Nine years, five months, and thirty-five days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, five months, and thirty-five days after the Great Resynchronization.
"Jorus C'baoth. Human. Male. Born on the planet Bortras, in the Reitkas sector. 4/3/51, DATE GIVEN IN PRE-IMPERIAL CALENDAR"
Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker winced when he saw the data on the Senate Library computer screen. Fifty-one years before the formation of the Galactic Empire? So in the year he attacked the first Death Star, C'baoth was already over seventy? And now he's almost eighty?! Of course, assuming he really is alive and Corran Horn wasn't mistaken.
The Jedi Knight cast a glance at the wall chronometer. Two minutes! It had taken him five minutes to correlate the data on the presumed Jedi's age! And the reason was that very note: "pre-Imperial period." A temporal chronological patchwork, allowing the New Republic's state apparatus to somehow keep from getting lost in the galaxy's myriad of calendar systems.
What kind of mania is this for every single regime—as soon as they come to power, they immediately introduce their own calendar system and convert all historical dates to it? That's what the Galactic Empire did twenty-eight years ago. And even now, the Imperial Remnants count years from the proclamation of the New Order—which means for them it's currently...
Luke thought for a moment. Right. Palpatine came to power, declaring himself Emperor, in the year of his birth, right after the destruction of the Jedi Order and the Old Republic. Well, at least that part is simple—the Empire is as old as he is. Twenty-eight. Almost twenty-nine soon... Yeah. Not the most pleasant comparison. But it makes counting convenient.
Though, it seems the Imperials aren't using the count from the New Order's proclamation that actively anymore. Apparently, they're increasingly switching to the calendar that the Old Republic had used in its final years. The Great Resynchronization, which occurred thirty-five years before the Battle of Yavin. Interesting fact. The Old Republic somehow existed for over twenty thousand years, even though almost every corner of it used its own calendars. But as soon as they standardized them, as soon as the Great Resynchronization happened—just sixteen years later, Emperor Palpatine did his dark deed, destroying that great state and creating his own on its ruins. Though it did last a little longer from the start of the new official calendar.
The New Republic wasn't far behind the Imperials in forcing its own calendar, declaring the year of the Battle of Yavin as the starting point. Why not the Battle of Endor, when the Emperor was destroyed? Or the year Coruscant was captured, when the Rebel Alliance for the Restoration of the Republic finally became legitimate in the eyes of galactic public opinion?
Hell if I know—that's politicians' business. But navigating this chronological chaos was incredibly difficult. Very difficult. Impossibly difficult. A few more calendar quirks like these, and tracking data would be practically impossible. To build a proper chronology in history lessons, schoolkids would have to solve a couple of equations with a dozen unknowns in their heads.
Luke sighed and continued reading the sparse data on the past Jedi. Sparse... Yes, the New Republic intelligence had to work hard to restore them. Though they weren't just restoring these files, but the Old Senate library, whose building was in a state of sluggish repair. It was just a coincidence...
"Great potential in the Force... Sent for training to the Jedi Order... At age seventeen, began attending Minrican University... After completing studies, proceeded to the Jedi Training Corps on Camparas... Two years later, became an apprentice..." Of whom? Who trained C'baoth? Unknown. No records.
Could this Jedi have already been trained by Darth Sidious back then? No, that's a crazy thought. If Luke remembered history correctly, around the time C'baoth was nineteen, Palpatine hadn't yet been vested with absolute power, even as Supreme Chancellor. Before that position, he was a senator, and before that... here the Jedi Knight's knowledge failed him. But it doesn't matter anyway. It's unlikely Palpatine had time to train C'baoth or anyone else before he seized power. So it's just a wild thought, because C'baoth is a Jedi, and they relentlessly exterminated the Sith, which means...
Right, right, Darth Vader was also supposed to destroy the Sith, not join them...
"Awarded the rank of Jedi Knight... Conferred the title of Jedi Master... Title officially recognized by the Order..."
What's this all about?
Even the scraps of information Luke had about the Jedi's past were enough to say with certainty—the Order granted titles to its members, not that Jedi called themselves whatever they wanted. To receive each title, a Jedi had to prove themselves; these were the Order's traditions, they were inviolable...
Right, right, Darth Vader also shouldn't have been taken for training because of his age—his father, as Luke had managed to find out, was older at the time of his enrollment as a Padawan than those usually taken into the Order. But for some reason, the Jedi Council changed its mind...
He wanted to howl with despair. He barely understood his own family's history, more often guessing than dealing with facts. And now he'd decided to figure out the fate of a man who'd lived eighty years!
Luke massaged his temples with his fingers.
"Computer," he addressed the search system's voice assistant, "Display the master's key biographical moments as a Jedi."
Since Jorus C'baoth (yes, Jorus, not Joruus, like Wedge had said!) was already a Jedi Master at that time, maybe he possessed knowledge Luke couldn't even dream of! In almost eighty years in the Order, you could broaden your horizons so much that...
Honestly, he was stung right now by envy that Corran had flown to this mysterious Jedi alone. He wanted to touch the ancient knowledge himself, to talk about the past, about the Jedi path and rebuilding the Order...
"Member of the observation group for demilitarization of the population of planet Ando... Advisor to Senator Palpatine... Member of the Order's combat group for eliminating dark Jedi in the Elrood sector..."
"Stop playback," Luke commanded. Advisor to Senator Palpatine? This wasn't even guesses or assumptions fueled by the fear of the Dark Side's strengthening that the ghost of Ben Kenobi had warned about. This was practically a direct connection! "Details of C'baoth's work for Senator Palpatine."
The computer seemed to think. For a few seconds. Then it displayed:
"Information unavailable."
"Unavailable or classified?" Luke asked again, holding his breath.
"Information unavailable."
Laconic answer, that's for sure.
Luke made a face. But there was nothing to be done about it.
"Continue."
"Member of the Jedi group investigating the Trinkatta Starships company case regarding the creation of modified droid starfighters... Member of the Senate Committee on Interracial Relations... Appointed special envoy to the Xappyh sector... Assisted Jedi Master Tra in resolving the Dwiog-Vog-Gotal conflict... Appointed Jedi Guardian of the Alderaan sector and participated in resolving the crisis known in history as the Struggle for Dominance on Alderaan..."
Luke leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully drummed his fingers on the desk. So it turns out C'baoth wasn't only an advisor to the man who would one day declare himself Emperor, but also participated in destroying dark Jedi in the Elrood sector. Luke double-checked the information. Yes, the Elrood sector specifically. One might assume C'baoth participated in destroying dark Jedi on Bpfassh in the Sluis sector, which is why the planet's inhabitants dislike Jedi, but no. It's just that due to chronology problems and date confusion caused by Imperial purges, many perceive these two conflicts as one. But no, the dark Jedi on Bpfassh were destroyed by a Jedi strike group that included Yoda... oh, old friend, how I miss you now! So many questions I want to clarify!
Soft footsteps sounded behind him, and the young Jedi sensed a living being approaching. His sister's personal assistant, an active member of the Rebellion and, coincidentally, the current nanny for the Alderaanian princess herself. With prospects of becoming one for the twins as well. Though Winter had never complained about the work assigned to her.
"General Skywalker?" her ingratiating voice sounded.
"Hi, Winter," Skywalker forced a smile onto his face, trying not to reveal his exhausted state from the search. And his attitude toward the rank he had parted with without regret some time ago. Winter possessed a photographic memory. She never forgot anything. The last thing he needed was for the assistant to tell his sister that her brother had spent more than a day in the Library, digging through convoluted archives. "Are you looking for me?"
"Yes," Winter stood beside him, peering at the screen. "Princess Leia wanted to meet with you as soon as you're finished," she nodded at the screen and flicked her snow-white hair back with a wave of her hand. "Studying Jedi history again?"
"Something like that," Luke replied; he hated it when anyone, no matter who, took an interest in his activities. Luke inserted an infocard into the terminal slot. "Computer, record a full copy of information on Master Jorus C'baoth."
"Jorus C'baoth..." Winter repeated thoughtfully. Skywalker noted with an inner smile that the girl really did look a lot like his sister. No wonder she was considered the princess's double. "That's the Jedi who took part in the big political scandal on Alderaan?"
"That's what's recorded in the archives," Luke nodded in agreement. "I haven't looked at the details; I wanted to ask Leia. Although... maybe you know something about it?"
"No more than any Alderaanian..." Winter replied. Calmly enough, but...
Luke felt the pain emanating from the girl. The same kind that haunted Leia or any other native of Alderaan when the conversation touched upon their home world, destroyed by the Empire.
Unlike her other countrymen, for Winter, with her absolute memory—from which nothing ever gets erased—the destruction of Alderaan felt as if it had happened just seconds ago. A waking nightmare with no escape.
Winter.
"The political scandal concerned the question of succession," Winter said after a pause. "After repeated—more precisely, three—votes on the subject of dispute—whether the function of Viceroy of Alderaan should pass to House Organa or to other Houses—the population appealed to the Senate to resolve the issue. The arriving delegation, which included C'baoth, needed only a standard month to settle the crisis."
"Judging by what I know, Bail Organa became Viceroy," Luke winced. "Leia's adoptive father. So C'baoth supported his lineage? That's... unusual. I thought Jedi of the past chose a path of mutual agreements, where neither side's interests were harmed."
"C'baoth supported neither side," Winter countered. "On his orders, Bail Organa married Breha of House Antilles—her lineage was Organa's rival on that matter. The conclusion of a dynastic marriage elevated Breha to the throne as Queen, and made Bail the Viceroy. Formally—neither side had any grievances."
"On his... orders?" Luke's eyes widened. "Are you sure?"
"I am never wrong," Winter remarked coldly. Not proudly, not arrogantly. Simply stating a fact.
"That's... incredible," Luke whispered. "How could a Jedi tell anyone what to do? Let alone give orders..."
"Alderaan always revered Jedi and considered it an honor to befriend the Order," Winter explained. "But yes, you're right. C'baoth's behavior was effectively an ultimatum. They only agreed to it because feelings sparked between the future king and queen and..."
"And that option suited everyone," Luke summed up, still astonished by what he'd heard.
"It seems I've learned all I could," Luke agreed, pulling out the infocard. But if the archive is right... "You said Leia wanted to see me?" he asked, getting to his feet.
"If you're free," Winter nodded. "She's in her office now. The Provisional Government meeting has ended..."
Luke caught the understatement in the girl's words.
"Did something happen?"
"Counselor Fey'lya has brought charges against Admiral Ackbar," Winter said.
Luke stopped so abruptly he nearly tumbled head over heels down the corridor.
"What charges?" Maybe this is some kind of joke...
"For high treason," Winter sighed. "He and General Cracken set up a network of traps hoping to destroy the Imperials who are striking at our rear lines."
"Yeah, I heard about it from Ackbar himself," Luke confirmed. "Not a bad tactic..."
"We've lost contact with three such groups," Winter announced. "One is missing with nearly its full complement, the other two are completely destroyed. And not a single trace of the enemy."
"What the hell..." Luke muttered. "I hope Han and Lando are okay?"
"They're the ones who discovered the groups' disappearance," Winter said as they approached the turbolift leading to the landing platforms. "Their reports became the grounds for the charges."
* * *
"Grand Admiral," Captain Pellaeon appeared at the cabin doorway. "The information you requested has arrived."
"Thank you, Captain," I took the data chip from the Chimaera's commander. "Is there data from the Mount Tantiss facility?"
"They're conducting an investigation; no additional data has been received," Gilad reported. "The Chimaera's communication system has also been checked. No one contacted Wayland except me. The communication log has not been tampered with or altered—we verified this through the central computer's archives using the top-level access code you gave me."
Is that so. So I was wrong, and Colonel Celid really did act on his own initiative? Or I wasn't wrong, but simply can't find the right 'threads'? Well, I'm an analyst, not an investigator. The situation seems like an accident. But I don't believe in those. "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you."
And even though I have no proof of Major Tierce's disloyalty, I don't fully believe the story about the Guardsman who betrayed Palpatine. Maybe I'm wrong. But for now, I should restrict his access to information—fortunately, he has plenty to do right now: training the new recruits.
And for now, Pellaeon will serve in his stead.
"Contact the Nemesis," I said. "Transmit additional instructions to Colonel Himron and Lieutenant Colonel Astarion: 'Leave personnel at the facility to continue the investigation. The rest are to report to Tangrene for a new assignment.'"
"It will be done, sir," Pellaeon said. "Will there be orders for Mara Jade?"
"I will deliver orders for my adjutant personally," the red-haired lady deserved to receive orders firsthand. She's not in disgrace, after all. Besides, she's still undercover as my officer for special assignments. Let her remain that way to everyone. A pretty girl with an aging alien male, and in such a rank... who among the outsiders, Imperials not attached to my fleet, would think she's a spy, rather than a pretty little doll kept around for entertainment? "Has Captain Dorja reported damage to our ships during the sorties?"
"A few non-critical breaches," the gray-haired officer reported with poorly concealed satisfaction. "Enemy losses are far more significant."
"Six Mk-II strike frigates and two Immobilizer-418-class cruisers," I recalled. "Yes, that's an impressive result. Especially considering that our preemptive operations to clear the Katana Fleet's route resulted in a political scandal in the New Republic and Admiral Ackbar's suspension from duty."
"However, now we'll have to fight Generals Solo and Calrissian," Pellaeon noted. "On the surface, just simple smugglers... but they've caused the Empire no end of trouble."
"Our active operations would inevitably force the enemy to pull as many experienced military personnel as possible from reserve," I noted. "That's a logical step. I have no doubt that an offer to return to service will soon be made to former Grand Admiral Octavian Grant."
"A traitor," Pellaeon hissed through his teeth. "The only one of all the Grand Admirals who, after Palpatine's death, didn't even try to fix the situation."
"You're looking at the situation one-sidedly, Captain," I noted. "Grant negotiated immunity and freedom from prosecution from the New Republic, while the other Grand Admirals died without any particular benefit. From the perspective of a man who hates aliens and droids—it's the height of wisdom. It would have been worse if he'd gone over to our enemy's side.
"Pointless infighting," Pellaeon sighed. "Out of twelve Grand Admirals, only you are trying to fix the situation, not make it worse."
"From the perspective of the radical militarist faction of the Imperial Remnants, my aspirations are also considered treasonous," I noted. "We're alive only because only a handful of people know my goals. And that's how it must remain, Captain. Speaking of consequences," I pulled an infochip from the computer and handed it to Pellaeon. "Use this information in the event I am killed. Or if such rumors reach you."
Frowning, the Chimaera's commander looked at me warily, then took the chip.
"The information on it is encrypted," I added. "The cipher has a temporal timer. When the time comes, the chip will make itself known."
"Sir..." Gilad tried to object, but I cut him off with a gesture.
"We are waging a war for our future, Captain," I reminded him. "On our path, we sometimes encounter insurmountable obstacles. My death—or even rumors of it—must not become the end of what has been planned."
"Yes, Commander," Pellaeon said, pressing his lips together as he tucked the chip into an inner pocket of his tunic.
His entire demeanor showed that the man found the conversation itself unpleasant. In his eyes — and why hide it, in the eyes of the entire fleet — I had gained an almost mystical significance. Morale held up solely on the faith that under my command we would keep winning. Until the situation regarding what happened in the depths of Mount Tantiss was resolved, I needed insurance — a guarantee that events wouldn't follow the same track as in the literary universe known to me. In Timothy Zahn's books, after Thrawn's death during the Battle of Bilbringi, Pellaeon, not knowing what to do next, ordered a retreat. And then he went over to serve the Reborn Emperor. That triggered a certain chain of events. Well, the commander of my flagship Star Destroyer needed to know the truth about future events and my advice for his subsequent actions — even in the event of my death. Whether he would believe what was on the chip or follow the advice — that was another question. I would hope that he would.
"Now, tell me about what happened on New Cov," I asked.
"Moff Ferrus sent Captain Vane to seize a shipment of biomolecular mass," Pellaeon said. "Upon arrival at the planet, Vane discovered that his ship had been destroyed along with its entire crew. He engaged six Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers and managed to disable one of them. The other five — he damaged."
"Six Dreadnaughts," I said thoughtfully. "You understand what that means, Captain?"
"You said that Captain Hoffner sold six heavy cruisers from the two hundred that were part of the Katana Fleet to the Corellian Garm Bel Iblis, whom everyone believes dead," Pellaeon said.
"And now we encounter them at New Cov," I noted. "Where we made a deal with the local governor. What does the ground team report?"
"The pirates were attacked on the surface," Pellaeon replied. "They retreated, taking part of the cargo. On orbit, the Dreadnaughts attempted to fire on their transport vessel with ion cannons. They attacked. Yazuo Vane's starship was destroyed by return fire."
"Interesting," I said. "You said Captain Vane arrived at New Cov separately from his fighters. Explain."
"We paid Vane approximately forty-five million credits for his assistance in capturing the Errant Venture," Pellaeon reminded me. "I don't know where he got that rarity, but he's come into possession of a Separatist Providence-class carrier destroyer."
"Another legacy of the Clone Wars," I said, interlacing my fingers. "Intriguing. Did you transmit the order to Captain Vane to return to Tangrene?"
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "I'd like to know where he got such a ship. It must require thirty thousand crew members!"
"A little over twenty thousand," I corrected. "In its time, the CIS replaced crews on its ships with battle droids. Many of the starships were lost after the end of the Clone Wars. Some of them fell into the hands of the Rebel Alliance. Including the Providences. It's not surprising that some of these starships have survived elsewhere."
"Do you want to requisition that antique?" Pellaeon inquired.
"I want to channel Mr. Vane's aspirations in the right direction," I clarified. "One carrier Star Destroyer on the enemy's supply routes would be a great asset. No, we won't take the ship away from him. On the contrary, we'll help him become even more convinced of his rightness in wanting to avenge the deaths of his comrades-in-arms against the enemy. The ship will stay with him, but we'll help him with the crew — we have a considerable number of volunteers. Let them serve not only in the Wolf Packs, but also aboard the ships we'll turn into our... well, let's say, auxiliary forces. In the coming battles, we'll need many starships. Even outdated ones."
"Are you implying that Vane has more Separatist starships stashed away?"
"I'm saying outright that this sentient already had the opportunity to sell us that starship, for a large sum of money at that," I reminded him. "But he didn't do it. And only after receiving a substantial sum of money — the ship appeared. Perhaps it needed repairs, but I'm more inclined to believe that Captain Vane acquired the ship immediately after receiving the cash from us. Which gives grounds to believe that his contact has other starships as well."
"But why would we need Separatist ships?" Pellaeon asked in surprise. "You have the coordinates of the military depot RZ7-6113-23. According to the information, there could be Grand Army of the Republic ships there."
"And equipment from the same time period," I confirmed. "The more we requisition for our needs — if there's actually anything left there — the better. Yes, by the way. Don't forget to send scout droids to the RZ7-6113-23 system. I want to know whether it's even worth going there. Or if the base has been looted by marauders."
"It's quite possible there are defense systems, like minefields," Pellaeon said thoughtfully.
"Then you agree with me that we shouldn't fly there headlong," I said. "Do you have any idea who tipped off Bel Iblis about New Cov?"
"Honestly, I thought it was a coincidence or that Bel Iblis's own intelligence was at work..."
"Maybe so," I agreed. "However, I'm almost certain someone tipped him off. And that will need to be dealt with later. I have no intention of forgiving something like this."
"Are we going to attack New Cov?" Pellaeon inquired.
"Yes," I confirmed. "But not immediately. Right now we're in the middle of an operation to transport heavy cruisers across the galaxy. There's an operation coming up on Hypori. We need to go to Lianna and clarify the matter of assistance to our cause from the Santhe family. Besides that, we have agents at the Hast and Sluis Van shipyards. Not to mention the problems on Wayland. There's no need at all to accumulate a pile of problems — we'll solve them gradually. Here's our target," I said, projecting a hologram above Gilad's head. "Xa Fel."
"The hyperdrive supplier?" Pellaeon asked in surprise.
"We have a high demand for them," I reminded him. "The manufacturer has a large supply. In my opinion, everything is within the bounds of market economics. Send scouts to that system. I want to know their entire defense layout."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," said the commander of the Chimaera. "Should I order the navigators to plot a course to the RZ7-6113-23 system immediately after we arrive at Tangrene?"
"For what purpose?" I asked in surprise. No, seriously, what were we just talking about?
"By the time we get to the base, the scout droids will already be in place," Pellaeon explained. "If the situation there is favorable..."
"If the situation there is favorable, that's a reason to suspect a trap waiting for us there," I said with a sigh. "Do you really think that among the hundreds of Imperial commanders after Palpatine's death, there weren't at least a couple who wanted to expand their fleets by absorbing a storage site for outdated ships? For your information — the Empire used starships from the war with the Separatists for about ten more years after the Clone Wars ended. The battle in the Rugosa system convincingly showed that even outdated ships can cause a lot of problems. If that Venator had had the modification developed toward the end of the war — we would have been in serious trouble."
"You're talking about the self-propelled guns installed in the lower hangar?" Pellaeon clarified.
"Exactly those," I confirmed.
"A relic of the past," Pellaeon grimaced.
"Did that make it lose its effectiveness?" I inquired.
"Probably not, sir," Gilad said uncertainly.
"We don't need assumptions, Captain," I said. "A legacy of the past that can still be effective now must be acquired by us."
"Sir, I dare to note that in that case, our shipyards will simply be swamped with work," Gilad said. "Already they can barely handle the repairs of the ships delivered to them. If we can still somewhat compensate for the amount of technical personnel with clones, then without additional orbital docks, the repair of the Katana Fleet could drag on for months..."
"What do you think, Captain, is the purpose of the planned raid on the Halma shipyards?" I clarified. It's easy to call everyone stupid and slow-witted when the plan was born in your own head. Except I'm surrounded by ordinary people who don't have extraordinary abilities and can't read minds. And the fragmentation of information that I use to prevent a full leak allows me to keep a significant portion of my plans secret. If one fails, another will work.
"Support for Baron D'Asta?" Pellaeon suggested.
This is why Thrawn was considered a genius among Imperials. The ability to calculate even just a couple of steps ahead — that's practically a unique skill for the military machine of any state and any commander in this galaxy. No wonder those 'simple' combinations that I read about in books seemed to the locals the height of cunning and ingenuity. In my past life, that happened every day in every sphere of existence.
To ensure proper security for my plans, it's enough to advance several operations simultaneously, and then the assigned tasks — even in case of information leakage — won't help piece together a single picture. But it's also not worth delaying, otherwise sharp-witted enemies — and there aren't that many idiots around — will figure out to break the puzzles and assemble several pictures from them.
And that's when a problem could arise.
I inadvertently recall the saying: 'In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.'
"Including that," I confirmed. "He supported us, we'll repay him in kind. Think further, Captain."
"There's Imperial equipment there, including fighters, shuttles, and Star Destroyers," Pellaeon continued developing the thought.
"Good," I approved. "We already have a second reason to go there. Especially considering the fact that the ships are in orbit and the crews are on the planet. Moreover — at reduced strength. Everything needed to crew the starships will arrive later."
"But Lieutenant Rederick hasn't provided the information yet," Pellaeon frowned.
"On the other hand, the New Republic kindly passed it on to us," I noted. Seeing that the captain didn't understand, I explained: "Their repair regulations are the same as the Empire's. If something works, why try to change it, right?"
"I didn't even think of that," Pellaeon admitted. "Though the thought was there..."
"Can you try to state the third reason for attacking those shipyards?" I inquired.
Judging by Pellaeon's expression, he clearly hadn't expected there to be something beyond the first point.
"Um..." Gilad thought. "The shipyards themselves?"
"Exactly," I said. "And to be more precise — two orbital repair workshops of the first type. And their Golan-type defense stations. I think it's no longer necessary to clarify that the target of the raid isn't just Imperial ships, is it?"
"But those are stationary objects!" Pellaeon reminded me. "They don't move in hyperspace; they don't have hyperdrives and..."
He stopped short. The look in his life-experienced eyes lit up.
Understanding dawned.
"Sir," the flagship's commander shook his head. "I... I don't know what to say. If it all works out, we'll provide Tangrene with everything it needs and..."
"This isn't being done for Tangrene," I cut him off.
"But isn't our base there?" he clarified.
"It is," I confirmed. "But should it be the only one?"
"Oh, now I understand," Pellaeon nodded. "Sorry for wasting your time, sir."
"Spend ten minutes explaining now or hours hammering it in later?" I asked rhetorically. "Captain, sharing your ideas with an ally isn't a waste of time. It's the key to a successful future. One day you and the other Star Destroyer commanders will be commanding squadrons and will have to make important decisions. Let's hope that by then we'll all have become better commanders than we are now. Be so kind as to contact Captain Vane and invite him to Tangrene. If I'm right about the class of his new ship's hyperdrive, the journey will take him about three to four days."
"Will we be waiting for him at the base?" Pellaeon clarified. "Isn't that too risky — since the Katana Fleet ships are supposed to arrive by then?"
"The Morshdine sector has a considerable number of systems, including uninhabited ones," I reminded him. "But no, you're wrong. Our time is too valuable to waste waiting for a privateer. We'll depart as soon as we've unloaded and received a report on the current situation."
"May I ask where to plot a course?" Pellaeon inquired.
"Of course," I nodded. "Ciutric IV. Inform Major Tierce to notify the Prince-Admiral of our visit. I wouldn't want to unnerve him with the sudden appearance of an Imperial Star Destroyer directly in orbit of his precious capital."
"Will we be acquiring additional small craft from him?" Pellaeon inquired.
"Including that," I didn't rule out the reasonable option. "But right now I intend to speak with him about relocating the prisoners from Tangrene to his planet. Too many events are swirling around our rear base to simply allow the enemy to even gaze at the stars in the night sky."
Glancing at the painting "Killik Twilight" hanging above the exit from the quarters, I narrowed my eyes.
Borsk Fey'lya made the move I needed. But he made it earlier than planned. In the absence of suitable evidence, the case against Ackbar will fall apart, and very quickly. I should give the New Republic more headaches.
And not just them.
No one has repealed the 'matryoshka principle' yet.
"Captain," my voice stopped Pellaeon right at the door. "Wait. I have additional instructions for you. Secret ones, of course."
* * *
"Y'know," Sergius said, demonstratively picking his teeth with a toothpick, carefully avoiding looking at the customs officer. "I'm grateful to you."
"For what?" the girl smiled. Right now she looked as beautiful as any other human female who had gone on a date to a third-rate cantina with a young man whose manners wouldn't allow him to be taken anywhere decent.
"You found me a job," Sergius said. "It's good at the warehouse. Clean, quiet, peaceful. Just sort through parts and make inventories. Easy peasy! And what money they pay! Three whole credits an hour! I'm rich!"
The customs officer laughed softly.
"What're you laughin' at?" Sergius showed the greatest surprise he could muster without risking overacting.
"Do you really think three credits an hour with a forty-hour, five-day work week is a lot?" a condescending tone crept into the girl's voice. "You work all thirty-five days without days off, don't you?"
"Well, yeah," Sergius poked his fork into the stew they called soup here. Maybe this bantha feed had once been soup, but before someone else had eaten it before their couple got it. "They told me I'd be getting as much as eight hundred credits!"
"Eight hundred and forty, to be precise," the girl corrected him. "It's simple multiplication. Three credits per hour of work; eight hours per work shift per day; five work days per week. And there are seven such weeks in a month."
"Well, yeah," Sergius nodded. "That makes eight hundred."
"Eight hundred and forty," irritation and notes of arrogance appeared in the girl's voice. Truly, the old saying was justified: 'Better a son a shock trooper than a daughter a customs officer.' Such conceit and disregard for those close to her... Well, it seemed the rebels had absorbed everything they had hated the Empire for for so long. Completely forgetting that the Empire wasn't just the people in power. It was also an idea. The Empire was alive as long as those who remembered the best of the New Order were alive. And the rebels seemed to have decided to revive everything most repulsive.
"Well, whatever," Sergius shrugged, as if he didn't care. "So I'm richer by forty credits. And how much do you earn?"
Honestly, he didn't care. But he had to maintain the reputation of a provincial fool who had ventured beyond his native agricultural fields.
"That's actually tactless," the girl wrinkled her nose. "You don't ask women about their weight, or their age, and certainly not how much they earn from honest work!"
"Oh, stop squirming like a Hutt in a pot," Sergius grimaced mentally. "Your salary is probably at a rate of twenty-five credits an hour. Consequently, in five weeks of work you get seven thousand credits. The dress on you is new, the shoes too. No jewelry on your body, but traces of a necklace, bracelet, and rings are visible. It all harmonizes with your tanned and fit body. Therefore, your expenses are high. So, unless one of your unfortunate relatives left you a dwelling as an inheritance, you're clearly staying with someone. And consequently, you're not saving money and are spending it on yourself. A typical party girl who took a position above her understanding of comfort level and is enjoying the present. Without any hint of prospects for the future."
Acknowledging this fact took him a few moments.
"Hey, uh, sorry if somethin's wrong," he sniffed. "I'm, uh, from Tanaab."
"Nothing terrible," the girl smiled, sipping caf from a mug. "Tell me, how do you like your work?"
"Ah, well, nothin' complicated," Sergius shrugged. "They bring me cargo, I receive it, send it to storage, keep track of it. Nothin' complicated."
"I'm glad you like it," the girl smiled. "And, if it's not a secret, what do you store there?"
"'You're customs, you clear goods,'" Sergius thought in surprise. Weird lady. First she helps with a job, then she tries to jump into bed, and after all that she asks about work. Odd young lady. At least she wants to seem that way.
Sergius didn't believe in friendship between a man and a woman, between a man and a man, and especially between women. Everyone needed something from the other. To be honest, he had been waiting for this conversation. He wanted to understand why a customs officer with a decent salary was trying to get him a job. She clearly had some interest of her own. And it was far from idle. The question about the contents of the warehouses was clearly not asked for nothing.
"Just all sorts of junk," he said indifferently. "Various cannons, bombs..."
"Cannons?" the girl was clearly feigning naive surprise. Oh ho. It's getting more interesting. "Bombs?"
"Well, I'm not from around here, I don't know what it's all called," Sergius said nasally, scratching his nose. So, the girl was perfectly well aware that the warehouse she had advised him to get a job at — and so insistently, almost throwing herself at him — stored weaponry stripped from disarmed New Republic ships: turbolasers, launchers, lasers, ion cannons, proton torpedoes, and assault missiles. Thousands of units, both Imperial and Republican models. Consequently, not only the irritating-looking Mon Calamari starships had been turned into cargo ships, but also the Empire's military trophies.
"I thought they brought confiscated food there," the girl said something absolutely absurd. The warehouse where Sergius worked didn't have a single coolant pipe connected to turn it into a refrigerator.
"Nah," Sergius drawled. "Weapons. Lots of weapons."
"And you handle all of it by yourself?" the girl's eyes flashed mysteriously.
Well, it seemed the girl was part of some gang that dealt in stealing goods and selling them on the black market. It wouldn't be surprising if this equipment eventually ended up back in the Empire. Though they'd have to shell out a lot for the privilege of acquiring it. But the question was, why spend Imperial credits to search for this kind of cargo? Clearly to one day bring them back and return them to two hundred warships that kept arriving in the sector to unload some useful cargo and load others.
"Of course by myself," Sergius puffed out his chest proudly. "Who else would they guard at military warehouses but military goods?" the question was rhetorical, of course. "Besides me, there are no guards, no watchmen, no patrol droids — why would there be, if everyone here is from the New Republic, who's going to steal from whom? We, uh, defeated the Empire together, we should trust each other."
"Well, yeah," the customs officer laughed, extremely strained and completely artificial.
In fact, it was now becoming clear what was what. Her inexplicable attraction to the simple guy was explained. And her desire to find out more about Sergius himself. Whoever this lady was, she intended to visit the military warehouses, having first extracted all the necessary information from Sergius.
And then, when the theft was discovered, the 'security people' would get a few tips pointing to yours truly. And a circle of evidence would be found, completely determining Sergius's immediate future. And it was clearly not bright — only the color of prison uniform, where the security forces of the Sluis Van Shipyards would send him when they understood everything.
So, the Ubiqtorate coordinator against an unknown band of marauders who intended to steal military property — property that he himself already had his eye on but couldn't take now without destroying his own legend.
Well, that made it even more interesting. Perhaps he would contribute not only to the Grand Admiral getting his hands on the warehouses and ships waiting their turn. Already there were more than two hundred line and escort ships of the New Republic of various designs cruising the galaxy unarmed, with their holds full of various expensive and important types of cargo.
Since he had been assigned this task, he should make sure that no one other than Grand Admiral Thrawn plundered this treasure trove.
* * *
So, the chip that Pellaeon delivered to me.
Data on a sentient recommended to me by Chief Engineer Reyes.
Ryan Zion. Sixty-seven standard years. Native of Kuat. Comes from a family of hereditary engineers at Kuat Drive Yards.
Starship engineer Ryan Zion.
By education — a military starship engineer. Holder of diplomas in a number of related specializations — small ships, medium ships. And his main profile: everything except Star Destroyers from the Imperial class and up. That is, ships up to a thousand or fifteen hundred meters long (I don't remember the exact terminology introduced by the Anaxis Military College) are his beloved and adored, but anything longer… A peculiar logic, I must admit.
Training direction: "Optimization and Modernization." Hmm… not the most popular in the Empire, incidentally. Preference was given to building new ships rather than upgrading existing ones. Well, after the Empire's fall, it's no surprise he became in demand — there's no money to build a fleet, but starships are needed.
High qualifications, multiple commendations in service. Possesses a decent fortune, shares in Kuat Drive Yards… but that interests me least of all.
Has a considerable number of prosthetics — mostly implanted into his body. Capable of seeing in the infrared spectrum — a costly implant has been installed in place of his left eye, allowing the use of thermal vision and a number of other settings. He wears an eyepatch to avoid displaying the external eye prosthetic.
His left arm has been replaced up to the elbow with a high-grade cybernetic prosthetic; there is no synthflesh covering, and part of the external elements of the prosthetic conceal the installation site. No built-in weapons; the prosthetic is equipped with a self-designed comlink, most likely a long-range device.
Has undergone multiple genetic alterations, which have resulted in skeletal reinforcement and also… is that so? I didn't know this universe had medical intervention capable of extending life. Though I don't have one hundred fifty billion credits for such body modification. And the desire to lose an eye from side effects is frankly absent.
But what follows is even interesting… Not a supporter of the New Order. Indifferent to aliens, phlegmatic in daily life. In a professional environment, arrogant, ambitious, and haughty.
Left-handed. Carries a blaster of his own modification on the right side of his body, presumably a disintegrator.
Took a direct part in refining the Victories and Acclamators after the Clone Wars. So that's who we owe those projects to. He did not participate in designing the Imperial II due to a quarrel with colleagues from the design group. The details of the conflict are unknown.
He is the chief designer among those working at the shipyards on the planet Yaga Minor, which belong to the Pentastar Alignment.
The last note even amused me.
"Dreams of owning his own shipyard."
An extremely interesting desire, especially considering that all the slipways in the Alignment or any other Imperial Remnant are subordinated to the government. In modern realities, just as in the not-too-distant past of the Empire and the Old Republic, owning your own shipyard means being a wealthy person. Because there are always orders — well, almost always. Plus, it's an opportunity to independently build ships according to one's own designs — such ships are popular with various rich people. As I recall, during the last millennium of the Old Republic, it was forbidden to produce warships on a serial basis — building space giants armed to the teeth, but for private needs, oddly enough, was not prohibited. Especially since such ships sometimes cost hundreds of millions.
A poor long-haul pilot is one who doesn't want to become the owner of his own transport company.
So this sentient's desire is quite understandable, and even somewhat justified.
The only question is: what keeps him in the Pentastar Alignment?
Possibly a high salary, because Grand Moff Kaine's state is the richest of all the Imperial Remnants.
Ideology? No, hardly.
I think Mr. Ryan Zion's loyalty is also significantly influenced by the fact that the backbone of the Pentastar Alignment's fleet is not Star Destroyers but heavy cruisers. I don't know what his aversion to them is, but it's clearly something personal. Or financially motivated. In any case, this needs to be addressed — and the sooner, the better.
The holoprojector came to life at my summons. A miniature figure in a form-fitting black armored suit, a shock of red hair… And a lightsaber hanging from her belt. Just one. Belonging to Mace Windu, if I've identified it correctly. How interesting.
"Mara Jade, is there any additional information on Mount Tantiss?" I inquired. I mean, could something have happened?
"No, Grand Admiral," she replied.
"In that case, I have an assignment for you," I said. The girl looked at me expectantly. "Go to the Yaga Minor system. There you need to meet with the starship engineer Ryan Zion. I'm sending you his file." A copy of the document sped from the computer across light-years.
"Should I eliminate him?" the girl asked. Well, a perfectly reasonable question.
"No," I shook my head. "Recruit him to our side. I suspect Talon Karrde does business precisely with the Pentastar Alignment, as the most stable of all the Imperial Remnants. That also needs investigating. And one more thing" a good idea comes after the fact — "hire shipyard workers for asteroid operations."
A flicker of incomprehension passed through the girl's eyes, but the Hand didn't deem it necessary to voice it aloud.