Nine years, seven months, and twelve days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and twelve days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and thirty-two days since the Arrival.)
The worst part of a starfighter pilot's career is sitting in your ejection seat like a useless lump of meat, waiting for the operation to start. Or for the order to abort it.
At moments like these, you have no idea what you want to do with yourself. You can chat with the other pilots, fellow unfortunates waiting for orders like you. You can run another complete system check on your fighter. If you know binary or can't be bothered to look at the ship's translator screen every second, you can even chat with your astromech about life. He'll tell you a couple hundred great stories.
That he overheard from other astromechs. Who overheard them from someone else...
That's how you find out that the biggest gossips in the entire New Republic fleet are the astromechs. I wonder if that's how the Imperials get the freshest and most complete (not to mention reliable) information about the movements of the Republican war machine.
Wedge had grown thoroughly sick of listening to the astrodroid's whistles and beeps, so he kept running through the details of the upcoming mission in his head. The very one whose essence he had personally briefed to the pilots, ship commanders, and squadron leaders. The Rogues, along with everyone else, had meticulously studied everything concerning their target — the planet Linuri.
The information was far from perfect, and even Republic intelligence couldn't offer much help. There was enough data to plan the operation, but not enough to guarantee success. And that was even more disheartening.
Pinpoint attacks on convoys, successful ambushes, operations against the enemy that played out like sheet music, General Dodonna's appearance at a private Rogue Squadron party — all this and more pointed directly to the enemy having access to information within the New Republic. At the very highest level.
That's why the operation was classified. Officially, Wedge's flotilla was supposed to move toward Brentaal IV, supposedly to investigate the attacks carried out in the nearby sector. These were attributed to the "Butcher of Atoa" Imperial Captain Eric Shohashi.
A lot of things were attributed to him. Including the operation in the Milagro system, after which one Republic Star Destroyer, a princess, Generals Madine and Calrissian, and one and a half billion Republic credits had disappeared... all while their mission was top secret!
That's why vague doubts tormented Wedge about the success of their raid on Linuri. Of course, you can never fully guarantee success in a military operation, especially when relying on the element of surprise. But he hoped... He hoped very strongly that today they would get lucky. And they would find the prisoners from the Lusankya.
Because after this operation, they had a jump to the Commenor system ahead of them.
Iella and her people had managed to pinpoint the place of manufacture and implantation of those very rare device components that had killed General Dodonna. And everything pointed to Commenor.
You could say that after Linuri, Wedge and the Rogues would be going home — many of the pilots, back in the days of the Rebel Alliance, had trained at a secret base on the largest of Commenor's moons. Later, an Imperial raid destroyed the base, but the nostalgia remained.
The rare components for the implant had been brought in officially, through customs, which is why they could be tracked. Wedge mentally even thanked the customs officer who had made them list the equipment's serial numbers on the declaration — that had become the starting point for the future attack.
And the implantation trail also led to Commenor — the poison used to kill the general was available in several medical facilities across the galaxy. But only on Commenor was it located in just one local veterinary clinic. Which, surprise, had recently been supplied with implantation equipment, including droids. And what's more, it was done by the same individual — just like with the rare implant components. Their identity was falsified according to textbook, canonical Imperial templates. A coincidence? No, a clear lead.
And Iella was sure it had been left intentionally.
The dying general had named one location; the evidence pointed to another... It meant splitting forces and investigation vectors.
The clinic Iella was investigating had gone out of business about two years ago, around the time Isard fled to Thyferra. The building was located in a remote rural area — it was thought a city would later be built there, but with the fall of the Empire, Commenor's economy had declined, and the city never reached it. One of the vet clinic's last programs was an attempt to get exotic animals, going extinct on other planets, to breed in captivity. But rebuilding planets after the Empire's fall was more important than increasing animal populations, and that project also failed.
At the same time, according to Iella's reports, the closed clinic was consuming resources — power, water, and the sewage facilities were actively running. Highly suspicious for an establishment that had been bankrupt for two years. Food was supplied through local stores, and not very much of it. Locals thought there were workers living there, waiting for a new owner to buy the place. But time passed... And no one had ever seen the faces of those employees.
And then two problems arose. The Rogues could have stormed the place, blown the clinic to dust, but that wouldn't help the prisoners. Destroying the building would also mean the possible destruction of all evidence: DNA traces, fingerprints, information data. It would become impossible to know who owned the building, who ran the clinic, and who was there at the time. So Iella and her people worked on Commenor "quietly," while Wedge and his flotilla were to work on Linuri "loudly."
A diversion of attention and a simultaneous demonstration to the enemy that the Republicans supposedly hadn't fallen for the obvious lead pointing to Commenor. Or that they were too stupid to find it.
The second problem turned out to be more unpleasant than any resistance the Imperials could offer. Commenor had declared itself independent from both the Empire and the New Republic, following the example of Corellia and a number of other systems and sectors. Given its location at the intersection of several hyperspace routes, Commenor was not exactly destitute, maintaining its independence by courting every political party in the Galaxy. An attack on an Imperial installation by a New Republic strike force could prompt Commenor's government to impose a trade embargo on the New Republic, introduce harsh tariffs, or even form an alliance with some military ruler, like Krennel, Kaine, or some other Imperial psychopath. And that was something Mon Mothma did not want.
So Iella had to learn everything she could in the time it took Wedge to sort things out on Linuri. If military intervention was needed — he and his flotilla would jump to Commenor. But few wanted that. And least of all Mon Mothma herself, who would have to choose — either rescue the prisoners (if they were there) by military means, or resolve the issue diplomatically so as not to lose what had already been gained regarding that world. Creating a bottleneck at one of the busiest trading worlds and being unable to use it in the future meant losses in the trillions of credits, which were already scarce. Interstellar trade was just beginning to bear fruit — if important supply routes had to be reconfigured, at best the New Republic's economy would see no profit. The treasury would remain empty, with no planned surplus. At worst, the government would go bankrupt. The repeat of a second Agamar, which had balked after an Imperial visit and declared itself a neutral world, raising customs duties and generally showing no loyalty to the New Republic, had nearly put an end to the trade operations of private entities in the New Territories in the northern part of the galaxy.
Naturally, no one informed the local authorities that Republic agents were operating right under their noses. It was decided to postpone that until it was known whether the clinic lead was a dead end or not. And then...
The voice of Wedge sounded in the helmet's headset:
"General, two-minute readiness."
"Finally!" Antilles cheered and turned to his astromech. "Mynock, get ready, time to fly."
The droid expressed skepticism about the operation's prospects, but Wedge was no longer listening to its whistling grumbling as he started the engines. Eleven pilots of Rogue Squadron followed his example...
Eleven... They'd had to bring their Thyferrian comrade back into service — one of the few who could truly meet the Rogue's standards. Wedge tried not to think about what Corran would say when he returned and found out his callsign, "Rogue 9," had been temporarily given to his old "acquaintance," with whom the former CorSec officer had clashed more than once in the past. Later, toward the end of the Bacta War, they seemed to have found common ground, but... who knew how Corran would return after his apprenticeship in the Jedi arts?
The streaks of light beyond the thin energy layer of the atmospheric shield turned into points. The star cruiser's operations control center gave clearance for takeoff, and a dozen X-wings, hovering above the hangar floor and retracting their landing gear, glided out into space behind Wedge's fighter.
Describing a steep vertical climb, Wedge out of habit took a position "above" the expected battlefield to assess the situation with his own eyes.
So, four Mon Calamari star cruisers had emerged from hyperspace in a diamond formation, overlapping their deflector shields, which were just beginning to cover the ships' hulls with an invisible protective film. The Quasar Fire, holding the center of the formation, was already busy deploying A-wings around itself, waiting for further instructions.
In a direct fight, this ship was useless, but shielded on all sides by the thick-hulled ships from Dac, it could serve as a rotation point for all squadrons, without having to sacrifice opening the hangars of the MC80s. Wedge had picked up this tactic from old archives from the time of the Clone Wars. What can you do — when you're responsible for a good fifty thousand sentients, you have to stop being cocky and use your head. Even if you are an X-wing pilot who's all about that head.
"Bridge," he addressed the command center of his flagship and the entire flotilla, "surface data?"
"We've detected a military base, presumably belonging to the Empire," the captain of the flagship cruiser said quickly.
"Direct the fleet to blockade orbit, Captain," Wedge sighed. "Deploy scouts and landing forces. If they resist, destroy their defenses. Don't forget — our comrades might be in there."
"Understood, General."
"OCC, any targets in orbit?" Antilles asked on a different channel, more for form's sake. And he knew he would get a negative answer...
"General, we've just detected three objects," the controller said rapidly. "Two identified as Predator-class fighters, the third is a Kuat freighter. They're holding near the equator, minimal power consumption."
"Identified?" Wedge frowned. What was a freighter and two fighters — not the best, but still combat-worthy — doing here? Unless they were working with the Empire.
"The transponder signals are clearly forged..."
Now everything was clear. Either smugglers or Imperials. Pirates, at the very least. But he had serious doubts that with his dying breath, General Dodonna had intended to relay a tip to Rogue Squadron about where to hunt pirates and smugglers. Still, it was worth checking out properly.
"Rogues, attention," he addressed his squadron pilots. "Course two-seven-five marks, speed ten percent. Moving out."
The X-wings of his squadron launched from their positions, streaking toward the designated target. The fighters covered half the distance on afterburners before the trio of ships came to life. Wedge ordered the S-foils locked into combat position.
"Unidentified vessels, this is General Antilles of the New Republic Defense Force," Wedge announced. "You are in an active military operations zone. Cut your engines and prepare for inspection."
"They're ignoring us," Tycho, his wingman, noted.
"And how did I miss that," Wedge snorted. "Prepare to repel attack. Mark targets as hostile. Do not destroy the freighter."
"Raptors" those were a SoroSuub design. Some kind of limited-production model. Not very good compared to X-wings, either. It wouldn't be easy, that was a fact, but nothing extraordinary.
Wedge glanced at the chronometer.
"Time to contact: five minutes."
Then the general comm channel came to life:
"Hey, General Antilles, what did we ever do to you?"
Well, well. So they could talk after all, when a squadron of X-wings was about to give them a good kicking.
"It wouldn't hurt to identify yourselves," Wedge remarked casually. Turning to his astromech, he said:
"Mynock, give me a detailed scan of their ships. I have a feeling these aren't your standard Raptors."
He'd read about these ships somewhere once. Maybe the Alliance or the New Republic had even considered buying them, but... Yes, that was it! They really were lousy SoroSuub machines — expensive for what they were, with combat effectiveness below zero.
Compared to an X-wing, at least.
"My name is Mazzic," the unseen speaker replied reluctantly. "Free trader."
"Is that so?" A familiar thought scratched at his memory. He'd heard that name somewhere before. From Booster, maybe... Huh. Yes, that was it. "And what are valiant smugglers doing in a backwater like Linuri?"
"Wedge, one minute to contact," Tycho reminded him. "Do we shoot, or do we play?"
"First the one, then the other if needed," Wedge said. He didn't want to reduce the number of Booster's acquaintances because of some misunderstanding.
"Business, that's all," Mazzic answered vaguely. "Nothing illegal."
"Then call off your Raptors, pull up alongside my flagship, and we'll have a proper talk," Wedge instructed, scanning the data Mynock had provided. Uh-huh. Simple traders. Sure. Every ship was heavily modified — a typical smuggler's pastime. And on top of that, they were skillfully trying to hide it with jamming. Along with weaponry that could turn a dull day for the Rogues into some serious entertainment.
"The freighter has been identified as belonging to a smuggler known as Mazzic," the OCC reported. "Intelligence indicates he does business in the Empire."
A nasty feeling stirred in his gut.
"No can do, General," the smuggler said, a hint of insolence in his voice. "We're just passing through. Business waiting, all that. You might say we've got a rescue operation going on."
The bad suspicion stirred again, this time making a point of pushing its way to the forefront of the youngest general in the New Republic's thought process.
"Do not open fire first," Wedge warned. "We'll fly alongside them, see what this 'business' of theirs is all about. Third and fourth flights — take the freighter. Gently but firmly, start pushing it toward the cruiser," Wedge caught sight of an MC80, surrounded by A-wings, racing to their aid.
"And who exactly are you rescuing here, if it's not a secret?" Wedge inquired, carefully pulling clear of one of the Raptors, feeding power to the engines, and executing a synchronized bank with Celchu that led them to rejoin two other flights while the second kept the smuggler's fighters busy.
"One of our friends," and again, nothing concrete. "We're almost done, so if you'll let us..."
Mynock let out a warbling trill.
"Wedge, they've got a shuttle incoming, lifting from the surface," Tycho warned.
"Already spotted," Antilles said grimly. "Mynock says the shuttle is coming from the Imperial base."
"And behind it — a squadron of TIE fighters," Asyr Sei'lar announced.
She was right. A small, low-observability craft with impressive speed was racing at full throttle toward the freighter. At a respectful distance behind it, a squadron of TIE fighters moved in formation. But their formation looked less like an attack pattern and more like an escort.
"Back on Tatooine, folks say Imperial pilots don't fly like that when they intend to shoot someone down," Darklighter said quietly.
"That saying holds true for every world in the galaxy," Wedge stated dryly. "Mazzic, care to explain why the Imps are giving you an escort?"
"I know as much as you do, Antilles," his interlocutor's grim tone indicated he hadn't expected such courtesy either.
Wedge could feel in his gut that something was off here.
They had no identifying marks; the scanners hadn't tagged them as hostile. They could be anyone — including Mazzic's own pilots, playing with abandoned Imperial equipment, stealing it for later use or resale. Where was the proof otherwise?
"Second flight — keep those Raptors in your sights," he said on the squadron frequency. "Third — control the freighter and intercept that shuttle. The rest of you, with me. Let's say hello to the Imps."
But the Imperial pilots decided to offer a warm welcome first.
It was as if they'd only just realized that New Republic starfighters were buzzing the ship their shuttle was escorting, and that a Mon Calamari star cruiser was looming just a few hundred units away. The TIE pilots seemed to startle, then threw themselves at Rogue Squadron for an intercept.
One of the Imperial fighters fired at Wedge's ship. Missed, of course.
That, at least, could be considered proof of their affiliation.
"Rogues — engage," Antilles declared, evading the line of fire and dropping into a spin to shake the Imp glued to his tail. Celchu had picked up a pair of his own company.
"Who are you rescuing here, Mazzic?!" the general demanded, having shaken his pursuer, twisting his ship around and slamming a quad-linked laser cannon volley into the Imp. Crimson beams sheared clean through the cockpit transparisteel, and the fighter flew on for a moment before exploding.
"One of our own," the man said. "You probably wouldn't know the name..."
"Oh, I know a lot of names, Mazzic," Wedge gritted out, taking out one of Celchu's pursuers with a proton torpedo. The Alderaanian dealt with the second one himself. "Who?!"
He didn't like this one bit. A smuggler cooperating with the Empire, hanging in orbit over a planet named by a dying Alliance general who'd been imprisoned aboard the Lusankya. An Imperial base on the surface. An enemy fighter squadron escorting a shuttle with something — or someone — valuable almost all the way to a freighter, but then immediately attacking New Republic soldiers... The smell of a setup was overwhelming. He should have taken them right away. Still, nothing was lost yet.
"What's the ruckus about, General?" Mazzic sounded surprised. "Our man is with us, we'll pack up and leave now. I don't understand what's happening here any more than you do. There's some weird Imperial base here, but we didn't meddle in their affairs. We just quietly picked up our man, that's it. We did what we came for, now we'll quietly disappear and our paths will never cross again."
Uh-huh. But I notice your fighters and your freighter's guns aren't firing on the Imperials. And they're not firing on you. Coincidence?
"Detain the smuggler ships," Wedge ordered a specific flight. "If they try to run, shoot off their nozzles."
He locked onto one of the enemy fighters, primed the proton torpedoes, and waited for the green square around the target to turn yellow. Mynock's squawking grew faster and more insistent as it calculated the torpedo's trajectory, then suddenly its signal held a single tone, and the square on the display turned red. Control stick forward, the fighter's nose pitched up. The torpedo launched.
The projectile's bright blue engine flame streaked toward the TIE. The fighter tried to avoid a fatal collision, and the torpedo adjusted. Another maneuver — partially successful; the projectile didn't hit the ship, but it did detonate before flying too far. The fighter's lower wing crumpled, then tore off entirely during the botched maneuver. Shrapnel peppered the cockpit, pierced through, embedded itself in the equipment, and impaled the pilot. The uncontrolled ship spun and detonated.
"I won't repeat myself, Mazzic," Wedge demanded. "Bring your tub to our cruiser. We'll have a chat with your man."
"I don't think so," the smuggler's voice hardened. "He says he's got nothing to discuss with you right now. Maybe in a couple of days, after he's collected his thoughts and asks the right questions..."
Only a couple of Imps were left. Incompetent ones, at that.
"Take the freighter," Wedge ordered.
Then the Raptors joined the fray.
With its first volley, one of the ships nearly punched through the canopy of Asyr's X-wing. A second bird crippled Ooryl's engine. The freighter spat fire in return, driving off one Rogue flight and setting an intercept course.
"Cruiser, we need reinforcements," Wedge said reluctantly. "Send the A-wings to intercept."
"Antilles, your hyperdrive!" Mazzic swore. "What are you doing?! I told you," at that moment Gavin knocked out one of the freighter's turrets with his cannon fire — "We're here on private business! I don't know what the Imps cooked up!"
"So that's why your ham-fisted pilots decided to shoot at my people?" Wedge clarified.
"We don't like it when people start throwing their weight around with us," Mazzic assured him. "We're here on a private visit. None of us are connected to the Empire."
"Especially you," Wedge prompted. "And you definitely don't haul anything they want for a high price. Last warning, Mazzic, or we open fire to kill."
"Don't," the smuggler said.
"Does that mean you're going to drift now?" Wedge inquired, finishing off the remaining Imps and scaring off the nearest Raptor with a burst from his cannons across its flight path.
"I wasn't talking to you, Antilles," the man replied sullenly. "Fine, if there's no other way... My passenger is ready to talk to you."
"Excellent." Wedge looked around and switched to the squadron frequency. "All units, attention. The birds are heading for the freighter. They're about to try and run."
Another click of the switch.
"I just handled things in the galley," Wedge continued, steering his ship toward the smuggler's vessel, which had clearly decided not to antagonize the Rogues further and had stopped fighting back, allowing the X-wings to keep it covered. "Word is, they're serving ribs in white sauce today. I suggest you turn your tub around..."
"Greetings, General Antilles," a quiet, insinuating voice — that of a self-assured man — came over the general channel. "I won't be dishonest and say I'm delighted to meet again under these circumstances..."
"Wedge!" Tycho's voice cut in. "Is that who I think it is?"
"Karrde!" The gloves of his flight suit grew damp with sweat. "Well, well..."
"I would have preferred this meeting in a different place, at a different time, and in a different format," the information broker replied. "I have a great deal I need to tell you..."
"I suggest you start right now," Wedge said through clenched teeth. "And start by answering one question — where is our Star Destroyer Allegiance and its crew?!"
"General," the man replied with mild irritation. "I will give you answers to all your questions. As soon as I reach my informants. What's happening here is an elaborate staging. We're all being played for fools..."
"I don't think this little smuggler understands what kind of questions he's being asked," Asyr said. "Or what position he's in to bargain."
"Bring your ship to our cruiser, Mr. Karrde," Antilles ordered in a calm voice, barely restraining his fury and the urge to put a couple of proton torpedoes into the freighter right now. "You can talk there. I'm very interested in the part starting from when Booster Terrik, well known to us both, contacted you for help finding his daughter and then disappeared."
"General," Karrde's voice carried a note of resignation. "I understand your feelings. But you must also understand — everything happening here is Imperial propaganda. Grand Admiral Thrawn is using every resource at his disposal against you and me to achieve his goals."
Grand Admiral, was it? Interesting.
"And what are they?" Wedge — and the rest of the Rogues — had effectively boxed in Mazzic's and Karrde's freighter. The Raptors had chosen to keep their distance. Clearly some kind of provocation.
Wedge and Celchu, flying alongside him, trained their guns on the freighter's engines. One shot, and the ship would be a helpless hunk of metal.
"I don't know that," Karrde replied. "I suspect he intends to isolate the New Republic from intelligence channels and data, sow panic and chaos, destabilize the economy, and quietly reclaim the systems the Empire has lost one way or another."
"Fascinating," Wedge said, watching the Republic cruiser, which had now closed to within fifty units. And the A-wings were only a few megaseconds away... "Now, let's dock with our ship and talk face to face."
"You still don't trust me," Karrde sighed.
"You have a sad track record," Antilles said. The whole situation stank to high heaven — and on that point, he agreed with the Talon. But he didn't believe his story for a single decicred. "People who trust you have a habit of disappearing without a trace. Booster Terrik, his daughter, Princess Leia Organa Solo, Lando Calrissian, General Madine. I don't have that desire, so..."
"Forgive me, General," came the reply. "Without trust, there can be no conversation. At this point, our meeting would only harm both your affairs and mine..."
"Fire!" Wedge commanded instantly, being the first to shear the engines off the smuggler's ship. Celchu repeated his maneuver, and the rest of the Rogues raked the hull, suppressing the second turret and some suspicious containers...
"The shuttle!" Gavin shouted, the first to spot a nimble craft darting out from under the freighter's belly, quickly building speed and pulling away from the Rogues. Ooryl and Asyr gave chase, but Wedge already understood — the modified vessel clearly had a hyperdrive and was ready to jump. A couple of laser cannon volleys from the X-wings and A-wings splashed against its deflector shield. A moment — and the gray dot of the shuttle vanished.
Wedge turned his head toward the Raptors. They, of course, were no longer there either.
"An old smuggler's trick," Tycho commented. "Smooth and elegant, the way he slipped away."
"He did, yes," Wedge replied, chewing his lip. "But a boat like that holds at most half a dozen people. Four are the crew of that rust bucket. Plus Mazzic and Karrde. There's no room for carry-on luggage. So if they were trying to get something off the planet, it's on the freighter..."
At that same instant, the ship exploded in a blinding flash. Thank the Great Force that none of the pilots or their ships were caught in it — they'd kept their distance. Wasn't the first time they'd dealt with ships pulling surprises like that.
"Two-zero," Asyr commented.
"I don't like being made a fool of," Gavin grumbled.
"None of us do," Wedge admitted. It seemed that without a Jedi in the squadron, their ability to anticipate problems had dropped sharply. Horn, where are you when we need you. "Alright, Rogues, back to the flagship. The cruiser's crew will pick up the debris; let's see if we can squeeze anything useful out of it..."
"General Antilles," the dispatcher's voice sounded in his helmet. "Report from the surface — the enemy base has been captured with virtually no resistance. Aside from a squadron of pilots, a science team, and a technician crew, there's no one there."
"Three-zero," Antilles mentally congratulated himself, chewing his cheek. A great start to his career. Let a potential accomplice in the disappearance of his friends and New Republic officials slip away, lost possible evidence, didn't find the prisoners he'd come for... A wonderful day. Fey'liya would be happy to drag him through the mud. And Mon Mothma along with him... Exactly in line with all the scientifically proven postulates of Bothan politics...
Wait! Science?!
"OCC, repeat that," he ordered. "There was a science team at the base?"
"Affirmative, General," the dispatcher replied. "The ground forces caught them right in the middle of their calculations. They're holding them in place pending new orders. Should I relay instructions to escort the prisoners aboard the flagship?"
"Wedge," Tycho said quietly. "Doesn't this remind you of something? A remote planet, an Imperial base, a science team... And semi-criminal personalities who deal in large volumes of information buzzing around it all."
"Cooperating with the Empire," Darklighter added his five decicreds. "Uncle Huff told me about this Mazzic and Karrde. For a good fee, they'll get anyone anything."
"I have a very bad feeling about this," Wedge sighed. "OCC, I and the Rogues are flying down to the surface. We'll see what's happening there with our own eyes. For now, maintain comm silence."
Turning their ships, flying through the miniature debris fields left after the destruction of the TIE fighter squadron, the dozen X-wings headed for the planet's surface, yielding the area to the Mon Calamari star cruiser's technical team, which had begun collecting wreckage. The air groups were returning to their berths pending the next order to launch.
Throughout the time the techs were gathering debris necessary for further data analysis, none of the New Republic Defense Force personnel noticed the metal spheres — a quarter of a standard meter in diameter — drifting in orbit.
But the buzz droids had spotted their target.
Undetectable by ship sensors, they calmly magnetized themselves to the hulls of the large New Republic starships, deployed their extensive arsenal of tools, and began gnawing into the thick plating, camouflaging themselves by altering the proportions of their outer shell hemispheres.
Project Morrt was operating at full capacity where Grand Admiral Thrawn had planned.
Operation Crimson Dawn was smoothly and imperceptibly — for the galaxy at large — transitioning into its second phase.
* * *
The semi-darkness of the quarters, broken only by holograms of art objects slowly circling beneath the cabin ceiling, was accompanied by absolute silence. No music. No sound of working computers. Even the monitors duplicating the Chimaera's bridge readouts — mounted on the walls — were dark now.
I was enjoying the silence, replaying the events of the last few days in my head, when a faint sound from the direction of the entry hatch announced a visitor.
I didn't even need to guess who it was.
Pellaeon shot out of the airlock as if the devil were after him. Throwing a look full of irritation at the closing door — behind which I could make out the grayish skin of the Noghri — the Star Destroyer commander headed straight for me. I genuinely liked the ability to see as clearly in darkness and twilight as in daylight. Chiss physiology was incredible. What a pity no suitable specialist had yet been found to whom I could entrust the study of my own DNA.
"The latest reports, sir," he said, handing me a datapad.
"Thank you, Captain," I said, accepting the personal device. Casting an appraising glance at the officer, I inquired:
"Has Rukh frightened you again, Captain?"
"Before your return yesterday, he was behaving himself," Pellaeon complained. "Now he's gone back to his old habits — sneaking up in the dark."
"That is his duty, Captain," I reminded him. "And he is training to approach his target at every convenient opportunity."
"I would be grateful if he practiced on someone else," Pellaeon stated.
"Without a doubt," I replied with a noncommittal phrase. Touching a panel on the work desk, I activated a gradual increase in cabin lighting. The light panels glowed to life, but only to half strength, and solely to calm this particular man's nerves.
Scanning the first message, I felt a slight smile touch my lips.
"So we have an additional day on Honoghr."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "Fey'liya ordered them to await the arrival of Bothan assault cruisers. Ten ships. The battle..."
"There will be no battle, Captain," I stated. "The fleet is not in a state to teach the enemy another lesson. We will depart strictly according to schedule."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon reported.
I skimmed the next report. Excellent.
"General Antilles's task force has arrived at Linuri."
"Furthermore," Pellaeon said, "they crossed paths with the gang of the smuggler Mazzic, who had arrived to free Karrde from captivity."
"Judging by the data from our droids in Project Morrt, a rather curious exchange of information took place between Mazzic, Karrde, and Antilles," I concluded.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "Now both Antilles and Rogue Squadron know your name. It will become more difficult."
"Nonsense," I declared. "Our people at the base played their roles excellently. Now Antilles will have no doubt that Karrde is playing for the Empire, carrying out secret assignments, and is so important that his ship was escorted by an entire — and the only — squadron of TIE fighters on Linuri."
"It would have been simpler to kill him, sir," Pellaeon remarked. "Such combinations... It will all come out as soon as General Solo falls into Republic hands. They will realize that pointing the finger at Krennel is merely window-dressing for your own plans."
"You have a poor understanding of the situation currently reigning in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant," I declared. "Mon Mothma exploited a loophole in her own legislation, directly subordinating certain armed forces to herself as a member of the Provisional Government. Before her, only Admiral Ackbar exercised this right—with regard to Rogue Squadron and a number of other units. But here's the trouble: he didn't just hold a seat on the Provisional Government, he also led the New Republic Armed Forces. His small liberties were overlooked because he was playing in his own sandbox. Mon Mothma, driven to desperation by the political situation, went all in, trusting Antilles and Solo. And this provokes organic opposition from Councilor Fey'lya. If any other interim commander were in his place, the matter would never leave the Provisional Council chamber. But the constant failures and the atmosphere of endless data leaks from the military department pushed Mon Mothma to a step that encroached on the power of a Bothan specifically. They do not forgive that. So, as soon as General Solo returns—having lost his fleet, telling unsubstantiated tales, and hurling accusations about Fey'lya's collaboration with the defector Octavian Grant—trust in her will be undermined among even more senators. Her position will become so shaky that Fey'lya will have no trouble toppling her from her throne."
"Unless Solo has considered this and keeps quiet about everything he knows," Pellaeon said doubtfully.
"Even if he tells no one but Mon Mothma, the information will still spread through the Palace," I assured him. "Fey'lya is breathing down her neck, so even if she seeks verifying information through trusted individuals, she can't avoid bureaucratic procedures. To her misfortune, they've made the administrative apparatus so complex that she simply cannot do without outsiders—archivists, security services, minor clerks, and other sentients in low-level positions. And sentients are prone to gossiping about the oddities happening around them. So, in any case, rumors that Mon Mothma is digging through the Imperial Information Center located in the Palace's basements will reach Fey'lya. And he will turn it into a grand sensation. General Solo is capable of thinking through his actions and occasionally even calculating their consequences. But only when there is no stressful situation. When the entire Palace is seething with rumors, any barb or suspicion Fey'lya throws his way will drag the accusations out into the open."
"It will take them a considerable amount of time to access top-secret information in the information center," Pellaeon noted. "The access procedures for those classification levels died with the Emperor and his inner circle."
"Yes," I agreed. "According to Delta Source reports, despite the time elapsed since gaining control of the information center, the New Republic has never been able to access the Empire's state secrets. Only a few."
"Then it will take them a long time to find information about you," Pellaeon smirked. "If it's preserved anywhere, it's only in the top-secret archives. The same goes for the dossiers on the other Grand Admirals."
"If you don't have a genius slicer on hand, yes, the search through the secret archives will drag on," I smiled. "I'm certain the information about me is classified far better than about those of my colleagues who operated in the known galaxy. Palpatine didn't start his manipulations with the colonization of the Unknown Regions for nothing. He kept his secrets skillfully, and it's extremely unlikely that access to them was so broad. As you rightly noted—the access procedures are lost; otherwise the New Republic wouldn't be having problems with information. And if sentients with insufficient qualifications are doing the work, it's quite possible that the data in the information center might even be deleted."
"Is that part of the plan too?" Pellaeon tensed. "The secret archives may contain extremely important data."
"Don't worry, Captain," I advised. "Everything we need, we either have or will have. Mind if we return to discussing the situation on Linuri?"
"Yes," Pellaeon agreed. "As I understand it, Antilles' 'success' in that system should offset Solo's failure here on Honoghr?"
"Partially," I confirmed. "The data they obtain there will not only make them believe in Karrde's connection to the Empire. Scraps of information have a way of assembling into a full picture. Specific facts that land in the right place at the right time complete the picture as needed. The information from the command center on the Linuri base will force the New Republic to act quickly and not always thoughtfully. They will have to process large territories to find traces of what they discover."
"As I understand it, Mr. Zion planted the necessary clues for them?" Pellaeon inquired.
"Without a doubt," I assured him. "Though he doesn't think much of the original project itself, considering it a waste of resources. But that's irrelevant. The main thing is that the success of Antilles' search will give Mon Mothma more chances to hold onto the pinnacle of power. And that will again stoke the Bothans' interest and hatred toward her. Whether she disseminates the data found on Linuri or entrusts it only to a narrow circle of sentients, Fey'lya will be aware of the information: he will need ships to destroy the threat. General Antilles' task force is too small to counter everything, so it will be part of the search efforts. That will allow us, without much effort, to obtain what we need."
"I'm sure Lady Santhe will be 'very pleased' with the claims that will be made against her," Pellaeon snorted.
"No matter how she defends herself, she won't be believed," I explained. "She won't let anyone near her internal accounting and shipping manifests, considering it tyranny by the New Republic. And that will only draw additional attention to her. So Fey'lya will have to postpone his campaign with the entire Fourth Fleet and split it into the necessary number of groups to cover most of the territories."
"But he will undoubtedly attack the Sluissi Hegemony," Pellaeon clarified.
"That's the plan," I confirmed. "The information hidden in Linuri's computers, though fragmented, will, with proper skill, lead the New Republic to understand that the projects are nearing completion."
"They will have many doubts about the very possibility of such a thing," Pellaeon said after a moment's thought.
"Time, Captain," I reminded him. "A lot of time has passed since then. With proper funding and administrative approach, it is feasible. Especially for such significant figures."
"So, they will end up where you want them and do what you want them to do," Pellaeon summarized. "Fey'lya will have to pull a large number of ships from the fronts to form search parties."
"And that's not easy, given the pre-crisis state of the New Republic's economy," I remarked. "Just surveying the Ghost Nebula alone will require at least a sector fleet—and that's only for known and explored systems. But that's not our concern. When New Republic ships appear in the Nebula, Devian will start to get nervous and reveal himself."
"Sir, I've been thinking," Pellaeon said. "We don't actually have that many droids from Project Morrt. We need more if we want to monitor several sector fleets."
"As soon as we have the opportunity, we'll give Project Morrt a new push," I assured him. "For now, all the buzz droids received from Booster Terrik and Captain Irv have already been put to work."
"Well," Pellaeon chuckled darkly, "I never thought we'd be seeding entire systems with them."
"It's a costly project," I agreed. "On par with producing masking field generators. But it's necessary as an additional source of information on enemy movements."
"Either way, you'll bring the political circles of Coruscant into conflict," Pellaeon concluded. "Given the information you gave Solo about Fey'lya, and the confirmation from 'our man' inside the Imperial Palace, they'll be hunting for the guilty and slinging mud at each other for quite a while."
"Which only simplifies the execution of the second phase of Operation Crimson Dawn," I confirmed. "It's incredibly hard to repel attacks from an external enemy when you're hunting an internal one."
"All of this could play right into Palpatine's hands, sir," Commander of the Chimaera said doubtfully. "The collapse of the New Republic isn't far off. Another couple of months of this, and the peoples that make up this state will finally conclude that their membership is unnecessary and start seceding."
"Don't expect a great parade of sovereignties," I countered. "As planned, it will be a small percentage of worlds and sectors that hold no major strategic value."
"But you don't deny the fact that more valuable sectors, like Kuat for example, might also leave the New Republic?"
"Every plan must have a certain safety margin, Captain," I said didactically. "And tolerances. Perfect execution is, without a doubt, a wonderful option for us. But we shouldn't overlook the extras either. On the galactic stage, one must be prepared for any outcome, even the most improbable. The core of the New Republic will never break away from it. And those that do—Kut, Rendili, Empress Teta, or any other important sector—will have a much better chance of surviving Palpatine's onslaught when he begins to act."
"Then what, sir?" Pellaeon inquired. "Didn't you say the galaxy must be unified against the coming external threat?"
"United doesn't mean monolithic," I declared, finishing reviewing the reports with a message from Honoghr. "Interesting."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon shuddered. His gaze dimmed, his lips pressed together. The seasoned officer found it extremely uncomfortable to receive such a message. "When the comm operators received the transmission from Nista, I confess, I felt uneasy."
"Nevertheless, the goal has been achieved," I remarked. "The common Noghri have solved the problem of retribution for the dynasts' crimes on their own."
"Is that why you made the latter tell everything to the clans?" the Chimaera's commander swallowed loudly.
"In part," I confirmed. "The main thing is that the Noghri are ours again. And their life-debt is now based not on lies, but on their voluntary acceptance of me as their master. Make sure the Noghri conduct the evacuation as quickly as possible. For now, place them on the warships. They'll also keep an eye on our prisoners. Soon, all our transport and warships from the Susevfi system that are in working condition will arrive in the system to evacuate the remaining population. Under these conditions, we won't take risks and accept a battle."
"Transport ships?" Pellaeon frowned. "The entire fleet? You..."
"They received the order to move toward Honoghr immediately after we met Rukh in Trogan's orbit," I explained.
"So you suspected from the very beginning that this would happen?" Pellaeon tugged at his collar.
"The location of Honoghr has been exposed by our opponents," I reminded him. "The Noghri needed to be evacuated regardless. As for the punishment..." my gaze dropped to the screen of my personal datapad. "The dynasts torn apart alive and the decimation that reduced the Noghri population by a million individuals—this was the best of the options between their complete destruction by us, by themselves, or their handover to our enemies. Now the Noghri know that lying to one's master never goes unpunished. This bloody harvest will guarantee that their people will never again dare to deceive or let me down. They made their choice—between a life of dishonor and faithful adherence to the canons of the life-debt. The Noghri clans no longer exist. Now there is one people—the Noghri superclan, sworn to serve me and those I designate. The best of the worst options. I won't lie if I say I'm glad the children were spared from the decimation. At least someone on this planet was innocent. One can only admire such unyielding execution of laws from a certain point of view." Pellaeon shuddered all over. "Return to your current tasks, Captain Pellaeon. In the remaining time, we need to evacuate nine million Noghri using our fleet. It will be cramped."
* * *
Antilles guided his X-wing toward the nearest landing point relative to the main base building. Nothing remarkable—just a standard rapid-deployment base. All the required defensive positions, a communications center, a repair workshop... Except the garrison it was supposed to have wasn't here.
The General gently set the machine down and waited until the fighter's landing struts were firmly on the parade ground surface before sliding back the cockpit canopy and shutting down the engines. Only then did he jump down. His feet ached in response.
"I need to tell the Incom people a portable ladder wouldn't hurt," he grumbled, wincing from the pain. Waiting a couple of seconds for the unpleasant sensation to pass, he strode toward the main entrance. Several Republic troopers were already standing next to it. Identifying the senior officer among them, Wedge walked up to the group.
"General," the middle-aged major immediately straightened up.
Wedge wanted to address him by name but realized he simply didn't know it. So, hiding his embarrassment, he only silently nodded in reply.
"What do you have here?" he asked.
"Something extremely puzzling, sir," the major grimaced. "This base was deployed, judging by everything, between six months and a year ago." They arrived. An enemy base existed for that long almost in the rear, right next to the major hyperlane routes?! Oh, the stink that will rise on Coruscant. "According to the techs, a few weeks ago the garrison and all equipment were pulled out. They left only one squadron of fighter cover and a crew to keep the mechanisms running. About a month ago, right after the equipment and personnel were withdrawn, scientists showed up at the base. The interrogated say that despite the uniforms, they were civilians. Possibly conscripted. They worked in the command center; what they did remains unclear—classified. About a week ago, military specialists arrived to replace them, and the scientists were taken out. But the surface personnel still had no idea what the scientists and military personnel had been working on here."
"And the prisoners?" the young general asked the question that interested him. "Are there detention cells on the base?"
"A brig, sir," the major clarified. "But it doesn't look like anyone was in it."
Wedge's face paled.
"Did smugglers come to the planet?"
"According to the techs—and they're the only talkative ones here—armed civilian freighters arrived at certain intervals," the troop commander related. "They delivered equipment and food. Actually, they handled all the transport—they also brought in both civilian and military specialists. It's a very convenient cover if you don't want to be accidentally caught by a Republic patrol."
"Thank you for the instruction, Major," Wedge said dryly, realizing how badly he'd screwed up by not shooting down the freighter and shuttle immediately. But no, he kept thinking the information broker was on their side, just driving up his price, like last time when he met Han and Leia in the Dufilvian sector. Bastard. Well, no matter, we'll dig you out from under the ground.
"Sorry, sir," the trooper muttered, offended.
"You mentioned the scientists were working on something here. Did you figure out what?" Antilles clarified.
"We did," the major said grimly. "A couple of minutes ago."
"And?"
"Come, this is best seen with your own eyes," the major said glumly. "The sight is, to put it mildly, shitty, sir."
"Cheerful assessment," Wedge forced a smile. He desperately wished this were all just a stupid joke. And at the same time, he didn't. Because if there's something worthwhile here, it's another twist in the New Republic crisis. And if it's a dud, they'll pull out all his hair on Coruscant. So much for his luxurious mane. Four-zero in one operation—they won't forgive him that fact. "Aren't you exaggerating?"
"Sir, I've been in the Alliance since the early years," the major said coldly. "When I say things are bad, that's how it is."
Wedge didn't argue. It's better not to argue with troopers. They don't get humor, and they might punch you in the face. And the difference in rank doesn't bother them. Though it doesn't bother Wedge either.
Together they moved deeper into the complex. Antilles noticed that his squadron's ships had also landed, and now eleven figures in orange flight suits were striding quickly from the parade ground into the complex behind him.
Wedge had been on bases like this before. When they went down the northern corridor, he was perfectly oriented, understanding that they were leading him to the base's command center. The Imperials usually installed the newest and most modern equipment there, which at the sight of usually sent Republic decryption and intelligence specialists into copious drooling mixed with incoherent exclamations of delight.
The corridor descended about twenty meters below the soil surface (ah, the good old "Hide your treasure in the ground!") and ended at an armored metal door.
"Locked?" Wedge was surprised.
"You'll understand why," the major promised, pulling an Imperial code cylinder from one of his many pockets. "Only a few of my guys who took the command center know what's going on inside. They're inside to prevent information leaks. Otherwise, panic will erupt and we'll never sort it out. Lucky that one of the specialists came out—we got the cylinder from him; otherwise we'd have to blast it open. And I'm not sure we'd have gotten all the information we have now."
"Stop feeding me suspense, huh?" Wedge grimaced. In his experience, when there's such a fuss of activity, the result is usually a dud. "I had breakfast today."
An inopportune growl from his stomach reminded him that lunch wouldn't hurt either.
"I'm sure what you'll see will kill your appetite for a long time, sir," the major remarked, activating the code panel with the cylinder.
A distinct sound of servos working, and the heavy armor plate began to slide upward.
The major made an inviting gesture. Wedge looked back and saw the Rogues coming down the corridor.
"Sir, the classification..." the major started.
"Uh-huh, I know," Wedge said dryly. "They're with me."
"Understood," the major said wearily. "Do as you see fit, you're the General. Just remember, I warned you."
Unable to think of a sharp retort, Antilles simply stepped over the threshold into a spacious room packed to the ceiling with computers and mainframes. Work terminals stood everywhere, every single one active. Their screens displayed various schematics, diagrams, structures, equations, and formulas. It all looked like gibberish—to those who weren't versed in the sciences.
Wedge, though not well-versed, felt uneasy.
This wasn't a command center.
This was a design laboratory. He'd seen something similar at the Incom techs, glimpsed it on Sluis Van. During his visit to Kuat, they'd of course given him a tour, but they hadn't shown places like this. Though he suspected they probably don't differ much from each other anywhere in the galaxy.
The only thing here that was standard equipment was a powerful holoprojector—the kind engineers and technicians absolutely adore to a fanatical gleam in their eyes for building mathematical and physical models of their inventions. As one Incom engineer put it: "I'd rather spend a week fiddling with a holoprojector than build a piece of non-flying crap that won't get me any praise." In the era of significant shipyard automation, it's quite convenient to check your calculations and designs on powerful computer hardware, refining them to perfection. Or at least to a palatable version. Building prototypes that may not even be wanted by the buyer is something only a few major shipbuilders and contractors can afford. Kuat, Lianna, Fondor, Foerost...
It even makes you a little sad that some of the blueprints you see bear quite specific corporate logos... This alone is enough for the New Republic government to start asking questions of one of its major contractor companies.
The Imperial workers gathered in the room barely glanced at him at first. They sat in a row, staring grimly straight ahead. Every single one of them was fit, with military-style haircuts, well-groomed. You'd never say they were mental workers. More like stormtroopers in disguise.
Near the opposite wall, just as quietly but with weapons in hand, sat a couple of troopers. Also grim, joyless, burdened with heavy thoughts. Which, generally speaking, is uncharacteristic for troopers, given their line of work. Mental labor isn't their thing.
"They're all pretty glum," Gavin Darklighter muttered, observing the scene over Wedge's shoulder.
"Uh-huh," Antilles agreed. "We'll get them talking now."
Spotting a small glass shelf typically used for storing fragile processors, he knocked it to the floor. The empty stand shattered into fragments. The sound of breaking glass seemed to instill in everyone present some understanding of the real situation. The Imperials fixed him with a frighteningly heavy stare. The troopers jumped up from their seats.
"Knock knock," Wedge said. "Am I interrupting?"
The five Imperial specialists, all clad as one in technical service jumpsuits, snorted almost in unison.
"All right. Wedge took a deep breath. "I'm General Antilles, New Republic Armed Forces. The first one to tell me what kind of scheme you've been running here and who gave the orders will be classified as 'cooperating with the investigation.' Everyone else faces the grim prospect of POW status with comfortable bunks, slop for food, and a not-so-friendly prison administration. So. Who wants leniency first?""
No takers.
Strange, considering that Imperial prisoners usually jumped at the chance to cooperate. It was the first step toward a pardon and starting a new life in the New Republic. Sure, there were stubborn idiots — the snobby types — but after a couple of weeks in isolation they'd start singing like birds.
"No one?" Wedge concluded. "Fine. Major." He turned to the marine commander. "So what exactly was I supposed to find here?"
He nodded toward the holoprojector on the table at the center of the design lab.
"I thought they'd wised up by now," the major admitted, walking over to the computer linked to the projector and starting to key in a data request. "Left them alone to think it over... Stubborn idiots."
The marine commander finished his query, and a three-dimensional holographic image materialized above the projector plate. A very familiar image. So familiar that faces flashed before Wedge's eyes — friends and comrades who had died to destroy that infernal abomination and prevent such great evil from ever reappearing in the galaxy. They had succeeded... Why was it back?!
The Rogues gathered behind him stood in tense silence.
So this was what General Dodonna had been trying to tell him. It wasn't about the prisoners at all. Something far more terrible existed.
Wedge felt his throat tighten. Again... Again...
He turned his head to look at Tycho Celchu standing beside him.
The Alderaanian hadn't moved. He stood rigid, as if he'd swallowed a pipe, staring with glassy eyes at the bluish hologram and the schematic diagrams flickering around it. His knuckles were clenched so tightly into fists that the skin over them had gone white. He seemed to have turned into a taut wire. His cheekbones stood out; his face took on an expression of strain and resolve. He had always kept his feelings locked deep inside, never showing them to anyone. But now Wedge thought he saw the Alderaanian's eyes grow moist.
The rest of the Rogues stared at the hologram with silent resignation. Every one of them understood what would come after they transmitted this information to Coruscant.
Rogue Squadron would be sent on the hunt. They would have to sacrifice everything again so the galaxy could sleep soundly. And there was no guarantee any of them would come back alive this time. Because after all these years, the Imperials had finally found a way to make their ultimate trump card even more deadly...
"We're going to need a bigger fleet this time," Wes Janson said, barely audible. One of those who had fought beside Wedge at Endor against a second one of these things.
"Much bigger," Antilles rasped. An unpleasant tight knot formed in his stomach as he kept his eyes fixed on the hologram of the Death Star's hull components. And judging by the data in the popping details, the Imperials were now building three of them at once.
Just blueprints, but their very sight terrified the Rebels out of their wits.