There is nothing more humiliating for the commander of an Imperial warship than patrolling a territory isolated from the rest of the compactly positioned Imperial Remnants.
As part of a battle group reinforced by an Immobilizer 418-class interdictor cruiser, The Resolute and a Tartan-class patrol cruiser were frankly wasting their time. The Chasin star system, under Imperial control, was also protected by a two-kilometer Torpedo Sphere, which no sensible fleet commander would want to tangle with. Of course, unless he had a heavily armed Super Star Destroyer at his disposal, and even then, that multi-kilometer monstrosity would be seriously damaged. It was quite possible that the outcome of such a confrontation would be guaranteed mutual destruction, but... Anything could happen. The main thing was to know who would be commanding each of these military inventions. The example of such a confrontation in the Corellian Sector, which ended with the destruction of both the sphere and the Super Star Destroyer when the latter rammed the former, was fresh in his mind.
Unfortunately, in the current conditions, when passenger and cargo traffic to the Chasin system from Imperial and neutral worlds was strictly legal and minimal, and pulling some smuggler out of hyperspace was getting harder with each passing day, Commodore Akrey Dobramu had no choice but to keep the crews of his ship and attached forces occupied with endless training drills. You could never let a soldier or sailor relax — otherwise, they would simply get lazy and forget everything they'd been taught, like a bad dream. And when the crew, both enlisted men and officers, were all young, he had little choice.
The endless training, combined with constant vigilance over the system's borders (which, after several interceptions, other smugglers tried to avoid, even when flying past), left a oppressive impression on Akrey. And the longer this exile lasted, the more irritated he became, realizing the uselessness of being here. Who needed this system, forgotten by the Emperor, especially when there was a Torpedo Sphere and a local garrison maintained by the local government — and that was all they could afford in terms of armed forces. However, a day ago, the Torpedo Sphere had also left the system. Where it went, why, on whose orders — these were questions that remained unanswered. The locals were responsible for the movement of their own armed forces, and the young commodore didn't even have a formal pretext to confront them with anything other than a polite smile.
After much deliberation, Akrey concluded that Thrawn had sent him to this system for one single purpose. Both in a military sense and in the context of personal punishment. The Grand Admiral was organizing a demonstration.
To the neutral and Republican systems surrounding Chasin, he was pointedly indicating that the Empire had the forces for at least a visible cover of its thinned-out territories.
And to Akrey himself — how useless and pathetic it was to try to assert one's own will during a military operation, trying to compensate for his own failure preceding the attack, the "benefit" of which had transferred him from a combat unit to a "guard." And right now, he and his team could be fighting the rebels in the best traditions of the past, upholding the ideals of the Galactic Empire. If Palpatine were alive, Thrawn would never have allowed himself such treatment of his subordinates...
Judging by the rumors that reached Akrey, the crew thought much the same about the situation. It was insulting to serve on a warship and play the role of a customs guard... Even the formal promotion to detachment commander didn't please him — this wasn't service, it was exile. Impossibly harsh, in Akrey's opinion, and incomparable to the magnitude of his offense. And the command was only formal! The commander of the Immobilizer didn't answer to him, receiving orders directly from the Chimaera. And "hounding" the commander of the Tartan — a young lieutenant — had frankly become boring. Especially since he was demonstrating wonders of initiative and diligence — there wasn't even a formal reason to find fault with him.
"Sir," the watch officer approached him. "A ship has emerged from hyperspace."
"Did the interdictor pull it out?" Dobramu clarified.
"Negative, Commodore," the watch officer replied. "It emerged on a different vector. It's heading toward us. Transmitting Imperial identification codes. It's requested a meeting with the formation commander."
"Something new," Akrey snorted. "Is the briefing room of the duty flight available?"
A medium cruiser wasn't an Imperial Star Destroyer — the dimensions were more modest here, and there was no great luxury of being able to send an entire squadron out on patrol.
"By the time you get there, Commodore, it will be," the loyal watch officer promised.
And he kept his word — when the door opened before Akrey, the small compartment, tiny compared to what he had seen on board the Imperator, was empty of anyone in the uniform of the Imperial Pilot Corps.
Instead, a completely different man stood there. All alone — you get used to considering a couple of stormtroopers from the Stormtrooper Corps as part of the furniture pretty quickly.
"Commodore Dobramu?" The man standing before him looked young, no older than Akrey himself. And he was clad in extremely interesting armor...
"The very same," the commander of the medium cruiser confirmed. "To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"
A faint smile played on the man's lips.
"Kam Solusar," he introduced himself. "Elite of the Dark Side of Emperor Palpatine. The Master summons you to his service..."
* * *
"So, may I congratulate you, Prince-Admiral?" the Ice Queen inquired with a faint smile that sent chills down one's spine.
"That would be nice," Krennel said, sinking into a chair opposite the former head of Imperial Intelligence, dressed in scarlet. "As you can see, I managed practically without your direct involvement. The alien supplied me with seven star cruisers. Although," the Prince-Admiral lamented, "the money paid for them..."
"What good are billions if you have nowhere to spend them?" Ysanne Isard asked, smoothing her trousers with a careless flick of her wrist. "The necessary defensive armament, equipment, and many other things you don't produce yourself, you received from the Imperial Remnants in exchange for your deliveries of TIE series technology. And the extra profit was always accumulating. Without large expenditures."
"I'm sometimes amazed at the depth of your involvement and knowledge of my internal affairs," Krennel remarked, squeezing the fingers of his artificial hand until the metallic digits creaked.
"Information is never superfluous," Isard declared. "You got what you wanted, Prince-Admiral. You have more capital ships now. But Thrawn clearly has more."
"And he intends to maintain that advantage," Delak said with barely contained rage, surprised himself at how much hostility this woman's words could provoke. The Prince-Admiral reminded himself once again how dangerous the person sitting directly in front of him was. And how useful. Occasionally. "Did you know he closed Tangrene to visitors?"
"Of course," well, who doubted it. "The Grand Admiral decided to stash a few secrets."
"Do you know what he's hiding?" Delak asked.
"At least two new first-generation Imperial-class Star Destroyers," Isard said with a smile full of superiority over her interlocutor.
"Let me guess — the Adjudicator and the Accuser?" Krennel squinted.
"You're absolutely right, Prince-Admiral," Isard said. "He also now has two dozen small ships — corvettes and escort frigates."
"The alien kept the most combat-capable ships for himself," the Prince-Admiral realized. "I'm surprised you weren't informed about where exactly he intends to strike."
"And why wouldn't I be?" Isard seemed surprised. "Information cannot be hidden from me. Not even from Thrawn, with his attempts to create his own Imperial Intelligence and Security Bureau."
"So you sent me to make a deal with him, knowing full well that that filthy alien intends to get more for himself than he tells me?" Krennel exploded.
"Of course," the Ice Queen confirmed. And she did it with such an expression as if she was surprised he could be stupid enough to ask such questions.
"Why did you keep quiet? I would have given him as much money as he needed to get more starships!" the Prince-Admiral demanded an answer.
"He wouldn't have sold them to you," Isane replied. "What is happening with the Grand Admiral is part of my plan. Let Thrawn work against the New Republic instead of you. You have your own goals..."
"I would gladly give him back all seven of those Mon Calamari tubs in exchange for those destroyers he has sitting idle," Krennel declared. "Weapons deliveries for these starships won't go through until the beginning of next month! Bilbringi, as always, are too arrogant and pompous to fulfill the specified orders on time."
"Your already active fleet is strong enough to repel any enemy attack," Isard reminded him of his own words. "And, most likely, you will soon be able to test that claim in practice."
"What are you talking about?" Krennel became alert. For the first time in a long while, she was speaking not in vague hints but in concrete ones.
"The New Republic has decided to make a show of punishing you on trumped-up charges," the Ice Queen said. "The Bothans intend to send a fleet to conquer the Ciutric Hegemony."
"And what happened that made them decide to do it?" Krennel smirked. The very idea of confronting the New Republic military intrigued him.
"Their new supreme commander seriously intends to compete for the presidency of the young state," Iceheart explained. "'Your' attack on the Hast shipyards invigorated that shortsighted Bothan so much that he's ready to throw the fleet of an entire oversector at you..."
"They'll grind me to dust!" Krennel's eyes lit up, and he jerked to his feet. "What are you doing?! I can fight off a hundred, two hundred starships, but there are thousands in an oversector fleet!"
"Everything is under control, Prince-Admiral." At one point, Delak felt she was simply mocking him by constantly using his title. "Bothans love to throw dust in people's eyes and pull chestnuts from the fire with someone else's hands. More precisely — they're not enthusiasts, they're professionals at it. For the sake of a catchy phrase and a boost in his political ratings, he'll promise the senators anything they want to hear — including a pledge to eliminate the threat of the Imperial task force in the shortest possible time. Incidentally, you should be proud that all of Thrawn's victories have been attributed to you in the minds of Imperials."
"And what's good about that?" Krennel asked in bewilderment.
"The fact that his ill-considered behavior — ignoring the resources that Orinda and the Imperial Ruling Council provided him under the terms of their tacit agreement — will work against him. The information isolation that the Chiss and his underlings used to ensure their own security will backfire. When my plan is executed, the Imperial Remnants will follow you as the leader who destroyed their biggest headache. At the right time and place, a few surgical strikes will completely demoralize the New Republic's war machine."
"Evasion is starting to irritate me. Although..." Krennel folded his arms across his chest. If everything was as she said, he could be patient. "Is this when my triumph comes? As you promised."
"As I promised," Isard declared. "And I see my intentions through to the end..."
Judging by the blaster scar through her head — to her own end, Krennel thought. But he asked something else out loud:
"You took an extremely high-ranking prisoner from me," he reminded her.
"And he played his role," Ysanne assured him. "The message was delivered to Wedge Antilles personally."
"So they'll head to Linuri?" Krennel clarified.
"Exactly," Isard confirmed. "Soon the New Republic fleet will be sent to that planet to verify the message relayed to them by the late General Dodonna."
"You still haven't explained what my part is in executing this plan," Prince-Admiral Krennel noted.
"It's very simple, my dear Prince-Admiral," Ysanne Isard replied in a flat voice. "When the rebels, led by Wedge Antilles, arrive on Linuri to find answers to their many questions, they will find them."
"Your continuing to speak in riddles doesn't make things any clearer," Krennel stated.
"All in good time." A smile appeared on Iceheart's lips, one that made the ruler of the Ciutric Hegemony uneasy.
Still, soon his enemies would feel even worse.
* * *
He had almost forgotten what it was like — to sink to the very bottom of galactic life, to blend in with the most unsavory representatives of society to get what you wanted.
And Nar Shaddaa, for some reason, no longer seemed to him the most luxurious and acceptable place to live and fulfill all desires. The lights of cantinas and illegal weapons shops, the shady businesses offering illegal starship upgrades, and the outright dens where pilots were always sought for dangerous but well-paid work — places where he'd spent a lot of time in the past — no longer beckoned.
Today, this city — which, like Coruscant, never slept, but also didn't hide its openly rotten core — evoked a certain disgust in him. Something bordering on squeamishness and disdain...
"I guess those buddies from my past life were right — I've lost the touch, become 'cultured,'" Han Solo muttered, watching the happenings in the cantina's common room. As always, he sat with his back to the wall, not letting anyone get behind him. Despite his seemingly relaxed demeanor, the husband of Princess Leia Organa Solo was extremely focused.
First and foremost, because Nar Shaddaa was no place for someone who could relax and not worry about their wallet — and in most cases, their life. And now, with his back uncovered by loyal Chewie, this place became even more dangerous...
But he had to be here to find answers.
"Captain Solo." Han shook his head, trying to process how a stranger had appeared directly opposite him, on the other side of the sabacc table. Hard to sneak past someone watching the only direction a guest could come from.
"I don't know what you're talking about, kid." Solo leaned forward demonstratively, picking up a glass of Corellian whiskey with his left hand and taking a sip. Meanwhile, his right hand had already settled on the grip of his trusty blaster pistol... And if necessary, this time he'd shoot first!
"If you prefer, we can continue your games of secrecy," the middle-aged man shrugged. He was dressed so inconspicuously that he could have passed for the most ordinary regular. But for some reason, Han felt a threat emanating from this man, who didn't look a day over thirty-five.
Not danger — threat. And that was a completely different level of that famed Corellian trouble-sense kicking in...
"Still don't know what you're talking about, kid," Han said with feigned indifference, taking another sip. The blaster's grip was getting slippery with sweat. "But I'm in a good mood today. Want me to buy you a drink, and then you scram and leave me to enjoy this fine evening?"
"Your informant won't come, Captain Solo," the stranger said in a tone that sent a slight chill down Han's spine.
"Is that so?" the Corellian snorted. If you're bluffing, do it properly and don't stop halfway. "Well, then, so be it."
"I was told you're a stubborn one," the annoying, irritating type smiled reservedly. "You can choose not to believe me and shoot me with your blaster, but I came to help you find your wife, your friends — the Wookiee Chewbacca and General Calrissian — and also to avenge those who wronged them and took them."
"Go on," the Corellian ground out. It seemed that while he'd been waiting for his meeting, hunting down an information broker, they'd found him. Now if only he knew who exactly... "And name your price."
The stranger laughed. Quietly, but energetically enough. Though — thoroughly fake. Han swore to himself never to trust this sentient.
"I'm afraid you can't afford to hire me, Captain Solo," he said. "Frankly, the rank of 'General' suits you better. Too bad you deserted..."
"Well, I see you know quite a lot about me," Han forced a smile.
"It's the job," the sentient shrugged. "So, are you in?"
"I don't work until I hear the terms for each party," Solo laid down his conditions. Dangling what he'd come back to this galactic cesspool for in front of him was certainly possible. And a couple of years ago, he'd have charged in blindly wherever he was told. But now... With each passing year spent alongside his wife, Han Solo was getting used to thinking with his head more often and better than before.
Otherwise, with a woman like Leia, you wouldn't last long in peace and harmony — in a family where at least one highly educated person with diplomatic talents, any conflict was resolved through negotiation.
"Is saving your wife and unborn children, both of your friends, and your beloved ship not worth trusting me?" the stranger asked in surprise.
"You'd be surprised when you get to know my value system," Han continued to test his interlocutor's patience while simultaneously dulling his vigilance. "So, what's the deal?"
"Simple," the stranger stopped smiling. "The terms are extremely simple. You return to the New Republic, take command of your fleet again, fly where I tell you, destroy the Imperial base, and after that, you receive the coordinates of the world where Princess Leia and your children, your friends, and your ship are located. If you do everything precisely and fast enough, you'll be able to come face to face with the one behind it all."
"Let me guess," Han took a sip of his drink. "And in return, I need to transport a holdful of prime spice for you on a Mon Calamari star cruiser?"
"Tempting offer, Captain Solo," the stranger smirked. His behavior was way too suspicious. "But no. Nothing beyond that is required."
"Then I don't see your gain," Solo said. "Yours and your employer's."
"Perceptive," the stranger praised his observation.
"Logical," Han countered. "You're trying way too hard to blend in as a local here not to realize you're an outsider to the underworld. Which means you're just a messenger. And there are bigger players behind you."
"I won't deny it, that's true," the stranger informed him. "It's a distant acquaintance of yours, Captain. Although... You haven't met personally, only indirectly. But my master knows a couple of your friends."
"You do realize you've just narrowed down the list of possible suspects considerably?" the suspicious Han clarified.
"And I'm not trying to give you an answer about my master's identity," the stranger replied seriously. "You've heard the offer, Captain Solo. No better options are coming."
"Is that so?" Han snorted. "You know, I think I'll pass. I hate working in the dark."
"You can keep saying you're not ready to drop everything right now and go search for your wife, but we both know the truth without any embellishment."
"Let's say that's true," Solo conceded. "But your proposal is fundamentally impossible to execute — I deserted from the New Republic military. No one's likely to invite me back."
"Don't be so absolute, Captain Solo," the stranger advised. "You have friends at the very top of the New Republic. Contact her, tell her that by helping you, she can restore the status quo in the Provisional Government in short order and, moreover, sideline Councilor Fey'lya, who has already practically climbed to the pinnacle of political power in the New Republic. After you help us by eliminating the real — not the Bothan-made — culprit behind all of the New Republic's failures, that will strengthen your state and rid it of the Bothan stranglehold. Believe me, when she hears that you are the one who can return her power over the New Republic, Councilor Mon Mothma will find a way out of the situation immediately."
"You're awfully well-informed about our internal kitchen," the Corellian smirked.
"The position requires it," the stranger told him. "Agree, Captain Solo. It wouldn't be the first time you've made questionable alliances to achieve a goal."
"Was that a reference to my deal with Admiral Rogriss to catch Warlord Zsinj?" Han clarified, giving the sentient across from him his trademark crooked smile.
"Think what you like, Captain." The stranger stood up. "Well, I see you're not ready to cooperate. Then I'll find someone else..."
"I didn't say that," Han said. The stranger looked at him appraisingly. The well-known "staring contest" among shadow dealers began. "But to start, I want at least to know the name of the person making me this offer. And what Imperial base are we talking about?"
"A planet where the Empire spent decades raising and training its finest saboteurs and liquidators," the man said. "It's called Honoghr."
"Never heard of it," Han shrugged. The "staring contest" was shaping up to be a draw.
"You will," the stranger promised.
"Maybe, maybe," the Corellian said skeptically. "So what's your name, kid?"
"Sedriss," the interlocutor smiled.
"Never heard of it," Solo shrugged again.
"My answer remains the same, Captain," the man standing opposite him smiled. "You will..."
* * *
Molo Himron realized he hadn't even felt the last blow. His body seemed to have turned to wood, and the nerve endings had decided not to transmit the unpleasant sensations to his brain. After so many days of beatings, he had turned into a piece of well-tenderized meat...
"Start talking, Himron," the man with the rank insignia of a Pilot Corps colonel advised him, grabbing him by the hair and tilting his head back so Molo's gaze met his eyes directly. "Or your beating will continue."
"I can do this all day," Himron smiled with bloodied teeth. "You hit like a girl."
The next blow, a knee to the face from the pilot-colonel, broke his nose. Molo heard the bones crunch distinctly. His front teeth wobbled suspiciously... Too bad, they were good ones, had accompanied him his whole life from baby teeth to this day...
A backhand punch flung his head to the side, and he caught a glimpse of the manacles suspending him — they had worn through his skin and were biting into the muscles of his wrists... Eh, and it had all started so well... He'd sensed that infiltrating the MandalMotors data archive was too easy for a reason — the group was ambushed on the way back. Imperials disguised as Mandalorians (as it turned out) killed all his men and took the scout himself prisoner... And dragged him here... Somewhere...
At least "Malek" the youngest of the agents under his command — had managed to get away, sent directly from the archive with a copy of the data via a completely different escape route.
A new fist blow broke his lower jaw on the right side. Already the second fracture on that side...
"We'll finish with you just bleeding out from blood loss and internal injuries, Himron," the Imperial said.
"I don't mind," Molo rasped, laughing and immediately breaking into a cough.
"I'm sure that's exactly what you're counting on," the pilot said. "Hoping your boy managed to get away from us and reached Thrawn with the data on MandalMotors' developments?"
Provocation, Molo realized.
"You wouldn't believe me if I said you're paranoid, would you?" The scout leaned forward and to the side a little, then let a string of bloody saliva drip onto the floor.
"Your kid's already been cut to pieces, Himron," the Imperial said earnestly. "And we have all the data — both the original he had and the copy you were carrying."
Then why am I still here? a logical thought flashed through his mind. But he understood perfectly what was really happening. "Malek" had gotten away. And now these Imperials were trying to find out exactly what he'd taken with him, and most importantly — where he was going. Why? Not clear yet. He needed to endure a few more beatings.
"Hey, where'd you go?" realizing that no one had been beating him for several minutes, Molo lifted his head to look where his tormentor had been standing before.
And didn't see him.
But he saw something else. Or rather, someone else...
"Well, I never really believed this galaxy could be so miraculously lucky as to have you die," he said, grimacing at the sight of a figure in a red naval uniform with no insignia.
"You were always astonishingly stubborn and distrustful," came a soft thud as a human head fell and rolled before him. With the well-familiar features of a calm-faced young man who, despite his youth, had held out to the very end...
"Malek" hadn't made it out after all.
Molo could tell a real human head from a fake even in this state.
"That's your mistake, Himron," she said. "You never finish anything."
"My only mistake was hoping that the kid from Rogue Squadron could handle a man's job," Molo said, baring his teeth. "But this time, Ysanne, I'll make sure you die for certain."
"Right after you, your conspirator gang, and Grand Admiral Thrawn, Molo." Iceheart sat down in front of the captive scout, taking his chin between her thumb and forefinger so she could look him straight in the eye, burning with unbridled fire and chilling with icy cold simultaneously. "You simply don't understand, Himron, that I was busy with something else, so I couldn't give you and that inhuman monster enough of my attention. But now I'm completely free, and I'm going to get to work on you seriously..."