ever agree to go on a date with someone who picks food out of his teeth with documents..."
Fatty snorted indignantly and headed toward the shuttle.
The customs officer blinked in confusion.
"Um... that's not really allowed, sir."
"Well, okay," Sergius slung his bag over his shoulder. "Later, then!"
And he took a step toward the terminal exit.
"I get off after nine in the evening!" the girl's voice reached his back. Sergius nearly tripped over his own feet. What did you say, you defective piece of—?! "Right after I hand over my shift at the customs post..."
"Yeah, got it," he nodded. And continued his leisurely stroll toward the exit.
He wanted to burn with shame. Because the maxim said:
"No self-respecting girl would ever agree to go on a date with someone who picks food out of his teeth with documents... And no self-respecting girl would work at customs, because she'd quickly sink to the level of the spineless men who work there."
An unforeseen complication. One not so easily gotten rid of. She knew where he worked, and if he stood her up, she might take offense and use her position to cause him trouble.
Oh, great! Now he not only had to sabotage the Republican shipyard, but also take a Republican customs officer out on the town. Although... on the other hand, she was cute and clearly had access to corporate information...
Well, in the end, he would have a direct opportunity to demonstrate to the New Republic, through one of its specific representatives, that the Empire still dominated.
* * *
How many times had she felt that she'd been tricked recently? Five or six times, definitely.
First "Sly," then the capture team, who seemed like Imperials but gave the impression they were "former" and served the "Invid." Then the appearance of an entire fleet — including the ship spotted in the attack on New Cov, and that definitely wasn't the work of Imperials. At least, that's what she'd been told.
And now everything fell into place. Sort of.
She was definitely a prisoner of the Imperials. And all those performances had been necessary... For what? To confuse her? No, of course, she was significant in her circles as someone capable of acquiring a considerable number of artifacts — and very valuable antiques at that. She was respected and valued by business colleagues and clients for that. But it was unlikely that such games would be staged for her alone.
Riding the turbolift to the bridge of the Imperial Star Destroyer, still accompanied by the same soldiers in black armor, Mirax stopped doubting that the only person the Empire would go to such lengths for — bringing an entire fleet to capture him — was her father. A man who owned his own Star Destroyer.
Well, she could amuse herself with the fact that besides one Imperial-class, two Victory-class, and two pairs of cruisers, the Imperials had brought a third Star Destroyer — an Interdictor-class — to capture the Errant Venture, in addition to the initial two. Just how highly did they rate the combat capability of a practically disarmed "Venture," that they had sent an entire fleet with three specialized ships equipped with gravity generators capable of creating an artificial gravity field preventing any type of starship from jumping into hyperspace!
It seemed the Imperials were genuinely afraid of her father. Funny, considering that even the New Republic had stopped clutching its heart every time it heard about the Errant Venture appearing in inhabited worlds. But the Imperials apparently didn't know the true state of her father's ship's armament, since they'd gathered such a fleet. A pair of Victory-class ships would have been more than enough to collapse the Venture's deflectors and smash its artillery along with its engines. But no...
The turbolift doors opened, and both of her escorts, unceremoniously grabbing Terrik's daughter by the arms, literally dragged her along the central catwalk that separated the "pits" and the actual command bridge into two sections.
The closer the girl got to the viewports thanks to the Imperials, while still turning her head to memorize as many details as possible, the more she became convinced that on this ship, the Imperials seemed not to have heard that the days of their former glory were in the past.
Every person she saw was focused and attentive. Clear and meaningful conversations between watch members. Exemplary cleanliness on the deck... Well, this was definitely not some splinter faction — this was an active fleet.
The girl felt the deck beneath her feet give a barely noticeable shudder, which could only mean one thing — the ship had entered hyperspace. And... why? If they were luring her father here, what was the point of leaving the trap site...
The deck stirred again, which could only mean one thing — the jump had ended. And it had lasted only about five to seven seconds... How was that even possible? Jumps over such short distances were usually very impractical and dangerous. Strange Imperials. Although... no, they probably had a broken hyperdrive. Well, if so, it fit the traditional image of Imperials — they always looked good, but never had the money to take revenge on the New Republic.
But wait... since when were such chairs installed on a bridge? Hold on, what?!
Mirax thought she was having vision problems. A woman on the crew of a Star Destroyer?! No way?! Since when?! No, it would be understandable if she were some kind of "safety officer" or from supply services... No, she was wearing a pure fleet uniform with a lieutenant's rank bar. Wonders never cease. It seemed the Imperials really did have recruitment problems.
Actually, they seemed to have problems with their air wing too. How else to explain the fact that the shuttle carrying her and her escorts had been launched through a cargo hangar instead of the main flight deck? And those strange mining machines in the cargo hangar... What were they for? Were the Imperials now flying Star Destroyers to mine ore somewhere on the galactic backwaters? And a CR90 Corellian corvette hovering in the main hangar bay — she had managed to spot that oddity during the shuttle's approach to the "Imperial."
What a strange Star Destroyer. Its captain must be...
The caustic words Mirax had been about to hurl at the ranking Imperial officer, whose white tunic was visible over the back of a chair, stuck in her throat. No, of course, it was clear that some Imperial officer had imagined himself a Grand Admiral, that was nothing new; ambitious people often did that...
But sitting before her was not a human. Blue skin, crimson eyes burning like flames in hell, jet-black hair... The Imperial Grand Admiral about whom rumors had spread among smugglers — not a human?
What was wrong with this Empire? Why break all the templates for ordinary people like that? How much could the Empire have changed, that they not only had women on Star Destroyer crews, but also aliens? And what about the New Order, the human-centric policy?
"Welcome aboard the Imperial Star Destroyer Chimaera, Mirax Terrik Horn," the alien greeted her in a deep voice rich with authority. Mirax, who had spoken with thousands of beings across the galaxy, noted that she had never encountered such an... interesting accent. Light, almost imperceptible. But it was there. Which directly indicated that Basic was clearly not this non-human's native language. And that immediately added a pile of new questions regarding what was happening.
"Actually, I wasn't planning to stay," the girl said, smiling at the stranger. Perhaps this alien, who had somehow achieved such heights in the Imperial fleet, would be naive enough to let her go? "If you don't mind, I'll just take my ship and be on my way, with the warm thought that the Empire kindly invited me for a tour of its fleet ships. And I must say, I'm impressed by how wonderful and regulation-perfect everything is here... But my husband is waiting for me at home, and I only went out for groceries... He's probably already worried, sitting there fretting. And my droid isn't charged..."
"I'm afraid I must ask you to stay," the blue-skinned non-human said, gesturing with his hand. Only now did Mirax lower her gaze below his face and was surprised to find a small brown lizard on his lap. Did they have a zoo here too? "Especially since your little lie won't work. Corran Horn, your husband, is currently visiting Sluis Van — reassuring the sector's inhabitants that they are, as always, under the protection of the New Republic. Your childhood friend, Wedge Antilles, commander of Rogue Squadron, is there as well. Unfortunately, you have no other close relatives who might be eagerly waiting for you at the other end of the galaxy. So you will have to enjoy our hospitality for a while longer. Take my word for it — the spectacle promises to be breathtaking. I give you my word — you will not remain indifferent. You may even be able to influence certain destinies. Consider it compensation for the necessary measure I had to take to invite you aboard."
Mirax was about to mention her father, but suddenly realized that this strange being had not said "close relatives... at the other end of the galaxy" for no reason. Maybe the Empire, knowing her husband's location, had also figured out where her father was. Or they knew he was flying here? Yes, most likely the latter.
"You talk rather a lot for an Imperial," Mirax Terrik Horn replied, realizing it was useless to play dumb. That's right. For business, she could use only the first half of her surname to draw on her father's authority when needed. But now, facing representatives of the Empire, she was not only Booster's daughter but also Corran's wife — a pilot of Rogue Squadron. "Isn't it time for the intimidation, torture, and humiliation?"
The non-human's right eyebrow lifted slightly, expressing his emotions... or maybe not. Because his face remained impassive.
"I would prefer to avoid all that," he said. Mirax, glancing over the Grand Admiral's shoulder, saw beyond the bridge only the blackness of space and distant specks of stars. Where were the rest of the fleet's ships?
As if in answer to her question, several TIE fighters appeared in view, escorting bombers from the same family. So the Imperials had launched their air wing? They were hardly doing it just to show off. That meant... it would all start soon.
The girl felt her heart tighten inside her.
"You are not a stupid woman, Mirax Terrik Horn," said the Imperial. "I think from the conversation between Mr. Ferrier and your father — which we allowed you to watch — you have drawn the correct conclusions."
I see. So they "allowed" her to watch. Well, now it all added up. They had deliberately misled her, allowed her to see the conversation between "Sly" and her father, so that during the wait for that conversation she would torment herself with guesses about her father's fate. Psychological manipulation. Well, fine, they had picked the wrong person.
"Let me guess," Mirax smirked crookedly. "Now you're going to offer me options for cooperation?"
"There can be no alternatives," said the Imperial. "Both your close men — your husband and your father — will soon find themselves outside the comfort zone they are so accustomed to. Captain Horn will leave Sluis Van and active service without authorization, and your father will be here shortly. And what's more likely — he will bring several of his friends with him. I will make you an offer — only once. Agree, and your father will live. Refuse, and he will die. Before your eyes. Right after my stormtroopers board his ship."
"And how can a simple antiques dealer help you?" Mirax asked, more out of curiosity than actually considering the offer.
"You will carry out my task," said the Imperial. "At first I thought you would sell a number of antique items that have come into my possession for the highest possible price. But now, in light of recent events, I believe that is unnecessary. Your help will be more valuable elsewhere. You will infiltrate a pirate gang, learn the location of their base and flagship, and then you will get your precious father back. He will be my guest during that time. And naturally, I will put in a good word for your husband. So that he at least doesn't forget you after the training course prepared for him. Do everything as instructed — and in addition, you will become a rather wealthy woman. The hunt for your father in territory under my control will cease, and the money you receive will be enough for him to buy himself another vessel — one that is definitely not an Imperial-built warship."
Mirax did not think long. The right words came immediately.
"The offer would be truly tempting, if you weren't mistaken about my husband," Mirax smirked. "Corran would never do something so stupid. On the contrary — I have more faith that he and Wedge will pursue you, find you, and call you to account. You know, in a duel between the X-wings of Rogue Squadron and the Imperial war machine, the latter is always the loser. Despite the size and the rattling of weapons. And Dad... He can take care of himself. I am your only chance to influence him, as well as my husband. So no, your offer is invalid. But fine — when the nozzles of your Star Destroyer are roasting the fighters and cruisers of the New Republic, and all the pirates and smugglers of the Outer Rim, I'll put in a good word for you. They won't hang you right away."
"Oh, this faith in the power of insurmountable circumstances," the Imperial suddenly smirked, looking somewhere behind the woman. "Master C'baoth, how are things with Captain Horn?"
"As they should," turning around, Mirax was surprised to see a tall, gray-haired man in a brown robe settling into a free chair near the communications console. Very similar to the robes Jedi used to wear in ancient times. "He is upset, enraged, and has heeded my words. I can sense him even from the other end of the galaxy. As soon as we finish playing with your little ships, he will open his mind to my call. And he will run away, and he will fly to me to gain the power that is rightfully his. Nothing will hinder my plans! I foresaw this! Everything will happen as it must! Corran Horn is destined by the Force itself to become a Jedi!"
"Is this an Imperial Star Destroyer or a freak show?" Mirax thought. A woman in uniform, an alien commanding them all, now a clearly insane old man with delusions of grandeur...
"Well," the girl looked at the Grand Admiral. "You've got quite a bunch. Can't take your eyes off it. All of a kind. But your old man can say whatever he wants — Corran will never..."
"How dare you, worthless dust beneath my feet, question my words?!" the old man's furious, hysterical voice reached her. Looking at him, Booster Terrik's daughter shuddered.
The frail little old man had somehow crossed the entire bridge and now stood next to her, looking down at her from his height. His eyes burned with a mad fire, his lips muttered some incoherent words, and his fingers, curled like animal claws, were about to dig into her throat. She involuntarily took a step back but remained in place — her escorts, still holding Mirax, didn't even flinch.
"Master C'baoth," the blue-skinned being addressed the madman in the same measured tone. The old man shot him a withering glare. At the same time, an unknown short man with a frightening face appeared next to him, blocking the path of the robed old man. "She is not worth your attention."
Master... robe... Mirax felt nauseous. "Master" was how respected members of the Jedi Order were addressed. Which, for a minute, had been wiped out by the Empire. But judging by how the very air around the old man was transforming into a substance charged with unknown and intangible particles of energy, it was unlikely the Imperials had dressed up a madman just to scare her.
The madman's hooked fingers grabbed the medallion dangling on his chest. And almost immediately, like a spent tornado, the old man relaxed.
"Corran Horn is mine," he threw at her, then shuffled back toward the chair he had jumped up from. The gray-skinned short man stood for a few seconds, then darted behind a bulkhead, where he practically dissolved into the dimness that the bridge's subdued light didn't reach.
Suppressing the shiver that had run through her, Mirax looked at the Grand Admiral. And he, with a slight smile on his lips, looked back at her.
"You may take our esteemed Master C'baoth at his word," he advised. "Before you is a Jedi Master. Powerful and relentless. And burning with a desire to teach your husband, who comes from a Jedi bloodline, the secret knowledge of his Order. If Master C'baoth says he has contacted your husband, then it is so. Do not underestimate Corran Horn's love for you. I am sure that, choosing between you and his duty, he will fly across the entire galaxy to find his wife."
"And fall right into your clutches," Mirax grimaced with disgust. Yes, she had been wrong to think the Imperials only wanted her to lure out her father.
"Corran Horn does not interest me in the slightest," the lead Imperial stated unexpectedly. "He is wholly and completely under Master C'baoth's power. As soon as we are finished with your father and return to the Empire what is rightfully hers, the Master will meet your husband and make a Jedi out of him." The blue-skinned Imperial smirked, and Mirax felt a burning desire to scratch out his red eyes. "In his own image and likeness, of course."
"You're all sick bastards," Mirax said, trying to kick the guard holding her. She failed. Instead, she took a blow to the ribs. A light, sobering one. Accompanied by the crack of bone.
"For insults such as that aboard my flagship, people are killed," the Grand Admiral said seriously. "But I suspect your rebellious nature will bring you far more pain than a knife splitting your heart."
"Burn in hell, Imperial!" Mirax hissed.
"We'll all be there eventually," the other shrugged indifferently.
"They're approaching," the old man's voice suddenly rang out. Low, focused... Glancing at him, Booster Terrik's daughter noticed the madman sitting in his chair, eyes closed, as if what was happening had nothing to do with him. "About five minutes... no, seven, and they'll be here. Hmm... there are quite a few of them... and they are strong!"
"Excellent, so this won't be a simple slaughter of innocents," said the Imperial in the white tunic, checking his chronometer. "They are a quarter-hour behind schedule. Well, all the better. Captain Pellaeon, as soon as our guests arrive, transmit their telemetry to the other ships. All ships are to take their designated positions. Form a semicircle opposite the intercept vector. Spare no one. Master C'baoth — pay special attention to the Errant Venture. The father of the woman you dislike so much will undoubtedly be on the combat bridge in the command tower. It seems to me that our bombers will be able to convey all your displeasure to him."
"How will I know which ship he is on?" the gray-haired madman's voice came through.
"You will see a red Star Destroyer," the Imperial smirked, looking at Mirax with what somehow seemed like regret. Or was she imagining it? "It will be hard to miss."
"For the first time, I am happy to follow your orders, Grand Admiral." A note of pleasure appeared in the old madman's voice. Mirax felt a cold sweat break out on her. If this old man was really a Jedi... She couldn't let this gray-haired maniac kill her father! And judging by the rumors that surrounded the Jedi and the reasons the Empire was so fiercely exterminating them, not all of them were as meek and calm, peaceful and valuing the lives of others as Luke Skywalker.
"Grand Admiral." Seeing the chair in which he sat, observing the interstellar void before him, turn toward her, the girl tried to lunge forward, but her escorts held her back again. The red-haired lieutenant standing to his right only smirked crookedly. Her face looked familiar... Could they have met before? "I... I said a lot of unnecessary things. I apologize. I wish to take advantage of your offer. Tell me what to sell and for what price..."
"Red alert!" The voice on the bridge coincided with the sound of a klaxon, intruding into her ears with an unwelcome ringing. "Enemy ships emerging from hyperspace! Analyzing! One Imperial II-class Star Destroyer, one Neutron Star-class cruiser, three Carrack-class light cruisers, twelve modified and armed freighters, thirty-six signatures of small hostile craft. Correction! More starships arriving..."
A chorus of surprised shouts, bordering on panic, swept across the bridge. Mirax, looking ahead, almost smiled as she saw more and more ships arriving... But the smile fell from her face the moment she realized that the space where the numerous starships of Booster Terrik's friends and companions were appearing was already swarming with green turbolaser bolts, hundreds of crimson missile trails from shipboard proton torpedoes, and losses had already appeared among the new arrivals... Ships, just yanked out of hyperspace by the artificial gravity anomaly, deprived of their scanner readings by the suddenness of the event and unable to raise their deflector shields, were absorbing thousands of deadly projectiles that brought chaos and death to the formation of those who had come to her rescue with every passing second... And even the joy that her father's Star Destroyer had not arrived alone, and that next to the red Imperial II its white sister ship harmoniously rode — rapidly becoming covered in black scorch marks — no longer filled her.
"As I said, Mistress Terrik-Horn," the Grand Admiral's voice reached her ears. "My offer was only valid once. Besides, you no longer need to infiltrate the Invid. Leonia Tavira and her motley fleet have arrived at the site of their execution of their own accord."