The man walking down the corridor toward Felix broke into a smile the moment the Imperial lifted his eyes from his datapad and rose from the plush armchair, luxurious and comfortable.
"Moff Ferrus," the Commercial Director of Signus Spaceworks greeted his old acquaintance, beaming with an utterly insincere warmth. "Finally escaped your backwater?"
"Yes," the governor of the Morshdine Sector said dryly. "I managed."
"Undoubtedly, like the rulers of the other Imperial Remnants, you're interested in our products?" the Signus man inquired with a haughty smile.
"I don't think talking in the waiting room is the best venue for business negotiations," Ferrus said.
"Of course, of course," the other man chuckled, touching his access card to the identification panel beside an old-fashioned double wooden door adorned with precious inlay. A relic of former grandeur and wealthy clients from the Galactic Empire. "If you've got the credits, why not?"
A distinct click of the lock sounded, and the Moff silently pulled the handles toward himself. The doors didn't budge.
"The other way," the shipbuilding company representative snickered.
Letting the barb slide past his ears, Felix slipped inside the lavishly furnished office, past the overly cheerful host.
"Can I get you anything?" cooed an overly glossy, heavily made-up, and thoroughly worn-looking secretary. The entire time Ferrus had spent in the waiting room, she had silently ignored his presence as if the Moff were invisible. Now that the Empire was far from the primary — let alone sole — client of Signus Spaceworks, the locals could afford this kind of arrogance. They were the ones running the show now. And they set the pricing principles for their products, which had become available to the civilian market after the Galactic Empire's collapse.
"That won't be necessary," the executive director said. "The Moff won't be long, and I've already had a good breakfast."
Slamming the door behind him, the man, still wearing that haughty smile, walked across the entire office, humming something under his breath and clearly enjoying the fact that Ferrus felt somewhat uncomfortable surrounded by large-scale models of warships and technology produced by the company. Not to mention the interior made of expensive natural wood. Or perhaps he thought the enormous rare-animal-wool carpet covering the entire office floor made the Moff uneasy?
Settling into a luxurious leather chair, the Commercial Director ran his fingers over the keyboard embedded in the desktop. A low hum sounded, seeming to come from literally every direction, from every wall.
"Security precautions," the Signus man explained, his smug grin vanishing. "Ferrus, you really shouldn't have come here in person. Signus is still doing small-scale deliveries to the Remnants, but half the people here remember how the Empire helped poach our best engineers and shipbuilders for Sienar. And you're not strong enough anymore to make us toe the line."
"I wasn't exactly expecting a warm welcome," Felix snorted. "So why didn't you blow my cruiser to pieces the moment I came out of hyperspace?"
"Because no one fully believes the rumors that you're no longer running errands for the Ubiqtorate," the Commercial Director said through clenched teeth. "You know the saying: 'Once you've sold out to Intelligence, your ass is theirs forever'?"
"Those times are past worrying about," the Moff said coldly. "And I didn't exactly have much choice about which sector to govern."
"That's not what I hear," the director smirked. "Word is you groped some Ubiqtorate girl there..."
"Let's get down to business, shall we?" Ferrus suggested. His interlocutor acknowledged that with a mocking snort.
"Did they allocate you some credits?" he asked. "What good masters you have..."
"You know, sometimes I start to wonder if we're still old friends," Felix said, leaning back in his chair.
"Actually, you stole my girlfriend," the office's owner reminded him. "And after that, you talk about friendship?"
"You know perfectly well she jumped into my bed only because she caught you in her best friend's bed," the Moff shot back.
"She wasn't really that close a friend," the Signus man winced. "And definitely not her best..."
"Shall we get to business?" Ferrus offered.
"You've gotten so boring in your Morshdine," the Commercial Director sighed sorrowfully. "Spill it. What do you need?"
"A lot of things," Felix broke into a wide smile as he saw the greedy gleam light up in the eyes of his former Imperial Academy classmate. "Depends on what you have in stock and what you're willing to produce for us."
"You're a tease, you devil," his old classmate chuckled. "Alright. I won't beat around the bush. Some of our production lines are frozen because no one except the Empire is interested in certain categories of goods."
"Not even the Hutts?" the Moff asked in surprise.
The Signus Star Empire was located on the Octos Route in the Mid Rim. The region consisted of a handful of habitable systems spanning several parsecs. Due to its proximity to Hutt Space, most of the through-hyperspace routes crossing the Star System led directly to the center of the region, controlled by the fat slugs who also happened to be the overlords of the criminal underworld, rejecting the laws of the civilized part of the galaxy. Historians claimed that long ago, this territory belonged to the Hutts, but in time immemorial, it was ceded to some galactic conqueror, who then settled it with humans. Perhaps something like that really did happen here thousands of years ago. But that conqueror had long since been destroyed, his empire torn to pieces, and the population of the Signus Star Empire — deep within which lay the headquarters and production facilities of Signus Spaceworks — continued to honor its glorious past by labeling its technology with letters not from the standard galactic or High Galactic alphabet, but from the old Tionese language. Hence all those archaic-sounding names for the fighters and shuttles produced by the local factories. The Thetas, Lambdas, Alphas...
"They have plenty of ships in their own fleet," the executive director snorted. "They buy a couple of hundred of this or that starship a month, and that's it. Our main wholesale buyers are still you Imperials."
"You once wore the Imperial military uniform too," the Moff reminded him.
"I had enough sense to resign in time and go the commercial route," his former classmate replied. "Otherwise, I might be sitting where you are right now, with some smug upstart draining my blood."
"You have no idea how right you are," the Moff retorted. If he'd known this man held this post, he would have sent one of his secretaries instead. It seemed the old Commercial Director he'd dealt with before had left the position. Not that Felix intended to show his ignorance on that point. "So, tell me what you have for sale."
"Same as always," the Signus man shrugged, handing him a datapad with price lists. "The Lambda-class shuttles and Sentinel-class landing craft are selling well on both civilian and Imperial markets, not to mention the Republic market. The Genon-IV ion engines are doing good business..."
"Those are the ones used on Imperial Star Destroyers?" Ferrus asked, knowing the answer perfectly well. But he preferred to play the long game, wanting to see his opponent's reaction at the end.
"The very same, dear Moff — and just six years ago, that smirk of yours would have been shut with a stormtrooper's fist and shoved right back down your throat." "If you've forgotten, four of them sit on the stern of every Imperial-class as emergency or sublight engines."
"Right between the three big Kuat Drive Yards Destroyer-Is," Ferrus smiled.
"We don't care what the Kuati supply to whom," the Signus man shrugged. "We get our credits — both from selling finished engines and from royalties on previously sold licenses."
"Right, you sold those licenses and production lines across the entire Empire back in the day," Ferrus nodded absently, still scrolling through the price list.
"And what good did it do?" the Commercial Director chuckled. "Now the Empire has only one license like that — at Bilbringi."
"What, the New Republic buys engines from you?" Felix frowned. "They have Destroyers too."
"Well..." the Signus man drawled, "one license to produce the Genon-IV is still held by Kuat Drive Yards, and they're actively using it. We voided the rest, so the New Republic either buys Genons from Kuat — which gives us hefty royalties — or directly from us, and either way we profit."
"Didn't they continue using the licenses issued to the Imperials?" Felix asked, stunned.
"That's the surprise," the commercial director said with a broad smile. "After Sienar poached our best employees, we were very careful in drafting our contracts and documents. So when the New Republic seized the production lines that had previously operated under licenses we'd issued to the Empire, our legal department filed a couple hundred lawsuits in their most honest and fair, most just and incorruptible court in the galaxy and asked: 'On what basis, exactly, do you, the New Republic, use equipment and licenses that we issued to the Galactic Empire?'"
"I can just imagine their stunned faces," Felix smiled involuntarily. "And how much did that show cost you?"
"We went through all the courts," the director recounted. "A couple of billion went on bribes, but we squeezed a decent amount of credits out of the New Republic and got back over a dozen production lines for our engines and equipment. A worthwhile investment."
"Can't argue with that," Ferrus agreed. "I see the Nemeses are still unclaimed?"
"Would you buy a ship for four and a half million with a pair of launchers and one gun?" the Signus man asked.
"Which is essentially an oversized fighter?" the Moff shot back. "No, of course not. I have places to spend money."
"When you have it," the commercial director snorted. "But the 4K7 engines are being purchased, notice?"
"The Empire loves and values the Xg-1 'Alpha' assault gunboats," Felix muttered, mentally noting that the company had raised the cost per hull of that model — while the configuration of that small craft hadn't changed at all — even the hyperdrive remained in place. The same 'Signus' HD7, capable of storing up to four sets of hyperspace coordinates. That latter was perhaps the only drawback of the 'assault gunboat'. Now Signus Spaceworks wants one hundred fifty thousand credits per machine, instead of one hundred twenty-five. Considering how effective these small craft are, armed with a pair of laser cannons, a pair of ion cannons, and again — two launchers, it's no wonder you have to pay more now. There aren't that many successful small ship designs in the galaxy that can be armed not only with concussion missiles, proton torpedoes, but also anti-ship missiles and bombs. In other words, the 'Alpha' is a multi-role starfighter that can be handled by a single pilot. And the fact that the manufacturer called it an 'assault gunboat'... Well, some people call corvettes cruisers just because they're comparable in hull length.
Assault gunboat Xg-1.
"They just buy rarely," the Signus man said, half-complaint, half-jab.
"Well, the price is indecently high," Felix said. "The TIE Defender costs..."
"And why do you cling to those outdated Sienar small craft?" the commercial director sighed. "Or doesn't Lianna bleed you dry and turn up its nose enough?"
"Well, it doesn't supply anything," Moff Ferrus reminded. "Contraband..."
"I think we'll soon hear that the valiant defenders of the Empire are piloting some unfinished SoroSuub Corporation projects or someone else's," the Signus man laughed good-naturedly. "'Predator Birds', for example."
"But they were discontinued," the governor of the Morshdaisch sector noted. "As far as I recall, they created production lines, but it never reached industrial volumes."
"That's true," the commercial director confirmed. "Actually, they only produced an experimental batch. And even that, with such difficulty..."
"Yes, I remember," Felix nodded. "SoroSuub Corporation had big problems on both technical and bureaucratic fronts. The Imperial Commission for the Oversight of Weapons Distribution was constantly giving them the runaround, delaying approvals, filing complaints, and so on. In the end, the cost of each machine in the prototype batch came out to almost half a million credits."
"Well, you're exaggerating the price, of course," his former classmate smirked. "They were asking about two hundred thousand. Although according to calculations, a production model should have cost only eighty or ninety thousand. But SoroSuub Corporation themselves missed the opportunity, because they couldn't agree with the Empire on which weapon and targeting systems would be installed. In the end, the project ended up with weak armament — a pair of heavy laser cannons with a range of twenty-five units, and launchers with a range of either seven or ten units. Among the machines on the market, these were some of the most expensive and at the same time the most poorly armed. Perhaps the project could have been saved if the defense forces of Sullust itself had taken interest and ordered a hundred or two of the 'Predator Birds'. But it didn't work out. Honestly, I still don't understand why the Empire doesn't buy the documentation and assembly lines from them and start producing the machines. They could refine it, tweak it where needed — and there you have your own hardware..."
"Which doesn't correspond at all to Imperial weapons programs," Felix objected, examining one of the models in the catalog with interest. "A TIE fighter is just over six meters long, while the 'Predator Bird' is about twenty-five meters from nose to nozzles, with a corresponding wingspan..."
"Well, I offered," the Signus man snorted. "The Sullustans, as I heard, are willing to unload their dead stock for almost a couple million — from blueprints to a complete set of equipment..."
"Are you in on the deal or something?" Felix frowned. "You're advertising it to me so much it's raising suspicions."
"And I'm not hiding it," the interlocutor chuckled. "I'll get a small cut of the deal if it ever goes through."
'Well, well,' the Moff thought. 'You'd have to be pretty desperate to equip yourself with such raw and obviously weak small craft.'
"Why don't you tell me what this new thing is," he turned his personal datapad screen toward the office owner and tapped his finger on the display matrix. "I don't recall Signus Spaceworks producing missile boats."
"Ah, this?" the commercial director glanced at the image from the promotional brochure. "Yes, that was a thing; we did produce it. We don't manufacture it now, because the ship is very, very specific. A missile boat or bot, if you will, the XM-1. By the way, it was developed by our engineers in partnership with some high-ranking Imperial naval officer."
Missile boat XM-1.
"Demetrius Zaarin, is it?" Felix named one of the most prominent Imperial commanders, under whose hand a large number of small craft saw the light of day.
"I don't know for sure, I've only been in this position for a couple of years," the Moff noted that the pretentiousness was slipping from his interlocutor. So he hadn't become too 'corporate' yet. Just trying to keep up appearances. I wonder if he knows that if you wear a mask for too long, it grows onto your face and replaces it? "I did inquire about what it was and its history, wanted to put it up for sale, but no one was interested in the machine. But the story we peddle to potential customers is a real gem. My own invention, by the way," he boasted. "I put it together from rumors I picked up from old employees."
"Well, surprise me," Felix offered, leaning back in his chair. "Just without the inventions, if possible. Tell me what they say there."
"You mentioned the rebel Grand Admiral Demetrius Zaarin," the office owner reminded. "They say this boat was created to fight his TIE Defenders."
"It only has one gun," Moff Ferrus pointed at the reference information. "You'd have a hard time cracking open a TIE fighter with that, let alone a Defender."
"But it has four launchers," the commercial director countered. "That's twenty to twenty-four missiles, whether concussion or anti-ship for small craft. Your beloved Defender can carry at most sixteen. And even then, not the most powerful ones."
"Alright, these are all details," Felix replied. "Continue."
"Long story short, about six months to a year before the Battle of Endor, a strange Imperial admiral dropped by our engineers," the Signus man continued. "Or maybe right after the Battle of Hoth, I don't remember exactly. It doesn't really matter — the main thing is it was almost right after the start of Zaarin's rebellion."
"Why a strange Imperial?"
"Because he was an alien," the Moff's interlocutor practically purred. "Oh, I see your pupils dilated. Our people say that the company management had similar reactions. He looked human, but blue-skinned, with red eyes... In short, someone's mother hooked up with a Duros and nature produced that abomination..."
Felix forced a smile at the joke, hiding his clenched teeth. You should say that to Thrawn's face, you sack of shit.
"He and our engineers took the Xg-1 gunboat as a base and began fulfilling the technical specifications," the story continued. "The alien demanded an effective weapon against the incredibly fast TIE Defenders. He also wanted a small craft for guaranteed destruction of large ships. So, one way or another, the XM-1 came out. Its main armament became missiles and torpedoes, rather than laser or plasma cannons like on other fighters and bombers, as was done by us, by Sienar, and just about everyone except the folks at Incom. The little machine is interesting because it has a sublight accelerator, the so-called PLAE, which allows the boat to accelerate to incredible speed in a few seconds."
"And how high is this speed?" Felix inquired.
"One hundred twenty-two megalights," the office owner watched his guest's face turn into a mask of shock. "What, TIE fighters with their eighty or interceptors with their hundred and ten megalights don't seem so fast now, right?"
"Remind me, what's the speed of the Alpha-class gunboat?"
"Ninety," the Signus man prompted. Ferrus nearly cried out in luck. There it is! The high-speed power plant that is so necessary for the Scimitar project. And more than that — it would be useful on any other small craft too. Strange that Thrawn, when sending him to these negotiations, didn't mention the existence of the missile boat. Was he testing whether the Moff was clever enough to handle secondary tasks besides the main one? Hutt! What luck! He had to get the blueprints for this power plant! At all costs! The main thing was not to let this pompous koo-pa know that there was a concrete interest not only in the gunboats but also in this missile boat. And to make sure Signus Spaceworks management didn't realize they had such an auridium vein under their noses! "Yes, the TIE Defender has one hundred fifty-five megalights, but the acceleration — 21 megalights per second — is the same for both the missile boat and Zaarin's creation. And the XM-1's missiles are faster and more dangerous."
"If everything were as good as you describe, we would have adopted them," Felix said suspiciously.
"Advantages don't come without problems," the commercial director sighed. "The sublight accelerator is a good thing. However, using this system leads to heavy strain on the power system and almost complete loss of maneuverability while the accelerator is active. But temporary loss of maneuverability isn't dangerous, because even a missile can't catch a ship at maximum speed. In combat conditions, this system significantly eased pilots' lives when approaching the target ship, passing through its fighter screen, launching missiles, and subsequently withdrawing. The PLAE allowed them to avoid most of the losses that bombers suffered precisely when approaching the target — from the ship's longer-range guns and from fighter fire that could completely disrupt the attack."
"I asked you to skip the advertising lines," Felix realized that his interlocutor's speech was starting to sound like an attempt to push stale goods.
"Occupational hazard," the other waved his hand. "All in all, as far as we know, the gun on this little thing never really fired properly. Just a last-resort weapon, like ramming. As far as I remember, in the first battles they managed to greatly surprise Zaarin's pilots, and when we also installed a tractor beam projector on them, like on the Defenders, it got even more 'fun' for the rebels. Sienar even sent a couple of spies to us, because the little boat could seriously damage the reputation of the TIE Defenders and TIE Avengers. Our security service even caught a few rebels who now call themselves the New Republic. It turned out rumors had reached them too — and they started seriously worrying that their fast interceptors — the RZ-1 A-Wings — could very quickly turn into scrap metal. We have a couple of promotional recordings with the ace Marek Stele, showing him smashing the enemy to pieces..."
"Marek Stele?" Felix repeated. "I think I remember... An ace pilot with more awards than half the Moffs?"
"Jealous, huh?" the Signus man giggled.
"Not really," the Moff admitted honestly. "I love my desk job. It gives me everything I want..."
"Is that why you flew to the Signus Stellar Empire on the Neutron Star? Couldn't find a better relic?"
'This "relic," after rearmament, can hit a heavy cruiser as hard as a Star Destroyer,' the Moff mentally reassured himself. His interlocutor couldn't know that the cruiser also now had an air wing comparable to that on an Imperial-class. Nor about the partial replacement of artillery from light laser cannons to turbolasers. Nick Reyes had worked hard to make the Moff's flagship a proper cruiser, not the piece of junk that Rendili StarDrives launched from their slips. True, it had cost nearly all of Felix's savings accumulated over years of service...
"It seems like not a bad ship," the Moff said doubtfully. "Is poor maneuverability its only drawback?"
"And also the absence of the usual twin laser cannons," the company representative reminded. "But there are lots of missiles, excellent acceleration, which is important for fast strikes and withdrawals from combat zones. Well... As an old friend, I'll tell you that not every rookie from the academy can handle the controls. Only ace pilots tested the prototypes. And they were flown by anything but fresh graduates."
"You're holding something back," Felix said with certainty. "The drawbacks you named are a reason to use these ships by giving them to the best of the best, as they do in the Imperial Remnants with rare TIE-series hardware."
"Well, some of the Remnants did buy these boats," the Signus man admitted. "Two to five squadrons total were assembled and sold. But no one else ever inquired. Neither for maintenance nor for new purchases... So it's dead stock, and they can be flown not just by aces, but by top-class pilots like Stele or Baron Fel. Though the latter would rise from the grave before he traded his beloved TIE fighter."
"Maybe, maybe," Felix said in a singsong voice. "Is that all you can offer?"
"Isn't that enough?" the commercial director asked in surprise. "I showed you the most popular models. However, if you want, you can also admire the Lambdas and Sentinels. The Imperials mostly take those. They've even started refusing the Alphas — too expensive for them, you see, and Imperial pilots aren't used to handling missiles. Though I think," the man smirked, "Imperial pilots are scared by the very sight of a fighter with normal wings instead of solar panels."
"To each their own fetishes," the Moff replied diplomatically. After a few seconds of silence, he inquired: "So, you intend to shut down production of the Alphas?"
"We shut it down two months ago," his former classmate's face darkened. "We have about fifteen hundred of them sitting in warehouses as dead stock — the previous director produced them in the tens of thousands as a reserve after Endor. He thought that after Lianna's independence trick, the Imperial Remnants would rush to buy machines from us. That cost a huge credit load — we nearly went under. So we had to go to the civilian market with our hardware to somehow stay afloat."
"So that's why you started suing the New Republic?" Felix realized. The man sitting opposite remained silent, but a spark of resentment appeared in his eyes. So it was a defeat. That's where all the bravado came from — Signus Spaceworks wasn't doing so well after all.
"You know, I can actually help you," Felix said.
"I wonder how?" the commercial director smirked. "There's never been credits in your sector. Or did the masters from the Ubiqtorate chip in some coins?"
"They say," Felix said, casually tossing a credit chip with a large number of zeros on its indicator panel in front of his former classmate, "that if you don't be rude to customers, they'll leave a lot of their money in your grimy office."
"Don't confuse branded service with pandering," the commercial director frowned. He quickly checked the chip to see if it really contained the required amount and wasn't a fake, then nervously swallowed. "So what were you saying about help?"
"Like the number on the chip?" he asked his pale comrade.
"One and a half billion Republic credits," the other swallowed again. "Who wouldn't like that?"
"For example, someone who doesn't want to sell his old friend his closed production lines," Moff Ferrus smiled, leaning back in his chair and throwing his polished boots onto the office owner's desk, showing him the carved tread on the soles. "You said you have a dozen complete-cycle production lines for Genon-IV engines, you finished producing the Alphas, and you've discontinued the missile boats altogether?"
"Yes," the company representative's eyes glinted with greed. As in all large firms, management took a big profit percentage from the deal.
"Or should I go to SoroSuub Corporation and beg for their Predator Birds?" Felix mused, examining the stucco molding in the office.
"Why do you want that crap?" the interested face twisted. "The Predator Birds are in service with three major pirate gangs. Want your sector to be associated with pirates?"
"But you'd get a percentage from the Predator Bird deal," Ferrus squinted.
"From deals at Signus Spaceworks too," his old pal reminded him.
"So we can help each other," the Moff declared, openly enjoying the role reversal. "And I hope for quality products and big discounts."
"I can't promise the latter," the interlocutor quickly interjected. "Of course, if you also take our products in bulk..."
"I'll take all the Xg-1s you have in stock," Felix said. The commercial director's eyes widened in anticipation of profit. Naturally... "But I'll only take them at a price of one hundred thousand per machine."
"They cost one hundred fifty," the objection sounded somehow quite pathetic.
"Yes, and it's also non-liquid stock," Moff Ferrus smiled. "I don't need to remind you that these machines need maintenance, storage, and so on... Not to mention they've been gathering dust for ages and could have deteriorated... So first, I want your specialists to check them and put them in order. I need full fuel tanks, working systems, and three combat loads per small craft."
"That will be a bit expensive..."
"To the Empire, you supplied each machine with a tenfold load at a price of one hundred twenty-five thousand per unit," the Moff sharply cut off his interlocutor. "So I advise you not to forget that I came here with money. And I can leave."
"Alright," from the slight smile on his interlocutor's face, Felix understood that he was pleased with the results. Well, of course — to unload stale goods on the spot and earn about one hundred fifty million credits from it. "Anything else? Shuttles, landing craft?"
"About that later," Felix waved his hand carelessly. "Ah, friendship, friendship... How could one not help a comrade, right? How many production lines for assault gunboats do you still have?"
"Complete cycle?" he specified, and received an affirmative answer. "One. That was the only one we had after the second was repurposed for missile boats. Converting it back is expensive, so they're hanging as dead stock — starting it up is costly, converting even more so."
"Let's continue," the Moff said as if nothing had happened. His interlocutor squinted. "I'm ready to relieve you of the need to embarrass yourselves in front of customers by telling them about your wonderful missile boat and assault gunboat, showing them in your brochures. No one buys them anyway, right? I'll take the complete-cycle production lines, technical documentation, and the general license to produce these machines and all their components."
"That will be expensive," his former friend tried to inflate the price again, already lovingly stroking the credit chip.
"Not more expensive than the purchase of fifteen hundred Xg-1s, which we just discussed," Felix set a limit price.
"So, four hundred fifty million?" the office owner looked at him questioningly.
"Three hundred," Felix corrected. "I'm taking both lines and all related materials for one hundred fifty million."
"At the cost of scrap metal, they would come out more expensive!" the man opposite the Moff flared up.
"Well, then scrap them," Felix suggested. "Oh, right... Whatever you do with them, it costs more. A paradox, isn't it? There's no need to use them, and it's a pity to dismantle them — what if someone decides to buy? And it's also unreasonable to refuse a profitable deal — because nobody needs these gunboats for free."
"But you need them," the commercial director pouted.
"Only because you're my friend," Felix smiled. "And I hope that good partnership relations will be established between me and your company. Now — and in the future."
"So you're buying production lines from us to assemble the equipment yourself instead of buying the finished product?" the speaker asked with sarcasm. But from his words and demeanor, Felix had already realized he'd won. Signus Spaceworks needed money — preferably in the currency they dealt with most, which meant New Republic credits. Thrawn had no use for that kind of money — not in such volumes, anyway. But spending it to acquire genuinely necessary technological lines was a perfectly reasonable expense. Especially since a chance like this might never come again.
"Even so, my friend, let me tell you that a third of the machines I've bought from you would be enough for me," Felix assured him. "I'm taking the rest — and the technology — solely so that you and your management know who helped you in your time of need."
"Right, like I'd forget that," the speaker chuckled. "So I take it you'll next ask to buy the Genon-IV ion engine production line?"
"Same as the previous two — with a general license," Ferrus replied, still smiling good-naturedly and without any pretense.
"So you don't want to pay us royalties?" the commercial director squinted.
"I've read your contract," Felix sighed. "A percentage for each engine, quarterly royalties, semi-annual royalties... Considering I just need a backup for engine repairs on a couple of Star Destroyers, I don't particularly want to keep shelling out millions to you every two and a half months, five months, seven and a half months, and at year-end... Especially when I'd produce maybe one or two engines a year, if that."
"Which you could also buy from us," the director pressed on.
"And drag them through the Borderlands?" Ferrus snorted. "No, thanks. I don't fancy being pulled out of hyperspace by the Republicans and asked where such valuable technology — which they could also use — is headed. No, dear friend, I'd rather sit quietly in my sector, plug financial holes, and know I won't have to haul rare, bulky equipment across hundreds of sectors and a couple of front lines. Besides, you definitely have one or two production lines for those engines sitting idle — the number of Star Destroyers is dropping every day. Soon there won't be any left, so again, I'm helping you get rid of dead stock that..."
"Seven hundred million," the commercial director said flatly. "And not a credit less!"
"So you want a billion from me..." Felix said thoughtfully. "That's a lot..."
"You could just buy the gunboat and missile boat assembly lines," the speaker suggested. "And you can have the engines delivered through the Hutts — the New Republic doesn't want to, or rather, is afraid to tangle with them. That's what almost all the Imperial Remnants do. The Ciutric Hegemony, Pentastar Alignment..."
"Without the Genon-IV production line, the rest are worthless to me," Felix declared. "Like I said, this big purchase is a symbol of cooperation, not a desire to throw money around. If you won't sell me the Genon-IV lines, I'd rather keep a dozen medium cruisers and shuttle them to the Antimeridian sector for servicing and repair at Loronar Corporation's slipways."
"But you have your own shipyard," the commercial director recalled.
"Not anymore," Felix grimaced, hoping his bluff wouldn't be noticed. Soon the masking fields would be tested and the station would vanish entirely from view. "It broke apart during orbital maneuvering. A couple of sections survived — that's all my wealth. Patch the hull holes, dismantle the damaged units. And you know..." he "brightened" with an idea. "I'll spend that billion with you. But on top of everything we've discussed — general licenses, full documentation, full-cycle production lines for the gunboat, missile boat, and ion engines, plus fifteen hundred gunboats — you'll throw in a hundred Lambdas or Sentries, right?"
"You sound like you're gearing up to arm an army," the commercial director said suspiciously.
No, we just have a lot of junk from the Clone Wars that needs repairing, and the stocks of Imperial equipment — shuttles and landers — have run out, Ferrus thought.
"You can't really fight with Lambdas and Sentries," he said. "But you can use them as passenger and cargo ships for internal transport between planets in a sector. Regular charter or scheduled routes..."
The man sitting across the armchair hesitated for a very long time. So long that Felix reached for the credit chip to take it back.
But the commercial director's swift hand shot forward and snatched the payment device.
"Deal," he said. "I need a couple of days to push this through the board of directors, but I don't think there'll be major problems. Everyone loves money, but not everyone loves cluttered hulls and warehouses that could be filled with shuttles and landers — which sell like hotcakes for us. But keep this in mind: if I need help, you'll owe me."
"Whatever you say," Felix nodded in agreement. "On one condition."
"They'll definitely fire me," the commercial director complained. "What now? A production line for Lambdas?"
"Why would I want those when I can buy everything I need from you?" Moff Ferrus asked in surprise. "Just a wild thought. Do you happen to have employees who know how to operate this equipment? Qualified personnel have been hard to find lately."
"No, with that you can go to a Hutt," the man cursed. "What, are you planning to open our branch in Morshdine without our knowledge but with our people and technology?"
"I assure you, my friend," Felix smiled. "It never crossed my mind to set up a competitor to your company in my sector."
"Well, that's that then," the commercial director said, still eyeing him suspiciously. "Need workers? Fly to the Hutts. For the five hundred million Republic credits you have left, they'll sell you a couple dozen thousand high-class slaves, maybe even more..."
"An idea!" Moff Ferrus smiled with restraint.
But mentally he scolded himself. Of course! Slaves! The cheapest labor force, held captive, dreaming of a better life. Give them freedom and a job with a fair wage — and the problem of the civilian specialist shortage, who'd be working on the purchased equipment, would be solved.
No, really, how inert is Imperial thinking? Forgetting about the slave markets in Hutt Space... Well, you'd have to really try to do that.
Ah... I should've come up with another story and tried to buy two Genon-IV ion engine production lines. Thrawn doesn't plan to place them in the Morshdine sector anyway...
I wonder if my former classmate knows that, with a certain twist of imagination and intellect — undoubtedly expensive modifications through reverse engineering and available working samples — the Genon-IV production lines can produce not-quite-legal, slightly worse quality, but still the main engines of the entire Imperial fleet, the Destroyer-I?
Or did shipwright Ryan Zion pick up that innovation at the Yaga Minor shipyards and hadn't managed to blab it to everyone around?
* * *
After Rukh finished speaking, a stifling silence descended on my quarters.
The former bodyguard sat relaxed across the table from me, next to Pellaeon, who was thoughtfully chewing his gray mustache. Grodin Tierce stood, as usual, like a red-and-black mountain behind and to my right.
Thoughts swarmed like a disturbed beehive. The oppressive silence grew, feeding the dormant tension among the interested parties.
"It's the New Republic," I said, just to break the atmosphere.
"Any smuggler in the galaxy can use a converted civilian ship," Pellaeon remarked casually.
"Without a doubt," I agreed. "However, of all factions that know about Honoghr's existence, the Empire wouldn't waste time gathering intelligence — they'd send a punitive fleet to subject Honoghr to orbital bombardment. The Consortium would act similarly if they wanted to punish the Noghri. But they have a more pragmatic view, so they'd land troops, capture however many Noghri they needed, and leave quickly. Long-term reconnaissance followed by a strike isn't a criminal's trait. It simply doesn't fit their psychology, which is based on pulling off their plan and getting out fast before retribution catches up. Our forces left Honoghr and won't return without my order — and I gave no such order. That leaves the New Republic."
"But how did they learn Honoghr's location, Grand Admiral?" Rukh asked. "Even in your fleet, few know where my homeworld is. And practically all the high-ranking Imperial officers who possessed that information in the past are now dead."
"Not all," I countered, looking at the bodyguard. He shifted uncomfortably and nodded:
"Emperor Palpatine."
"We've already discovered his agents," I said. "Given that Palpatine, for his own reasons, still hasn't come out of the shadows, he's acting covertly. They have no information that the Noghri don't intend to support the New Republic, so Palpatine's agents plan to strike preemptively using someone else's hands. The New Republic, which desperately needs new victories to maintain its reputation and justify the string of defeats they've suffered, is perfect for this purpose."
"I can't imagine Republicans cooperating with Palpatine's agents," Gilad grumbled.
"Don't talk nonsense, Captain," I winced. "Undoubtedly, the latter are using the former as dupes. Otherwise, our group on Coruscant would already know about the First Fleet of the New Republic moving in the Core Worlds and their readiness to strike planets in the Deep Core. Under no circumstances would the New Republic government openly cooperate with Palpatine or the Empire. If that happened, the New Republic would lose its influence and credibility as fighters against the tyranny of the New Order."
"But Solo cooperated with Admiral Rogriss to destroy Warlord Zsinj," Pellaeon insisted. "That's common knowledge..."
."..an isolated incident," I finished. "Both the Remnants and the New Republic disavow it. The subsequent infighting over Zsinj's territory after his 'death' is always used by Coruscant as proof that no such alliance existed. You're thinking about the wrong things, Captain."
"I'm trying to assess the potential threat to us," Gilad explained his line of reasoning.
"To us?" I repeated, looking pointedly at the captain of my flagship Star Destroyer.
"Um... didn't we receive a request for help from the Noghri?" Pellaeon hesitated.
"Far from it, Captain," I shook my head, shifting my gaze to the uneasy Rukh. "Our esteemed friend's account contained not a single hint that his visit to me and his request for help were sanctioned by the Noghri clan matriarchs. This is a private initiative."
The bodyguard was silent for a moment, then straightened in his chair. The unease vanished from his posture as if it had never been there.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn is correct, Captain Pellaeon," Rukh said. "I am not authorized to speak on behalf of the Noghri people. I left Honoghr a few days before my blade-brother reported the scout's discovery. The matriarchs believe it was a lost ship and are confident that no danger will follow its disappearance. But some clans, including mine, suspect an invasion is coming. So I decided to continue my journey and find you."
"Brilliant," Pellaeon shook his head. "So we know Honoghr might be attacked, but we can't enter the system because we weren't invited. And I'd rather not deal with deeply offended Noghri. It was bad enough Rukh kept scaring me with his sudden appearances aboard my own Destroyer..."
"What goal were you pursuing, Rukh?" I asked, looking the Noghri in the eye.
The gray-skinned humanoid didn't look away, then said quietly:
"I hoped you would help my people, as you promised, Grand Admiral."
"That wasn't the question," I noted. "For what purpose did you originally leave Honoghr?"
The Noghri blinked several times without breaking eye contact...
"I intended to join you, Grand Admiral," he said. "You have many enemies, few friends, and you helped the Noghri clans by revealing the truth to them. Not all matriarchs are as blind as those who chose to disregard your warnings and hope the old Imperial base will help us repel any attack. There are also clans that are grateful to you and would like to continue serving. Not the Empire — you. But they are bound by ancient laws..."
"You know that any Noghri who goes against the matriarchs' will becomes an outcast, a traitor?" I clarified. "And a lawful target for the other Death Commandos."
"I know," Rukh said hollowly. "But I also know you are capable of stopping Palpatine and the vengeance he will bring down on Honoghr. The least I can do is protect your life until you free Honoghr from the threat of annihilation. As it happens, I was able to bring you news of the disaster about to befall my people."
Well, well... I wonder if the Noghri and Tierce bother each other with their mutual desire to perform the same duties? Just idle curiosity. Far more interesting is what my former bodyguard has done... and the events that followed.
"You acted bravely, Rukh," I assessed. "To turn away from your clan, go against the matriarchs' will for what you believe is right... I repeat — I am glad you have returned. And I value your faith in me. You may go to your quarters — Captain Pellaeon will arrange for your old cabin to be reassigned, if you wish to return to it."
"I would be glad, Grand Admiral," the Noghri said. "But I must know: do you intend to help Honoghr avoid being destroyed again? We have only just begun clearing the fields of kholm grass... Any war would simply annihilate our world entirely."
Once again, a staring contest. The hope radiating from Rukh clashed with my plans for the upcoming battle in the Linuri system... Meanwhile, my mind continued analyzing the situation and searching for a solution...
"Captain Pellaeon," I said, still holding the Noghri's gaze. "Contact our Destroyers. Recall them from their current missions. Designate a rendezvous point in the Kessel sector."
"Sir?" Gilad's eyes widened. "What about the trap at Linuri?"
"War is an endeavor where, to save one's allies, one must sometimes adjust one's own plans," I said. "Our trap at Linuri is set. It will spring even without our involvement, though less effectively."
Pellaeon was silent for a moment, then nodded affirmatively.
"I am grateful to you, Grand Admiral," the bodyguard said. "I hope the people of Honoghr will be able to repay you in kind."
In the dim light of the quarters, the metal of a blade flashed, impossibly appearing in the Noghri's hand...
I felt my chair — not bolted to the floor — jerk backward, and a red-and-black figure filled my vision, its vibro-pike pressed against the former bodyguard's throat.
"Stand down!" I barked, stepping out from behind the Imperial Guard, mentally cursing myself for not anticipating this turn of events. Goddammit, Tierce, you idiot, you ruined everything!
Emerging from behind the guard's imposing bulk, I followed the direction of his weapon, clutched in his right hand. The blaster in his left palm was aimed straight at the Noghri's forehead, who stared unblinkingly at the opaque visor of the crimson helmet. On the table before the assassin-bodyguard-saboteur lay one of his throwing knives. Interesting, where did that come from, considering Tierce searched the Noghri before he met me? But if one knife could be overlooked, then...
"What the hell is going on here!" Pellaeon howled, jerking up from his seat and stepping back a couple of paces, his eyes fixed on the Noghri, who was bent at an impossible angle, holding the vibroblade blade between two crossed knives in his right hand, diverting it from his neck. In his left hand, he held a small slugthrower, aimed precisely at the gap between the guard's chest plates. "This is a Star Destroyer, not a traveling circus!"
A circus... couldn't have said it better. An Imperial Guard versus a Noghri... Should I order them to fight to the death, so they stop wasting time with unfounded suspicions about each other? Then we'd see who's better.
Whoa, stop! Lock that thought! Tierce's interrogation on Tangrene! That's where this stems from!
"Easy, Captain," I ordered, not taking my eyes off the spectacle. "Both of you — put your weapons on the table!"
I initially wanted to call them by name, but realized in time that no matter what order I gave — guard first, Noghri second, or vice versa — one of these proud, professional operatives would feel slighted because I chose that particular address. I had to find a diplomatic solution that satisfied both.
"Sir, should I call a squad of stormtroopers to separate them into different cells?" Pellaeon asked cautiously.
"Unnecessary, Captain," I said, watching as the Noghri and Tierce, not looking away from each other, slowly placed their killing tools on the table — the ones they'd intended to threaten each other with. "Well, since you've finished competing in personal effectiveness, gentlemen, you are now at Captain Pellaeon's disposal. He will find the dirtiest compartment aboard the Chimaera for you both to clean together."
"Grand Admiral?" Gilad grew wary. The armed pair kept boring holes in each other with their eyes... "The dirtiest? Only the garbage compactor where you told Kaine we supposedly have a molecular furnace."
"You see, Captain, we just witnessed a rather interesting tableau," I explained. "Rukh demonstrated that he had a knife on him, which he brought to the meeting to attest to his return to service," the Noghri nodded. "Major Tierce, seeing the weapon, acted preemptively with the intention of killing someone who, as he would claim, had made an attempt on my life. Rukh expected his attack, so he blocked the weapon with his own blades. The Guard realized this, drew his blaster, and the Noghri responded in kind. Neither could kill the other without dying himself. The result was a stalemate, which we had the pleasure of observing."
"In that case, I'm sure they'll both get a clear demonstration of our attitude toward such antics," the Star Destroyer captain forced out angrily. "They shouldn't be sent for re-education; they should be hung from the Chimaera's antenna."
"Under other circumstances, I would agree with you, Captain," I nodded. "But here's the rub. Neither of them intended to kill the other. Or me, or you, for that matter."
"Uh..." Pellaeon said. "Then I don't understand at all."
"It's simple, Captain," I assured him. "Major Tierce knows enough about the Noghri people and their customs. It would be foolish to assume an Imperial Guard wouldn't possess that information. And Rukh knows that too. His smuggling the weapon past Tierce's search was merely an attempt to demonstrate the latter's incompetence in guarding me. Tierce understood this and allowed the Noghri to bring the weapon to make him prove otherwise. Rukh laid down the knife to demonstrate his loyalty by Noghri law, and Tierce decided to demonstrate his promised superiority over the Death Commando."
"And the result is that they're evenly matched," Pellaeon snorted. "Grand Admiral, I never would have guessed."
Neither would I, if I hadn't recalled the major's arrogant smirk during his interrogation, flashed through my mind. And the Noghri's knives as part of the oath-of-loyalty ritual — I just guessed, given those gray-skinned guys' passion for that type of melee weapon.
"Still, I suggest hanging both," Pellaeon grumbled.
"By all means," I promised, not taking my eyes off the two contestants in the special olympics for the insane. "Next time they put their personal professional pride above their professional duties, I authorize you to hang them from the Chimaera's antenna without even informing me, Captain."
Rukh and Tierce, breaking their mutual stare, turned their heads toward me.
"That garbage compactor won't clean itself, gentlemen bodyguards," I said calmly.
"As you wish, Grand Admiral," Rukh said in a steady voice.
"The order will be carried out, Grand Admiral," Tierce's bass rumbled from under his helmet.
The weapons vanished from the table and returned to their owners' bodies as they headed for the exit of my quarters. Despite the air in the compartment crackling with danger, I had no doubt that soon the garbage compactor would shine like the polished hull of a Royal House of Naboo starship.
"If the other Noghri thank us for protection in the same way, I have no desire to fly to that system and fight for them," Pellaeon grumbled, straightening his tunic.
"You weren't listening carefully, Captain," I stated, returning my chair to its place and sitting down. "Rukh came to us with a request for help."
"Yes, it's his personal initiative that could backfire on us if the matriarchs decide they didn't need our help," Pellaeon declared.
"The decision to return to my service is a personal one made by Rukh," I said, starting up the computer's processor. "It turned him into an outcast and a traitor in the eyes of his own people. No bonds of friendship could override this immutable rule. I find it easier to believe they'd have sent death commandos after him than helped establish contact at a perfectly functional level. But the report of a scout's arrival in the system and the traitor being informed through his friend in his home clan — that was the matriarchs' initiative."
"But you said..." Pellaeon stubbornly insisted.
"We maintain the illusion that we are unaware, Captain," I explained, watching as the computer system idled, awaiting the upcoming work. "A few clans, or perhaps all of them — the Noghri decided to test my promise to come to Honoghr's aid when needed."
"Does that mean the Noghri are ready to return to service?" Pellaeon clarified.
"It means we've been given a chance to prove ourselves, Captain," I clarified. "And we won't miss it. We may not get another opportunity to bring the Noghri back into the fold. In the current circumstances, I simply cannot afford to discard potential allies."
"Yes, sir," the commander of the Chimaera nodded affirmatively. "And will there be further orders regarding that 'sweet' pair?"
"Of course, Captain," I confirmed. "Either they learn to work together as bodyguards, or they're of no use to me. Make sure they have plenty of work until we rendezvous with the fleet."
"In other words, more garbage duty?" Pellaeon smiled vengefully.
"As much as possible, Captain," I confirmed, opening the intelligence reports and delving into their study. "If they don't mesh, string them up on the antenna, as you originally wanted. Connect me with General Covell at the Mount Tantiss facility."
"Will do, Grand Admiral," the Chimaera's commander said responsibly, heading out of my quarters.
* * *
Alex, whistling a cheerful tune he'd picked up in a cantina somewhere in Anchorhead or Mos Eisley during his stay on Tatooine, finished welding the laser cannon with a sense of accomplishment and stepped back a few paces to admire his work.
"You do realize that mounting SFS L-s7.2 cannons from a standard TIE Fighter onto a TIE Avenger is a perversion of engineering logic and common sense?" a voice inquired from behind the technician.
"Ah, Tomax," the man turned to his development colleague, who was dressed in a black pilot suit. "You know I don't have the four SFS L-s9.3 cannons the Avengers were originally fitted with, right... So, judging by your scowl, something didn't go according to plan?"
"The flow stabilizer went out of control," the Scimitar squadron commander said grimly. "I was thrown around like a raging bantha! Good thing the tests weren't in atmosphere, or I'd be collecting the prototype in pieces!"
The man kicked a can of radiator coolant that was under his foot in frustration. The acrid-smelling liquid splashed across the technical hangar. Alex jumped out of the way of the spray at the last moment.
"Is the Scimitar prototype intact?" Alex asked calmly.
"Rescue service guys from Tangrene will deliver it in an hour," the pilot said grimly. "Minus the left wing panel."
"Could have been worse," the technician noted.
"It would have been better if the engine had detonated!" Captain Bren exploded. "Most of the time the Grand Admiral gave me for development is already gone! Now, not only do I have to repair the fuselage, but also tear down half the engine to figure out why it's failing on afterburner!"
"It's not that bad, actually," Alex stated. "If the ship had crashed into the surface..."
"Should I remind you how much time we spent calculating torsion strength?" the bomber pilot ground his teeth. "A week! And that's with the astromech doing almost all the calculations for us! And what about all the other calculations? The Scimitar isn't reaching its design speed! The moment you increase power output, the ion flow regulator synchronization drops and the shaking starts. Overloads are ten times above normal — the wings tear right off!"
"It was only the first test. And we have fourteen days left," Alex reminded him. "They'll deliver the ship, we'll look at the damage fresh, and figure something out..."
"We're not going to make the deadline," Bren's accumulated irritation seemed spent, his voice now light, though with a hint of pain every creator feels when their brainchild fails. "We'll have to rework the entire power group, trace every signal transmission path..."
"I'm the technician, you're the pilot," Alex reminded him. "Don't remind me what tedious work I face every day, okay? I already see those schematics in my dreams."
"Yeah, but you have time to tinker with this junk," Tomax said dismissively, pointing at the crudely restored Avenger that New Republic technicians had patched together, and another identical one beside it.
"Did you think I'd spend five hours watching you zoom around as a spark on the orbit?" Alex wondered. "No, my dear friend. Your dream is to build a bomber better than a TIE. Mine is to tinker with the Avenger and the Defender."
"You know those were created by the traitor Zaarin, right?" Captain Bren grimaced.
"So what if it was Vader himself?" Alex shrugged. "The machine is genuinely interesting, and some of its design solutions are too. If all those features can be ported to standard fighters or interceptors, everyone benefits, right?"
"Fighter and interceptor pilots, maybe," Tomax said gloomily. "But my bomber boys will still be flying slowpokes, exposing themselves to enemy flak. We need to somehow stabilize the power output so the regulators work normally..."
"Hmm..." Alex said thoughtfully. "So the real problem is that a single ion engine can't instantly deliver the afterburner needed for a fast approach and strike, right?"
"That was precisely the idea," Tomax reminded him. "Close in fast, drop bombs, and bug out. But the engine doesn't want to sustain afterburner — instead, it slowly builds up output power in the afterburner chamber, the stabilizers get knocked out, and the ship goes into an uncontrollable spin."
Alex bit his lip thoughtfully. Problem, yeah... The whole point of the Scimitar was speed and protection. A twin ion engine that could sustain afterburner wouldn't fit in this small craft — it simply didn't have enough energy to run it.
"So either we install a standard engine and reduce the missile/bomb load," he said thoughtfully, recalling the options they'd considered during the design phase, "or we reduce fuel volume and thus the reactor's power output..."
"Neither option works," Tomax grimaced. "It loses the point — we get the same TIE Bomber, but in a different configuration."
"I agree, it's a dilemma," the technician shook his head, looking sadly at the dismantled Avengers. "Well, the 'Zaarin exclusives' can wait. Let's go see what's wrong with the Scimitar's engine. There's still time left; we'll find a solution..."