Nine years, seven months, and twenty-one days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, seventh month, and twenty-first day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and six days since the Arrival.)
They ran into their first problem the moment they emerged from a nondescript "dead end" into one of the corridors that led through the entire residential wing. A patrol came straight around the corner at them.
"Hey, you two!" came the voice of the obvious patrol leader, jabbing a shock baton in Mara's direction. Oh, good for them, so confident in their security they didn't even carry blasters. The girl could feel suspicion radiating from both Republic guards, which sharply contrasted with the fear and confusion coming from Ghent walking beside her. The kid nearly bolted. Only a casually placed "rear trip" by Mara prevented his flight and effectively saved them both from immediate discovery. "What are you doing here?"
The "slicer" looked around like a trapped animal, trying to figure out how he ended up sitting on the floor. Mara, putting on the face of a weary technician, the role she'd been playing so far, waved at the guards:
"Thank the Force we finally found someone!" she forced a tired smile. "This palace is so huge that..."
"Who are you and what are you doing here?!" the guards came almost right up to them. Correct tactics — easier to paralyze a victim with a baton up close. And simultaneously incorrect — if the "victim" is prepared, that electro-baton ends up straight in the attacker's throat. But today, Mara decided to mix things up and not bloody her knuckles on enemy soldiers.
Slowly, very slowly, as if climbing a long, steep staircase, Mara Jade forced herself to pull two identification cards from the pocket of her tech jumpsuit:
"Technicians," she explained, radiating such gratitude with her expression that the second guard even blushed. Seriously? Kid, quit this job. If a smiling girl puts you in a stupor, what are you going to do when she breaks your nose and cracks a couple of ribs? "We were sent to deal with the periodic glitches in the palace's internal comm system..."
"Just now?!" the younger-looking guard gasped, making his older comrade and superior give him such an expressive look that the kid decided to shut up. Well... at least he had the beginnings of a brain.
"The comlinks have been acting up for a whole week," the senior guard grumbled, eyeing how the fragile-looking girl was trying to help her clumsy colleague get up. Mara could literally feel where the gazes of these two guards were directed. In her youth, this playing with her body used to irritate her, but now... well, whatever, it was part of her role. "Didn't they just fix them three days ago?"
"So yours are working?" Mara brightened up. "If so, we'd love to get out of here! I spent two hours looking for this blockhead," she demonstrated a friendly cuff to her partner Ghent's head. "Can you believe it, he got lost on the floor. And our comlinks aren't working to find each other. If I hadn't started looking in every corner, you'd have died here!" she said reproachfully. "What, you haven't heard the stories? Palpatine and Vader 'lost' people here all the time when they wanted to get rid of someone! It's a straight-up labyrinth...!"
"Those are just tall tales," the senior guard said, returning their forged ID cards. "Stories the Imperials spread to keep everyone afraid."
Under other circumstances, Mara would have told him a couple of stories about several clerks who died at their workplace right here in the Imperial Palace, and only their mummified remains were found. But that would blow their cover.
"Your cards check out," the patrol leader said, scrutinizing the "technicians" critically. "It's just that I don't remember seeing you here before."
"I don't remember seeing you before either," Mara put on a puzzled face, tapping her full lips with her index finger. "Have you been working here long?"
"Six months already," the guards tensed. The senior put his hand on his baton.
"Ah," Mara drawled in a simple-minded way. "Well, that explains it. This is our first time in this wing. We were working in the Vestibule before."
"So what are you doing here, then, if your section is in the Vestibule?" the senior's voice remained suspicious.
"Well, see," Mara shoved Ghent's shoulder, "it's because of him."
Honestly, she wasn't even lying. It was her "slicer" who had caused the cascading shutdowns of some systems in the Imperial Palace. It had been done in advance, to ensure proper cover.
"And what did he do?" the senior guard asked. Fear appeared in Ghent's eyes.
"Decided to earn a few extra credits on the side," Mara sighed. "As soon as he heard that they were planning to host some big guests in this wing, he ran straight to the brass, saying 'I'm such a hotshot specialist, I'll fix everything up quick.' So they sent us here. Me to check the lighting systems in the common areas, him to find the problem with the relays in this wing. And this dope managed to get himself lost on top of that. Seriously, guys, he nearly disappeared in here! Good thing he had the sense to go back the same way. Or close to it. Anyway, I found him in that dead end over there," she pointed to the cul-de-sac they'd come from. "Just standing there, scratching his head... Probably thought there was a way through."
"Why are you doing all the talking for him?" the senior guard asked suspiciously. He looked at Ghent, who was shaking like a starship coming in for a landing with failed stabilizers. "Is he mute or something?"
Mara put on an offended expression.
"Name-calling isn't nice!" she declared. "He's been mute since birth! But he's got a good head on his shoulders!"
"Er..." the younger Imperial scratched the back of his head now. "Then how do you communicate over the comlink if he can't talk?"
"What's the locator beacon and text messaging function for?" Mara's eyes widened. "If I need him, I write to him — same as he does to me. If we need to meet, we find each other by the comlink beacons."
"Tricky," the senior guard said, puzzled. "We should check you properly through central post, but these Hutt-spawn comlinks aren't working!"
"Well, that's his fault," Mara deflected the blame onto Ghent again. Good thing the "slicer" had the sense to keep his mouth shut. "He'd better fix it instead of wandering the corridors."
"Too true," the young guard nodded. "Without comlinks, it's like having no hands. So go on, find the reason the comms aren't working around here, and fix it..."
"We're on it," Mara assured him. "We just need to find the local library..."
"What's in there?" the young guard perked up.
"It's a common area," Mara reminded him. "I've already told you—they plan to house some big shots in this wing. That's why we're running around like scalded cats, working."
"The brass always have their own plans," the young guard nodded. "Well," he waved a hand toward the corridor tunnel, "go on, then..."
"Not so fast," his older colleague warned him. Pointing a finger at the small bags slung over Mara and Ghent's shoulders, he asked, "What's in there?"
"Stuff," Jade shrugged, still playing the simpleton. Ghent, meanwhile, dug his fingers into the strap of his own bag slung over his shoulder.
If this keeps up, he's going to give us away with his behavior, Mara thought.
"It's fine," she said, giving her companion a gentle smile. "They just need to check our bags. It's their job."
She wasn't worried about the contents. Even if this pair gave her a full body search, the only things they'd find were a couple of ordinary multi-tools and a custom-made thermos. They could even drink from the latter if they wanted—it wasn't poisoned, for a change. The real internal volume just didn't match what it appeared to be visually.
In Ghent's bag: a simple datapad, some snacks sold on every corner of Coruscant, another thermos with the same hidden interior in its flask, and that was it.
That was really all the two guards needed to confirm—the absence of any threat. The young guard even tried, for appearances' sake, to figure out what was on Ghent's datapad. Mara almost thought he looked disappointed when he saw nothing but a couple of perfectly legal diagnostic programs and adapters for connecting to various types of networks. The latter weren't prohibited in the New Republic either.
"The nearest library is that way," the older guard said, waving toward the far end of the corridor. Mara followed his "hint" with all seriousness, mentally noting that he'd at least forgotten to mention another room of the same type, whose entrance was ten meters ahead but one floor down. The Emperor had made sure that the beings living in his Palace were comfortable—including access to the most complete open sources of information.
"Oh, wow," she smiled. "Thanks a ton, I thought we were done for, no overtime for us. Hey, can you tell me how to get out of here afterward without getting lost?" she asked. She already knew the real answer to that one. But she was interested in what these two would say.
A standard floor patrol consisted of five such security teams. Each had its own patrol route. And these two definitely wanted to cross paths with her after the "technicians" finished their work. At least the young guard was about to drool staring at the curves of her body. Oh, boy, that beauty wasn't trained for you. Or for anyone, really. For Mara, a fit and attractive body wasn't a tool for seeking attention or approval—it was, strangely enough, a side effect of the training needed to keep herself in proper shape. But generally speaking, a nice-looking fit body helped her swindle simpletons like these.
"Down this same corridor," the older guard said dryly. "Go straight to the end. Turn left, and you'll find the exit."
"Right, thanks a bunch," Mara nodded like a bobblehead. Despite her real mood, she politely thanked them both for their "help," suppressing the urge to explain clearly and distinctly where she'd seen all these incompetent advisors, considering she could find her way to any corner of the Palace even with her eyes closed. But she had to keep playing the role.
Over the years as the Emperor's Hand, she'd gotten into the habit of easily playing the part of a simple-minded, slightly stupid woman. Men usually didn't expect a threat from such women. And they were often unpleasantly surprised by the consequences.
Waving goodbye to the guards, she grabbed Ghent's arm and slowly walked with him down the corridor, feeling two pairs of eyes burning into her back. Animals. How did Coruscant put up with such people? Where was all that "HoloNet"-advertised decency of every single Republic soldier—from the bread-cutter to the launch operator? Seemed like when they were handing it out, these two got short-changed.
"Walk slower," she hissed at Ghent. "They're watching us."
"Who?" Ghent blinked. At least he didn't turn his head, and the guards couldn't read the lips of the "mute." They—at least the senior one on patrol—still had certain suspicions about her; she could sense them through the Force. He couldn't check her identity through his comlink—not unless he abandoned his post and headed to the central dispatch himself. Though they'd confirm there that such a technician really existed—Ghent had managed to alter one of the databases. But that was the problem—just one.
The female one.
He hadn't managed to break into the database of men working in the Imperial Palace. He'd tried, but failed. And since one attempt didn't work, Mara had forbidden him from tempting the Force with more hacks. So they'd used a proven scheme with forgeries. It would work once. Until the guards figured out what was what.
But this pair's patrol route was clearly a long one—as the exit from the floor, they'd suggested she trek about five kilometers down the main corridor to reach the central staircase. As if they didn't know about the backup and service exits.
No. Of course they knew. They might be dumb enough not to have examined every millimeter of the walls and panels in the Imperial Palace corridors, and missed the hidden passages in the walls, as well as the routes to concealed landing pads. But not noticing several dozen turbolifts, staircases... No, this pair clearly wanted her to wander around this part of the residential complex. Probably until they could verify their identification data. And in that case, they likely wouldn't raise the alarm—to avoid spooking Mara and Ghent. They'd just send spec-ops groups from both ends of the corridor to take the unarmed spies alive.
But they didn't know this place like she did.
This was the floor for select guests, one of the few corners of the Palace where the Emperor had left everything exactly as it was before he came to power. Walking through the corridors here, with their ancient doors—not sliding, but hung on hinges—with wall panels and furnishings covered in intricate hand-carved woodwork—was like stepping a thousand years into the past. The Emperor usually kept the rooms on this floor for those who had a weakness for days gone by, or for those who appreciated such continuity of eras. And few knew that all of this was done merely to camouflage a vast number of Palpatine's secrets. When everything around looks exactly as it did twenty years ago, a guest isn't likely to expect that an intricately carved panel made of rare wood is actually a hidden door, from which a killer will emerge and, with a couple of wire movements, slit their target's throat. Or drag them through secret passages straight into the dungeons, where interrogators would successfully pull the victim's insides out but still get what they needed. Though she only now considered that some of those unfortunate souls might have falsely confessed just to end their suffering.
Reaching the necessary library hall door, Mara swiped her card over the panel reader. The lock's red light turned green.
"Let's go to work," she said in the same simpleton tone, continuing her role.
But as soon as the door closed behind them, the girl transformed.
Just like Ghent, who beamed when he saw the most modern computer equipment installed in dozens of units throughout the library. The very one the guards had directed them to. So they'd know exactly where to look for them if anything happened. Because the living quarters were sealed, and it was impossible to get into them now.
"Don't gape," she advised him. "We're not staying long."
"Huh?" Ghent blinked. "I thought you wanted to access the Imperial information center directly from the library."
"Yes," Jade agreed. The Force told her there were no sentient beings here. But that could change at any moment—as soon as the spec-ops came for them. "But not from this one."
"There's a bunch of libraries here?" Ghent asked, stunned. He was probably calculating the scale of the Emperor's funding, if creating several such facilities—each equipped with computer terminals worth the price of a good starship—was no problem for him.
"One on each floor of the residential representative wing," Mara explained. "They're arranged symmetrically for convenience. We're in the second hall. We'll be working in the first one. But one floor down."
"How..." Ghent started to ask, but she silenced him with a look, ordering him to sit down and keep a low profile.
The girl herself headed along the shelves of data chips, searching for what she needed.
And only when she disappeared around the corner of a bookcase, out of Ghent's sight, did she allow herself to step aside, lean her back against the end of another shelf, and slowly slide down to the floor.
Her legs suddenly felt like rubber, weak. She'd been there at that moment, when the Emperor died at Endor. But she'd seen it all. Seen how Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader supposedly killed Palpatine—poor, betrayed by his own right hand. What a drama. The wrinkled paranoid had thoroughly scrambled her brains. But thanks to Thrawn, she'd managed to pull through. So why was she trembling now?
Was it because she'd returned to where her childhood and youth had passed? Because in one of these very halls, after the destruction of the first "Death Star," she'd first learned of the existence of such a being as Luke Skywalker. And not from just anyone, but from Darth Vader himself. Who was searching for his son using Imperial databases. She'd gotten lucky, purely by chance—when she managed to pull a little trick with a computer terminal and restore Vader's most recent working files...
She wondered if the Dark Lord had known back then, almost ten years ago, that he was an old paranoid who had completely unjustifiably suspected the Emperor's Hand—an eighteen-year-old brat—of trying to usurp the owner of the stylish black combat suit and sexy raspy breathing's place beside the Emperor... how would he have felt about the future that awaited him?
Mara suspected Vader was hunting Skywalker not because the boy had destroyed Tarkin and the Emperor's favorite toy. No, surely even then he'd wanted to turn the younger Skywalker to his side and stand together against the wrinkled schemer. You never knew how the galaxy would have turned out if Vader had succeeded... Though for her, it would have been decided right at the moment the Skywalker couple usurped Palpatine's throne. Considering that Vader didn't just "dislike" her but hated her with every fiber of his being, they'd have twisted her fiery-red head off at the first opportunity.
The girl shook her red mane, chasing away the specter of the past. She hadn't come here to indulge in memories.
She and Ghent couldn't bring weapons into the Imperial Palace—even arriving through a concealed landing pad didn't give them an advantage. Same as with the guards—they could be searched at any moment. So Mara, knowing Ghent was about as good a shot as a rancor was a herbivore, had decided on a radical solution for armament.
That was exactly why they'd come to the library.
She'd already explained to Ghent the difference between the official position—"one floor, one library"and the real situation. But even that wasn't the key aspect of their task. She'd come to the library for a weapon.
In every library there was a massive folio entitled "The Complete History of Little Corvis." Mara found it quickly—it was right where it was supposed to be. Judging by the layer of dust on the chip case, even the Republicans hadn't touched it. Why? Because the chronicles of the planet Little Corvis were such a dreary, utterly unremarkable chronology of a backwater planet that no one who visited these libraries ever thought to wonder what interesting things had happened there over thousands of years of history. Mara had once dared to read the original. She'd never been knocked out so fast, even after brutal training.
In other words, no one in their right mind would ever bother with this box. Except those who knew the secret hidden inside it.
The blaster she retrieved from the box of Little Corvis's history was somewhat—but quite noticeably—different from the one she usually used, which she kept in a concealed holster on her left arm. The charge in the cartridge wasn't that big, but enough for a good firefight.
Returning to Ghent, the girl glanced at him. The lockpick had already dismantled his thermos, pulling out chips with the necessary software. The datapad had also been taken apart, revealing the required boards and chips inside. The "slicer" worked intently, with full dedication, and very quickly.
Mara unscrewed her own container and pulled out the hidden holster, attaching it in its proper place. Next came the hilt of a lightsaber, once belonging to a Jedi Master. Mara swore to herself once again that she'd find the necessary parts and build her own.
Quickly booting up a couple of computers in the background and loading meaningless diagnostic programs onto them, she poured caf from the thermos into cups and set them next to the workstations. Anyone entering would think the technicians had just stepped away. The miniature power elements hidden in the cups would keep the caf hot for a very, very long time.
"Let's go," she said, grabbing Ghent's hand and practically dragging him toward the shelves. She tossed one of the now-unnecessary bags onto a chair, and into the second she packed the "thermoses" and the ultra-high-capacity data storage device removed from the datapad.
She knew the power supply schematic of the Imperial Palace's representative wing by heart. As well as many of its secrets. But none of them could help her get through the half-meter floor slab right now.
Except the lightsaber.
With a hiss, the energy blade erupted from the hilt, and she plunged it into the floor, making the first cut at the required angle. Cutting a hole in the floor was simple. But making sure the cut-out piece could go back in place, without falling to the floor below and giving the spec-ops a clue where they'd actually gone—that was harder. Especially for someone who hadn't used the Force for a very long time. Each time, she had to concentrate for a long time. And even after those minor manipulations in front of the guards to gauge their mood, she felt unwell. Fatigue was setting in.
"Wow," Ghent said enthusiastically. "You have one of those things too?"
"Everyone has their own tools for the job," she replied, making the second cut. The Force echoed a warning that there were sentient beings nearby—but she simply didn't have time to wait for them to leave. And they weren't that close anyway...
Making a triangular cutout in the floor, Mara managed on the third try to pull the truncated triangular pyramid out of the floor. Letting the edges of the hatch cool down, she helped Ghent down. Then she jumped down herself. And again called on the Force to return the cut-out piece of floor to its place. And with each second, it became harder and harder for her to do...
Finally, with a screech and a small thud, the hatch was sealed, and the girl caught her breath.
"Get to work," she said, nodding toward the nearest computer terminals. "First, lock all the doors."
"Done," he replied after a couple of seconds, diving back into his digital kingdom. And he extended connecting cables between the "thermoses" and the data storage device. Inside the cylindrical devices they'd used to smuggle everything needed for the hack, between the outer and inner walls, arrays of data storage were arranged—the most capacious that could be bought for money from the Verpines and Givins. Ghent had spent a considerable amount of time upgrading them, expanding their already staggering storage volumes. But even then, there was no guarantee they'd be able to download all the necessary information from the data center. So for this purpose, Ghent had written a powerful data compressor. Still, Mara understood that even this might not be enough.
The "slicer" had already settled in front of the nearest machine without a word. As soon as the computer system booted up, the young man began working his magic with the zeal of a professional sabacc player, gradually connecting more and more new chips to the panel ports. The programs loaded into the computer and spread through the Imperial Palace's unified information network, transforming every terminal in the Emperor's residence from independent equipment with a specific processor into a massive supercomputer—necessary for a quick hack and data download from the Palace's basements.
Jade noted how, without any external influence, the activity indicators of every single computer terminal in the library began to light up on their own. Gripping the lightsaber more comfortably, the girl silently rehearsed its activation sequence one more time—already memorized and automatic—and then headed off to patrol the library.
The Force told her there were sentient beings nearby, but she couldn't pinpoint exactly where. They didn't have time to run to another library—the guards might discover Ghent's forged credentials at any moment. Given the atmosphere of total distrust here, due to government secrets leaking to Thrawn, it was no wonder the guards wouldn't be so generous and wouldn't waste time. The heavy wooden doors could withstand a short assault—of course, if the spec-ops didn't have something more powerful than standard blasters handy. She wondered if the guards knew that in the core of each door panel was a thin durasteel armored plate, which would make their assault a long affair?
Time was the resource they needed to pull this off.
No one intended to destroy the Imperial Palace. Or even cripple its operations. Thrawn was only interested in information. And a small "gift" for those who tried to crack the Emperor's and the Empire's secrets.
Suddenly, Mara heard a soft beeping—someone was trying to reconfigure a comlink. A pointless effort, considering that from the moment Ghent began his intrusion into the Imperial Palace network, all communication stations had simply "crashed" and stopped responding to operator commands. From the outside, at least for the first few hours, it would look like the aftermath of the cascade failures that had plagued the Palace for a very, very long time.
Mara tried to concentrate on the Force as she stepped out from behind another bookshelf, hoping to find the source of the potential problem. But reality turned out to be much more mundane.
Walking toward her with a graceful stride was a tall woman with snow-white hair. Her aristocratic face immediately suggested Alderaanian roots, but her gait... The woman was clearly a fighter. Most likely a saboteur.
"Congratulations," Mara mentally applauded herself, moving her hands behind her back. "You've found your Republic counterpart."
"Hello," the stranger said with a professional, restrained smile. "You're a technician, aren't you?"
"Well, yeah." The girl smiled amiably and nodded. "Fixing some glitches here..."
"The door to the library turned out to be locked," the owner of the white mane explained. "And my computer has 'frozen' for unknown reasons."
Sure, "unknown," Mara snorted. This woman was dangerous. She wouldn't let her talk her ear off for long.
"Locked?" Mara feigned surprise. "Looks like the glitches are hitting this system too. Do you know what's causing all this? It worked fine for so long, and then boom, it all falls apart!"
"No idea at all," the woman's smile was as cold as the look in her eyes. "So, will you help me with the door?"
"Just use another one," Mara blurted out, barely restraining herself from launching a frontal attack. This woman was getting on her nerves. Something familiar, subconscious... "There's another one at the far end, leads to the turbolifts."
"Another one?" The snow-white eyebrows shot up.
It took Mara a second to process what she'd said.
The Rebel Alliance had captured Coruscant three years ago. The Imperial Palace was their primary target. And they'd already fully occupied it and were using it for its intended purpose... THEY DON'T KNOW ABOUT THE EMERGENCY EXITS?!
"I could have just come in through the back door, gotten to the reserve command center, killed everyone there, and done the job from there," the girl realized. And no Tusken dances. Hutt, maybe she should have just used the service turbolift, gone down to the basements, and cut the servers straight out of the information center wall?! No, seriously?! For once in her life, she decided to be cautious, and here it was. She'd outsmarted herself.
"Well, yeah," Jade feigned bewilderment. "The main entrance is in the central part of the library, and the emergency one is at the far end. Everyone knows that."
"For example, I'm hearing this for the first time," the stranger's voice was calm. But Mara already saw that she had shifted her right foot back slightly. The finger play of her right hand—that's how professional fighters shake the tension out of their wrist and forearm before a fight. Smart girl. Already getting ready for a fight. But nothing's going to happen. One stab of the lightsaber into your disgustingly cold but beautiful (what a bitch!) face—and that's all it takes, just shove you under the nearest table.
"Really?" Mara clarified. "Maybe you're just not from around here?"
"I am Winter, assistant to Princess Leia Organa Solo and advisor Mon Mothma," the white-haired woman said without any hint of boasting. "I'm everywhere around here — I'm 'local.'"
No, definitely a bitch. It'd be a shame to kill someone like her — an invaluable source of information.
"Ah..." Mara kept buying time for Ghent. She glanced sidelong at the blonde. She had read every dossier from the Emperor, Intelligence, the Ubiqtorate, and absolutely everyone who could possibly provide the head of the Empire with information on the leaders and most important members of the Rebel Alliance, but the name Winter told her absolutely nothing. Which meant the woman was either a freshly minted "assistant" or had been operating in the background.
"That explains why your face looked familiar. Have we crossed paths in the Alliance? In supply."
Rear units — that's the most monotonous, tedious, and entirely unmemorable part of any soldier's service. Unless, of course, he's stealing. So it's extremely unlikely that this Winter...
"No," the woman said confidently. "You were never in the Alliance supply service."
"We had a small group..."
"For most of the war I flew from planet to planet, working for a material support group," Winter replied. Her right hand fingers clenched into a fist. "I'm familiar with all the suppliers of every single rebel group and faction without exception."
"You're bullshitting," Mara continued, carefully probing the ground. A very bad feeling was taking root in her chest. "There were hundreds of cells across the galaxy, if not thousands..."
"I remember everything I see," the woman replied. "And everyone I see. I was dropped onto Imperial warehouses, and with a single glance I memorized the layout of the entire cargo. I'm seeing you for the first time. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
"The Force, you truly have a twisted sense of humor," Jade thought darkly. She understood who stood before her. And the desire to take this woman alive grew with every passing second.
In reports dating back to before the Battle of Yavin, the Emperor's Hand had come across information about a mysterious rebel agent more than once or twice. No one knew their race, gender, or true identity. But they knew their methods. And their unique ability — eidetic memory. Even in the galaxy, beings with such a gift appeared very rarely, except among a few races.
"Pleasure to finally meet you, Targeter," Mara said with an involuntary sardonic smile. "You caused us a lot of bloodshed..."
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" the woman, hearing one of her codenames — the one the Imperials loved — took a step back to break the distance. "General Solo will be here soon, and then..."
"But you must understand," Mara dramatically extended a violet blade from her palm, "that it won't help you now..."
"Emperor's Hand," Winter's voice wavered. Slightly, almost imperceptibly. It seemed the New Republic had still managed to find a few loopholes into the secrets beneath the Imperial Palace. Because the only database where Mara appeared was located there.
"So we've met," Jade's face spread into a smile as she launched into an attack.
* * *
Over years of service both aboard the Equalizer-class assault cruiser in the Grand Army of the Republic and aboard Imperial ships, Captain Pellaeon had participated in probably hundreds, if not thousands, of battles. At first you take pride in them, recounting every skirmish to every friend and acquaintance, describing in vivid detail and every possible literary epithet how glad you were to be aboard a ship that took part in such an engaging battle.
After the first hundred battles, that desire shrinks to a terse description of only the most interesting ones.
Over the years, when life becomes a string of battles, patrols, repairs, maintenance, skirmishes with pirates, and other routine, you want to talk about service as little as possible.
Simply because you're tired of it. Humans are such creatures that over time, even the brightest episodes in life lose their color, fade, and retreat into such corners of memory that you no longer want to retrieve them.
But Thrawn's appearance... Changed everything.
Not only in Pellaeon's own life, but in the life of every single crew member on the starships under his command. Gilad, like many, had been quite skeptical of Thrawn's talent — winning by studying the enemy's art. Yet he couldn't deny that this approach actually worked. The string of victories that followed this Chiss spoke for itself.
Skepticism gave way to admiration and respect. And to a subconscious desire to understand Thrawn. If before he had seemed utterly inscrutable, after Obroa-skai his plans, though they turned out to be an order of magnitude more complex, inventive, and multifaceted, were still perceptible and understandable. Whether it was the time the Grand Admiral had spent aboard the Chimaera, or whether Pellaeon himself had learned to understand his commander one way or another, he caught himself thinking that every now and then he grasped the meaning of Thrawn's designs. True, it almost always turned out that the plan was much more complex and multi-faceted. Thrawn hadn't done this in the past. At most — one or two secondary lines and strict adherence to the main line. Now, Thrawn quite freely broke the operation schedule, adjusted them almost on the fly, allowed certain failures (yes, if they were to happen — that would be interesting) of some of his plans, but he always had reserves ready. This was... Unusual.
He had become more open, slightly less cold. No, Pellaeon could swear (though an atheist's oaths aren't filling), that every now and then the Grand Admiral allowed himself subtle jokes, which would have been unthinkable to hear from him before.
At first Pellaeon worried about this. Then he began to observe — was everything all right with the Grand Admiral. A wild thought even flashed (though it arose only because Thrawn had suddenly stopped admiring his holographic museum for a while) that Thrawn wasn't himself... And when the Grand Admiral directly told him that he might not live to see all his plans realized and handed him an information chip, Gilad's mind nearly exploded.
And that put everything in its place.
Thrawn was genuinely considering the possibility of his own death. He had learned something, something extremely important and unpleasant. And it had changed him. Just enough that he... became more human, perhaps?
No, he hadn't been like a Hutt before. But his behavior was shrouded in excessive mystery. He pulled answers seemingly out of thin air, understood the enemy from a single maneuver. Now Thrawn had become... more human, hadn't he?
He had started to smile — restrained, but still. He had begun to show some emotions — Gilad still couldn't admit to himself what had surprised him more back in the Grand Admiral's office: that the Noghri and the Guard had tried to kill each other, or that Thrawn had raised his voice and an emotion of irritation had flashed across his face.
But most of all, Gilad was baffled that the Grand Admiral willingly explained everything he was doing to him. Of course, only when Pellaeon himself had "ripened" to the right questions. But it was still progress. Fighting under the command of a genius like Thrawn was any soldier's desire. But it rankled when you were just a secretary beside him, carrying out his orders, while tactical initiative — right up to the battle for the Hast shipyards — had been steadily suppressed and ignored. Well, after this mission, he supposed he should buy Captain Mor a drink for being stubborn and determined enough to say that to Thrawn's face. And survive...
Gilad knew perfectly well how most commanders in the fleet regarded him. An uninitiative service officer-executor, whose years of glory and talent were long behind him. Maybe that's why Thrawn had essentially chosen him as his flagship captain?
And Pellaeon also feared greatly that it was because of him that Thrawn had become so... Human, perhaps? The veil of mystery had dimmed a bit; the Chiss even looked somehow organic among people aboard the Chimaera, which, with his skin and burning eyes, was quite problematic. But no, over the past months he had become what is commonly called a "father-commander."
Pellaeon had once heard the lower ranks of his ship discussing Thrawn's ruthlessness toward the enemy at Honoghr: yet it was a completely normal situation when several ships are lost during a battle. No one would have even noticed how badly battered that medium cruiser was. But Thrawn instantly reshaped the battle picture to use overwhelming fire from the Star Destroyer to deal with the assault frigate. Thrawn didn't explain the reasons for that decision — and there was no one who would have asked — but the lower ranks firmly believed that the Grand Admiral had punished those who harmed a ship in his fleet. Few survived aboard that "strike" cruiser. And on the frigate — no one at all.
Pellaeon had never noticed vengefulness in Thrawn before, and could well assume that he was merely reacting to a possible breakthrough in formation and wouldn't let them finish off the "wounded" ship... He could even have explained this in detail to the lower ranks to dispel their misconception, but he stopped himself.
Nearly six years had passed since the destruction of the second Death Star and the beginning of the Galactic Empire's collapse. Defeat after defeat, destroying trained and qualified fleet personnel. In their place came poorly trained youths, demoralized by the defeats. And Thrawn gave them hope. He showed that the enemy could be defeated. Even in the minority.
So Pellaeon said nothing. People need to believe in something. Why not in the idea that Thrawn had become more human and that even vengeance for fallen subordinates was not foreign to him?
Even if he had changed emotionally, become "simpler," his plans... Hutt! He had figured out the actions of the enemy Mon Calamari commander at Hast based on just a couple of works of art! Sometimes his head spun from all these plans within plans... Gilad was tempted to ask the Grand Admiral if he himself ever got lost in them? Or maybe he wrote them down somewhere? Well, it would be nice to share, instead of only reporting "checkpoints." Scheduled almost to the minute.
Still, Pellaeon believed that Thrawn would tell him everything himself. When he found the right questions. And asked them.
The commander of the Chimaera sighed, watching as a huge, golden-brown celestial body emerged through the central viewport of his ship.
"It gives me the creeps that someone could live on this lifeless chunk of rock," Pellaeon grimaced, commenting on his first look at the planet Lok.
The planet Lok.
"The galaxy is full of surprises," the Grand Admiral said philosophically, sitting as usual in his chair in the center of the main platform. Calm, imperturbable.
"That's why we approached Lok at a time when its moon is on the other side of the planet's orbit," the commander of the Chimaera nodded toward the tactical monitor, which displayed data on the Karthakk system. And especially on the planet closest to the Star Destroyer and its accompanying Black Asp.
"Correct, Captain," Thrawn confirmed. "We don't need surprises from the orbital defense cannon. If you would be so kind, open a general communication channel, keep the squadrons ready for battle. And track our position."
Pellaeon gave the appropriate orders. Was there any point telling Thrawn that in this case, the entire star system — every tub within its limits — would hear him? No, no need — he certainly knew that himself. That was the calculation. Probably. At the briefing, Thrawn hadn't shared the details — only assigned tasks.
"This is Grand Admiral Thrawn, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces of the Galactic Empire," the commander said calmly but forcefully into the comlink microphone clipped to the collar of his snow-white uniform. "I wish to speak with Captain Nym, leader of the organization known as the Lok Revenants."
"I'll bet that guy is looking for a deeper hole right now," Pellaeon snorted.
"Keep your money, Captain," Thrawn advised. "You'll still have somewhere to spend your salary wisely. Captain Nym will answer us any minute. Make sure those fighters that Captain Nym launched toward us from the Lok station remain in view of our pilots and gunners."
Gilad nodded silently.
Oh yes, he had noticed those twelve markers. H-6 Scurrg. A substantial machine. The Chimaera's techs had taken apart the sample they had down to the screws to confirm that, despite three decades having passed since manufacture, the fighter was still a serious opponent even now.
"First Interceptor Squadron — be ready for launch," he said into his comlink. "Target — the defense systems and fighters of the Lok station."
"Lieutenant Kreb acknowledges the order," came the response from the named unit's commander.
Pellaeon switched the communication device to standby just as the general channel came to life:
"Ho," came the characteristic drawl of an Outer Rim dweller. And clearly — a non-human. "Imperials paying us a visit. You've come a long way from your Remnants, Grand Admiral Thrawn."
"It's not easy to find you, Captain Nym," the commander continued. "However, a meeting was necessary."
"Is that so?" the unseen interlocutor was surprised. Thrawn deliberately refrained from using the holo-communicator, so as not to identify himself. Besides, it was far too great an honor for some pirate — to communicate live. In the past, voice communication in the Imperial Navy was used only between high-ranking officers...
"Monastery system," Thrawn specified. "Ten days ago, you and members of your faction participated in an attack on a medium GR-75 transport and destroyed it. Despite being warned that the ship and its cargo belonged to the Empire."
"A-a-ah," the pirate drawled. Pellaeon noted that more red dots had appeared on the tactical monitor.
"Sir," Lieutenant Tschel whispered in his ear. How did this guy end up as the watch officer so often? His punishments had long since exhausted themselves. Was he deliberately swapping watches with someone to be on the bridge more often when Thrawn was bleeding enemies dry? If so, Tschel had seriously risen in his own commander's eyes. He'd have to check the watch schedule — Tschel should be on the next one, not this one. "Two squadrons of small craft have lifted from the planet. Holding course toward us. Identified as modified Headhunters."
"Designate them as targets for the first and second fighter squadrons," Pellaeon whispered quickly.
He didn't like this. Even though he was used to Thrawn not sticking his head in a noose without a guarantee of breaking it, right now his two ships were squeezed between the gravitational pull of planet Lok on one side, pushed from the stern by an asteroid field full of obsidian boulders that were very hard to detect. On the port side hung what seemed to be the makeshift dock-station Lok, bristling with a dozen fighters, and twenty-four very real problems were already approaching from the front. That made three out of five squadrons already committed. And Thrawn had even refused to use the Crusader II at this stage! "The corvette will be needed later." That's what he said. But when "later"?! When they've stuffed their hulls full of proton torpedoes?! Hutt knows how many more small craft this Nym had in his arsenal!
"And I was wondering who tipped you off on the course," the pirate continued. "Tyberos, an old acquaintance. Thrawn, I may not harbor tender feelings for the Empire, but you'd better get the hell out of here. My business with Tyberos is my own."
"Not anymore, Captain Nym," Thrawn said. "You destroyed the cargo that Captain Tyberos obtained for me. There must be consequences."
Laughter answered him.
"Grand Admiral, you're new around here, aren't you?" Nym asked after his laughter subsided. "Imperials have come to Lok so often I've lost count. And they brought forces larger than one Star Destroyer and an interdictor cruiser. We gave each of them such a beating that they never bothered us again..."
"You simply made a deal with Grand Moff Tarkin," Thrawn interrupted him. "You supplied him with resources and your workers in exchange for him not breaking up your den, and for not scraping you along the keel of his Star Destroyer from bow to engine nozzles."
Pellaeon's eyes widened. What the... Nym was a pirate! And didn't belong to the human race. Tarkin, known for his views and cruelty, would never have...
"Ha," Nym replied after a few seconds of silence. "Good move, Grand Admiral. You want to sow confusion among my men by slandering me..."
"I'm stating facts, Captain Nym," Thrawn declared. "Tarkin is a well-known figure in the Outer Rim. His views are well known. Even the Cavrilhu Pirates had to burrow into the farthest holes to survive and only emerged after certain events. Yet you've lived comfortably here for so many decades... I wonder, did you know Tarkin would kill your subordinates, or were you truly stupid enough to expect him to remain loyal to his agreements? You don't look like a fool — they don't live that long. So only one possibility suggests itself..."
"Thrawn," there was a threat in Nym's voice. "I see you have no idea how business is done in the Outer Rim... Insulting the man whose home you flew to is a sure path to war."
"Precisely why, Captain Nym," Thrawn said, "I came to Lok myself. To negotiate with you. You will receive Captain Tyberos."
"Oh my," surprise was audible in the pirate's voice. So much so that his three squadrons of ships even froze in place, as if waiting. "You should have started with that, Thrawn! You give me Tyberos and you can fly anywhere you want..."
"The terms of our agreement will be different," the Grand Admiral said harshly. "You will receive Tyberos and an explanation for the reasons behind his personal hatred of you, and in exchange, you and your pirate faction will work for me. And also — you will facilitate the achievement of the goals I require in the Karthakk system."
Silence fell.
Pellaeon was still processing the new information about Tarkin...
Just then he saw that the Black Asp had deployed two vectors of its gravity well generators, directing one at the two enemy squadrons and the second perpendicularly, blocking the third and the Lok station. Hmm...
"Interesting proposal," Nym was silent for three minutes. "Alright, let's talk, Thrawn. I'm waiting for you and Tyberos in my fortress," the communications officer signaled that coordinates received from the surface had been loaded onto a separate computer. "My boys will escort you."
Gilad was already wondering how Thrawn would crush the insolent fool when something simply unthinkable happened.
"We will depart on a lambda shuttle," Thrawn said. "Myself, Captain Tyberos, and an escort squad of stormtroopers. Your fighters will provide our escort."
"Thrawn," Nym growled threateningly. "That's not how business is done! You don't command my fighters! Either you trust me, or..."
"Are the Lok Revenants so incapable of combat that a single transport shuttle poses a threat?" Thrawn taunted him.
Growling answered him.
"Fine," Nym said. "I'm waiting. The meeting will be arranged to the highest standard. I hope you don't mind grand welcomes, eh, Grand Admiral?"
"There are three of your squadrons in orbit, Captain Nym," Thrawn continued just as calmly. "I would appreciate it if they joined the escort of my shuttle."
Nym was gone for a while.
"The two hanging off your destroyer's bow will be enough, Thrawn," the leader of the Lok Revenants said languidly.
"As you wish, Captain Nym," Thrawn said. "For the future. I am confident you are capable of remembering that an Imperial commander should be addressed with more respect. My shuttle will launch in a few minutes."
Gilad, along with everyone else on the bridge, felt his jaw drop to the polished floor of the central platform. Was this really Thrawn?! What was going on? Where was the promised "lulling of Captain Nym's vigilance" from the briefing?! Thrawn had decided to walk into a trap?! He'd be shot down right in orbit!
"Heh," Nym said. "Well, alright then, Thrawn. Come on, I'm waiting. Tell me how you Imperials should be addressed. And I'll show you how we do things around here, in the Karthakk system."
"I can't wait to see it with my own eyes, Captain Nym," Thrawn said. "End transmission."
"Huh-h, yeah, something like that."
After the communication channel went dead, Pellaeon looked at the Grand Admiral incredulously.
"Sir, this is an obvious trap!" he said.
"Of course, Captain," Thrawn's tone didn't change. "That is precisely why shuttle seventeen will depart for the planet."
Gilad tensed. The one that had been undergoing modifications the entire flight to this system?
"I understand, sir," Pellaeon replied in a funereal tone. "Are you certain a squad of stormtroopers will be enough?"
A familiar smile appeared on the Chiss's lips.
"Get ready, Captain," the Grand Admiral said mysteriously. "Today we will get satisfaction for the destruction of our convoy in the Monastery system. And we will teach the pirates in the Karthakk system a lesson they will never forget."
Gilad had no choice but to nod silently.
Thoughts crossed his mind that one day Thrawn would overplay his hand with excessive confidence.
"Sir," Gilad said in a hoarse voice. "Flying down there is suicide!"
"Captain," Thrawn said softly, rising from his chair and signaling to his bodyguards, whose presence on the bridge the watch crew had grown accustomed to as quickly as the furniture in their own cabins. "We have an agreement with Captain Nym. My shuttle will depart for Lok regardless of whatever premonitions you or the others may have. The orders remain the same for the duration of my absence. Chin up, Captain," a slight smile appeared on Thrawn's lips. "We've already broken them. All that's left is to finish them off."
With these words, the Grand Admiral, accompanied by his bodyguards, headed toward the exit of the bridge.
Taking hope with him...
* * *
After the Grand Admiral, accompanied by his bodyguards — a Noghri and an Imperial Guard — had left the bridge, Lieutenant Tschel couldn't contain himself.
He had witnessed enough battles to stop considering himself a novice in military affairs. At every opportunity, he tried to extend his time on the bridge, listening in on the conversations between Thrawn and Pellaeon.
That particular conversation, when Thrawn had essentially scolded him for being childish, had stuck in the lieutenant's mind for a long time. And he set himself a goal — to learn everything he possibly could from Thrawn and Pellaeon, no matter what. For him, those two were undisputed authorities. No other such victorious commanders existed anywhere in Imperial Space or any of the other Imperial Remnants. And there never would be.
Running past the pit, where every officer had risen from their station and was devouring with their eyes either the tactical monitor or the central viewport, Tschel noted out of the corner of his eye that of the entire bridge watch, only one tractor beam operator was speaking into his comlink. Speaking very, very quietly... Probably telling the rest of the crew about everything happening, who were left guessing about what was going on on the bridge. And on most of the destroyer, too.
"Sir," the lieutenant's voice treacherously wavered as he addressed Pellaeon. "Tell me this is a joke and the Grand Admiral isn't planning to fly to the pirates in a single shuttle! Yes, the Lambda is shielded and decently armed, but two squadrons of enemy fighters! They'll shoot the ship down! And the Grand Admiral will die!"
Pellaeon turned his head toward him. Tschel felt his throat tighten.
He hadn't often seen the Chimaera's commander in a rage. But now...
The Captain was breathing furiously — his nostrils flared from the air he drew into his powerful chest. It seemed his uniform jacket would burst any moment from the heaving chest of the aging Star Destroyer commander. His gray hair and mustache bristled so much they made him look like a snarling animal. And in his eyes swam such genuine fury that Tschel chose to take a few steps back.
The enemies he had faced as part of the Chimaera's crew, like the battles themselves, were quite varied. Some enemies were smart, others cautious, others cunning, but there were also extremely incompetent ones — as a rule, the crew's circulating opinion was that Thrawn was destroying someone's political protégés who had landed positions above their abilities and tactical skills.
The strategies and tactics employed by Thrawn and Pellaeon in battle also varied, ranging from simple to devious, and even outright brutal. After Rugosa, Hast, and Honoghr, the crew was practically ready to canonize their Grand Admiral, even though the outcomes of engagements sometimes offered no direct advantage. But as it later turned out, the ambiguous results proved to be a huge boon for the entire fleet — for example, the operation in the Dufilvian sector, which breathed new life into them and restored their faith in their own strength.
But never before in his career had Lieutenant Tschel observed situations where Grand Admiral Thrawn was so... foolishly risking himself. And where his actions drove Captain Pellaeon into a rage.
"Tschel," the Chimaera's commander spoke his surname as if spitting out a curse. "Return to your post!"
"But, sir," the young officer tried weakly to object. "The Grand Admiral... he needs to be stopped!"
"NOW!" Pellaeon barked at him so hard that the lieutenant was literally blasted by the hot breath of the aging commander.
Tschel felt everything inside him clench. Tears, childishly, rose to his throat. His eyes treacherously grew wet.
"Yes, sir," he sniffled, spinning over his left shoulder and lifting his foot to step.
"I share those same feelings, Lieutenant," Pellaeon said quietly. Tschel bit his lip to keep from sobbing like a boy. He dug his nails into his palm until it hurt, feeling something hot and sticky run between his fingers. "I don't know what's driving the Grand Admiral, but..." Pellaeon fell silent, noisily drawing in air like a pump. "With every fiber of my soul, I hope the Grand Admiral has the cards he needs and this whole affair with Lok turns into a 'Pure Sabbacc' for us."
Lieutenant Tschel didn't play cards, considering them unacceptable for an Imperial officer. But he knew perfectly well that a "Pure Sabbacc" was a hand in the game called Sabbacc where the player wins everything.
"Now report to the medbay, Lieutenant," Pellaeon declared in a commanding tone, turning to face the viewport. "You've dripped enough blood from your hands..."
"Shuttle Seventeen has left the hangar bay!" came the voice of one of the watch officers.
Tschel, like most of those present, ignoring all rules and regulations, literally devoured with their eyes the snow-white hull of the ship, the preferred transport for many Imperial civilian and military officials. The lieutenant only noticed that the same tractor beam operator he'd noticed earlier was still staring at his equipment as if it were broadcasting zeltron hot-dances! Shameless! How could anyone think about work at a time like this?!
"At least he could have taken a JV-7," came Pellaeon's snake-like hiss. "A Delta is a hundred times better than a Lambda..."
"Enemy squadrons are forming two escort columns around the ship," the same officer continued to state the obvious. "Distance — eighty units!"
Lieutenant Tschel watched the unfolding events with secretive hope. What if Thrawn was right and his actions had already broken the pirates' will to resist? What if there was nothing to fear?!
"The enemy has broken formation!" the watch officer for sensor systems squealed. "They're coming onto an attack course! Target — Shuttle Seventeen!"
"Target the guns!" the Chimaera's commander shouted. Then, obviously, it dawned on him that the Lok Revenants' fighters were beyond the range of the ship's artillery. "Launch fighters!"
"Sir," the senior artillery officer and the watch officer responsible for hangar operations drew attention to themselves. "Grand Admiral Thrawn ordered no response under any circumstances!"
Tschel couldn't believe his ears! How could that be?!
Judging by Pellaeon's reddened face, he understood perfectly what kind of trap he was in — if he risked disobeying the order, he would likely disrupt some of Thrawn's plans. But leaving things as they were meant letting the pirates kill the Supreme Commander!
In the first case, Captain Pellaeon, by giving the order to attack, could bring a court-martial upon himself and the punishment that would follow.
In the second... According to the Charter, only in the second case could Pellaeon disregard Thrawn's final order and not fear the consequences.
Lieutenant Tschel understood perfectly well what was happening. And he saw the confusion on Pellaeon's face.
Grand Admiral Thrawn had trained them so thoroughly to follow his orders precisely that even going against his will now seemed unthinkable. He had proven time and again that even orders and instructions that seemed meaningless at first had a much deeper meaning behind them... And if everything happening was part of Thrawn's plan, then opening fire now...
"The enemy has destroyed the Lambda's engines," the duty officer at the sensor systems console said in a completely defeated tone.
"Hah-ha-ha-ha!" the general comm channel suddenly came alive. "Stupid Imperials! Works every time! Watch, you bastards, how your 'Grand Admiral Thrawn' dies, along with the traitor Tyberos. This planet is mine! Mine alone!"
Several Headhunters opened fire with laser cannons, shredding the armor and cockpit of the battered ship. And then two proton torpedoes burst from the launchers of one of the pirate fighters and raced toward Grand Admiral Thrawn's ship...
The next instant, directly ahead of the Chimaera's course, a blinding flash erupted from the transport shuttle torn to pieces.
The last thing Lieutenant Tschel heard before passing out was his own crying and the roar of grief that would have shamed even an enraged rancor.