Nine years, seven months, and eight days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, seven months, and eight days after the Great Resynchronization.
The Bothan's fur rippled so much that it began to seem like he was about to spew a tsunami from his body. Or at least shed so much fur that everyone present would develop an allergy. Even those who had never had one in their lives.
"You overstepped your authority, Councilor Mon Mothma," Fey'lya's tone held no threat. On the contrary, his voice was calm, pointedly indifferent and formal. "You had no right to send General Solo on special assignments without my knowledge."
Han, who had been staring at the floor in front of him, lifted his gaze to the Bothan burning with quiet hatred and almost smiled. Oh, how much effort that had cost him. He'd love to see this rug-in-progress frothing at the mouth when someone he particularly disliked smiled back at him with complete abandon. Unfortunately, he had to hold back and not let the meeting turn into a farce.
But the young man sitting next to him — Wedge Antilles — shattered the entire meeting's solemnity by blowing at his bangs. He managed to toss the unruly hair away from his eyes with an air stream, which brought a triumphant smile to his face.
That smile was the trigger.
"General Antilles!" the Bothan barked, itching to lash out at anyone who couldn't, by duty, break every bone in his body. Han conspicuously cracked his knuckles. It had been a while since he'd hit a Bothan... Oh, how he wanted to... "Show at least a shred of respect and seriousness for what's happening at this Provisional Government session!"
"Calm down, Commander Fey'lya," Mon Mothma advised in an icy tone, conspicuously tapping a wooden mallet against its wooden block. "General Antilles, please, order in the room. This is an official session."
"My apologies," Wedge said, spreading his hands, blinking with a childlike innocence, holding the gaze of the Bothan's violet eyes.
"Let's return to the agenda," Mon Mothma said in a mentor-like tone. "General Solo, did I understand you correctly — during your undercover operation, you managed to locate an Imperial military base?"
"Yes, ma'am," no, really, Mothma was the best thing left in the New Republic since the Alliance. If she hadn't met Han halfway, if she had feared confrontation with Borsk Fey'lya, if she hadn't come up with and found a way to retroactively create an order for his supposed secret mission to gather intelligence on the enemy... Well, he'd already deserted from the Empire, run from the Hutts, so he was morally prepared to run from New Republic investigators too. Thank the Great Force that it all ended bloodlessly. Even if one particular Bothan was flaring his nostrils so wide he might suck in all the oxygen.
"Where is this base located?" Fey'lya demanded an immediate answer.
Han gave him a skeptical look. Apparently, the councilor wasn't in the know yet... So, there — Mon Mothma took a deep breath... Oh, here it comes...
"General Solo will not provide you with that information," she said.
The fur on the Bothan's neck seemed to be turning red with rage. Was that even possible?
"I must have misheard..." Fey'lya's voice rang with fury. "You, the head of the Provisional Government, want General Solo to ignore the principles of military hierarchy and withhold strategically important information from me? This is a direct interference in the sphere of military command! Just what do you think you're doing..."
From Wedge's face, it was clear he was barely keeping himself from bursting out laughing. Han had to bite his tongue until it hurt.
Wow, Fey'lya was probably about to have a heart attack. First, they wouldn't let him tear the "deserter" Solo to shreds, claiming it wasn't an unauthorized absence but merely an undercover operation so the Imps wouldn't know about his work locating their base. Now they were letting him know he wouldn't even get the information Han had obtained. Oh dear, what would happen when he learned the third piece of shocking news...
"That's correct, Commander Fey'lya," Mon Mothma said, gracing him with the kindest look she could muster. "Didn't you receive, about two or three weeks ago, a document stating that the fleet groups under the command of Generals Solo and Antilles were transferred to the direct authority of the Head of the Provisional Government and would be accountable only to me until we get through the current crisis?"
The Death Star only needed two proton torpedoes to blow to pieces. Judging by the glazed look in the Bothan's eyes, he was clearly tougher than that. Good thing Palpatine didn't like non-humans — it was terrifying to imagine what would have happened to the Alliance to Restore the Republic if the native population of Bothawui had sided with the Empire.
"No, Head of the Provisional Government," he said quietly, "I did not receive those documents."
"In that case, you need to contact the chancellery," Mon Mothma said instructively. "Because the military command is unable to develop an operation without it being compromised to our enemy, the fight against the Imperial separate task force will be assigned to two fleet squadrons — under the command of Generals Antilles and Solo, who are present here."
"But..." Fey'lya said, almost plaintively. He knew perfectly well he was being played — and brazenly at that. But there was nothing he could do about it. Mon Mothma was walking a razor's edge — practically at the limit of her authority. And now the Bothan realized he couldn't stop her. Because he had come here to devour one of the two Corellians present. And the fact that he'd be the one getting kicked out was news to him. "Head of the Provisional Government, if these squadrons are pulled from their home bases, entire sectors will be left uncovered!"
His voice grew stronger with each passing second. If there was one thing Borsk had, it was the ability to pull himself together quickly. And now he was trying to talk his way out of the situation.
"I understand that perfectly well," Mon Mothma said. "In that case, you need to use your authority as Commander of the Armed Forces to quickly redirect our ships from various locations to restore coverage..."
"And what would be the point of that?" Han almost blurted out. The Imps had already learned to kick them in the face right under their noses, destroying peripheral bases while the sector fleet sat idle due to Fey'lya's orders.
"You do realize that the only fleet I can draw the necessary number of ships from is the Fourth," a flash of rage flickered in the Bothan's violet eyes. "And it's preparing for a special military operation against the Ciutric Hegemony..."
"Which won't happen because the Imps intercepted most of the transport convoys heading to Bothawui," Wedge said, examining the stucco on the ceiling. The Bothan gave him such a heavy, furious look that somewhere off to the side, both Death Stars wept in admiration at the furry one's behavior.
"I'll ask you to keep your opinions to yourself, General Antilles," the Bothan advised.
Han noted that the annoyingly ever-present councilor was starting to shed his mask of propriety, becoming more irritable, petulant, and frankly obstructive. What happened to the legendary Bothan composure and polished refinement?
It seemed the job of supreme commander was not what the Bothan had imagined. Especially in the chaos that was flourishing all around them.
"Whatever you say, Councilor Fey'lya," Wedge shrugged.
"In that case," Mon Mothma looked meaningfully at the Bothan, "I'm sure you understand the importance of the upcoming negotiations between myself and the generals. In private," she said emphatically.
The Bothan gave her a long, piercing look, full of the promise of political hardship. Then he reluctantly rose and headed for the exit.
After the door closed behind the Bothan, the Head of the Provisional Government exhaled in relief. Only now did Han notice her white-knuckled fingers gripping the mallet she'd used to call for order.
"Looks like she's having a rough time too," Han thought.
"The situation is difficult," Wedge Antilles remarked.
"Worse than you can imagine," Mon Mothma said dryly, lifting her gaze to them. "Fey'lya is not the type to simply forget an insult. And when it concerns the political front — even more so. I'm sure he's already looking for ways to turn the Senate against me. And he'll use them at the next session."
"And creating two task forces just adds fuel to the open flame," Antilles said thoughtfully. "He'll do everything to somehow divert the senators' attention away from the wave of attacks we've suffered recently."
"That's exactly why you need to achieve success as quickly as possible," Mon Mothma explained. "There are enough mechanisms in the Senate and the Provisional Government to nullify these orders. The procedures could take several weeks, but the Bothans will definitely strike back."
"Yeah, the fuzzballs don't like it when you pull hard-won pieces of information out of their mouths," Han muttered. "Especially since you just made him peel two, maybe three squadrons away from defending Bothan space. He's essentially got half a fleet left."
"Whose supply lines still aren't working," Antilles snorted. "If the Imps keep successfully hunting our convoys — on their own or with privateers — then we can say for sure that his grand idea of attacking the Ciutric Hegemony will remain just a fiery speech in the Senate."
"That's exactly why I want the Fourth Fleet to stay put," Mon Mothma said. "Too often our forces are pulled from their bases, fragmented, and destroyed. If this is part of Krennel's plan to attack Bothawui, then a successful attack on the Bothan homeworld or the destruction of the Fourth Fleet would cause a crisis that would make the current situation in the New Republic look insignificant."
"If we lose one of the key fleets, the entire southern galaxy will be covered by maybe a couple of squadrons," Wedge said thoughtfully. Looking at the head of the provisional government, he added:
"A very clever move in military affairs, Madam Councilor," he said suspiciously.
She only smiled sheepishly.
"I managed to get a message from Ackbar," she explained.
"How is he?" Solo asked. From the glint in Antilles' eyes, he was interested in the same question.
"Hanging in there," Mon Mothma admitted. "We found a loophole through one of the prison guard shifts. My people keep him informed, and he informs us."
"It would be nice to get him out of there entirely," Wedge grumbled. He got no answer — everyone present understood that it simply wasn't possible right now. Mon Mothma was already exposing herself to blows that wouldn't hold for long. If she didn't get help, everything would collapse like a house of cards.
"The Admiral said," the Head of the Provisional Government continued, "that it's no coincidence that every Imperial action ultimately benefits the Bothans. Perhaps it's a psychological game designed to make Fey'lya feel like a winner and launch a reckless campaign. If he destroys Krennel, it will elevate the Bothans even further. But if Ackbar is right and the Imperials are luring our Fourth Fleet out to destroy it or attack Bothawui — then the entire New Republic won't be laughing."
"The Bothans do have a good planetary shield on their homeworld," Han scratched behind his ear. "Breaking through it isn't easy. You'd need a big fleet, or a Super Star Destroyer, or a Death Star..."
"Or a Torpedo Sphere," Wedge darkened. "The latest reports say that an Imperial Torpedo Sphere went missing from the Chasin system!"
"Well, damn," Han barely held back a curse. "Can we stop playing small-time already? The Imps have so many isolated systems, why not crush them?"
"We don't know who exactly they serve," Mon Mothma darkened. "We have armed neutrality with the Pentastar Alignment and the Imperials from Orinda; the smaller Remnants aren't dangerous, but if we encroach on their territory — the rest will unite against us. And that would be very bad. War would sweep across the entire galaxy. And Ackbar believes that resuming full-scale hostilities is exactly what our enemy wants. Without the economy and logistics, we won't last long. We have to survive and strike precisely. It's just not clear how far we can go. Compared to the Empire, we have to keep up to ninety percent of our Armed Forces defending various sectors, waiting for an attack from any direction, because of these blows to our rear. And the remaining forces for an offensive campaign are far too few. That's why I'm afraid Fey'lya is being led by the Imperials and dragging the entire Fourth Fleet there like lambs to the slaughter."
"Then maybe we should head out quickly and stir up some trouble on that Imperial planet? Thin out their training center for hired killers..."
Wedge hiccupped in surprise.
"Can you elaborate?" he asked.
"Yes, General Solo," Mon Mothma smiled weakly. "If you don't mind. With all the details."
Uh-huh, sure. I wonder how long it will be between you hearing that an unknown (and most likely Imperial) told me the coordinates of a planet worth Base Delta Zeroing, and the moment they lock me in the cell next to Ackbar?
"I went to Nar Shaddaa to shake up my old contacts," Han said, trying not to meet Mon Mothma's eyes. For some reason, he felt ashamed. "One of my informants told me the Imperials have a planet where they train their excellent killers — saboteurs, I gather. The Imps are probably combining business with pleasure. So, according to unconfirmed information, there's a good chance that after striking this training center, we could find out where Leia is."
"Is she on that planet?" Mon Mothma grew anxious.
"Honestly? I don't know," Han said truthfully. He didn't particularly take this Sedriss fellow's words on faith. That one wanted the planet destroyed far too badly. From which Han concluded that this "informant" clearly had a double agenda. He was obviously one of the Imperials, and given the constant infighting among the Remnants, he could easily use the New Republic to try and damage his opponents. All while staying out of it and putting the blame on Coruscant.
Or maybe he was someone from among the offended partners of that task force commander, who decided to spite his former employer for one reason or another. Either way, Lobot — Lando's assistant, whom Han contacted first — couldn't find anything on this man in the network. Which pointed to remarkable abilities to hide one's identity from the omnipresent bureaucratic procedures.
"Is there even an Imperial base there?" Wedge said thoughtfully. "Maybe the tip is a decoy and someone decided to use our situation to lure the fleet into a specific system and give us a good thrashing? Remember the ambush at Rugos..."
"I thought the same thing," Han said grimly. "So I flew out there with a couple of friends on a ship with clean ID codes — for reconnaissance. And I really didn't like that one of our medium GT-75 transports was hanging in orbit, whose engine data indicated it had been sent to the Hast shipyards in the past."
"A coincidence?" Mon Mothma asked.
"I don't think so," Han admitted. "Looks like the Imps are short on transport starships, so they didn't miss the chance to grab ours. And they're probably using it to move cargo, or recruits, or something else to their base on Honoghr. Lobot, Lando's old friend, managed to spot at least five small Imperial patrol ships that tried to intercept us in orbit. He took orbital pictures of an Imperial military base that had seen better days and had apparently weathered an orbital bombardment or heavy ground combat. But at least one heavy turbolaser tower was operational."
"It's possible the Imperials decided to rebuild their old base and brought in the transport for that," Mon Mothma darkened. "Honoghr... I've never heard of that planet."
"At least that's what the informant called it," Han grimaced. "It's located in the Kessel sector. From what Lobot and I managed to find — no one, anywhere, in any source, ever mentioned a planet at those coordinates. No matter what you call it: Honoghr, a nightstand, or an ugly little ball with depressing landscapes."
"That bad looking?" Wedge whistled, earning a reproachful look from Mon Mothma and immediately acting like he'd done nothing wrong.
"Gives you the shivers," Han shuddered. "A depressing impression, repelling from orbit worse than anti-space defense systems."
"It would be very reckless to just attack a base on an unknown planet we know nothing about," Mon Mothma said. "Perhaps your informant was mistaken and it's a base of illegal settlers or smugglers hiding from the authorities."
"In the Kessel sector, that's very, very easy to do," Wedge shared his thoughts.
"I'm also not inclined to fly in and drop a couple thousand proton bombs on their heads," Han shifted in his chair. And it wasn't about humanitarianism. He'd encountered tricky Imperial and other tricks more than once. If someone sets a condition — do something nasty and you'll get what you want — then ten times out of ten, you're just being used. And you won't like the result. Lando Calrissian would confirm that after his deal with Darth Vader in Cloud City on Bespin. "To be honest, I'd like to go there with Lieutenant Page's marines. If the enemy brings other ships to meet us — we'll meet them. But what's happening on the surface — I'd like to know for sure. If there really is an Imperial base there, we might find data on where to look for their main base."
As much as he wanted to get Leia back as quickly as possible, he knew perfectly well that the princess would never forgive him if he went for her and the children over people's heads. He didn't believe she could be dead. No Imperial would execute a high-ranking New Republic official without trying to exchange her for some privileges. And since nothing was known about her whereabouts, it meant the Imperials were holding her until the right moment.
At least, that's what his heart told him. And deep down, he hoped that little Luke would feel it if something happened to his sister. And let him know...
"Alright," Mon Mothma forced a smile. "I'll arrange the transfer..."
And it would cost her another headache.
"My situation is roughly the same," Wedge said. "The planet Linuri, Mid Rim. Never before noticed in any connection with the Empire. But Jan Dodonna pointed to it specifically," Han darkened at the familiar name. He'd already heard about the general's horrific death. "I want to take Rogue Squadron there and check it out, find out what's going on."
"It could be a trap," Han remarked.
"Just like Honoghr," Antilles replied with the carelessness typical of all Corellians. "But you're going there anyway, right?"
"Yes," Solo said firmly. "I think this is the path to finding Leia."
"And I hope that through Linuri, I'll find those who treated General Dodonna so brutally," the youngest general in the New Republic armed forces said firmly. "At least we know for sure that neither Linuri nor Honoghr are part of official Imperial territory. So for us, they're legitimate targets. And no one can hold anything against us for them."
"Let these small victories bring our citizens faith that we haven't given up and haven't fallen into panic," Mon Mothma said.
"And they'll also help her avoid a wave of protests and outrage over transferring two squadrons under her command," Han Solo thought. "And give food for thought — if you can only win by not trusting plans to the Bothans, then maybe the problem isn't the holes in the New Republic itself, but in these rug-productions?"
* * *
"You've chosen an interesting place for a meeting, Grand Admiral Thrawn," said Baron D'Asta, lowering himself into the chair on the opposite side of the metal table separating us. Maybe I should have arranged the meeting more intriguingly, with the luxury befitting the Baron's status and position, but as soon as I imagined giving that order, the face of Captain Pellaeon appeared before my eyes — his crew had barely finished putting the Chimera in order after she'd played the role of a grain hauler.
"Duty sometimes catches us at the most unexpected moments," I remarked philosophically, noting how uncomfortable the Baron felt in the presence of the Imperial Guard standing behind me. "The orbit of Trogan is no worse for a meeting."
"Have you really decided to include this system in your controlled territories?" my interlocutor grimaced.
"Does this fact bother you, Baron?" I asked, emphasizing his title. A small hint at a formalized meeting format. Just to make it clear that one shouldn't dissolve into promises of a prompt meeting anytime, anywhere, and then cite urgent business as soon as contact with one's agents is lost, expecting that it won't cool the temperature of the relationship.
"This world is a bottomless pit for credits," Regus explained his opinion. "They're on the brink of poverty and barely making ends meet."
"That opinion has merit," I agreed. "However, it is an Imperial world."
"Which none of the Remnants wanted," the Baron remarked. "The taxes from it are negligible, it's located far from territories controlled by the Empire, the economy is in crisis, the tourism business the local rulers planned to open here died before construction even finished. They have no defense forces of their own — just a couple of police squads. Not even customs or patrol ships. I simply cannot understand what could interest you in such a wretched place, Grand Admiral."
"Eight million desperate locals who live hand to mouth and are needed by neither the New Republic, the Imperial Remnants, the gangsters, nor the Hutts," I answered mentally. "And on top of that, a meeting held here won't just rivet your and other interested parties' attention to my interest in Trogan — it'll also let Captain Pellaeon finish negotiating mutually beneficial cooperation with the local authorities."
Coming to the aid of a people on the brink of semi-starvation means securing their loyalty. And a population of eight million, under the circumstances, is eight million people. Some of them could easily solve a few of my problems. In one form or another.
"You don't have to understand the meaning of my actions, Baron," my spoken reply was, of course, different. "Or have you decided that I should be accountable to you?"
The Baron's lips curled into a slight smile.
"Not at all, Grand Admiral," he said. "I was merely trying to understand what could be so remarkable about this planet."
I didn't answer. Let him finish the answer himself. Let him pay attention to the planet… That, in fact, is precisely the main goal.
"I get the feeling you wanted to discuss a certain range of questions with me," I reminded him. "Or does my interest in Trogan fall within that list?"
"Not at all, Grand Admiral," the Baron assured me, casting another glance at Tierce, who stood in full battle regalia. "You have a curious bodyguard…"
I stayed silent. What comments were needed here?
The silence stretched for a few seconds.
The Baron, no longer hiding his interest, studied Tierce, while I stroked the ysalamiri, which had taken to napping on my lap. Interesting little creature. If it weren't a lizard, I'd think it was related to a sloth. Its entire daily cycle consists only of time spent sleeping, eating, sleeping again… and so on in a loop.
"Well, I admit, the Guardsman is indeed genuine," Baron D'Asta finally said with a sigh.
I raised my gaze to the aristocrat. The Baron, looking at me, spread into a light, genial smile.
"Well then, let's get down to business," he said. "I am deeply grateful for your actions at the Hast shipyards." He paused briefly. For what? Was he waiting for me to assure him: "Oh, please, Baron, that was all Delak Krennel's doing"? Honestly, not funny. He and I both know perfectly well what his spies told him before they fell silent forever.
"The transport contract is in my pocket," he informed me. "Thanks to your ingenuity and talent, Grand Admiral. I thank you for your assistance."
"And I thank you for the assistance provided to me," I replied, not wanting to be left in debt for the expressed courtesy. "Supplies from the D'Astan sector are hard to overestimate. As are your pilots, provided to fly my fighters."
"It was the least I could do for you," the Baron said. All pleasantries and smiles vanished from his aging face, signaling that the prelude was over. "I take it I shouldn't count on getting my people back?"
"If you're speaking of the pilots, you have the right to recall each of them at any time convenient for you," I said. The necessary number of clones from the very best of them had already been made.
"I meant my informants among the workers at the Hast shipyards," the Baron said, studying me closely. "Twenty-eight sentients at one workshop and fourteen at another."
Well now, even the number was close to the truth.
"At the end of this month, you'll receive them safe and sound."
"May I inquire as to the reason for such a lengthy delay?" the Baron tensed. "Those forty-two observers are my most capable operatives, former employees of Imperial Intelligence and the Security Bureau. They remained loyal to me after the Empire's collapse and the territorial reorganization. So I think you understand I wouldn't want to lose them. Training new ones would take too much time."
"You will receive all fifty-seven of your informants as soon as my security service finishes working with them," I said. Surprise flickered in the Baron's eyes. "I take it you forgot to mention your people who worked at the orbital defense stations?"
"Indeed," the Baron smiled. "They've been there so long I'd even forgotten about them myself. I trust you understand that after the first battle for Hast, one couldn't miss the chance to recruit civilian workers and place one's own people there."
Whom you intend to get back. And question thoroughly about the methods used to carry out the operation. The transmissions by which the spies were detected were too short and didn't contain details. Only statements of fact — that it was my forces that participated in the battle, along with the quantitative and qualitative composition of the ships involved. It was precisely by cross-referencing such data that the Baron was firmly convinced that I was the one who had carried out his wish to destroy the place of shame for his sector's private fleet.
"A thoroughly logical and prudent action," I nodded approvingly. "Should I continue measures to fish out your informants from among the military or hired personnel of my fleet and army?"
"Forgive my impertinence," the Baron said with a barely perceptible bow. "I had to be informed about what was happening. I trust you understand."
"Clear and distinct," I confirmed. "And I will not tolerate this again. I don't need allies who doubt me and try to look over my shoulder."
"In that case, I should apologize for something else as well," the Baron said thoughtfully, waiting for a certain reaction from me. Another test of wits.
"Oh, yes," my smile held no amusement. "Our conversation about the internal politics of the Galactic Empire at your residence. No harm done. Your concerns about the foolish alien who wears the Grand Admiral's uniform without right and tries to prove something to someone were understandable. I hope you don't take offense at my words either?"
"Dealing with you is like negotiating in the best years of the Empire at the Imperial Palace," the Baron chuckled good-naturedly. "You never know if you're being supported or tested."
"You are a worthy representative of that tradition," I said.
"Such are the times," the aristocrat said with a serious face. "May I inquire where you obtained an Imperial Guardsman, Grand Admiral? According to my data, not a single one of them has left their previous post."
"Are you sure you want to hear the answer?" I asked.
"If there are more Guardsmen ready to serve me as bodyguards — yes," D'Asta said. "Since our conversation, my specialists have foiled four assassination attempts on my life. With heavy losses among my personal guard. I'm certain Guardsmen are a far more reliable way to protect one's life."
"Do you know who's behind the attacks?" I asked.
"Good assassins don't give names," D'Asta smirked. "But the last one… let's just say he wasn't very professional. He, and presumably the others, were hired by unknowns, but from indirect evidence, the killer realized he was dealing with an Imperial Intelligence agent. For a small fee, he shared his undoubtedly valuable observations. I'll be killed if I don't stop supporting you."
I see. This is taking a turn for the worse. I don't need to guess much about the reasons that made the aristocrat a target for assassins.
"The reason for the liquidation is our conversation at your residence on Nez Piron," I stated.
"I'm sure they couldn't have known the details of our conversation," the Baron said. "But from the tiniest traces, one can always piece together the whole picture."
"Synthesis is a very common method of information processing," I said. After weighing the options in my head, I continued:
"I'll send you several Guardsmen." The next batch of clones, including hundreds of copies of Tierce standing behind me, wouldn't be ready for at least ten days. A few more days would be needed to test their capabilities and solidify their skills. "They'll arrive disguised as hired mercenary bodyguards. I'm sure it won't be difficult for you to spread a rumor about seeking highly qualified mercenaries for your own security."
"I was counting on the aura of authority and terror that Guardsmen project in their regalia," the Baron smirked. "Half the future hired killers will think twice before deciding to go up against them."
Oh, Baron… I've thought too poorly of you. I even had plans for your destruction drawn up. And you're telling me, practically in so many words, that you're still working alongside me. That commands respect. To know that at any moment, because of your convictions, you could be killed a dozen ways, and not to back down… This man clearly values his view of the world and the place of aliens in it far more than his own life.
Of course, everything needs to be verified… But if the circumstances are as he presents them… Well, this man deserves to be called an ally. And his safety should be considered.
"And the other half will blow up your residence just to get guaranteed confirmation of the target's elimination," I remarked calmly. "I'm not sure that outcome would meet your expectations."
"I am grateful for your help, Grand Admiral," the Baron said seriously. "I'm sorry you weren't able to procure orbital workshops and defense stations for yourself. I'm sure I can help you with that. The transport contract is quite substantial. So now I'm in a position to offer you financial support as well." A good offer. "As promised, I will provide you with all necessary assistance… I delivered two billion in cash on my shuttle. My people should have already unloaded it. I'm sure that money will be enough to purchase the necessary number of defense stations. I don't have shipyards for servicing line-class vessels, but we can handle repairs of light starships. As well as heavy cruisers. I've heard you have quite a number of them. It's unlikely your single workshop can manage putting them in order quickly…"
"Thank you for your concern, Baron," I said in a calm tone. "The money will be quite sufficient. As for the rest, I think we should cease any form of joint action."
The head of the D'Astan sector looked at me with suspicion and surprise.
"May I know the reason for this change in your intentions, Grand Admiral?" he asked.
"Certainly," my reply was equally measured. "Your safety, Baron. The forces acting against me intend to destroy my open allies. I can provide you with bodyguards, but that will only worsen the problem. From attempts on your life personally, they will move on to threats against your daughter, your sector, and so on down the list."
"You think I can't take care of the safety of those I hold dear?" the aristocrat frowned.
"Not at all," I said. "I simply see no point in continuing this escalation until the source of the threat is eliminated. I dare assure you, our agreements remain in force — we remain allies as before in the matter of concluding peace with the New Republic and continuing to preserve the best of what the Empire has accumulated over the past decades. However, we will transition them into covert support."
"I feel you're not telling me something, Grand Admiral," Baron D'Asta squinted. "I doubt that after demonstrating your talents, you lack the strength — your own and mine — to crush the Ubiqtorate and the fleet subordinate to it at its very root…"
Looking into the black eyes of the ysalamiri, which was stretching contentedly, I met the aristocrat's gaze.
"The problem, Baron D'Asta," I said, "is that the Ubiqtorate is only the tip of the iceberg. The danger — to everything that isn't ready to frantically destroy any intelligent life in the galaxy that doesn't submit to the fanaticism of the New Order — lies in the Deep Core…"
* * *
How much time had passed since she'd been placed in these "hotel accommodations"? Several days, for sure.
With no way to track the time of day or night by a chronometer or the simple movement of the local star due to the lack of any windows or timekeeping devices, Leia was glad she was finally allowed to leave her cell.
Whatever the Imperials called that luxurious dwelling they'd given her, for her it remained only a place of confinement. And all those comfortable rooms, soft furniture, and servile droids supplying her with food, fresh fruits and vegetables, couldn't convince her she was "a guest." No, it was simply a comfortable prison, where she was kept solely because she was needed for bargaining with the New Republic. They would surely try to exchange her for something the Imperials wanted. Prince-Admiral Krennel, Grand Moff Ardus Kaine, the Imperial Ruling Council, or any other Imperial who in one way or another controlled her captivity. Even that Grand Admiral Lieutenant Colonel Astarion had mentioned.
Leia walked along a small path, enjoying the scent of flowers and the fresh air carrying the aromas of the outside world. Sitting down on a small bench, she cast a glance at the stormtroopers standing by the exit through which she'd been brought here for "some fresh air." Uh-huh. Imperials who care about a pregnant woman's health. Hilarious. Too bad she didn't feel like laughing.
The young woman ran a hand over her rounded belly, listening to the twins, who were currently asleep. They always slept at night, so Leia used this simple trick to determine the time of day and night. But the children had developed an unpleasant habit of going quiet for a while during the day too, so… Either her day-night cycle was thrown off in the enclosed space, or the day on this planet where she was being held was rather short.
Leia tilted her head back, admiring the night sky through the transparisteel dome, decorated with a pattern of stars. If she were as strong in astrography as Han or even Luke, she could have practiced guessing her place of confinement. But the pattern of the night sky and the bright arcs of more than two moons racing across it told her little. How many planets had she visited in all this time? Hundreds, if not thousands. But she'd never had the chance to remember the picture of the night sky, being more occupied with matters of diplomacy and negotiation. Still, no use dreaming — it was unlikely she was being kept on a planet she'd ever visited. After all, the Imperials controlled at least a third, if not a quarter, of the galaxy, so they could be on any of the worlds under their dominion. Especially considering Lieutenant Colonel Astarion's words that her "rainbow host" was a Grand Admiral. If only she knew which of those the New Republic believed dead…
"Mistress Leia!" she heard the familiar, panic-filled, artificially intoned voice of C-3PO.
The girl turned her head toward the sound and broke into a smile. "Goldie" her loyal protocol droid, so disliked by her husband for his talkativeness — was scuttling toward her, his polished golden casing gleaming.
"Did the Imperials polish my droid?" Leia thought in horror. What did they think they were doing?! What kind of Imperials were these?
"C-3PO," she smiled, rising to meet the droid. "I'm glad you're alright!"
"Oh, trouble, Mistress!" the translator droid exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "You're wearing the same dress you had on at the time of our capture!"
Leia arched an eyebrow inquisitively.
"Yes, C-3PO," she agreed. "No one thought to have my wardrobe delivered along with me. And I don't intend to wear the clothes the Imperials offered."
In the last part, of course, she was bending the truth, because no woman could resist a soft bathrobe made of the finest wool, plus a couple of casual dresses made of expensive materials. But Leia wore that clothing solely for pragmatic reasons — to keep her Alderaanian attire from wearing out. And honestly, it was much more comfortable moving around the apartments or going for the medical procedures she was persistently required to undergo in the things the Imperials had provided. At first, she'd treated all of it with suspicion (she'd even thought the Imperials were keeping her there solely to get their hands on the twins), but gradually she'd come to understand that the medical monitoring posed no threat to her. Even more — given the constant stress in the New Republic, it could be considered a blessing, because in the seven months since the pregnancy began, she hadn't monitored her health this closely.
Wrong kind of Imperials… And their concern clearly wasn't for nothing.
"And yet, you are as dazzling as ever, Princess," a voice sounded behind her.
The girl nearly jumped half a meter, hearing another painfully familiar voice.
"Lando!" she cried out, rushing to embrace her family friend.
Calrissian and the unusually silent Chewbacca standing behind him were met with the warmest, most sincere feelings of joy.
"Thank the Force you're alive and well," she said, barely holding back tears.
"And Chewie and I are glad you're safe," Calrissian smiled. The Wookiee standing nearby growled softly. "Yes, Chewie, I noticed that too."
"Noticed what?" Leia tensed.
"Master Lando surely means that the dark circles under your eyes and the pallor of your face have disappeared," the translator droid cooed like a hen.
"Really?" Organa-Solo was surprised, looking at the native of Kashyyyk. Chewbacca nodded in agreement, backing up his words with low growls.
"I never imagined Imperial captivity was a comfortable sanatorium," Calrissian declared with a grimace, gallantly offering the girl a seat. "They not only patched me up but also found a couple of lingering diseases."
"Anything serious?" Leia tensed.
"Nothing," Calrissian waved a hand. "Should have eaten right when I was younger, running illegal deals. And then somehow I never got around to it…"
Chewie let out a confirming tirade in his native tongue.
"At least I stopped shedding," Lando chuckled. Seeing that Leia didn't fully understand the Wookiee language, he patiently explained:
"He's complaining that the stormtroopers made him wash up, ran him through a dozen scanners, shot him full of drugs, and now they're stuffing him with healthy food instead of what he usually ate with Han."
"Indeed," Leia furrowed her brow. "Some kind of… resort. I don't recall any of our rescued prisoners ever mentioning being held in conditions like this."
"I'm sure this is for the most important guests," Lando said, tilting his head back and admiring the night sky. "Beautiful…"
"And fresh air," Leia nodded absently. "You wouldn't happen to know…?"
"That's exactly what I'm working on," Calrissian smiled at her, looking at the Princess. "But I'd rather it were a sabbacc deck than a starry sky. I'll have to strain myself to figure out where we are…"
Chewie grumbled discontentedly. Leia felt a sense of unease. She didn't know the Wookiee language that well, but she understood what her family friend wanted to tell her.
"He says that…" Lando began.
"I understood," Leia said quietly. "We're somewhere in the New Territories?"
"It looks like it," Calrissian confirmed. "Not the best place for a vacation, but what can you do. We don't get to choose…"
"Were you interrogated?" Leia asked.
"No," Calrissian replied. "Some dandy from the ISB came, said we were now guests of some Imperial warlord who fancied himself a Grand Admiral, and that we had to follow the rules for holding prisoners of war. When I heard that, I almost went gray."
Chewie, in unison with the former gambler, launched into a short speech.
"Same for him," Lando sighed. "And how are things with you, Leia?"
"About the same," she said. "A lot of talk, demands to watch my health and visit medical droids and procedures. In all the time I've spent here, my data chip with analysis results has more information than it did in the New Republic since my birth. If I didn't know we were in Imperial hands, I'd think we were being fattened up by some cannibals for a ceremonial dinner."
"I've always liked your sense of humor," Lando grinned. "I'm sure the Imperials are trying to distract our attention from something this way."
"I have the same suspicions," Leia shared her thoughts darkly. "Throwing dust in our eyes so we don't see the rancor hiding behind it."
Chewbacca expressed several growling hypotheses.
"I don't think so," Leia objected. "You'd have to be a complete fool to demand any sectors or systems for us. Even if we assume Mon Mothma goes crazy and agrees, not only would Fey'lya never let her live, but the local government would oppose it. We're not the Empire — we don't give away our territories and sentients in exchange for something."
For some reason, she remembered Bakura and the Ssi-ruuk, to whom Palpatine had promised the population of an entire system in exchange for valuable technology. And right now, she desperately wanted to hope that this suddenly awakened humanity in the Imperials wasn't a prelude to being sold into slavery or something worse.
The Princess carefully dismissed the thought that the Imperials intended to take her children from her. In that case, it would be foolish to care about the others — and they'd even cleaned the droid…
"C-3PO," she addressed the golden translator. "Tell me, what did the Imperials do to you?"
"Oh, Mistress Leia," the droid threw up his hands. "First, I was taken to some workshop, where they completely removed my outer plating, then they began checking the parts for defects and replaced several of my servomotors, lubricated my joints and bearings, fixed several malfunctions that had remained since I was repaired by some incompetent in Cloud City on Bespin." The droid turned toward the Wookiee towering over him. Chewie growled threateningly, and the translator hastened to retreat.
"Is that all?" she clarified.
"No, Mistress Leia," the droid admitted. "I was immersed in an oil bath, given a full diagnostic…"
"I'm starting to understand why Han hates him," Lando coughed into his fist. "Droid, did anyone access your memory?"
"Oh, Master Lando, that's exactly what I've been telling you!" the droid wailed. "They hooked me up to a terminal and copied my data banks!"
Leia drew in a sharp breath. Of course!
"So much for the confidentiality of everything I've done for the past twenty years," Leia said sadly. "Now I understand why the Imperials were so hospitable. They got C-3PO's data — who I met with, where, what missions he ran, what the negotiations were about..."
Chewbacca growled indignantly, shaking his fists at the stormtroopers standing guard. They didn't even flinch. Lando studied the men in the white armor closely, then declared:
"The value of that information is questionable," he said. "Most of those events happened decades ago, so..."
"Lando," Leia said with a sad smile. "That droid was with me on every rebel command base. And behind Imperial lines... Even if the current relevance is questionable, can you imagine how many secret deals and negotiations were conducted over all that time? Some of them could be used for blackmail — or worse, to push some systems and sectors out of the New Republic. We even did business with Black Sun... Not to mention the countless smugglers, pirates, mercenaries... And all the confidential talks I had with other senators in C-3PO's presence — both during the Empire and later in the New Republic. The negotiations with the Sluissi, the Sullustans, the Kuati alone... Why did I listen to Luke and stop wiping the droid's memory..."
"This is bad," Lando agreed. "I'm sure our 'gracious host and benefactor' will squeeze every drop out of that information."
Leia felt a tear roll down her cheek. A searing acknowledgment of her own helplessness...
"We'll sort this out, Leia," Calrissian said firmly. "First we need to figure out where we are, get out of here and..."
Chewbacca let out a low growl.
"Are you sure?" Calrissian tensed. Even with her rudimentary Force sensitivity, Leia could feel the anxiety coming off him.
"What happened?!" she asked, pulling herself together.
"I really hope Chewie is wrong," Lando muttered. "But... if he's not, then..."
"Chewbacca says this sky is familiar to him," the translator droid said, as blunt as ever. "We are on Ciutric IV."
"Krennel," Leia sobbed in a sigh full of pain and shattered hopes.
C-3PO looked from one being to another in confusion.
Chewbacca growled softly, a mix of curses and words of comfort.
And Lando Calrissian stared at the stormtroopers with their barely visible 501st Legion markings, wondering just how deep a hole they'd fallen into this time.
* * *
"The Baron D'Asta's shuttle has left the hangar and entered hyperspace," Pellaeon reported, approaching my chair.
"Good, Captain," I said, studying the black eyes of the ysalamiri staring at me. What is it, little creature? Want your belly scratched? Look at those herbivore teeth bared... Who are you trying to scare? I know you won't go after prey bigger than yourself. Instinct of a peaceful animal. "Any news from Trogan?"
"Negotiations are complete," the captain announced, glancing sidelong at Tierce, who stood a couple meters from me in full battle gear. "The local government is ready to join us in exchange for support. Secretly, as you requested. Officially, they'll publish a statement that they refused you and are hoping for help from the Pentastar Alignment or Imperial Space. But they agreed to a small garrison — to maintain order. The smugglers have been getting active lately."
"Did you inform them that agents from various Remnants will be visiting the planet soon?" I clarified.
"Not without skepticism, but they heard me," the commander of the Chimaera said. "May I ask a question, sir?"
"Go ahead, Captain," I replied. "And tell the navigator to plot a course to our next destination."
After passing the order down the chain, Gilad turned to me:
"Where does the confidence come from that the Remnant governments will take notice of Trogan? After all, they officially refused us and will certainly remain in the same dire straits as before."
"Because the Chimaera was here, Captain," I explained. "Those who were tracking us from within are now cut off from that same ability. So they'll need outside information. Trogan has no military, economic, or strategic value. A backwater planet, as Baron D'Asta described it. That's common knowledge. Yet we were here, weren't we?"
"We'll still be here for at least another two minutes," Gilad said with an easy grin, noting the order's progress. "You think the Empire will buy that we found something here and have an interest?"
"Of course they will," I said. "Within a day, this place will be swarming with representatives from various small companies, trade agencies, carriers, and so on — open any textbook on operational work and stick your finger on any page with examples of covert infiltration. They'll all be implemented. Including diplomatic missions. They'll want to know exactly what we were trying to get from the Trogan government. And if the Trogan government follows the plan, they'll receive hefty rewards for providing that information."
"Which they could spend on enriching themselves," Pellaeon said disapprovingly. I couldn't argue — we both knew exactly what the Empire looked like now and what motives drove the Moffs and planetary governors. "The population stays poor."
"That's the second piece of the mosaic, Captain," I said, stroking the ysalamir's head. "A lack of change despite clear grounds for it is hard to hide. Trogan isn't rich or developed enough for everyone who wants to leave the planet to do so. We're offering them an alternative."
"Recruiters within the garrison!" Pellaeon blurted out.
"Of course," I confirmed. "When a situation becomes hopeless but there's a prospect of a better life, a being will take the risk to escape the mire of hardship. That's why I chose Trogan for this operation. Among the eight million beings in the local population, there will be at least a few thousand who want to enlist in the Imperial army. None of the Remnants will be in a position to put forward any claims against us — since the planet lies outside their jurisdiction. From the recruits, we'll know for certain whether Trogan's internal policy changes after the secret agreement or not."
"If it doesn't, will we intervene?" Pellaeon asked.
"We?" I clarified. "No, we won't intervene. Major Tierce," I gave a barely perceptible nod toward the Imperial Guardsman, "will handle the problem on his own. We have other strategic objectives."
"Am I correct in understanding — you don't want to declare an open alliance with Trogan so that Palpatine and his lackeys don't destroy the planet for that reason?"
"Exactly," I confirmed. "I've already explained my view on this in detail. I don't think it's worth repeating."
"Not necessary, sir, I remember," Pellaeon said. "Wasn't it dangerous to tell Baron D'Asta that Palpatine is alive?"
"There's a war on, Captain," I reminded him. "No day goes by without risk."
"He could set us up badly if he starts looking for contacts among anyone connected to the Core," Pellaeon said doubtfully. "Then those loyal to the New Order could turn against us."
"That fact won't escape the attention of our intelligence operatives," I said, looking at Pellaeon.
"The bodyguards you promised him?" the latter clarified. "I'm sure the Baron, if he schemes against us, will make sure his words stay out of their earshot."
"Of course," I confirmed. "That's precisely why they'll perform their direct duties as required. I'm referring to the Baron's fifty-seven operatives, whom we'll return to him at the end of this month."
"They were turned?" Pellaeon was taken aback. "All of them?"
"Not a single one," I said, dampening his enthusiasm.
"Then how...?" the commander of the Chimaera faltered. He stood in a stupor for a few seconds, processing what I'd said, then declared:
"They're inside Mount Tantiss, aren't they?" Gilad clarified.
"They're already dead, Captain," I clarified. "The Baron simply doesn't know that their 'loyalty' was Ysanne Isard's doing — she planted her agents inside his circle. Whatever's left of them after Lieutenant Colonel Astarion's people finished the interrogations is hardly of value to the Baron. So we'll send him people loyal to us. They'll keep an eye on the Baron and help identify the supply chain of information from the D'Asta sector straight to the former Director of Imperial Intelligence."
"And if the Baron still supports Palpatine anyway," Pellaeon continued the thought, "will we replace him too?"
"No," I replied. "He won't. This is just a safety net. The Baron is a reasonable man and understands perfectly that he can gain no more influence under the New Order. Not after he turned the D'Asta sector into a territory of racial equality. So the most he'll do is try to find out whether my words are true or not. We'll know his stance at the end of the month, when his trusted people lead supply caravans through territories controlled by our privateers on Mon Calamari ships, carrying everything the Empire needs."
"So if he keeps secretly shipping us what we need under the guise of Imperial cargo, it will keep our supplies running and also confirm the plausibility of the story that the New Republic attacked the convoy heading to Krennel?"
"Exactly," I confirmed. "And besides this kind of supply and the covert transfer of pilots and specialists to us, it will also help throw Ysanne Isard off our trail a bit. It won't hold her for long — the combination is too simple for her to spend much time unraveling it. But we don't need much time."
"Iceheart has spun her webs everywhere, like a spider," Pellaeon said through clenched teeth.
"That's precisely why we need to find her and deal with her," I explained. "In fact, all the necessary preparations in that direction are already underway."
"Captain Pellaeon, sensors have detected an unidentified starship launching from Trogan," Lieutenant Tschel reported.
"Identified?" the Star Destroyer commander frowned.
"Transponder is off," the young officer explained. "Scans as a small patrol cutter. No threat — its weapons are laughable against our deflectors..."
"Uh-huh," Pellaeon scowled. "Unless it's packed with explosives and intends to ram our bridge. Activate deflectors, ready the turbolasers, dispatch a patrol pair of TIE fighters..."
"Easy, Captain," I advised, studying the image of the small ship approaching us. It was keeping a distance of eighty units and moving slowly. So its pilot had detected the combat preparations. "Stand down the battle stations. Send out two fighters. Do not open fire — present an honor escort. No signs of aggression."
"Sir?" Pellaeon looked at me in confusion.
"Take a closer look at the ship, Captain," I advised. "Don't you notice anything strange about its design and piloting style?"
"Standard patrol cutter with a hyperdrive," Gilad muttered. "They use them to inspect freighters before clearing them for planetary approach... And the maneuvering is characteristic — an Imperial pilot at the controls... Did the Trogan customs officials decide it's better to deal with us?"
"This planet has no customs or patrol forces," I reminded him. "They don't have any government ships at all."
"Hmm..." the silver-haired officer faltered. "Well, that's true... Otherwise the smugglers wouldn't live so comfortably here. But then, who is this? Behaving like an old acquaintance..."
"Precisely that, Captain Pellaeon," I explained. "Remember who in the armed forces under our command used this type of ship. Or rather, one of them: the one chosen to send a negotiator is the one with the most influence. The most loyal and closest being to both you and me over the past year has returned."
It took the commander of the Chimaera about a second or two to grasp the meaning.
"Really?" he marveled. "I thought they'd never change their minds."
"I doubt this is an envoy from their entire people," I countered, watching the patrol pair of fighters form an escort around the small ship as the three of them headed toward the Chimaera. "Open a comm channel to the patrol cutter and route it to my chair."
A few seconds later, a miniature bluish-white hologram appeared before me.
"Glad to see you back, Rukh," I said. My former bodyguard gave a polite bow. "How can I help the Noghri people?"
"And I'm glad to meet you again, Grand Admiral Thrawn," my interlocutor said, almost entirely without the accent typical of his race. "Forgive me for taking too long to find you. Honoghr is in danger. I beg you for help."