Nine years, six months, and the third day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, six months, and the third day after the Great Resynchronization.
Getting through customs for the captain of a freighter delivering fresh vegetables and fruit to a Republic facility takes a couple of seconds. A familiar customs officer looks you in the face, smiles, knowing that during unloading a small share of the cargo will come his way, stamps your ID, winks — which unequivocally implies he considers you a buddy — and loses all official interest in you.
There it was, the power of corruption. And feminine charm.
Fodeum calmly walked past the counter, surveying the arrivals hall. Traditionally it was empty — freighter captains didn't linger in this part of the station, preferring to get back to their ships as quickly as possible and head to Halm or the shipyards to unload military cargo.
In his ship's case, it was much simpler — he just had to wait for the customs workers to haul the containers of food out of the not-so-large hold of the Elegant Lady. Considering that on a Golan-type station, with its nearly three thousand kilometers of length, there were just over a thousand military personnel, they liked to eat here. But work? Not so much. After all, the ships left for repair drifted near the repair grids and, in the almost six years since the Battle of Pi Hast, hadn't progressed in hull repairs at all — they would be sticking around here for a long time. The New Republic was in no hurry to spend its credits on heavily battered ships. Hence the staff, a significant portion of whom were now civilian contractors, frankly didn't even try to maintain any respect for their work, their employers, or their civic duty. As the saying goes: "Out of sight of the bosses, and service isn't a burden." And the military commandant of the shipyards was anything but a bold leader. Fodeum could say that honestly, with his hand on his heart. He'd had the opportunity to deal with this individual. He'd left that office feeling upset. Fine, one could accept that the Empire tried to cheat everywhere and always, but that the valiant guardians and zealots of democracy... Well, well, it had never happened before, and now it happened again.
Golan-III type space defense station.
Watching the customs officer sweetly smile at Vex, diligently showering her with compliments and not noticing that her feigned politeness and talkativeness was at its limit, Fodeum smirked. In this galaxy, there was no male sentient to whom Vex could relate with good nature and without groundless grievances. However, he knew for sure that his friend wouldn't cross the line; there would be no scandal with the customs officer. That wasn't part of the task set for them by Grand Admiral Thrawn.
Fodeum let out a quiet breath, feeling his palms grow slick with nervousness. Breathing exercises weren't helping to calm his nerves.
Every time he returned here — to the station that controlled all orbital activity of the New Republic in the Hast sector — the young man feared he'd be caught. He wasn't sure if the "infiltration" by that man, Rederick, had been successful. He'd had to use the Force, something Fodeum hadn't done in quite a while. And unfortunately, it wasn't like learning to ride a grav-cycle: once you got it, you never forgot.
Yeah, right. You definitely forgot.
Fodeum tried to look casual and unruffled as a patrol of two Republic soldiers passed him. Standard patrol. Nothing noteworthy. He was just a freighter captain, nothing to see he—
The young man cursed mentally. Apparently, he'd tried so hard to look uninvolved that his very effort had drawn suspicion. The soldiers were heading his way.
"Your identification card, please," said one of the New Republic soldiers — the senior one in the patrol, apparently. No introduction, no explanation for the request... Democracy in action.
"Of course." The commander of the Graceful Lady reached into the inner pocket of his vest and produced the required document. Handing the card to the soldier, he caught eyes with Vex, who had already passed through the customs checkpoint. The girl, sensing that something unusual was happening, pretended to be interested in the small cantina just outside the customs zone. Where freighter captains and off-duty station personnel liked to relax. Where, in ten minutes, a meeting with an Imperial intelligence agent was supposed to take place.
"Something wrong, officers?" Fodeum inquired, watching the New Republic soldiers scan his ID through a portable computer reader. Seriously? Didn't they have anything better to do? Or did they think the people manning the customs post were intellectually deprived individuals incapable of using the same screening devices? No, this wasn't right. Something else was going on here.
"I'm a corporal," the patrol leader snapped. "Officers prefer to handle more important matters. No, we're just checking documents. We have orders to tighten security."
"Really?" Fodeum kept playing the simple guy. His voice wasn't shaking, was it? No, it wasn't. "The customs folks didn't mention anything. Everything was business as usual..."
"Well, that's customs," the second soldier snorted — a private, apparently. "Our job's a bit more serious."
"Exactly," said the corporal. He looked Fodeum in the eye. "What are you carrying?"
"Supplies," the man replied.
"I don't recall seeing you here before," the patrol commander said. "And I've been stationed here since our people scrapped the Death Star at Yavin IV..."
Weeeell, that was a familiar tune.
"I just started working here recently," Fodeum said. "Honestly, it happened by accident. A couple weeks ago I was hauling cargo to the Mon Calamari homeworld. My hyperdrive started acting up. My mechanic suggested I get it fixed here. I told him, 'Let's make it to Dac and fix it there,' but he started whining that he couldn't do it all himself, better to fly to the shipyard, especially since it was a military yard. Anyway, we flew here, got it fixed. Didn't have credits, so I paid with the cargo — the client had already canceled, said the goods would spoil by the time I arrived and all that. So I gave everything to your commandant to cover the repair costs. So ever since then I've been hauling supplies here — they offered me a side gig as a regular courier, and who'd turn that down? Steady income, easy work... As for that mechanic — what a scumbag! The moment he heard you were hiring, he jumped ship. Now he's somewhere here poking at your machinery. Meanwhile I have to spend three hours in the repair bay every trip getting everything recalibrated — my freighter's not exactly fresh off the assembly line."
Yeah, Rederick's cover story wasn't exactly airtight. And the shipyard's chief engineer hadn't been too keen on hiring him. They'd had to use a Force mind trick to "persuade" him. But Fodeum had no way of knowing if it had actually worked or if they'd been discovered and this patrol was an arrest squad.
Still, he had to play his part to the end.
"Count yourself lucky, kid," the corporal smirked. "Your mechanic's a rare piece of work, sure... But you should be glad you're getting repairs at New Republic military shipyards — that's a mark of quality!" Right, such outstanding quality that Imperial shipyards have to redo everything after your cack-handed Mon Calamari technicians. After all, the saying didn't come from nowhere: "Better a steel scrotum than letting the Mon Calamari repair your ship." Ships of their own design they fixed just fine, of course. But anything built outside their sector...
"If it weren't for the current shortage of freight haulers, no Hutt would've ever let you near military shipyard supply runs."
"Exactly," the private chimed in. "They just hired whoever... off a notice board. What if you're an Imperial spy?"
"You know, you do look the part," the corporal narrowed his eyes. "I've got a nose for these things..."
"Are you serious?" Fodeum groaned inwardly. "An Imperial spy has been working as an engineer on this station for weeks, and you decided to lean on me?"
"Good joke," the Graceful Lady's captain smiled. "But no, you're wrong. I don't like the Empire and would never work for them..." — "if Mom hadn't said this was for the best" — "I can see you're bored..."
"Who isn't bored?" the corporal said cockily. "We've been stuck here for years, never leaving. And those geniuses from Coruscant just keep tightening the screws. First they're seeing Imperial spies everywhere, then suddenly they decide to resume repairs on the ships, saying we're taking losses in the war with the Empire."
"I heard there was some kind of truce," Fodeum said. "Like, they don't touch New Republic borders, and we don't squeeze them for now..."
"Yeah, keep listening to those HoloNet News hacks," the private grinned. "It's a real war. The Imperials attacked us, bombed a couple of bases. Well, no matter — they finally removed that fool Ackbar from his post and Borsk Fey'lya is in command of the armed forces now. He'll set things straight. How long have we been sitting here since the battle with those Imperials? No drills, nothing. Soul-crushing boredom. Just shipyards sitting idle. No credits, no spare parts — all we do is strip Imperial hardware for components."
"No, if the Imperials attacked, they need to be taught a lesson!" Fodeum nodded along. "They've gotten way too cocky, the bastards! Should've crushed them last year! Should've fought to the finish like when we took down Zsinj!"
"Well, that's about to start now." Yes, he hadn't been wrong. The guards were genuinely bored and had no one to chat with. Even after more than five years here, the station personnel must have worn out their welcome as conversation partners. "See those twenty GR-75s orbiting the shipyards?"
Oh, the guard had no idea what Fodeum had seen during his three visits to the Hast shipyards. Two orbital repair yards of the first type, Imperial design. Two Imperial Star Destroyers frozen like monuments inside them. Seven Mon Calamari MC80 Star Cruisers. Five Nebulon-B escort frigates. Two dozen Corellian CR90 corvettes. Two captured Imperial shipyards, packed to the brim with equipment damaged in a battle over five years ago — and still not operational.
Still, given that twenty GR-75 medium transports had appeared in the system — produced by the nearly bankrupt Gallofree Yards shipbuilding company — along with three Mon Calamari Star Cruisers, not to mention numerous patrol fighters that had reinforced the already formidable defenses of four Golan-type orbital defense platforms in all three common variants, something was clearly brewing here.
The GR-75 medium transport, also known as the Gallofree medium transport.
"Nope," Fodeum said. "They don't pay me to sightsee what ships are docked here. It's your shipyard — all I care about is getting paid per run and landing new contracts. And maybe grabbing a bite at the cantina."
"Ah, well, consider yourself among friends here," the private grinned slyly. "There'll be more convoys coming through here than banthas in the desert. So maybe you'll squeeze in one or two more runs, and then that's it — you won't be needed anymore. Neither you nor the other free traders. At best they'll reassign you to different facilities, and that's that. Actually, no — from what I've heard, the Bothans want to cut out private contractors entirely for the recent hauls."
"Why's that?" the young man with the "Imperial looks" scratched the back of his head.
"That's what I'm telling you — Councilor Fey'lya took command of the armed forces," the corporal said. "And he doesn't like all this smuggling-friendly freelance nonsense that's been hauling our goods under Mon Mothma, Ackbar, and that Alderaanian princess. Guys pretty much like you — no offense." — "Oh, I'd offend you," Fodeum thought. "Boot to the temple. Until I hear your skull crack." — "The moment a Bothan took power, suddenly all the right spare parts, credits, and resources appeared. Soon all those birds sitting in drydock will be flying. And then the Imperials won't know what hit them. Can you imagine what kind of fleet will roll out of here in a month?" The soldier's eyes gleamed with the arrogant fire of impending bloodshed.
"Oh, that's great news!" Fodeum smiled. "So we'll be smashing Imperial faces soon! That calls for a drink!"
"Well, that's actually why we came over," the corporal grinned brazenly. "Got a hundred or two credits to support the morale of the glorious New Republic soldiers?"
If Fodeum couldn't control his emotions, he would've let loose and given the soldier an earful in pure Huttese. Well, he only knew curses in that language, but... who cared? These two had clearly approached him not just to chat, but to shake down a trader for credits — right in full view of the security post. The arrival of supply transports at this nearly forgotten-by-Coruscant shipyard and the upcoming restoration work had evidently filled the soldiers with confidence about the future. And since they were station garrison, they'd probably be stuck in the rear when the repaired ships began their assault on the Empire. After these vessels were fixed, the shipyards would likely fall back into near-abandonment and go back to scrapping the Imperial tech junkyard on the planet. Which meant a minimal influx of new sentients and gray, dreary days. The soldiers had decided to line their pockets at someone else's expense. They'd probably order some "liquid courage" from another supply freighter captain to help pass the monotonous days.
"Guys, I love the New Republic," Fodeum said. "But where am I supposed to get two hundred? I only make five per run. And with fuel costs, consumables, customs fees..."
"Is that so?" the private feigned offense. "So we come to you as friends, let you know ahead of time that you'll be out of a job in a month, and you can't spare three hundred credits for your buddies?"
Fodeum choked at such audacity. Realizing that anything he said would only increase the size of the "voluntary contribution," he silently pulled out the credit chip he'd received at the cargo terminal. All five hundred credits from his completed run. Better this than driving these young thugs into a rage with refusals and ending up in the commandant's office. There was no point in reporting them — the same customs officer who'd cleared him minutes ago was sitting in his booth silently watching the whole thing. What a bastard!
"Here." He forced a smile, handing the credits to the patrol leader. "And, uh, sorry about that. I was just really shocked by what you told me. Seriously, thanks for the heads-up. I'll start looking for another job since I'm getting canned from this one anyway."
Satisfied with themselves, the pair of New Republic soldiers ambled back the way they'd come. Fodeum didn't miss the meaningful glances they exchanged with the customs officer. The latter looked thoroughly pleased — a bit more and his smile could've blinded objects flying inside a black hole.
Well, now it was crystal clear. One gang. The dockmaster at the cargo bay who'd paid Fodeum for the haul was probably in on it too. Why not? They'd paid him, found a sucker, sweet-talked him — either he'd hand over the credits "for necessities" voluntarily, or they'd drag him to the commandant's office, and the money would disappear during a personal search or some other procedure anyway. Tch. Some champions of sentient rights. You looked at individuals like these and had to ask yourself, "So who exactly is fighting for all that's good against all that's evil here?" The Empire certainly wasn't a picnic either — corruption had flourished and still flourished there — but you people positioned yourselves as something better than the New Order! Why stoop to their level?
Fodeum, figuring he was already running late for his meeting with Lieutenant Rederick, made his way unhurriedly toward the cantina. Even if he was late, nothing terrible would happen. One way or another, Vex would be there and could explain the reasons for her captain's delay.
This time, the cantina was packed — standing room only. In all the time the Graceful Lady had been delivering to this battle station — which the bored commandant of the Hast shipyards had turned into a sort of entertainment venue for arrivals — he'd never seen so many sentients here. Literally every single table was crammed full of freighter crew members. The workers, waiting for unloading that couldn't possibly happen in such a short time, were already pretty tipsy, but they were behaving within reason. For now.
Spotting Vex settled at a corner table, Fodeum squeezed through the crowd, careful not to bump into any of the drunkards and get dragged into an unnecessary fight. Reaching his companion, the man winced at the sight of two more Republic types making decidedly unseemly propositions to the girl. Shipyard workers, judging by their uniforms — and clearly not above average qualification. Simple laborers who did all the grunt work. Their shift must've ended, and they'd rushed off for some entertainment.
Looking around, Fodeum noticed about a dozen girls and women in the cantina — probably part of the medium transport crews, since they weren't wearing military uniforms. So they had nothing to do with the arriving Mon Calamari Star Cruisers.
But those two technicians had clearly moved on to their "final arguments." Either they were paid a lot more than him, or they'd lost all sense of proportion, offering the girl thousands of credits for their company in private. Oh, if only you knew, gentlemen, what a fine line you were walking. Because more than anything in the galaxy, the Graceful Lady captain's companion hated being viewed solely through the lens of physical pleasure. Though the men could be understood — the girl was genuinely quite pretty. Still, those drunkards really needed their faces punched in.
Fodeum felt a pang of jealousy. It wasn't that he hadn't liked Vex before, but he'd always thought of her strictly as a business partner. And now, even knowing that her smile — the one she was using to parry the drunkards' advances — meant nothing good and that a wave of fury was boiling inside her, the man still felt discomfort at how some clumsy oafs were hitting on his partner so shamelessly.
"Sweetheart," he said loudly, approaching the girl and kissing her on the cheek. "There you are. I've been looking all over the station for you. Did you buy the baby formula?"
"W-what?" The Twi'lek girl's pupils dilated so wide you could have hidden an Imperial Super Star Destroyer inside them — probably more than one. "W-what formula?"
"Baby formula," Fodeum's smile faded. He looked at the now-quiet technicians. "No, not again?! Again?! I let you come to the station to buy food for the children since you're not breastfeeding them! And you're back to hitting on men here?!"
"Uh... buddy, maybe you should..." one of the technicians started. "This one's ours..."
"Oh, guys, I wouldn't advise it," Fodeum grimaced. "Don't let that pretty face fool you. I've been with her for ten years now. After the fourth kid she just got completely lazy. I get it, she's a looker in the face, but take it from someone who's seen her without clothes — everything down there is a mess, like a rancor clawed her up. She doesn't want to give birth naturally, so they cut her open to pull the babies out. It's covered in scars, like she got hit by a harvesting combine. Not to mention the kids all have different fathers, and she's been through practically the entire Lower Levels of Coruscant, so there's as much disease inside her as there is sweetness on her face. And her chest — her chest hangs like a bantha's ears..."
With a scraping of chairs, the pair of technicians — along with the nearest bystanders — hurried to disappear into the crowd.
Smiling, Fodeum sat down across from the girl. Her glassy stare made it abundantly clear that she was about to explode. And the shockwave might obliterate not just her captain, but the cantina, the station, the star system, and several nearby sectors.
"That was the best way to get rid of them," he said, though he wasn't especially hopeful that this would shield him from his assistant's wrath.
Judging by her clenched teeth and pursed lips, he'd need to find himself a bigger ship. Because Vex knew the internal layout of the Graceful Lady's compartments very well, and hiding there wouldn't just be difficult — it would be impossible.
"Nice performance," Lieutenant Rederick said just as quietly, settling down at their table. "Seats taken — mind if I join you?"
He wasn't speaking at full volume, but loud enough for those nearby to hear. Given that his coworkers might be around — and they surely knew the three of them had once been crewmates — they'd better listen closely. The lieutenant was probably trying to pass along instructions verbally.
"Even though you abandoned us in our hour of need, we're not the same," Fodeum declared, feeling Vex's gaze fixed on him like two laser sights. "So, what do you say? You like it here?"
"Everything's just the way I wanted." Right... That meant... Something. "There are tons of ships here that need repairs, plenty of work, and that means plenty of pay. See, they've finished installing the engines on the captured Star Destroyers, fired up the reactors. In three weeks the turbolasers and turrets will arrive — and then these ships'll come out of here like sweet treats." Rederick smiled. "Ah, should've signed up with the New Republic sooner. They pay well — fifteen hundred credits a week. Not like what you were giving me. Only problem is there's nowhere to spend it, and they pay in cash. Once a week we blow maybe a hundred or two credits on a night out, and the rest I have to keep in my cabin."
"Oh, what a braggart," Fodeum grimaced, pretending the comparison stung financially. Meanwhile, he was trying to figure out what exactly the Imperial intelligence agent was hinting at. Maybe that the staff kept cash on hand that they couldn't spend? If so — and if even salaries were paid in cash — then the commandant must have a stockpile for such occasions. Nobody works without money.
"Just wait until they finish repairing all the ships here — your boss will give you such a boot up the ass!"
"Ha." Rederick raised his mug of Lumin-el in a toast to someone he knew in the crowd. "Just getting these ships spaceworthy and restoring hull integrity will take three weeks. Then there's the weapons mounting — at least another week."
"Fast," Fodeum assessed, glancing at the drinks that had been brought for him and Vex. "Though, Republic shipyards — service speed is always top-notch here..."
"Nah." Rederick waved his hand. "It's hourly pay here, so nobody's in a hurry. It's just that in three weeks, the crews and weapons arrive, and all the civilian contractors get laid off. But I'll pull in about five thousand in standard weekly pay by then, plus they're promising about the same as a completion bonus. After that, only military personnel will be working here — they're supposedly bringing in Bothans, since one of their kind is in charge now. So that's what's got everyone worried, right, boys?" He practically shouted the last part, making the crowd in the cantina roar in approval.
"Bottom line — we think they're going to screw us on pay. They've already said if we don't get the ships spaceworthy in three weeks, no bonus. And nobody knows where to find work after that. So everyone's just been sitting around, poking at the machinery half-heartedly."
"Well, that's because you haven't fixed anything — that's why they're getting rid of you," Vex snorted.
"Hey," Rederick took offense. "Don't start, tail-head. Everyone's been working fine — I've gotten to know everybody on both shipyards. They just don't pay properly, always delaying payments. So nobody's exactly eager to put in overtime. Well, except for the Mon Calamari on our yard — they couldn't get their Star Cruisers assembled until the supply convoy arrived today. I've been thinking about something, Fodeum." He looked at the former Jensaarai, who was still trying to figure out what the Imperial was trying to tell him. It seemed that on these shipyards, there were sentients ready to work for good pay — not just for the New Republic.
"You come here every week, right?"
"Yeah," the Graceful Lady's commander confirmed. "I bring their national food from the Mon Calamari homeworld..."
"So I was thinking — maybe you could fly in about three weeks, once we're done here and hand everything over to the Bothan brass so they can verify all the ships are operational?"
"If there's a run, I'll come," Fodeum said.
"Ah." Rederick waved dismissively. "Even if there isn't, just come. Hey, guys!" He addressed the crowd again. "Should we chip in for my old captain to haul us out of here to somewhere decent?"
"We'll chip in!"
"Just don't jack up the price!"
"And bring some girls!"
"Anyway, everyone will have to arrange their own passage from here," Rederick said. "There are about half of us civilian contractors — maybe four or five thousand. They've already told us New Republic transport will take us to Dac, but from there we're on our own. You know what that means — extra expenses..."
"Right," Fodeum said indignantly. "If they even let me back here! They didn't tell me anything about more runs — just said to wait..."
"We'll find out soon enough," Rederick winked. He scanned the crowd for a moment, then bellowed, drowning out the nearby patrons and cutting through the ambient noise. "Trevor! You fish-ass! Are civilian freighters still going to be flying in here?"
The Mon Calamari standing at the bar choked on his drink, then turned his head toward their table. Fodeum barely held back a laugh. That species already had trouble with facial expressions because of their huge eyes, and now there was utter confusion and wounded piety plastered all over his face.
"Well, why are you staring?!" Rederick shouted demandingly. "Are they or aren't they?"
"That's classified information!" the Mon Calamari barked in a surprisingly deep voice.
"Oh, quit pouting!" the Imperial agent grinned. "Your own contract ends in three weeks, so you need a way out of here too. My former captain here can give us a ride if it's worth his while to come all the way out."
"And what does that have to do with me?" the Mon Calamari wrinkled his smooth face. "That's classified informa-"
"You scale-backed asshole!" the technician standing nearby roared. "When you're lying around hungover and we cover for you with the brass, you come running to us, you little engineer, but when we need help, suddenly it's 'classified information'?"
"Trevor, you're not a Gamorrean!" another voice chimed in. "Come on, is this freighter coming or not? We're already busting our asses for three men, so at least don't gouge us on the way out of here."
The Mon Calamari — apparently the shift engineer for the work crews — looked around with a hunted expression.
"How should I know when the shipments stop?" he said. "I don't work in dispatch..."
"Yeah right, we know you're chumming it up with the procurement director!" Rederick laughed, and the crowd appreciated the joke. "Come on, be a friend and tell us! He transports food for Mon Calamari from Dac, after all!"
"Ah!" The engineer's face instantly softened as he looked at Fodeum with new eyes. "Well, that's different. Yeah, independent traders and specialists are both working until the end of the fourth week of this month. After that, all freighters get cut loose. That's the military command's orders..."
"Well, there you go, boys!" Rederick hollered. "Drink less, save more! My captain's getting us all out of here to a nice warm spot!"
The crowd roared its approval. Glass mugs clinked together...
"Alright, the party's started," Rederick said as he sat down, his voice perfectly sober even as he kept up the drunken act. "So on the last day of the fourth week of this month, the twentieth, you need to be here. That's the deadline for when they'll need you here. With your," he emphasized the last word, "ships."
"But I only have the Graceful Lady," Fodeum said in surprise. "She can't even hold two dozen people..."
"Just rent some ships from our old blue friend — the Duros with the black hair," Rederick said in an oily voice. "He'll be happy to profit from the transport business. And if he brings some entertainment along too, even better. The boys here have plenty of credits. Word is they'll be paying everyone personally. I don't even know what kind of ship they're hauling the cash in — there are about fifteen thousand sentients working here. Not counting the ones on the planet dealing with the Imperial junk."
"Oh!" Fodeum caught on, realizing the lieutenant had just casually dropped valuable intel about an incoming ship full of credits through that artless boasting. And he understood the hint about "a Duros with black hair" perfectly. "Hey, aren't there Imperial ships on the surface? What if we buy a couple, huh?"
"Junk," Rederick declared authoritatively. "Anything valuable has already been stripped and removed. I suppose if you spent enough time, you might find something useful — I hear there was a whole air wing of Imperial shuttles somewhere, but I don't know if that's true. But I definitely saw a couple of TIE Avengers flying around — our cover pilots use them, even though they're all banged up and barely patched together. Anyway, I don't think they'd sell them to us. Although..." The lieutenant pretended to think. Then, scanning the crowd for the Mon Calamari, he shouted:
"Trevor!"
"Damn it all!" the Mon Calamari roared, spilling his drink again. "Rederick, I never lost that much to you at sabacc for you to keep yelling at me like that! What do you want?!"
"Are there Imperial shuttles on the planet?" the scout inquired.
"There were some, I think," the engineer replied. "Just junk. Nothing that can be restored. They were stripped for parts for the equipment still in New Republic service. Why do you ask?"
"I was thinking maybe the captain and I could pool our credits and buy one," Rederick said with a drunken giggle. "I mean, why not? Patch up a few of those and use them as cargo haulers. They stripped all the weapons off anyway..."
"There's nothing left but rusty hulls and blasted frames," the Mon Calamari waved his fin-like hand. "When the Empire attacked after Endor, there was plenty of salvageable stuff. But those idiots blew everything apart, including the shipyard on the planet. So the only usable things are the spare parts in the warehouse on the Golan-II."
"Too bad," Rederick said, putting on a hurt and disappointed face. He slumped back into his seat and downed his mug in one gulp. "Alright, we're set on the departure. I'm heading out, Captain." The man stood up, swaying slightly. He reached into his coverall pocket and pulled out a few rectangular metal chips — New Republic cash. Flipping through the credits, the lieutenant tossed a couple of chips onto the table. "Consider this my payment, Captain."
"I've got my own credits," Fodeum narrowed his eyes. "Keep yours... I hate carrying cash."
"That's a mistake," Rederick belched drunkenly. "Because this cash is the whole point of my work here. It's what's going to lift me up when I get back... These, by the way," he pointed at the chips, "are the first credits I ever earned here. I keep them as a souvenir." Then why are you telling me all this? "They bring me luck. And they'll do a lot of good for my family..."
"Then why are you paying with your lucky charms?" Vex asked unexpectedly.
"I'm showing you all my wealth," Rederick said, staring intently into the Graceful Lady captain's eyes. "Maybe you'll listen to me and want to keep this cash for yourselves. Show it to our Duros friend, so he'll praise me for working harder than before..."
Fodeum nearly slapped himself in the face. Seriously, enough with the spy talk already! Why not just say there's something important in these credits!
The young man scooped the cash off the table, shoved it casually (or so it should appear) into his pocket, then pulled out a chip and tapped it against the reader built into the tabletop.
"You're such a narcissist," he said, getting to his feet. Vex followed suit. "You just want to be praised."
"That's why I work," Rederick grinned. With that, the lieutenant wobbled toward the exit.
Fodeum and Vex followed. But they didn't spot the scout in the corridor. And what was the point in chasing after him? He'd said everything necessary. Just don't forget...
They remained silent all the way to the docking bay, pretending to be a sullen couple. Only after the cargo hatch was sealed, the Graceful Lady swept for bugs, and the Imperial-installed hull monitoring system confirmed no additional components on the smooth curves of the hull, did the freighter depart the Republic system. They still needed to reach the rendezvous point and then, aboard another ship, arrive to report to the Grand Admiral. He wondered: would the Grand Admiral understand why those two metal chips were so important?
A small coin, called a credit, in physical form (one variant).
* * *
After Tierce finished reading the report, silence settled in my cabin.
Hmm... Admiral Delak Krennel. An interesting officer.
Doubly interesting, given that he once served under the real Thrawn in the Unknown Regions. But Thrawn had sent him back to the Empire.
A very interesting fact. Does the Prince-Admiral know the coordinates of the Empire of the Hand? He almost certainly does — at least a few of the planets where the Grand Admiral operated before I appeared here. And if that's the case... I need to figure out how to extract that invaluable information from him. Without arousing suspicion.
"Quite vague information, Major," I commented. "All we know is that the Prince-Admiral has worked hard over the past five years on the defenses of his Ciutric Hegemony, and that he commands an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer named the Reckoning. And an interdictor cruiser, the Binding. The phrasing 'ten or so line-class ships, including those mentioned' does not satisfy me at all."
"Krennel doesn't advertise his forces," the Imperial Guardsman noted. "Getting accurate data on his available strength without direct espionage is difficult."
As if I didn't know that.
"But it must be done," I said. So far, I had no significant plans regarding Krennel. But the more I learned about him, the stronger my resolve grew.
The murder of Sate Pestage, the Grand Vizier of the Empire... Well, that could still be framed in the context of fighting betrayal — Pestage had intended to hand over classified information to the enemy. Seizing the Vizier's assets — acceptable, could be considered 'battle trophies.' But killing the Vizier's entire family...
That I don't understand. I hate it when civilians suffer. Base personnel, contract employees, or enemy military — that's the opposition. Even supply ship crews that resist boarding — they're enemies. Smugglers — enemies. Pirates — enemies.
But the family of a man who betrayed... with no indication that they were involved in or even aware of Pestage's actions — that's going too far.
This man relies only on tactics, profit, and brute military force.
Which means he stops at nothing to achieve his goals. And what goals would a man have who believes he's cooperating with Ysanne Isard? That's right. Whatever his goals may be, the Iceheart is using him.
But how do I legitimize the information that the Director of Imperial Intelligence isn't dead, but is currently sitting pretty on an Imperial base, hatching treacherous plans to reclaim the very prize Palpatine entrusted to her — that she so callously and foolishly lost? And now, knowing of its return, she intends to reclaim the Lusankya. I'm sure her plans are already in motion, but... if only I knew who was in on them... As long as that lady with the mismatched eyes is alive, you can never be sure you won't get stabbed in the back. At least twice.
And then there's my baseless but perfectly logical suspicion that Emperor Palpatine's mistress, knowing of his imminent return from the shadows, certainly knows how to reach the planet Byss. She couldn't have been planning to steal the Lusankya to deliver it to Palpatine without knowing where to bring it.
But that's not even the most 'delicate' part. For a long time, the twin Super Star Destroyer of the Executor was both a laboratory and a prison for Isard's captives. Corran Horn went through her brain-grinder but managed to stay human. But the thousands of rebels held in the Lusankya's vast cargo hold couldn't always boast the same resilience.
If I remember the plot of the X-wing book series correctly, the capture of the Lusankya in orbit over Thyferra marked only the end of the Bacta War and the overthrow of Isard's regime over the planet — the sole producer of the healing substance in the galaxy. But the Rebels found no trace of prisoners on the planet or in the ship's holds. Not because Isard had killed them. No. In the book Isard's Revenge (or The Bacta War, depending on the edition), there was mention that the Iceheart had transported the Rebel and New Republic prisoners to a prison in the Ciutric Hegemony, placing them under the protection of the Prince-Admiral, who was already her ally by then. So the Rebels needed an entire special operation to destroy Delak Krennel's regime in the Hegemony just to free the prisoners.
And all of that was to divert Coruscant's attention from her plan to seize the Lusankya. This all happened after the original Thrawn's defeat and the capture of the Bilbringi shipyards — where the New Republic immediately towed the Super Star Destroyer for repairs.
Hmm... an interesting plan. Simple, and most importantly — successully functional in the reality of a galaxy far, far away. Distract the enemy to strike elsewhere. Sacrifice the lesser to gain the greater.
Still... How do I legitimize the information that Ysanne Isard is alive? So that they'd believe it, and not think I've lost my mind.
"I'll do it, sir," Grodin said. "I'll monitor Krennel's repair facilities, production, and fleet. Your negotiations with the Prince-Admiral will be an excellent opportunity to get to Ciutric IV and loosen a few tongues."
"No, Major," I cut him off. "Let's not act like a typical Imperial officer. Krennel is no fool and will expect that sort of move from us. We'll operate more subtly. Much more subtly. Currently, he's our equipment supplier. And until we find another, we can't afford to sour our relationship. Not to mention he has excellent repair and production capabilities."
"And an entire battle squadron led by an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer," my adjutant grumbled. "That slug, Isard's former toy, could show a Grand Admiral a little more respect. His Reckoning is only good for intimidating his own citizens. Meanwhile, he himself has no real strength. Sir, I'd propose conquering him. The Ciutric Hegemony's resources would be far more useful to us than to that idiot."
The Chiss mind is a biological computer that never stops working. And if you really think hard about solving a problem...
Tangrene and the Morshdine sector are located in tactical quadrant O-4. The Ciutric Hegemony is mostly in quadrant N-5. When you also remember that during the division of Warlord Zsinj's legacy, Krennel grabbed a nice chunk for himself, it becomes clear there are certain claims against him. But then again — are they worth starting a war between us? We're all Imperials, after all. Especially since Krennel is one of the suppliers — the biggest, at that — of TIE-type equipment used throughout the Empire. If I attacked him, what's the probability that the other Imperial Remnants wouldn't come to his aid? Too high.
At least because when they transferred authority over the available forces to me, and provided support, the Remnant governments demanded my agreement not to make any claims on the integrity of the Empire as a state, and non-interference in the political process. An attack on Krennel would be grounds for an attack on me. The secret of the Katana Fleet didn't stay secret for long. Consequently, my opponents among the Imperials know perfectly well what my armed forces consist of. And unfortunately for me, even if I'm equal to them in numbers, I'm certainly not in quality or starship readiness.
So I have to cooperate with Krennel. Extremely cautiously, so he has no reason to view me with suspicion. Considering he already has Republic prisoners, he might even agree to take in the ones at the base on Tangrene. In principle, he should — he likes feeling powerful over his enemies. But he'll definitely demand something in return. I'm sure his nearly two hundred million credits for a huge shipment of TIE-type equipment aren't enough...
Hmm... Officially, my visit is recorded as a desire to check on the order's fulfillment. Unofficially — to dump the prisoners on Krennel so none of them can, during Tangrene's dark nights or clear days, observe my fleet's starships in orbit. Even in the most crowded herd, there's always one energetic sheep that starts counting ships. And drawing conclusions. I don't need that.
But now... Remembering Krennel has prisoners from the Lusankya, I thought he might not agree. Or he might demand a price so high that I'd find it easier to just jettison all the prisoners out the airlock.
So... I need to give him what he wants but is afraid to ask for. And what does a man like that want — one who controls a powerful cluster and his own territory? A state he seized by executing his predecessor... And yet Krennel has a disproportionately small fleet among the Imperial Remnants...
I checked the chronometer. Three hours and seven minutes until we dropped out of hyperspace. Just enough time to calculate all the details. Oh... I'll have to make adjustments to the main plan again. Like weaving a braid from a million strands, each one needing to be interwoven with the others. Hmm... But that only makes the braid stronger, doesn't it?
I wonder, just how good is the Prince-Admiral at being scared?
"I will consider your proposal, Major," I said with a slight smile on my face. "In three hours, we arrive at Ciutric IV. Make sure your dress uniform is in proper order."
"Sir," Tierce stiffened. And though he didn't want this, he was suited for the role like no one else. Though, honestly, I'd prefer to have Rukh watching my back. But unfortunately — the Noghri is still in a medically induced coma.
I have to go into the snake pit with an Imperial Guardsman I don't fully trust at my back... Should I bring some stormtroopers along?
* * *
The crowd before the magisterium of the capital, New Cov, wasn't just big — it was enormous. No, during his time here, Torin, like any other fighter in his group, knew there was a considerable number of sentients living on the planet. But now, sitting on the roof, even he was astonished at how many people had gathered in the square. Down below, it was packed solid. It felt like the New Republic delegation had brought a few thousand sentients with them just to ensure the event had mass attendance.
"Commander?" a voice came through the tiny transmitter in Torin's left ear.
"Go ahead," ordered the Imperial agent in command of the unit.
"Looks like they're ready to start."
"Good," the agent replied, adjusting the microphone closer to his mouth. "So are we."
He had a military comlink, salvaged from a stormtrooper helmet. If Torin, or any member of his group, was caught with it, there could be serious trouble. But this type of comlink was far more practical for tactical operations than the cylindrical civilian model — its real-time decryption was incomparably faster, and, crucially, it left his hands free. A small arch over the head, a microphone... An excellent combination of purchased black armor and standard Imperial equipment.
"What kind of crowd is that?"
"Everyone they could drag in from the surrounding areas," replied the operative positioned on the other side of the square. "A bunch of starship crew and dock workers of all kinds from the port, but plenty of merchants and their clients too. All species — from humans to Mon Calamari, Grans, Bits, and Rodians."
"Any more and they'd be convening the Senate," Torin Imek smirked crookedly.
Imperial Agent Torin Imek.
"The delegation has appeared on the platform," the operative reported.
"Begin," Torin replied dryly, glancing at the fighters positioned nearby. "Everything ready?"
The answer didn't need to be spoken aloud. A simple pat on the stock of a Night Sting sniper rifle was enough. An Imperial-designed rifle that, unlike other types of blaster weapons, fires transparent energy bolts invisible in the normal light spectrum. A fine piece of equipment. But expensive... And the gas cartridge runs out very, very quickly.
"We start as soon as the governor finishes his traitorous speech."
Colonel Himron had ordered them to determine the planetary governor's role in the attack by six Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers on a ship transporting biomolecular mass for the Empire. In accordance with the previous agreement.
They didn't even have to search long — the very next day, a Bothan arrived on the planet. According to the archives, he was close to Councilor Borsk Fey'lya, one of the councilors on the Provisional Council of the New Republic. And obtaining recordings of their conversations was no problem at all. When Imperial Intelligence plants bugs in your office and tells you about it, think about what they didn't tell you. Like your residence. Or your favorite cantina. Or the brothel you're a regular at. And yes, by the way. A Bothan in a human brothel — that's disgusting.
Using an optical probe, Torin could personally observe everything.
Yeah... It was even worse than he'd imagined. The crowd wasn't just big — it was immense, flooding the entire street. A motley mass of people had filled and was still pouring into the square before the magisterium. And now, on the stage built for this spectacle, the impossibly large governor appeared. Followed by the Bothans. They approached the stationary microphones, and the holocamera lenses zoomed in on them, so the attendees could see both of them on the enormous screen behind the authorities. Yeah, right. The common rabble needs to know everything the ruler says.
"Citizens of New Cov," the governor's voice boomed from the speakers scattered across the square. It sounded strong and manly, yet so brittle, like a teenager going through puberty. "I call upon you with all due respect to remain calm... Our friends from the New Republic have arrived to..."
The front ranks had already reached the barrier before the podium, with those behind pushing them forward, jostling each other excitedly and spilling out to the sides. The guards from the local law enforcement were clearly incapable of handling the crowd — which was precisely why they weren't here. Only Bothans, armed with blasters and shock batons, along with a few wearing some kind of elaborate uniforms... definitely not New Republic military issue. Well, just as expected — all of this was nothing more than a showy bluff orchestrated by one particular Bothan.
Settling the blaster stock more comfortably against his shoulder, Agent Imek peered through the optical scope, sweeping the barrel. Almost time...
Torin shifted his aim higher, adjusting the focus...
Oh yes, and there was his operative. Making his way toward the operator's booth. Two Bothan guards in front of him. They were reacting to the armor hidden beneath his bulky cloak. Well now, where are you going, you hairy bastards, reaching for your weapons?!
The crowd was roaring, and above the city, air-taxi speeders were weaving through the sky, stirred up by the flood of orders pouring in. The Empire knew how to create the right atmosphere for its operations. The rumble of engines — a perfect way to mask even a suppressed rifle shot.
The agent squeezed the trigger twice, smoothly. No blinding scarlet or blue flash — the night sting performed exactly as the manufacturer intended. Only a sound, swallowed by the roar of the traffic... Everything going according to plan.
The Bothans dropped like puppets with their strings cut, struck in the head by invisible blaster bolts.
The operative reached the broadcast control panel — disabling the local technician was a simple diversion. A brief scuffle at the console and...
"...Today! On this very day, as our planet is delivered from the scourge of filthy Imperials —" Now hold on, uncle, watch your language, will you?! Unlike you, we shower twice a day, as any self-respecting person living in a civilized society should! " At this very hour, our Bothan friends have arrived to..."
The image behind the governor froze. The sound from the speakers died. This lasted a few moments while the playback computer processed the new data chip.
Then an image appeared on the screen. The governor, terrified out of his mind, standing in his own office. A group of fighters in black suits.
" Biomolecular mass," the voice of Coordinator Sergius, who was narrating the broadcast, poured from the speakers. "How much of it do you produce?"
Torin watched the governor start to panic. Saw the Bothan's face freeze in indecision. Saw local law enforcement guards appear... they were running toward the control room, but the Imperial operative was already gone. The door was securely locked, and the agents from Torin's group were already having fun picking off the opposition with their night stings. They had a few more minutes before the taxi drivers realized that every single one of their calls was just a deception designed to keep them flying near the central square. After all, they were merely cover for an operation to eliminate superfluous sentients at the upcoming festival of life.
There was no pity for these thugs from the local "security forces." Every last one of them was corrupt — Imek and his people had had time to figure out what was happening on this planet. They hadn't just sat around here all this time waiting for something to happen, had they? No, aside from the primary mission, there were a number of others. Based on the context, the Grand Admiral had planned to annex this planet into his holdings, but something had gone wrong... Then again, why be surprised? Thrawn — if he had known what scum had seized power here — wouldn't have pussyfooted around; he would have scorched the planet with turbolaser fire. The locals weren't much different from their "security forces."
" Baptism by blood, dear Governor," the Coordinator's speech continued to ring out over the crowd. Both on the recording and in reality, this man right now. "If you want to cooperate and receive money from us — you must stain your hands with blood. Kill him."
The Coordinator pointed at one of the governor's protectors. The very one who had "fallen in battle, repelling the enemy attack." Oh, how agitated the crowd was. First, the local law enforcement had practically dragged them here to create ambiance for the upcoming ceremony, and now these "revelations."..
" Come now, Governor," the Coordinator's voice sounded from the screen. "Either you, or our millions will flow into the pockets of other officials!"
It took only a second after the crimson beam from the blaster in the governor's hands pierced the guard's armor. The crowd, seeing the execution and the deception, roared like a herd of starving rancors. The Bothan delegation, keeping face, began conferring among themselves, hastily retreating. Sanctimonious bastards. Well now? Where are you going? You love reaping the rewards while others do the dirty work! Stop, I said!
The invisible blaster beam was supposed to shatter the Bothan's skull, but at the last moment, he jerked his head. Then rolled right off the podium.
Torin sighed. Well, a shot-off ear was still a result.
The crowd instantly, as if on command, surged into motion. They stormed the flimsy barricades, behind which the Bothan guards stood bewildered. They didn't understand why they weren't receiving orders, or who was jamming all their communication channels. Well of course, you flea-bitten boys. Stealing other people's secrets right under the noses of simpletons — that's not quite the same as fighting evenly with Imperial Intelligence.
There was only enough gas in the cartridge for one more shot. Torin, taking aim, put it into the locking mechanism of the barrier, creating a breach in the podium's defenses. The crowd, pressing through one panel of the plastic barricades, surged forward in an inexhaustible flood.
The fighters from his squad repeated the maneuver in sync. The barrier collapsed. The crowd rushed forward, unable to tell friend from foe.
Torin silently nodded to one of his men. He, aiming his rifle, blew the massive red lantern above the roof of one of the buildings to shreds. The light fixture choked and went out. All right, the signal to withdraw had been given. The scrambler blocking communications was still working and would be a good obstacle to any organized resistance.
Now it was time to head for the port — the Bothan ships and their allies were there, and among them was the Corellian vessel Irenez... A choice prize.