Nine years, seven months, and ten days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, seven months, and ten days after the Great Resynchronization.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised anymore by how little I know about the universe I once thought I loved so much. If I were younger, I'd even be disappointed. But now...
I stared at the hologram of the Kessel Sector floating beneath the ceiling of my quarters, traditionally bathed in dim light. Honestly, I thought there was nothing here but the Kessel system, Honoghr, and the black hole cluster — the Maw — where Admiral Daala was holed up with four Star Destroyers and the brightest minds Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin had ever gathered.
But no... The Kessel Sector was far more interesting than it seemed at first glance.
Fourteen star systems accessible via four regional hyperspace routes, two nebulae — one of which was literally a wandering cloud of ionized gas that moved from one end of the sector to the other, the aforementioned Maw Cluster, and the other covering most of the sector; an asteroid field, not a major threat for experienced pilots but still a regular cause of ships fatally ramming space rocks.
And one planet: Oba Diah, homeworld of the Pyke race, a criminal syndicate dealing in spice. Not for making medical products. Like morphine in my past life, spice could be used as medicine or as a powerful narcotic.
The Chimaera, like the other ships drawn to repel the attack on Honoghr, hung in the interstellar void of the Prishella system. Not the entire fleet, of course, but sufficient force to destroy anything the Republic could throw against me with a single squadron under the current circumstances.
Kessel Sector.
A chime sounded from the entrance. Pellaeon arrived with a report.
"Have the scouts reached their positions?" I asked the commander of the flagship Star Destroyer.
"Yes, sir, Grand Admiral," he reported. "We've secured our rear in the Formos system by sending one Interdictor-class Star Destroyer with medium cruiser escort. Our scouts, under masking screens, are positioned near Honoghr's moons — they're in their gravitational shadow, cloaking fields active, monitoring the situation via probe droids. The Noghri have no orbital surveillance system, so they won't detect the Vipers' passive sensors. Several spy droids are positioned in the Lesser Kessel system. Given the sector's astrography, if the enemy moves toward Honoghr from the Rhand system, they'll have to exit hyperspace in the Lesser Kessel system to correct their course."
"They'll come from exactly there, Captain," I assured him. "You can recall the group from the Formos system. The attack on Linuri and Honoghr carries heavy personal and political motives for the enemy. Time, in the latter case, works against them — the New Republic Senate session is approaching, where Councilor Fey'lya will try to move against the head of the Provisional Government, Mon Mothma, to remove her from the picture."
"Bothans..." Pellaeon grimaced. "Now there's a group I'd love to give a 'Base Delta Zero' to, without a single nightmare about it."
"Hatred of Bothans for their business practices — where only they come out ahead — irritates many species in the galaxy," I noted. "You could even say that for some races — both human and kindred spirits, as well as xenos — permanently hating the natives of Bothawui is a national sport."
"As if that's a bad thing," Pellaeon grumbled. "Back in the Old Republic days, when I was at the Academy, there was a saying: 'If you're not sure who's causing your problems, punch the nearest Bothan in the face. Even if he's not guilty of your specific problems, there's a very good chance he's already bled a hundred other beings dry in his lifetime, and he definitely won't be asking 'What did I do?''"
Suppressing a smile at Gilad's words took considerable effort. Very considerable effort.
"Bothans are a mystery wrapped in an enigma," I said neutrally. "Our 'good friend' the Councilor, and concurrently Supreme Commander, Fey'lya, is a clear example. In a crisis, he seized the opportunity to climb as high as possible."
"And he's aiming for the head of either the New Republic or at least the government, isn't he?" the older man inquired.
"Exactly," I confirmed. "However, under the current circumstances, that's not in our interest."
"Why not?" Pellaeon wondered. "He's an idiot..."
"His military incompetence works in our favor, Captain," I said. "But he cannot be allowed to reach the political summit."
"From my perspective, he could easily tear the New Republic apart by himself," Gilad shrugged. "All we'd have to do is pick up the pieces of those who wanted to break away from Coruscant."
"In the future, Captain," I clarified. "But not now."
"Because of Palpatine?" the Star Destroyer commander grimaced.
"Exactly," I confirmed. "The weaker and more divided the New Republic is, the stronger it will unite against a common enemy. Then we'd face a monolith of thousands of different species, most of which have their own armed forces comparable to ours. That cannot be allowed. We will weaken the New Republic so that Palpatine and his minions can sweep through it with a punishing sword, igniting fires of discontent in the sectors against the current government that failed to protect its subjects as promised."
"Only if Palpatine actually dies," Pellaeon shuddered. "And if he doesn't?"
Good question. What if Mr. Skywalker and his sister don't play on the field I need and fail to destroy the Resurrected Emperor? What if the New Republic proves too weak? After all, I intend to deprive it of several 'trump cards' in the coming confrontation...
"Until the analysts finish evaluating the presumed forces under Palpatine's command, the plan remains unchanged," I said firmly.
"I fear the New Republic might not cope if the Imperial Remnants rally under Palpatine's banner," the man lamented. "The New Republic fleet is old, and as we've already seen, not strong enough to withstand coordinated action. It might happen that they fall completely, and Palpatine seizes the galaxy again."
Yes, I fear that too. I fear it to death.
"We will observe everything that happens, Captain," I said, hoping the words sounded confident. "If necessary, we will intervene."
"If only we knew who would be an obstacle and who would support us," Pellaeon started grumbling. "The Chimaera has thirty-seven thousand fleet specialists alone, a legion of stormtroopers... I'm confident in those forces — they will follow you, sir. Even against Palpatine. But the rest of the fleet's ships..."
"We have plenty of time to find out," I cut him off. I couldn't allow despondency to take hold. "Any news from Moff Ferrus?"
"Yes, sir," judging by his changed expression, Gilad was glad to change the subject. "Production lines for assault gunboats, Genon-IV ion engines have been acquired. A large batch of the gunboats themselves, shuttles, and assault transports have been purchased. This will keep us supplied in small craft for a long time. At least until the captured equipment from the military depot is repaired. But in combat application, sir..."
"I am fully aware that most of the equipment we received from base RZ7-6113-23 is inferior to our existing Imperial gear, Captain," I said. "But thank you for the reminder. In our situation, we have to use whatever we have."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon nodded.
"Is there anything else?" the Captain and I had been 'acquainted' for a long time; he was a straightforward man, so his expression spoke volumes.
"Yes, sir," he nodded. "The Moff also reports that he bought general licenses for all the production lines... And also acquired everything necessary to produce missile boats..."
Judging by his cautious look, Gilad was waiting for a response from me that would convince him I understood what he was hinting at. Another test? Why? I was used to Thrawn's 'skin' and had sufficient control over my behavior, so there shouldn't be any questions. What hint did the mention of missile boats contain? Should I know what that was? Hutt, give me at least a couple of minutes to access the databases and review the Imperial archives. Cygnus Spaceworks, in its public advertising brochure, positioned itself only as a seller of engines, own systems, shuttles, Xg-1 gunboats, and transports. Where would they get missile boats?
The silence was stretching. I needed to say something quickly. Something neutral to lull his suspicion and not let him know I didn't even know what he was talking about. Always two steps ahead, hmm?
"Is that so?" I said in the most indifferent tone possible. "It was assumed they would only offer their 'public' brochure to the Moff."
"From Ferrus's words, I understood the company wasn't doing as well as they wanted to appear," Pellaeon said just as neutrally. "So he seized the chance to acquire exclusive blueprints and production lines, denying other buyers the same opportunity."
And why would Felix do that? He must have found something intriguing and potentially useful in missile boats. But what? Something for the fleet? Or for defending his territories? A boat was supposedly a planet-orbit type ship. But with the same certainty, one could say that Cygnus had overshot by calling the Xg-1 an assault gunboat. It was a heavy fighter, nothing more... So the name might not reflect the essence... Unless 'missile'... Was the ship's armament missile-based? But that was stupid — the Empire never ordered small ships with missile armament for its armed forces... Stop! Hold that thought. The Xg-1 was equipped with launchers. The ship had missiles. So they did order — this ship had previously been standard equipment for a Star Destroyer's air wing. So... Think, think, think...
Let's think logically.
The Sentinel-class landing craft was a further development of the Lambda-class shuttle. The production lines were roughly the same. That was advantageous for the manufacturer — lower costs. So did that mean the missile boat was a development of the gunboat? Or its predecessor?
I needed general phrases that would demonstrate that this was all planned, that they weren't testing me, but I was testing their professional suitability. Always two steps ahead, hmm?
"A wise move," I said in my usual measured tone. "The Moff has proven his foresight. He handled the task as I had hoped. Have you already reviewed the data on the missile boat?"
"In general terms, sir," Pellaeon seemed to relax. "I'm not sure it's not a waste of money. The funds have already been transferred to Cygnus Spaceworks — the deal is done, and now we're expecting a convoy of bulk carriers with the necessary equipment. Directly to Tangrene."
"Elaborate," I looked Pellaeon in the eye.
"Cygnus Spaceworks handles delivery and equipment setup themselves," Gilad said. "That's why Ferrus informed me. First, the freighters will arrive, then the specialists for tuning and calibration — two convoys. A few hours apart."
It was curious that the Moff, effectively my deputy, decided to contact the fleet chief of staff instead of me to inform him of this problem. Direct deliveries to Tangrene were precisely that — a problem. The entire orbit was seeded with invisible asteroids! And there was the repair yard! And about a hundred heavy cruisers hanging in the planet's shadow! If the bulk carriers followed the standard trajectory and exit vector, they were doomed. And our equipment with them.
"This is a test," I said. "Cygnus Spaceworks intends to verify the cover story Moff Ferrus gave them. Specifically, to see with their own eyes what is happening in the Tangrene system. Whether there are ships there as the Moff claimed, whether the yard is damaged... Contact Captain Kalian and the Black Asp crew. Have the entire formation calculate the convoy's approach course and intercept it on behalf of the New Republic."
A buzz started in my temples. My mind was analyzing the situation, finding acceptable courses of action.
"You want Cygnus Spaceworks to believe they were attacked by the New Republic?" Pellaeon clarified.
"That would exactly match the security concerns about cargo transport that Moff Ferrus was supposed to express," I said. "And it would add realism to what happened to Prince-Admiral Krennel's convoy. It will somewhat deflect suspicion from our involvement in that incident."
"In that case, we'll have to place the production lines somewhere outside the Morshdine Sector," Pellaeon noted.
"They were never intended for there," I clarified. Gilad fell silent, then nodded understandingly.
"Then we won't be able to use the Xg-1," the Chimaera's commander said. "Otherwise, everyone will immediately understand what really happened."
"For the first while, we will refrain from deploying the assault gunboats," I agreed. "That will give us time to properly train pilots to operate them. Then we'll introduce them into the fleet in small numbers, conduct a series of operations against the New Republic, and ceremoniously return our own equipment to service. In the required quantity."
"As if we captured it from the enemy," Pellaeon nodded. "But the New Republic will deny any involvement..."
"Undoubtedly," I confirmed. "Because they weren't involved. However, Mon Mothma has already announced that she has two squadrons directly under her command, removed from Fey'lya's authority. Who knows, perhaps there are three squadrons? Or more?"
"That's why you don't want privateers or 'wolf packs' to intercept the convoy!" Pellaeon exclaimed. I nodded affirmatively.
"They would be linked to us sooner or later anyway," it was worth clarifying the essence of the plan. "The longer the enemy lacks proof, the easier it will be to use their suspicions to our advantage."
"In that case, it would be quite fitting to equip the ships of the fake Republic squadron with gunships, since the New Republic would hardly have missed such an opportunity," Pellaeon said thoughtfully. I nodded in confirmation once more. "Besides, we don't have that many captured enemy starfighters to maintain the illusion for very long. After all, some survivor is bound to wonder: 'Why are the Mon Calamari star cruisers and the interdictor cruiser only launching one squadron of X-wings each?'"
"Sound thinking, Captain," I agreed. "Instruct Captain Kalian that the convoy with the equipment must manage to report its distress — including to the ship following them with the specialist technicians. There's no need to keep those who might, one way or another, become our partners in the future, as prisoners."
"It will be done, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "But then how will we replenish our losses in small craft? The Xg-1s could have been an excellent alternative to our TIE bombers for fire support missions..."
"Project 'Scimitar,'" I reminded him. "Captain Bren should be presenting us with the new bomber type shortly. Moff Ferrus acquired the necessary data to improve the project. Contact him and instruct him that all technical data must be transported on his flagship."
"So there's no evidence that we lack the capability to produce these ships in small quantities," Gilad finally caught on. "That's why you said we'd be introducing the Xg-1s in small batches over time!"
"To reinforce the impression that we're creating them using only the technical documentation," I confirmed. "In small series... However. To make the increase in the number of assault gunships in our fleet plausible, we'll need to acquire another production line. We don't particularly need New Republic credits, so they must be spent to gain the necessary advantage. The additional production line, which we allegedly converted, will divert attention from the real one and serve as a reason to allay concerns at Cygnus Spaceworks."
"You're practically reading my mind," Pellaeon grumbled. "Moff Felix reported that during a conversation with the commercial director of Cygnus Spaceworks, he mentioned a closed SoroSuub project: 'raptors.' Only prototypes were built, and the line was shut down as unprofitable since then. The entire experimental batch was bought up by various scum — pirates, smugglers. A couple even ended up with Karrde's friend, Mazzic..."
Something clicked in my head. A very specific and interesting thought had apparently taken hold.
'Raptors.' A closed SoroSuub production line. The machines with pirates...
Wasn't this the same production cycle that, in the events I knew, by a decade after Thrawn's death, was in the hands of a pirate group who supplied them through various channels to the Imperial Remnant of Moff Disra? But for some reason, I think they were called 'birds of prey.' Localization quirks in an unofficial translation? Or is this a different type of machine.
"I need information on this project," I ordered. "As well as the report that Moff Ferrus provided you, since he saw fit not to inform me of it personally."
"Moff contacted me to ask if his assignment at Cygnus Spaceworks was a test from you," Pellaeon grinned. "He reported to me to be on the safe side, to make sure he did everything right, and if not, how displeased you would be with his unauthorized acquisition of missile boats. It is a rather specific machine. But Moff found it strange that you didn't mention it, despite your involvement in its development..."
At that, I nearly blurted out: 'That wasn't me!'
Thrawn developed missile boats? For what? Against whom? When?! It seems I missed a lot by not reading the comics and other supplementary literature tied to the novels and novellas...
"Moff handled the task assigned to him," I said, neither confirming nor denying Pellaeon's last words. It might genuinely be information unknown to me, or it could be another test. "I await the data, Captain. Don't forget to keep me informed of reconnaissance reports."
"Yes, sir, Grand Admiral," Pellaeon said, likely thinking he'd said too much and overstepped with his quip. He quickly stood, walked to my desk, and placed several information chips on it. Then, saluting, he headed for the exit.
"One last thing, Captain," I said, connecting the data carriers to my computer. "Since Moff Ferrus decided it was safer to report to you than to me, let him continue to do so in the future."
"I'll inform him, sir," the commander of the Chimaera nodded.
"You're dismissed," I commanded, igniting my holographic museum of galactic art objects above my head... From the hidden speakers, the soft strains of 'Squid Lake' music flowed...
Having witnessed the fact that Grand Admiral Thrawn had once again 'immersed himself' in the study of other cultures' art, Pellaeon gave a barely perceptible, satisfied nod, and then left my quarters.
Well, from Gilad's face, I could tell that for him, I had definitely passed the test. Not bad at all...
Well then, time to dive into the reports from 'Delta Source'... Time to find out what enemy I'll be fighting for the hearts and lives of the people of Honoghr.
* * *
Pulling his pick from the body of the Republic soldier, Tyberos habitually wiped the weapon on the fallen enemy's clothes.
Glancing at another New Republic soldier falling nearby, the privateer grinned.
"You're not bad with that stick of yours, Vain," he said, addressing the captain of the Black Pearl. The white-haired commander of the star destroyer carrier, chuckling, looked around.
The bridge of the New Republic transport ship, which had been carrying proton torpedoes for the Fourth Fleet stationed on Bothawui, was completely strewn with corpses. The convoy of five CG-75 medium transports, guarded by only one Mon Calamari MC80 star cruiser and three CR90 corvettes, was utterly unprepared for the fact that when they adjusted their course in the Monastery system, they would be ambushed by the Colicoid Swarm, the Black Pearl, and Tyberos's ships.
Another attempt by the Bothans to deliver everything necessary for the Fourth Fleet's prolonged campaign had failed. Grand Admiral Thrawn's intelligence had worked perfectly — the Bothans had hoped to slip under the noses of the fanatics of the Order of the Sacred Circle, who pointedly (even excessively highlighting the fact) remained neutral towards everyone — both the New Republic and the Empire... They disliked pirates, perhaps, but quietly dealt with smugglers.
While the former Separatist Star Destroyers distracted the New Republic ships, the transports bolted — a familiar and often successful tactic. However, blocking their retreat were Tyberos's ships — the Gozanti, the Rabid Ewok, and several large fighters.
Fortunately for them, there were no idiots on four of the transports — any breach of the freighters' hulls or the containers they carried in their underbellies could have resulted in the instant annihilation of not only the Republic starships but also their crew members. So they chose to docilely drift and wait for the privateers to board and explain clearly that cooperation was the best way to prolong their lives and reach a comfortable captivity. A hero is only good when he's alive.
But when he's an idiot...
Well, the crew of the fifth GR75 presented precisely that picture — heroic idiots. The attempt to escape from Tyberos's ships and the Black Pearl, which had come to their aid, turned into a bloody boarding action. Cold steel proved the best option for eliminating resisting Republicans in the narrow corridors of the transport, packed to the brim with weapons, where one blaster shot was a death sentence for everyone.
"Your pokey-sticks aren't bad either," Vain chuckled. "Train long with those pointy bits so you wouldn't poke yourself?"
"Chatty," Tyberos said, breaking into a satisfied smile. "How about we make a deal?"
"About what?" Yazuo was surprised.
"You've got a nice ship," Tyberos said thoughtfully. "Getting tired of it yet?"
"How could one get tired of their own dream?" Vain wondered, watching as Tyberos's subordinates entered the bridge and began hauling out the bodies. Blood, naturally, no one was going to clean up. At least not in this star system. They needed to grab their spoils and get out quick before 'guests' in the form of a couple of New Republic patrols showed up. Cleaning droids would handle everything necessary; there was no point in looking for trouble.
"Like when you can't afford to maintain it properly?" Tyberos practically purred. "Short on crew, owe Thrawn a hefty sum for repairs..."
"This raid will cover all the costs of the last repair," Vain snorted. "There'll even be a decent amount left over, by my estimates."
"And what will you pay for repairing the damage the Black Pearl took in this battle?" Tyberos inquired, watching as the last corpses were dragged from the bridge and his crew members took their places at the monitoring consoles.
"Not that big a deal," Vain observed coolly. "Thrawn will always find a new target — fatter than the last one."
"So you'll be constantly in his debt for credits?" Tyberos chuckled.
"And what's it to you?" Yazuo frowned. "Want to get your hands on my ship?"
"I'm not hiding it," Tyberos admitted openly. "You've got a good ship there. I could use it."
"Is that so?" Yazuo chuckled. "So could I."
"Whatever you say," Tyberos shrugged theatrically. "Ships have a habit of wearing out, getting battered in battle, taking heavy damage... And then they lose their value. Besides, a crew of droids — B-1s, no less, is frankly a bad idea. You just don't need such a big ship. For a good sum of credits or peggats, you could get yourself some perfectly good, modern starships, not this ancient piece..."
His persuasive speech was interrupted by the sound of an incoming comlink call. Vain was about to make a sharp retort, but the privateer, realizing the call was on a non-standard frequency, stepped aside.
"I'm listening," he said with some concern.
"Tyberos, it's Emand," the group's deputy identified himself. "We've got company on vector four-six-zero. Coming in from the far orbit of Monastery, approaching fast."
The privateer captain tensed.
"Identified?" he asked, gesturing orders for his subordinates to secure the transport quickly. Time to get out of here, now.
"Didn't even need to," Emand added grimly. "They're screaming their desire to get to you all over the ether. I've already ordered our boys to start pulling the transports out while the Colicoid Swarm finishes off the Mon Calamari cruiser. But we'll need more time to get this ship out — you really did a number on its engines."
"Don't tell me it's our old friends from Lok paying a visit?" Tyberos's heart skipped a beat... Not now!
"I told you your Force abilities were progressing," the former Jedi Knight chuckled. "Yes, it's them. Their whole fleet. And they really, really want your head and the Devastator. I'm sure they want the first more than the second..."
"Can we get away before they close to firing range?" Tyberos asked quickly.
"Only if we abandon the transport you're on right now," Emand said with a sigh. "I'm thinking we shouldn't do that?"
"Sure about your decision?" Tyberos snapped, inhaling air thick with the smell of blood and its sour taste. His own blood burned with anticipation of the coming battle. "Can the other transports get out without joining the fight?"
"Captain Irv claims he can cover them with fire, but the cruiser and corvets gave him plenty of trouble," his battle comrade reported. "His speed is low after the fight with the Mon Calamari, and his artillery is depleted... So we'll have to handle it ourselves, hold the enemy off until the transports reach the rendezvous point."
"Then that's what we'll do," Tyberos decided. "Let Irv take care of the four 'prizes'; we'll cover the fifth. We just need a little time for that... We have to stall them somehow until we're back on board our cruiser. Can you think of something while I'm running through the docking tube?"
"Have I ever left you to deal with your problems alone?" the Jedi Knight asked philosophically.
"Do you want me to list all the times, or just the ones from the last year?" Tyberos clarified.
"I think I'll maneuver our boys into a defensive formation," Emand diplomatically sidestepped the conversation. "Maybe ask our fair-haired boy to cover his battle comrades with fire?"
"That's not his concern," Tyberos said gloomily. "Not his, and not the Empire's."
"We have one cruiser, one Rabid Ewok, one H-6, and a couple of 'headhunters,' and they have at least ten H-6 'Scurrg'-'Devastators' alone," Emand sighed. "If you don't want your plans for a privateer kingdom to go up in smoke, I suggest you negotiate."
"End communication," Tyberos grumbled, switching off the comlink.
Turning on his heel, he stared at Yazuo Vain, who was beaming with pleasure and goodwill.
"Well, well, well," he said, smiling charmingly. "It seems an old Separatist ship might be able to help you out?"
"Old, but not useless," Tyberos grumbled. "Feeling like making some money?"
"Well, if you cover the full repair costs for the Black Pearl after this battle, then I suppose, for the sake of my fellow privateer, I'll give the order for my useless old droids to man our useless old turbolasers, aim our old turbolaser systems at the enemy, and..." Captain Vain trailed off, drawn by the hurried clatter of Tyberos's boots on the deck of the former Republic transport's bridge: the commander of the privateer band was retreating from the persistent speaker.
"No, no, no!" Yazoo shouted, grabbing his monstrous weapon more securely and giving chase. "Tyberos, you're not getting away from me that easily!"
* * *
A spent converter, covered in something slimy, flew across the entire waste collection room into a massive garbage container. Whistling over the head of the Noghri, the device hit its target perfectly — a pile of similar slime on top of a burned-out energy buffer for a heavy turbolaser, bounced off it, ricocheted off the container's lid, and fell right in.
However, drops of slime splattered everywhere. Yet, miraculously, the Noghri bodyguard managed to remain unsplattered by this smelly and unpleasant-looking substance.
"Looking for a fight, Guardsman!" Rukh snarled, grabbing a piece of broken metal sheeting and holding it like a knife.
"Want to find out who's better, Assassin?" Tierce smirked, spinning a torn-off pylon in his hand. A pretty poor combat staff, but still better than nothing.
"Grand Admiral gave us a different task," the Honoghr native squinted. "My section of the garbage chute is cleaner than yours!"
Grodin, surveying 'his domain,' where a new batch of useless junk had landed a minute earlier, just snorted discontentedly, looking at his waterproof sanitation worker's coverall.
"We're not leaving here until all the work is done," he reminded him. "You can lick the walls of the waste collection room if you want — the garbage flow won't stop. This compartment was designed to be dirty. Besides, destroyers have standards for waste collection room capacity. In the last two days, they've been exceeded several times over. The test Thrawn has set for us isn't about making this place clean."
"Grand Admiral wouldn't have sent us here if he didn't think the task was doable," Rukh said resentfully. "Your faith in Thrawn is weak, Guardsman!"
"If that were the case, Noghri, I would never have arranged my transfer to his command or tried to rectify the situation," Tierce stated calmly. "The stormtroopers they gave him were weaklings. I thought that by bringing the remnants of Vader's stormtroopers under his wing, I could at least bring my battalion up to par. But it turns out there are cloning cylinders... The task simplified. But you, Noghri — what are you doing by Thrawn's side?"
"I am not responsible for the other brothers of the blade," Rukh declared, throwing the sharp piece of metal into the container. It seemed the scuffle was off.
"You can tell that to Lieutenant Tshel," Tierce chuckled. "Even Pellaeon didn't believe your story. And we won't even talk about Thrawn."
Rukh silently began stacking the damaged and disfigured parts into the garbage container.
"So there is an intrigue after all," Grodin concluded, calmly stepping aside and letting a stream of garbage rush from the chute into one of the containers. The last ones had been issued to them by flustered midshipmen who monitored the ship's waste disposal system. Before every hyperspace jump, the compartment was supposed to be emptied... But cleaning it or collecting scrap metal into containers? That only happened at shipyards during major overhauls. And even then, not often.
"The affairs of the Noghri should not concern you, Guardsman," Rukh said.
"As my job of protecting Thrawn should not concern you, Assassin," Grodin declared. "But you stick your nose into it. And I don't like it."
"Afraid your two-faced nature will come to light?" a voice unexpectedly meowed right by his ear. Tierce smoothly sidestepped, holding a piece of pipe out in front of him like a spear.
"For lying, I'll smear you all over this compartment!" he roared.
"Then in my list of targets, your name will sit alongside the Emperor's," the Noghri declared, unambiguously showing some kind of converter dangling from a bundle of wires in his hand. It looked very, very heavy. And the Noghri intended to use it as a sling if it came to a fight.
But was there even a reason for one...?
"You want to kill Palpatine?" Grodin inquired.
"For what he and Vader did to my world," Rukh declared.
"They weren't the ones who dropped the poison on Honoghr," the Guardsman reminded him.
"But they kept us enslaved and kept lying to our faces, sending Noghri to their deaths as payment for the cleansing of our planet, which would never have ended," the Noghri explained.
"How did you find out?" the Guardsman was interested.
"Grand Admiral told me before he said that my people were no longer obligated to serve him," Rukh said, spinning the spare part, apparently testing how fast he could do it if a fight started.
"Is that so," Tierce chuckled. "The Chiss is truly smart to have figured that out. Though, I'm not surprised."
"You knew about the Imperials' deception of my people?" the Noghri cast a cautious glance at the Guardsman.
"At the court, many mocked the stupid aliens who were so easily fooled," Tierce said indifferently, rolling to the side and deflecting the part tossed at his head. Coming out of the maneuver, he blocked the Noghri's lunge with his pipe, pulled his leg away to prevent a sweep, blocked a punch to the face, a 'two-punch' to the body, and then, with a single leap, broke the distance, warningly holding out the pipe, now quite bent after meeting the Noghri's fists. "If only your impulsiveness could be channeled in the right direction..."
"You knew my people were in slavery and did nothing!" Rukh said furiously, threateningly clenching two more sharp pieces of metal in his hand. Where did he find them? Ah... Those are the two pieces of scrap he hid under a pile of garbage in case he needed to retreat behind the container. Clever alien.
"Your beloved Darth Vader knew too and did nothing either," Tierce grinned. "As did a good hundred of Palpatine's trusted people. But few of them even knew where you were."
"That doesn't excuse you," Rukh said threateningly, taking a cautious step to the side.
"And I'm not trying to," Tierce declared. "I served my ruler. The moral side of any problem didn't interest me. Do you think your people are the only ones the Empire used in one way or another? Are you suggesting I should shed tears for every single one?"
Rukh was silent. Well, of course.
"You aren't interested in other races enslaved or destroyed by the Empire," Grodin continued in a calm, measured tone. "You don't care about the rest. Because they aren't your people, not your responsibility. So for me too, no peoples, races, events, or their moral aspects mean anything except service. Because you, Noghri, and your brothers from the Death Commandos, didn't ask questions either when you went on missions for murder, destabilization, provocation, kidnapping, and sabotage. So there is no difference between us."
"There is," Rukh said, menace in his voice. "Noghri are warriors of honor. Guardsmen like you are butchers."
"I am not responsible for all my brothers-in-arms," Tierce said sharply. "Only for myself. And I came to serve Thrawn because I believe he is the one who can stop the Revived Emperor."
"You are not to be trusted, Guardsman," Rukh said coldly. "You have always been loyal to the Emperor. You might try to deceive the Grand Admiral, but not me. Your story on Tangrene is not convincing to me..."
"I don't intend to convince you, Noghri," Tierce said with contempt. "I don't serve you; I serve Thrawn."
"I doubt that," the Noghri said. "Once a Guardsman, always a Guardsman."
"Does that mean," Tierce looked fondly at his improvised weapon, "that we just need to replace one word in your saying and we can consider the Noghri obedient executors of the Empire's will to this day?"
He easily deflected the piece of sharpened metal flying towards him.
"Pride flaring up, Noghri?" Tierce chuckled, moving to another part of the waste collection room to have more room to maneuver in case of a conflict. "I could have killed you several times already, but unlike you, I understand why Thrawn sent us here. And if only one of us leaves here, the other will surely be killed."
"I am ready to die so that Thrawn may continue to live and stop the Emperor," the Noghri blurted out. "But in you, I see only a traitor worming his way into trust to stab him in the back."
"I could say the same about you, killer," Grodin noted reasonably. "I'm sure Thrawn doesn't really trust either you or me. Or haven't you noticed that he wears armor under his tunic?"
"My eyes are sharp, and I notice everything," the Noghri snapped back. "He's worn it ever since we discovered Joruus C'baoth on Wayland."
"And rightly so," Grodin nodded almost imperceptibly in time with his words. "But the longer we jabber at each other here, the longer the Grand Admiral goes without protection. Palpatine's spies are flying all over the galaxy, and he already knows that his ever-effective weapon — Thrawn — has slipped out of control. Or at least, his agents know. While we're playing games with each other, they could already be closing in on him..."
The Noghri, who had been flowing from one stance to another, froze for a moment.
"There's sense in what you say, Guardsman," he said quickly. "We need to finish cleaning this compartment as fast as possible..."
"Didn't you hear what I said?" Tierce repeated. "They're deliberately dumping more trash than the standard allows. According to regulations, there should be less, and the whole volume is divided into several dumps — before each jump into hyperspace. But we're being buried under it. Your thoughts, Noghri?"
"It's deliberate," Rukh said, hurling one of his improvised blades into a garbage container.
"I came to the same conclusion," Tierce nodded. "Any idea what Thrawn wants from us?"
He actually already had a theory on that score. But he knew that without the Noghri's help, the test the Grand Admiral had set them couldn't be passed. At least — not with the intended result.
"There's nothing of interest here," Rukh stated. "Just waste material."
"And here you, I..."
"Don't think of me as a foolish infant, Guardsman," the gray-skinned little creature mewed. "The Grand Admiral wants us to work together. If we start sorting the trash as a team, instead of hunting for weapons to kill each other — things will go faster."
"Perceptive," Tierce grinned. "I'm sure surveillance is everywhere in here — after the incident on the first Death Star, the Emperor ordered it installed on every large starship that might interest the rebels. I'm sure Thrawn is watching us. As long as we work separately, the trash will keep piling up."
"Worth verifying," the Noghri nodded in agreement. "If the Grand Admiral wants us to work together, that means he trusts you with his life."
"And you," the Guardsman concluded. "Do you believe now that I'm not a traitor?"
"My trust isn't won so easily, Guardsman," Rukh shook his head.
"Neither is mine," Grodin countered. "I'm loyal to the oath I swore to Thrawn. If fulfilling it means working side-by-side with you, Noghri, then I'm ready."
Rukh thought for a couple of seconds.
"Accepted," he said, extending his right hand. Major Tierce looked at it and shook his head.
"You shake hands only when you don't feel like tearing out your opponent's throat. That's a gesture of complete trust — which I don't have for you, nor you for me. Self-deception won't help; it'll only hinder our goal of protecting the Grand Admiral. I agreed to work with you, but I didn't say I'd take my eyes off you, Noghri."
The Honoghr native withdrew his hand instantly.
Looking at the human with narrowed eyes, Rukh said quietly:
"I'll remember this, Guardsman."
"I don't doubt it," Tierce said in an even tone. At that moment, another load of scrap metal, food scraps, and other refuse crashed down from the garbage chute.
Holding eye contact for a few more seconds, the former Death Commando and the former Imperial Guardsman set to work sorting the same trash pile.
* * *
Leaning back from the surveillance monitor in the waste collection room, I nodded with satisfaction at my thoughts.
The beginning was in place. One would watch the other, and vice versa. Over time, they'd adjust — and I'd keep an eye on both.
Several hours after what I'd witnessed, having finished studying the data from the Delta Source, I looked thoughtfully at the holographic collection spinning before me. Not much compared to the Mon Calamari, but enough to identify common traits, draw conclusions, and compare them with data from open databases regarding my upcoming opponent and his species as a whole.
What can be said about Corellians? One well-known galactic proverb claims they have rocket fuel in their blood. And that's the most correct and accurate analysis of the behavior and psychology of human natives from Corellia.
Shoot first, think later. Simple enough... But there's a lot of interesting depth to Corellian psychology. No, really, I like Thrawn's approach to assessing an opponent. It's not that complicated, actually. You just need to understand the essence...
So, Corellians. Outwardly, they're always egocentric — bordering on narcissism, showing ostentatious disinterest in what's happening. It's an element of bargaining, not because they don't care about anything, but because they hate "playing" by anyone else's rules. This stems from their national traits — the drive for independence and pragmatism. That's where their supposed recklessness comes from.
I see in their defiance only a desire to determine their own destiny. Interesting fact — none of the "external" governments imposed on Corellians have lasted long. And the Corellian Resistance formed almost before the Alliance to Restore the Republic. As they say — the very next day after the Imperials killed Senator Garm Bel Iblis and his entire family. The desire for self-determination and control over their own destiny — that's what Corellians love most in the world. Up to a certain point in their lives, it should be noted.
Corellians are vain — and dependent to varying degrees on external approval. Demonstrative behavior — that's what I'd call it. Well, well... An entire branch of the human race with a pronounced character accentuation. And it's not at all about each of them wanting to show what a hero they are. No. For the average Corellian native, what matters is leaving a mark. Being remembered by descendants. Not being forgotten. Only Corellians have such an interesting burial tradition — cremating dead bodies, then pressing the remaining ash and dust into synthetic diamonds using artificial gravity generators. But this doesn't apply to everyone — criminals sentenced to death, for example, are disposed of irrevocably. So that their memory fades quickly.
Corellians are madly in love with their homeworld and sector. Forced to live beyond its borders, they react with literally childlike delight to anything Corellian, but most of all — to food and drink produced only within the Corellian sector. I recall in the book Rogue Squadron, Corran Horn ate the national dish prepared by Mirax Terrik like a child, despite the fact that at that time she hated him and didn't particularly hide it. Hmm... Their fate turned out interestingly.
Another trait of the Corellian character — their attraction to ships. Not just any ships, but ones that move very fast. Another peculiar way to immortalize one's name through the fame of a starship's speed.
All these internal psychological attitudes made themselves felt in decision-making. Corellians think fast, make decisions instantly, which speaks to high reaction speed. That's why most of them tie their lives to flying and exploration. After all, who doesn't dream of becoming famous by naming some astronomical object after themselves, or pulling off a miracle like the Kessel Run record?
Corellian art bears traces of convenience and comfort. Strangely enough, outside their home sector, Corellian art isn't especially valued — much less than their alcohol. But at the same time, it's worth noting that Corellians love innovation in technology, especially shipbuilding. It's no wonder their shipyards are considered among the best in the galaxy. Corellians know what a ship needs, build them according to their own concepts of speed, armament, and protection, and oddly enough — produce a product that greatly pleases the galaxy. Speaking of which. Note to self — after this operation, I should check on how the acquisition of ten ships from Corellian shipyards via Niles Ferrier's scheme is progressing. The hijacker himself is already... Well, let's not dwell on sad things.
Studying Corellian art, I came across the fact that the sharp and swift features with which sculptors, painters, and architects depict their countrymen and their activities are not always consistent. This led me to think that the characteristic I'd developed of the average Corellian didn't quite match the image of Han Solo I'd formed from the books about Grand Admiral Thrawn. At first, I thought the book couldn't fully align with reality, or didn't affect current events at all, and then I came across several paintings depicting Corellian families... And the mosaic fell into place.
As I said, Corellians suffer from "childish quirks" and a desire to be remembered by those around them — up to a strictly defined period. And for some reason, a peacock's tail analogy came to mind...
Because the "wind in the head" gets blown out of Corellians as soon as they find a life partner.
Corellian society considers family the greatest value — something worth going all the way for. Family ties, a spouse, children — all of that becomes the most important thing in a Corellian's life once they find their other half. From then on, a Corellian native's maximum effort is directed toward preserving comfort within the family, ensuring its safety, meeting basic needs, and so on. That's why Corran Horn went head-to-head with a Hutt to find his wife, and Booster Terrik assembled a massive fleet to save his daughter and fought to the last, believing she was dead. That's why Han Solo is flying here, instead of continuing to be a deserter and searching for his wife and unborn children.
Someone or something gave him a "lead" linking Honoghr to his dear wife. That's evident in his conversation with Wedge Antilles after their meeting with Mon Mothma. Not directly, but when in every sentence Solo somehow indicates that the attack and landing operation on Honoghr is the path to finding his wife, unpleasant thoughts arise about who exactly planted that "food for thought."
And at the same time, it's clear why he's eager for battle — Corellians despise those who drag their women, children, loved ones, and friends into conflicts. That category of beings are part of their family and demand an appropriate response against the enemy. The Corellian himself won't plot base schemes against someone who wronged him outside his concept of honor, preferring to solve the problem personally. Again — part of the Corellian's egotistical character appeals to personal valor. An attack on what's dear to a Corellian is essentially the same as declaring a personal war on them.
A rather engaging analysis, especially considering that I made these conclusions based on an analysis of Corellian art, and it's precisely supported by various psychological studies available in the public HoloNet. So it's fair to say that assessing an opponent's art comes to me successfully, one way or another. And that's a reason to continue in this direction.
Well, that's the general analysis. But Han Solo himself...
That's a more interesting part of the Corellian people.
What do I know about him? He loves gambling, is boastful about his own achievements on his ship, hates losing, and is devilishly lucky. Possibly — the luckiest of all Corellians.
He loves his ship, hates when anyone tinkers with it, and is mortally offended by those who cause Solo harm. At the same time, after marrying the Alderaanian princess, Solo devotes more time and attention to her — that's why he no longer tinkers with his own ship as often. The Chimaera's technicians, who dismantled and scanned his starship bolt by bolt, can attest to the latter. They found plenty of interesting design solutions on the ship's exterior, but a full analysis, including the "gutting," is still far, far off. However, I need his ship on the Chimaera not just to study it (though for that too). The gutting of the Millennium Falcon's insides is happening for entirely different reasons...
Han Solo is inventive, resourceful, often using unorthodox ways to solve problems in the most difficult situations. Just remember how he used a clever deception of the Imperial garrison in the shield generator bunker on the forest moon of Endor to lure the defenders out of their fortified position.
And he has one trait that makes his character quite remarkable... He is wary, if not hostile, toward droids that somehow meddle in his affairs. Where does that conclusion come from? Hints of it are given by his constant bickering with the protocol droid C-3PO, belonging to Organa-Solo. And if I recall sources already familiar to me, droids were aboard his ship only because of circumstances or at the request of various family members or acquaintances. Furthermore, an analysis of the repair work done by the Chimaera's technicians — its incompleteness, urgency, short-lived nature, use of subpar parts — indicates that the Corellian does his starship's repairs himself. Meanwhile, if he handed it over to a team of droid technicians for tuning, the ship would have been repaired long ago and wouldn't rattle like a bucket of bolts. The New Republic councilor's husband could afford that. But he doesn't. And it's not about money — he has plenty of his own, not the family's joint budget. So Han Solo keeps his ship in that state not because he's ashamed to take money for repairs from his wife. He intends to fix the starship himself, with his own hands, and certainly not with the help of droids.
So, I'm about to face battle with an unpredictable man, terrifying in his improvisation, who is firmly determined to find keys to locating his wife on Honoghr. And coming with him are the former Imperial Star Destroyer — a "Mark I" named Red Gauntlet — Solo's flagship, three Mon Calamari cruisers, two assault frigates, two Quasar Fire escort carriers, and six screening corvettes. I won't mention the landing ships — they don't significantly affect the line battle.
In my own arsenal: the Chimaera, Death's Head, Overlord, Nemesis, Crusader and its Mandalorian escort, four medium cruisers, one Interdictor-class Star Destroyer, and five CR90 Corellian corvettes. Can it be said the forces are equal? It can. If one has a tongue, why not say what one likes?
Does the claim of equal forces match reality?
No, it doesn't. We have parity in line ships, but in the "little stuff."..
Hmm... the difference isn't that big, actually. So what's bothering me?
That I'll have to act against an intelligent and determined opponent who has more than a fair share of luck. I recall, at her wedding in the events I know, Jaina Solo speculated that her father might be slightly Force-sensitive... Is that true, or just a guess? Could Solo's talent lie in the Force helping him anticipate an opponent's behavior and actions? Or is it just a hypothesis and assumption?
Hard to say, but easy to check — I just need to get a blood sample from him. And for that, he needs to be captured...
Hmm... And what strategy should I devise for him? Trading ships is not in my favor — I mustn't forget the Noghri are watching what happens. So, if I intend to earn their trust, I need to crush the enemy decisively. What a shame that the armed freighters used by the scouts can't join the battle — despite having proton torpedo launchers, they can't strike from under their cloaking fields; the enemy can't see them, and they don't see the enemy either.
But at the same time — killing Han Solo isn't that simple. And even if it happened, at the very least his wife and close friends would never listen to a word I say again, even if I declaim my postulates into their ears with a megaphone. So, in the event of victory, he needs to be kept alive.
Stop. Note that. Not just kept alive, but talked to! Exactly! Because he'll return to Coruscant, and consequently, bring news of who exactly he fought.
Hmm... Well, the ending to the story is already plotted, now for the beginning...
Leaning back in my chair, listening to the melodies of Corellian music (yes, it exists — even I was surprised), I stroked the back of a ysalamiri, running through one postulate after another about Corellians in my mind...
The little lizard, apparently tired of being petted on one side, rolled over to present the other side, stretching quite insolently. Look at that — she was such a docile creature, and now she's completely brazen, demanding belly rubs! But if I just pinched you there, you'd definitely defend yourself, wouldn't you? Don't look at me like that, I won't do it — we're allies, after all... sort of... And allies don't attack each other, right? We're responsible for those we've tamed.
The comlink buzzed. Reaching out, I grabbed the device.
"Grand Admiral, sir," Pellaeon's voice came through. "Confirmation has arrived from the scouts in the Lesser Kessel system. The enemy has dropped out of hyperspace to adjust course. Navigation reports they'll jump in ten minutes."
"They have at least two and a half standard hours to Honoghr, Captain," I recalled. For us, considering the distance from our base point — exactly three hours. That's a difference of twenty minutes. Standard scouting time. No matter how much of a daredevil Solo is, he won't land troops on a relatively unexplored planet. And he won't bombard it — he surely thinks his wife is on the surface, or that data leading to her is there. Otherwise, if he knew her location, he'd go straight there. "Have our technicians prepare the Millennium Falcon for flight," a slight cough came from the speaker. "Fleet-wide readiness to break the light barrier. Standard cruising formation: the Interdictor jumps first, with the Overlord as cover. The rest of the ships — five minutes later. The Chimaera at the center of the formation, Death's Head to starboard, Nemesis to port. The medium cruisers hold in the upper hemisphere of the flanking destroyers. Captains of the Corellian corvettes and bomber squadron leaders are to prepare for a briefing in one hour."
"Aye, sir!" Pellaeon replied briskly.
After the device went silent, I closed my eyes, surrendering to the spell of Corellian music.