This is starting to turn into a soap opera, the thought flashed through my mind after the valiant privateer, the terror of all New Republic logistics supply lines in the vicinity, Captain Tyberos, took off his mask and revealed his clearly bewildered face to those present.
"But... how..." he stammered. "Nim bragged that he killed you, Mom..."
Well, at least Orra Sing didn't let me down and didn't throw herself onto her "little boy's" chest. Otherwise, I'd definitely start spitting from this tear-jerking family story.
"That cattle would never have killed me," she hissed, giving the pirate lying on the floor a look full of rage. She'd probably have hit him with something particularly heavy if she could. But the two squads of stormtroopers nearby had a sobering effect on her. "He must have decided that alive, I'd be more useful to him as a living trophy."
"Possibly," Tyberos said. There was disgust in his voice.
So, that's it? No tearful hugs for the family reunion? No? Really? Well, thank God. Or the Force.
"What's the real reason Captain Nym attacked the ship you were traveling on?" I asked the only question that interested me at the moment. Someone who wants to kill a woman who chose another man kills her. But doesn't keep her prisoner for several years next to a huge treasure trove. That makes the story known to the Jedi Eymand and Captain Tyberos about the "death" of the latter's parents not so credible.
Orra Sing, shaking her dark-red ponytail, looked at me with undisguised hatred. And she didn't answer. You didn't have to be a Jedi to see the irritation mixed with arrogance and haughtiness frozen on her face.
"Put her in the brig," I ordered. Tyberos twitched to rescue his mother but was immediately stopped by the fighters of the Fourth Squad. The mercenary gritted his teeth, clenching his fists... He spent some time calculating whether he could stand alone against nine stormtroopers. And he was definitely unaware of the bodyguards accompanying me. Well, I'm confident in one thing: in case of a direct attack, Rukh and a couple of Tierce's clones wouldn't leave even a memory of him. Let's see what the privateer decides.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn," he addressed me. Well, negotiations in such a situation are the best solution. It's good that I was spared tearful pleading. "I ask that you release her..."
"Immediately after we obtain the necessary information," I replied, looking him straight in the eye. The man was still burning with anger but understood that the situation wasn't favorable for him. He wouldn't achieve anything through conflict, while cooperation would be rewarded.
"But these are our personal problems," Tyberos insisted. "Family..."
A last desperate attempt. He had already accepted the inevitable, so there would be no trouble. Tyberos remembers perfectly well the consequences of his encounter with Rukh and his knives. And he knows there won't be a second chance to survive by going against me.
"I'm inclined to think otherwise," I said, watching the stormtrooper medic finish treating Captain Nym. I commanded:
"Take this one to the Chimaera as well. Inform the interrogators of his arrival and conduct a full debriefing. Captain Pellaeon will provide the list of questions."
"You're taking him too?" Tyberos's hands clenched into fists again. A grimace of rage crossed his face. "You promised! He killed my paren... My father!"
Ah, yes, how could I forget...
"Captain Nym will answer my questions regarding his work with Grand Moff Tarkin and will then be handed over to you, as agreed," I replied. "Not before. I assure you, it won't take much time."
"As you say, Grand Admiral," Tyberos replied, glaring in all directions. He was still irritated, probably wanting to extract a few secrets from Nim himself. Too bad. "What are your orders?"
"The assault legions, supported by heavy armor and other units, are conducting a cleanup of the pirate band ground bases on Lok," I reminded him. "Your knowledge of the terrain may be useful to them."
"Understood," he replied. After a pause, he asked:
"Did you find Nym treasure vault?"
"Yes," I didn't lie. Now his question and interest in Nim were clear. He probably had a more private treasure vault too. "After the completion of the Karthakk system campaign, considering your merits and demerits, the amount of your reward will be determined in exchange for supplying the information I need."
"The hint is understood, Grand Admiral," Tyberos replied, picking up one pick from the floor and yanking the second from the wall. Wiping them on the bedroom's bed linens, he slung the weapons over his back. "I've had an idea. You wanted to win the hearts of the locals, didn't you?"
"Suppose," I agreed, noting out of the corner of my eye that Rukh had appeared from behind me, positioning himself to block any possible line of attack from the privateer. "What do you propose?"
I'd bet he was trying to show his usefulness and loyalty in my eyes, to get his mother out of the Chimaera's cells faster. Well, he would be disappointed.
"Take as many prisoners from among the pirates as possible," he said. "Then announce it and call on the locals to testify against each of them. Then hold a mass execution. I assure you, if you then also bring order to the planet, hunting down and destroying the local petty gangsters, and start supplying food here, every single person here will want to break their backs at your factories. But only if they see that you execute everyone who, in one way or another, made the locals' lives hell."
"Thank you for the idea, Captain Tyberos," I replied dryly. In other words, he had just repeated my own idea, Lieutenant Kreb's words, and seasoned it with a couple of his own inventions, possibly part of his own plan he'd been nurturing for seizing Nym territories. And I was supposed to appreciate this? Since when was standard justice elevated to the rank of a particularly valuable idea? Well, for a pirate and mercenary, it might be a revelation. "Now, return to your current tasks."
"As you command, Grand Admiral," the privateer put his mask back on, then silently walked out, passing two Imperial Guards.
Watching him disappear into the far part of Nym fortress, I turned to Sergeant TNX-0297.
"Search everything here," I ordered. "Any hidden compartments, if they exist in Nym quarters, must be opened."
Men like pirate kings either keep their most valuable trinkets at hand or in a particularly secure place. We will undoubtedly beat this information out of Nim. But reinforcing it with our own findings never hurts.
* * *
A lot had changed on Sluis Van since Sergius last dealt with its customs service.
Not surprising, though, considering the rumors he had planted in the HoloNet about the Bothans being involved in weaponry schemes involving previously demilitarized New Republic fleet starships.
Sluis Van found itself at the center of a scandal from which it's not so easy to clean up. It was no wonder law enforcement from Coruscant had shown up here.
And, as a result, inspection procedures at the spaceports had tightened. But the most unpleasant part was that the Republic had started combing through recently arrived individuals on the planet and stations. Of course, this was to be expected — if the Imperials had been acting. But he hadn't noticed the Republic doing this in the past. Well, it seemed these guys learned faster than anticipated. Fine, they would play by their rules. They wouldn't prove anything anyway.
Sergius sat in the office of a spaceport employee, doing his best to portray a provincial simpleton extremely interested in the attention he was receiving.
Across from him sat an officer from some New Republic intelligence service, who had spent the last half hour studying his personal file and travel documents stored in the spaceport's database. Sergius wasn't particularly worried about what the local specialists might think — his cover story was arranged so that it was impossible to find fault with. Though, admittedly, the operation was dragging on. Out of boredom, Sergius had figured out several smuggling schemes and state property embezzlement methods used by the local customs officers. But he was certainly in no hurry to report them to the authorities.
Particularly because he had turned out to be almost right about his "girlfriend" from customs. At first, he thought she was using unaccounted weaponry to pass to criminals. Then, after receiving a notification from command about the Bothans' actions, he focused his attention on outgoing cargo. And he realized that his customs acquaintance was sending military equipment from his — and possibly other — warehouses to completely different destinations. Both through official fleet supply channels and bypassing them — to the Bothans. For what purpose such "double bookkeeping" was needed, he didn't know yet.
"Your ID seems to be in order," the Republic officer declared, finally stopping his study of the data on the computer. It had taken this guy a whole hour to read such a meager file... Considering that an authenticity check doesn't take much time, one could assume he'd spent the rest either just bored or killing time until his shift ended. "You work at the warehouses, right?"
"Yep," Sergius nodded vigorously.
"Haven't noticed anything suspicious lately?" the Republic officer asked him.
Here we go... The New Republic intelligence services were using Imperial recruitment methods? Seriously? Now, regardless of Sergius's answer, this guy would start going on about the threats, external and internal, that beset the young state at every turn.
"Well, how would I know," Sergius shrugged. "I come to work, sit down at my console, and work. I don't look around. If something's happening outside, I don't see it."
"Dangers can be anywhere," the Republic officer said meaningfully. "For example, at your warehouse — does anything strange ever happen, anything different from the usual routine?"
"Well, it's monotonous work," Sergius continued his yokel act. "They bring me papers, I hand over the cargo. Cargo arrives — I process the paperwork. What could be strange about that?"
Simple-minded individuals are the most common category of informal contacts who supply operatives with the bulk of their information. They are the easiest to recruit by playing on certain weaknesses or vices. The next couple of questions would tell Sergius whether the Republic officer was asking them for show, to reflect simulated busywork in his report, or if he really intended to recruit the warehouse worker.
"You'd know best," the operative hinted. "You're a professional in your field."
"Well, of course!" Sergius confirmed hotly. If only you knew, Republic man, how right you are. "Nobody does inventory better than me!"
"Of course, of course," the Republic officer hastily agreed. "But you must understand that in light of recent events, when the Empire threatens the New Republic, every responsible citizen should be vigilant and help the intelligence services as much as they can."
Seriously? The Imperial manual for recruiting agents and informants?
"Yes, of course, we must win!" Sergius replied, waving his arms excitedly like a typical yokel unable to control his emotions. "These Imperials are getting absolutely tiresome! We need to, like, give it to them! Just take 'em and shoot 'em up good! So they never, ever come back!"
"The Armed Forces of the New Republic are precisely dealing with this problem," the Republic officer assured him.
Oh, really? Sergius almost asked. Judging by the news on the HoloNet, it was Republic military installations that were "getting it."
"That's right!" the Imperial agent nodded vigorously.
"That's why I invited you for this meeting," the officer said, and Sergius wanted to weep at what he was hearing. Now he'd get the speech about his specialness and uniqueness. "Every citizen of the New Republic must be vigilant — enemies are not only on the battlefields but deep in the rear. Only the vigilance of professionals like you will help us identify them. Without you and other responsible citizens like you, the New Republic would simply perish."
Good riddance, Sergius mentally wished.
Outwardly, he blinked in surprise.
"Well, I'm telling you, everything's fine at the warehouse," he pretended to be confused. "Well, I do everything I can, of course."
"No one doubts that," the Republic officer remarked with a friendly smile. "But you should know that our leadership has chosen you."
"Chosen me?" Sergius feigned extreme surprise.
"Exactly," the Republic officer confirmed. "You see, we received information that not all military-grade equipment from your warehouse is being returned to the New Republic's warships."
"Well," Sergius blinked. He didn't believe the coordinator had managed to find out that he had leaked information to the HoloNet about the secret supply channels of Republic weapons to the Bothans — the loose ends of this murky story were too well hidden. "Where does it go, then?"
"That's what we'd like to know," the Republic officer lowered his voice. A durasteel hardness appeared in his eyes. It didn't match his behavior, physiognomy, or general communication style. This man was trying to intimidate him without having sufficient evidence. "How is military property disappearing from your warehouse?!"
Time to act offended innocence, and fast. Because the question was indeed interesting. And, apparently, it wasn't particularly connected to the illegal supply channel for the Bothans. Very interesting.
"Everything at my warehouse is in order!" Sergius pouted. "Box to box! Everything that comes in goes out! I never make mistakes!"
The "colleague" stared at him for a while with a contemptuous look, then pretended to soften.
"It's not about you," the Republic agent said hastily. "You were checked, repeatedly. You were never caught in any criminal activity, and you went to the warehouse on the recommendation of customs workers. But strangely, after you got there, military cargo started disappearing — turbolasers, lasers, scanning and communication systems, deflectors..."
How interesting. Considering he wasn't doing this himself, very few possible "accomplices" were left — the warehouse manager and the customs officer who got Sergius the job in the first place. Because the first prepares and signs the cargo manifests, waybills, and invoices, and the second controls their acceptance into the warehouse, signs each seal, and monitors the subsequent shipment, confirming the seals are genuine and the container hasn't been opened.
So, so, so... Apparently, he had missed something. He relaxed when he heard about the double supply channels for the Bothans. He focused on figuring out through the paperwork exactly where the cargo was going — both official and otherwise. What the Republic officer was talking about regarding the disappearance of military property clearly didn't relate to the Bothans' dealings.
Now I need to find out what the Republic knows. Because he wasn't about to give up "his customs officer." At least not until he found out exactly where she was sending everything she took from his warehouse.
"Well... How is that even possible?" he wondered. "I check all the goods that come in. Then I hand them over according to the invoices..."
"We have a hypothesis," the Republic officer said importantly. "You hand over the goods in packaged condition, correct?"
"Well, yeah," Sergius nodded vigorously. "That's the procedure."
"I know," the other replied. "Tell me about how you accept goods for storage."
A test. The fact that the Republic officer knew about the warehouse dispatch procedure suggested he also knew how they arrived. And now he decided to provoke the worker, whose head he'd turned with recruitment talk, into telling the story. If Sergius tried to lie, he'd look implicated in the disappearances.
And lying would be easy here. Because the cargo dispatch procedure had never been followed. At least not as it was written in the numerous documents. And this was the first trap — what happened within the warehouse walls didn't interest the intelligence services until situations like this... occurred.
Working at the same place for a long time helps a worker understand how to work "correctly" and learn to work in a way that "can't be challenged." But still leaves free time paid for from the spaceport budget. Time that could be spent as one saw fit.
The latter was something a warehouse worker from Tanaab couldn't possibly know by default — how he was supposed to work correctly. And if he now told how he actually worked, the Republic "colleague" would have big questions for him personally. He couldn't fall back on claiming the warehouse manager taught him that way, and the smiling customs officer condoned it.
The scheme was simple, but it turned out to be working not for the Bothans, but for the "other side." And it was created specifically to shift the blame onto the simpleton from Tanaab. Clever. His own oversight. Fine, noted.
"Well," he pretended to need to remember exactly what and how he did. For individuals of low intelligence, which he was pretending to be, it would be stupid to just rattle off the instructions from memory. No, such individuals rely primarily on their own memories of how exactly they perform certain procedures. "So, I'm sitting at the warehouse, dealing with paperwork. Then the boss says, 'Hey, a new tub has arrived with cargo, the customs officer is waiting, need to check it,' and I head to the unloading zone. There, I look at the boxes they've unloaded. Together with the customs officer and the boss, I open each one, check to make sure the containers have what's listed in those... whatchamacallits," he pretended to think. "Cono... Coto... Copro..."
"Connaught notes," the Republic officer prompted.
"Bill of lading," the Republican officer provided.
"Yeah, that's what I said!" Sergius blinked innocently.
"What happens next?" the Republic officer decided not to pursue the topic.
"Well, once we've checked everything, we pack it up, seal it, and onto the shelves," Sergius concluded laconically.
"You're sealing them," the "colleague" corrected him again.
"Well, that's what I said, isn't it?" the Imperial agent inquired.
"Alright, let's say that's the case," the man sitting across from him agreed too easily. "And you release the cargo after the documents arrive for them, right?"
"Yeah," Sergius nodded. "How else would it work?"
"It's strange seeing such strict adherence to the law from someone from an undeveloped planet," the Republican said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
"Well, I love my job!" Sergius protested. "How else am I supposed to follow it? I do exactly what's written."
"I suppose," the Republican evaded a direct answer. "But then how is it that part of the cargo was stolen?"
"Stolen?!" the agent feigned surprise. "No, no, no! That can't be! Everything's exact according to the documents—what comes in, goes out! The paperwork all matches!"
"That's precisely the problem—only on paper," the "colleague" declared. "In reality, half the weapons and other military cargo just disappears! And I want to understand—are they being stolen as soon as they arrive at the warehouse, or during the process?"
"That can't be!" Sergius waved his hands. "I check everything! I open every crate when they come in. I verify all those inven... invint... niver..."
"Inventory numbers," the interlocutor helped him again.
"Well, that's what I said!" the Imperial agent exclaimed. "Anyway, nothing can disappear from the warehouse! Not at all, no way!"
"And yet—the fact is clear," the Republican pressed his point. "Can you explain why half the weapons vanish?"
Whoa. Half. He'd thought it was only a small portion, but it turned out to be far more serious.
"I think I know where it's all going," Sergius said, pretending to think, and then lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"I'd be interested to hear your version of events," the agent said.
"Look, you're the authorities, you know everything," he flattered. "Have you heard, by any chance, that the Bothans are stealing weapons?"
The Republican noisily inhaled, closing his eyes. Then he opened them and looked at the "warehouse worker" as if at an idiot. Which was, in fact, exactly the role Sergius was playing now.
"Intelligence has checked that lead," he replied. "I can tell you for certain that the stolen weapons from your warehouse never reached the Bothans."
"Well, then," Sergius blinked, feigning surprise. "Then where did it go? We only store it; it's other systems that ship it out... I'm telling you for sure! No one's taken any turbolasers from our warehouses in a month! Only minor equipment here and there!"
Though he already had a suspicion.
"We've identified losses at other warehouses, but we suspect it's happening everywhere," the Republican admitted, thereby confirming his own lie from just a few minutes earlier. "That's why I approached you—as an honest and upstanding citizen of the Republic."
"Right, 'mostly'," Sergius thought, realizing that the man sitting across from him was continuing to recruit... an Imperial agent... and using for that purpose the manual for working with potential agents developed by Imperial Intelligence itself. Surreal, to say the least.
"Well, I'm ready," Sergius spread his hands. "What do I need to do?"
"I'll contact you a little later," the Republican said vaguely. "We want you to help us stop this and other crimes."
"Isn't that dangerous?!" Sergius pretended to be scared.
"There's not the slightest cause for concern," the "colleague" replied, giving an insincere smile. So, at best, during the "mission" he'd either be caught or shot. "You'll just need to find the right moment during cargo reception and plant a few tracking devices inside the containers. That way, we'll know where the containers go."
"Well, how am I supposed to do that?" Sergius wondered. "They're inspected by the customs officer. And we seal them together—no one can open the containers without the other. It's a security rule, and we take security very seriously here!" he recited one of the port service slogans with not a little pride.
"You'll do it right before sealing," the Republican said dryly. "You'll plant the beacons while I and my people distract your trade inspector. And before she arrives, you'll do the initial sealing with your own seals. She'll have no choice but to seal the cargo herself and send it to the warehouse."
Oh, idiots...
"Well, it doesn't sound too dangerous," Sergius chewed his lip. "But it's kind of scary... What if the warehouse manager catches me at it? Then sees those little balls of yours..."
"Beacons," the Republican corrected. "Don't worry, we'll monitor the situation and intervene if necessary. The situation is under our complete control. The New Republic needs you. And we're running out of time."
"Yeah, you have no idea how much," Sergius thought grimly.
The translation of the Republican agent's phrase is simple and straightforward—we'll give you the beacons, then in full view of everyone, we'll draw attention to the customs officer and the cargo so you can slip the beacons inside. It's quite likely they suspect the customs inspector's involvement in this mess, which is why they came to you—because you're dumb as a doorknob and they frankly don't care if you get killed. And they're using such stupid methods not because they don't know any better, but because in the end, the real thieves will kill you, get scared that they're being hunted, and go to ground. Then we can calmly report that we've defeated everyone, and the official reports will state that you carried out all the criminal activity personally.
In other words—the Republicans just wanted to sweep the whole affair under the rug. They didn't seem to actually care that the weapons were disappearing, because according to the official documents, everything had already been returned to the ships long ago.
And now they were just covering their tracks. And they'd chosen a fool with his ears wide open for the job.
Now he had to sit and guess what was true and what was outright lies.
"Well, bottom line, I'll help you," because if he didn't do it voluntarily, the decision might be made for him. And if the Republicans really wanted to get to the bottom of things, they'd have arranged a night-time break-in at the warehouse and figured it out themselves.
But instead, they decided to pull the wool over the eyes of a "simple-minded" farmer.
"Excellent," the Republican smiled, utterly unconvincingly. "We'll contact you a little later."
"Uh-huh," Sergius nodded. "So, I'm off, then?"
"Yes, go ahead," the Republican gave him a leisurely permission, barely holding back a smile. "He could, in principle, just be working with whoever's stealing the military property," it dawned on the coordinator.
Already at the exit, Sergius heard laughter behind his back.
Let them. Let those sentient beings chuckle behind his back if they pleased. We'll see how their giggles turn into screams of terror when Grand Admiral Thrawn shows up here and radically solves their cargo transport problem.
Sergius knew he would have the last laugh.
And, unlike the Republicans, he was firmly determined to find out where the military property was disappearing to. Bothans or not, the fact remained—the customs officer and the warehouse manager were actively "diverting" Republican and Imperial military equipment to the side. And the coordinator had no doubt that all these shipments would bring far more benefit to the Grand Admiral than they currently did to the New Republic.
* * *
"The Star Destroyer is ready to carry out its combat mission, sir!" Lieutenant Tschel reported the moment Gilad appeared on the bridge.
The commander of the Chimaera gave his subordinate a heavy look, then nodded in agreement.
"Await further orders," he said, knowing they would come any minute now—as soon as he reached the chair on the central command platform and passed the latest intelligence reports to the Grand Admiral.
"Yes, sir!" Tschel replied smartly. Gilad noticed the young officer hesitating.
"Questions, Acting Executive Officer Tschel?" he inquired in an official tone.
"Yes, sir!" the other's face lit up. "Tell me, uh..."
"Why I appointed you to this position?" Pellaeon looked at his subordinate grimly.
"Yes, sir. I just thought..."
"Don't," Gilad advised, mentally cursing himself for being sharp and nearly insulting his subordinate on impulse. And honestly, Tschel wasn't the worst candidate for the position. Thrawn was right—the kid was striving to improve himself, and such ambitions needed to be supported in any way. In the fleet, Star Destroyer commanders generally didn't greet such zeal with much enthusiasm—diluting an already barely-cohesive crew with new faces, even cloned specialists, wasn't a sign of good form. Clones were diligent and no worse than the originals... It was just that accepting them as part of the crew was... difficult. The days when clones made up so much of the fleet that you could hardly find a naturally created sentient among them were long gone. For those who had lived through the Clone Wars, such shuffling and mixed crews held nothing objectionable... But Gilad was certain in his soul that Tschel wasn't yet ready to command a ship—whether a corvette, frigate, gunship, patrol, or customs boat. Maybe Thrawn was right that the boy needed to be "broken in" on the thankless job of executive officer. After all, in reality, all the routine on board a ship fell on the XO. And many couldn't handle it, thinking the executive officer was practically a deity on a starship.
Unfortunately, that wasn't true. The executive officer was the one who handled all the thankless, behind-the-scenes work that went unnoticed compared to the ship's commander. Repairs, food supplies, scheduling, resolving internal crew issues... Even repairing the head couldn't escape the XO's attention. And considering Gilad's own experience on the Chimaera in that role, it was hardly pleasant. It was a simple choice—either you swim and toughen up, or you sink and hate it for life. And here, Tschel's youth could play a cruel trick on him—that fire of ambition that had recently appeared in him could easily be extinguished by the tedious and seemingly useless work of an XO. And a lost argument with Thrawn could end in two disasters at once—the loss of a decent watch officer and the latter's disillusionment with further career advancement. That was how young officers' careers died. Nobody wanted to do routine work while the fleet smashed the enemy. Especially considering that literally right after returning to the Chimaera, Thrawn had casually asked Pellaeon why Tschel, after his appointment, was simultaneously on the combat bridge with the Star Destroyer commander, in violation of fleet regulations. While every conceivable fleet law, written in blood, dictated that the second-highest-ranking person on a military vessel should practically be glued to the auxiliary command post. In case the combat bridge was knocked out, the ship's commander was killed, and the chain of command was decapitated, the XO at the ACP could almost instantly restore control and command of the ship. Something that had not been done in time on the Executor during the Battle of Endor.
"I'll give you one piece of advice, Lieutenant," he said quietly. "Never, do you hear me, never argue with the Grand Admiral about anything, and especially never sit down to play sabbacc with him."
"Um... Yes, sir!" the other replied, eyes wide. "Uh... may I ask why?"
"Because you will lose with one hundred percent certainty," Gilad sighed bitterly. "Now, go to the ACP and wait for orders. We're moving out soon."
He expected Tschel to start protesting, saying that since they weren't in combat, he could roam the entire ship; the regulations didn't forbid it.
But to his surprise, the young officer simply handed him a small data chip:
"Here's the data on the Chimaera's damage and casualties from the battle. Information on the fleet's ships is provided in separate files, and the last document on the list is the overall fleet statistics. The stormtroopers haven't sent their data yet..."
"Because their mission isn't finished yet," Pellaeon said grimly, taking the chip. "Thank you. Return to your post."
"Aye, Captain," Tschel saluted and quickly left the bridge, heading for the auxiliary bridge, buried deep within the ship beneath layers of armor and decks. It was rarely used, as instances of the bridge being knocked out were not that numerous in Imperial fleet history. Hence, the regulations regarding the distribution of duty stations between the ship's commander and the executive officer were, to put it mildly, ignored.
As he headed toward Thrawn, who was examining data on his datapad, Pellaeon connected the chip Tschel had given him to the datapad in his hand and quickly reviewed the information concerning Chimaera's affairs and the fleet's general status. Hmm... Very good. They hadn't reached their previous level yet, but there was progress nonetheless.
And yes, he'd have to let Tschel know later that he'd done a good job—a full fleet report had taken him no more than an hour, while Pellaeon himself spent up to a quarter of a day on it. It wasn't easy commanding a ship when you also had to perform the XO's duties. Well, hopefully Tschel's drive wouldn't fizzle out in a couple of weeks.
"Grand Admiral, sir," he announced his presence beside Thrawn. "Intelligence has picked up a steady signal from the beacon planted inside the Jedi Skywalker's droid. It looks like we've found them..."
* * *
."..found them," Pellaeon's final phrase snapped me out of my thoughts about what a stinking mess I'd gotten myself into by attacking the pirates in the Karthakk system.
First of all, what had been obvious from the first glance at the planet from orbit. It was a desert and practically barren planet. To grow any crop on it without resorting to endless food shipments would require a lot of work. It would need specialized personnel to fix the situation, if it was even possible. I wasn't talking about full-scale terraforming and turning Lok into a blooming world—even I, without an education in that field, understood that doing so would probably require changing the planet's orbit. Lok was the closest to the local star, and the scorched wasteland that it was, was largely due to its proximity to the star. Of course, there were plenty of technical ways to solve such a problem. It all came down to finances, time, and the competence of the invited specialists.
Point two.
In its time, the Empire hadn't limited its attention in the system to just Lok's orbit. There was an abandoned Imperial garrison on the surface, battered by time and combat. A massive landing force of six stormtrooper legions, equipped with heavy machinery, was spreading across the planet like a cancerous tumor, capturing one region after another. The locals offered no resistance, which was partly good—the stormtroopers didn't harm them in return or infringe on their rights. That meant there was a possibility in the future of establishing some kind of contact and interaction.
So, literally an hour after my return to the Chimaera, we had information that Lok also had a mine that had once belonged to the Empire, where minerals and some types of gases were extracted. In essence, the enterprise was a labor camp where prisoners worked. After the Empire's expulsion, the locals, slaves, debtors, and other sentients entangled in various forms of debt bondage to the pirate groups were operating there. The volume of extracted minerals was so large (by the standards of the pirates from the "Lok Revenants") that the revenue negated any need to pay attention to the dangerous asteroid field—the Spine of Lok. Strange. Here was a fully functioning source of minerals for future production. At least in perspective.
Next. Almost without problems or damage, we managed to capture an industrial facility known as "Nym's Factory." It was a droid production facility, apparently left over from the planet's occupation by the Trade Federation. Here, the "Lok Revenants" repaired their aircraft and manufactured parts and hulls to build new ones. But recently, the equipment had fallen into disrepair—for the most part. Also, due to the pirates' minimal needs, they hadn't actually used the B-1 droid production lines, having reprocessed them in the most barbaric and sacrilegious way to produce parts for their fighters. Well, good and bad. Good—now we could conduct makeshift assembly of the H-6 "Devastator"casting parts and manually assembling the machines, as Nym's pirates had done. Bad—billions would be needed to restore the factory to its original production. Because I wasn't particularly impressed with the H-6. And the pirates seemed never to have heard of technical maintenance for equipment and conveyors. As a result, the factory was more of a warehouse for some of Nym's other loot. And very little of it was functional. Alright, we'd deal with this asset later.
Nym's Factory.
What I liked even less was the biological laboratory that had been discovered. Imperial. At first glance, empty for years. But strangely, no one—not even the most hardened pirates—had risked looting or raiding the abandoned facility, which lacked any security. At least, not recently. Captain Dorja's stormtroopers had secured the facility and established a biological threat perimeter for a more detailed examination of the structure. Simultaneously, a search for information among the locals was underway about what this object was and what rumors surrounded it. Judging by the multiple traces of battle, someone had stormed it a few years ago. That meant such information should still be preserved in the memory of the sentients living nearby.
The question arose—what had the Empire been studying or producing here that, after the facility was abandoned and stormed, no one tried to loot it and take everything valuable? On Lok, where even a broken terminal could be valuable, it was unlikely that the locals had decided out of the goodness of their hearts to leave a source of valuable machinery alone. It needed to be investigated. Because this story about biological research displeased me very, very much. If the Empire did anything in the fields of medicine and biology, it was always some kind of plague, disease, bacteria, microorganisms, and other types of unconventional weapons of mass destruction. No, I understood that in this galaxy, practically any weapon was permitted in war by the right of the strong, but personally, such approaches were unacceptable to me. At least as long as any other way of solving the problem remained.
And... finally.
It seemed I had identified the Jedi who had closely cooperated with the pirate Nym in opposing the Trade Federation. It might, of course, be an assumption or a guess, but as I had already learned, there were no empty coincidences in this universe.
On Lok, there was another notable location that could be used for mineral extraction.
Mount Chaolt—a massive volcano from which, in the past, a rare substance, raw cationic chemical coagulant, was mined. A rather rare, valuable thing, and in this particular case, also extracted using expensive equipment and at great risk of life. This was likely why mining had ceased. Perhaps there were other reasons, but that wasn't the main thing. More precisely, the coagulant could clearly be useful—I probably hadn't yet learned what it was.
But what interested me far more was something else. The second name of Mount Chaolt, given to it by Captain Nym in honor of his friend, a Jedi. I suspected he didn't have many friends from that crowd, so it could be asserted that the landmark was named after that particular sentient who helped him fight the Trade Federation, was respected as a pilot, and also served Nym as a Jedi advisor.
So. The second name of Mount Chaolt was Adi's Rest. I'll repeat, it could be a coincidence, but I was starting to stop believing in those.
If I searched my memory, only one Jedi fit those characteristics: an excellent pilot, name: Adi, who enjoyed dealing with pirates. And, as the cherry on top—she had once hunted Aurra Sing.
Jedi Master Adi Gallia. The Jedi who, during the First Battle of Geonosis, provided fighter cover for the clone army's landing operation, which served as the starting point for the Clone Wars. The battle in which Captain Nym and the "Lok Revenants" had participated.
As far as I remembered, she died when she and Kenobi were hunting a pair of insane Zabrak, servants of the Sith. By the way, Obi-Wan Kenobi was a strange character. Just reading the sources, whoever he participated in operations with, unless it was a character iconic to the universe, that person would invariably die.
However, the fate of a dead Jedi woman was the least of my concerns. As was the fact that a volcano had been renamed in her honor. I was far more interested, at the moment, in how effectively the interrogators and their emotionless droids were conducting the interrogation of Captain Nym with prejudice. So far, the Fiorian was holding up, keeping quiet, but that was only because they hadn't applied any special means yet.
"Sir?" After standing in silence for a while, Pellaeon decided to remind me of his presence. "We've found Skywalker's droid."
"I heard, Captain," I replied, closing the datapad. "Coordinates fixed?"
"Yes, sir," he answered. "It's an unknown system in the Dufilvian sector."
Hmm... I had a suspicion that Bel Iblis hadn't broken his seclusion after that particular operation for nothing. Now the assumption was becoming a certainty.
"Lock in the coordinates," I ordered. "Tell the navigator to plot the shortest course. The Inexorable, the Stormhawk, the Black Asp, and the Eternal Wrath will accompany us, along with the Crusader II and twelve Corellian corvettes. Captain Dorja is assigned to clear and establish control over Lok; Captain Stormaer is to investigate and subdue the second and third planets in the system, Maramere and Nod Karda; Captain Shohashi is to patrol and destroy any surviving pirates. Overall command of the remaining forces falls to Captain Shohashi."
So, I was taking half of all the Star Destroyers and ships equipped with gravity field generators with me. If I was right, Skywalker had led us straight to General Bel Iblis's base — a man who had finally settled on a single planet, abandoning his previous habit of constantly shifting his hideouts.
Of course, an ambush wasn't out of the question. But with forces like these, I could crush either the Corellian's fleet or any comparable battle group with ease.
"Are we moving out immediately, sir?" Pellaeon clarified.
"First, let's get our stormtroopers from the 501st Legion back aboard," I ordered. "The remaining legions stay on the planet for the subsequent mop-up. Contact Susevfi and Tangrene — I want all heavy cruisers of the Dreadnaught-type redeployed to the system after it's been cleared of the enemy."
"Should we also prepare the orbital repair yards from Susevfi's orbit and the Golan-type defense stations for relocation?" Pellaeon asked.
"Are you sure they can survive a trip like that in their current state, Captain?" I inquired.
"No, sir," Pellaeon faltered, clearly realizing that those artificial structures had been heavily damaged in the past and were still undergoing repairs — repairs far from complete.
"First, we're going to establish ourselves in this system, Captain," I announced. "Nearly a hundred and fifty heavy cruisers in orbit around the planets will quickly make it clear to the locals that we aren't leaving. Once they get used to that idea, we'll befriend them. I'm confident we'll find plenty of inhabitants on the planet Maramere who'll want to join us."
"I can't picture them on the decks of Star Destroyers," Pellaeon chuckled.
"I didn't say anything about them, Captain," I had to remind him. "But we do have a large number of star cruisers built by amphibians. I'm sure the Meres, who belong to the same species, would find serving on those a lot more comfortable than wasting away on the surface of their impoverished world."
"I'll prepare a plan to transfer our reserve forces to this system," Pellaeon took the initiative. "I think we'll soon be able to discuss moving all the assets we intend to keep hidden from prying eyes here."
"Good," I approved. "Submit it for approval later, and I'll incorporate your proposals into the campaign plan. For now," I rose from my chair and straightened my tunic, "I'll leave you to it. I won't interfere with the preparations for the coming battle. If you need me, I'll be in my quarters."
"Yes, sir!" Pellaeon saluted.
With my hands clasped behind my back, I headed for my cabin, accompanied by Rukh. I planned to spend the transit time learning everything I could about my upcoming opponent and developing a suitable tactic for his destruction.
Once again, fate was making adjustments to Operation Crimson Dawn.
Well, eliminating Bel Iblis's fleet and army shouldn't take long.
* * *
"The attack on the Ubiqtorate base was the culmination of our actions," Senator Bel Iblis swirled the contents of his glass lightly before draining it. Immediately after, he gestured to the bartender, who nodded silently, confirming the repeat order.
Luke silently looked at his untouched glass of lumin-el, the drink X-wing pilots liked to indulge in. But today, he preferred to keep his mind clear. Unfortunately, even with Jedi discipline, he didn't have Han or Lando's ability to drink without getting drunk. And he didn't really enjoy that kind of pastime anyway. But ordering caf while talking to a commander felt beneath his dignity.
"By that point, we'd been waging our own war against the Empire for three years — precise strikes that were carefully planned and posed no major threat to our forces," the Senator continued. "We were doing roughly the same thing the Alliance did in its day, or the Empire does now. On a much smaller scale, of course: attacking small outposts, military supply convoys, destroying warning systems, and so on. You understand, given the scale of the territories the Empire controls, these were just pinpricks against a mastodon. But Tangrene… he changed everything."
"And what exactly happened at the Ubiqtorate base?" Luke inquired diplomatically.
"We attacked their main residence and blew it to pieces," the former Senator said with visible pleasure from the flood of memories. "The three Star Destroyers guarding the base couldn't stop us. So, from what I hear, the Ubiqtorate took that attack very personally — they brought in a dozen Destroyers for defense and scoured the entire criminal underworld to find us. They couldn't. But after that, they never stopped trying to find us, which is why we kept changing our locations. Even a fool would understand that after a stunt like that, they'd stop ignoring us and start a real hunt."
"I'm sure that's exactly what they did," Luke said, silently admiring the courage of the man sitting next to him. The Ubiqtorate wasn't some organization whose residence or base you could just approach on a warship. And to destroy a stronghold — a symbol of the Empire's absolute terror — and still get away clean… That took enormous tactical genius, because the Ubiqtorate didn't keep weak-minded officers, let alone soldiers.
The Corellian drained half his new glass and smiled contentedly.
"Yes, my five ships didn't suffer serious damage," he explained. "They were battered, of course, but not critically. One ship took almost a year to repair — it was out of commission for seven months. After New Cov, we'll have to repair one of the Dreadnaughts again. Patched the hull breaches, but there's still a mountain of internal work — at least six months. If we had a shipyard, things would go faster."
"Don't you have six heavy cruisers?" Skywalker recalled the number of that class of ship orbiting the planet where Peregrine's Nest was located.
"At that time, there were only five," Bel Iblis replied, pausing slightly before answering. After a moment, he added, "I just realized that in all the years I've been fighting the Empire, this is the fourteenth base. Or fifteenth — I've lost count."
"Wow," Luke marveled. "That must cost a fortune. I mean… the Alliance had to spend millions equipping each base."
"Yes, I know," the Senator nodded, taking another sip. "And I drew the appropriate conclusions. The structures at our base are made of shape-memory plastic. At any convenient time, the base can be rolled up, loaded onto ships, and moved to a new location where it can be rebuilt in the exact same form."
"Economical," Luke agreed. But something told him, judging by the amount of equipment, wall-mounted holopanels, tables in the cantina, and the huge number of terminals and other gear in the command center, that the Senator was at least exaggerating the ease of quickly dismantling Peregrine's Nest. You couldn't pack up a base like that in an hour — it would take at least several days. Just removing the camouflage netting that wasn't part of the hangars could take hours. In that time, the Empire could land troops outside the range of the AA and planetary defense guns and start advancing on the base across the surface. And assembling turrets in the open, under enemy control and hurricane fire from orbit and the ground, while packing the base back into "its box" that was hardly a pleasant task.
"Anyway, these are all unnecessary details," Bel Iblis concluded, emptying another glass… By the way, which one was that? Fifth or sixth? "After I went on the run, a lot of time passed before I realized that even my tight-knit group couldn't fight alone. About two years before the Alliance destroyed the Death Star, I initiated a meeting of leaders from several groups, including Mon Mothma of the Chandrilan resistance and Bail Organa of Alderaan. Actually, a lot of people were supposed to be there, but the meeting was compromised. I was captured, but help came from where I least expected it."
"Fey'lya?" Luke guessed.
This drew a good-natured chuckle from the Senator.
"No, the Bothans found us about a month after Tangrene," he explained. "Remember…"
"You can use 'you,'" Skywalker interjected, unable to bear it any longer. "I'm young enough to be your son, and that form of address makes me uncomfortable."
The Senator offered to make it mutual, but Luke insisted. He'd feel very awkward calling a man who'd been a founder of the Rebellion a close friend. Luke respected and honored his elders.
"Remember I asked you about Galen Marek and General Rahm Kota?" Bel Iblis clarified.
"I remember," Luke nodded. He'd firmly decided not to tell the Commander about his conversation with Leia and General Cracken in the Imperial Palace's vestibule. The Senator himself clearly wasn't being completely open and obviously held a grudge against the Alliance — at least against Mon Mothma for sure. "I doubt I'm familiar with those beings…"
"Not surprised," the Senator drained his glass and ordered another. "I was saved by Galen — a young kid, he'd be about your age now, give or take. But you have something in common."
"For example?"
"You're both Jedi," the Commander said, taking hold of his new glass. "And so is Rahm Kota."
"You worked with Jedi from the old Order?!" Surprise lit up Luke's eyes. "Are they alive? How can I contact them?"
"Patience," Bel Iblis smiled grimly. "I'll tell you everything."
"Forgive me," the young Jedi faltered.
"It's alright," the Senator assured him. "So, Marek and Kota helped unite all of us into a single Alliance. But the moment we did that, Darth Vader and stormtroopers showed up. The three of us — me, Mon Mothma, and Bail Organa — were captured and imprisoned on the unfinished Death Star."
"You were there when we… I…" Luke flared up.
"No, no," Bel Iblis chuckled. "Marek saved the three of us. As we later learned from his allies, at the cost of his own life. His death united us. We became a real Rebellion. You know, history credits Mon Mothma with creating the Alliance, but in all fairness, the name Galen Marek should be in her place. That kid…" The Corellian squeezed his eyes shut, as if holding back tears. "Anyway, the Alliance grew. I planned the military operations, Mon Mothma handled the political and diplomatic side, and Organa provided the funding. He was the only one who didn't go into hiding — because Palpatine couldn't just arrest him. Organa wasn't a piece you could just remove from the political board. For that, the Emperor first had to dissolve the Senate… and destroy Alderaan. His death threw the Alliance into final disarray. I always argued for a military solution, but Organa and Mothma often rejected my proposals. After Bail's death, Mon decided to take over his functions. Organa was one of the few beings who could make Mon Mothma change her mind, or," an old pain surfaced in Bel Iblis's eyes, "see clearly. That's when I realized she was pushing me into the background, consolidating more and more power in her own hands."
"That doesn't sound like her at all," Luke blinked. To be honest, this was the first time he'd heard anything like this about the head of the Provisional Government. It was as if he'd never even known that woman.
"Beings have a tendency to change," the Corellian said sadly. "I started to suspect that after we overthrew Palpatine, she would take his place. The final straw in my dealings with the Alliance was when Mon Mothma, without my consent, without even discussing it, authorized military action. I tried to reason with her, to make her understand that, with all due respect, military operations weren't her forte. I was only asking for time to review the situation and discuss the plan, but Mothma rejected the offer. In anger, I said a lot of things I shouldn't have, even questioning the motives behind her actions. I claimed it was part of her plan to seize power in the Alliance. We exchanged insults. No matter how hard I tried to reason with her, arguing that the operation's target wasn't some Imperial garrison, but the Ubiqtorate base, and that an attack in the form she proposed would leave our people swimming in blood."
"She didn't listen to you?"
"Worse," Bel Iblis smiled sadly. "She said the Alliance no longer needed the services of me or my people. I didn't stay in her debt. I took my supporters and broke with the Alliance."
"And what happened with that attack?" Luke suddenly became interested.
"The Empire dealt the Alliance such a defeat that it nearly fell apart," Bel Iblis said darkly. "A lot of good people I knew were killed."
"Accept my condolences," Luke said.
"Thank you," Bel Iblis said hoarsely. He took a long gulp. The Jedi didn't miss that the man seemed to shrink, as if his inner backbone had snapped. "Since then, we've been on our own…"
"What about Galen Marek and General Kota?" the Jedi inquired.
"That… isn't straightforward," Bel Iblis winced. "After he rescued us from the Death Star, it turned out he was dead. His allies formed their own resistance group, and Kota terrorized the Empire quite successfully for a while. And then… I don't know for sure, I didn't see it with my own eyes, but according to rumors, Marek returned from the land of the dead."
"What do you mean?" Luke was taken aback.
"I told you, I don't know. I heard rumors that Vader was hunting Kota while we were getting the Alliance's affairs in order."
"But why didn't they join you?" Luke asked in bewilderment. "You said he was a hero and…"
"Galen Marek was Darth Vader's apprentice," Bel Iblis said dryly. "You know… I've never told this to any outsider, but the formation of the Rebellion and the Rebel Alliance isn't as clean as it seems."
"But you just said…"
"And I don't take back my words," the Senator confirmed. "We intended to gather. But if Marek hadn't freed me from the bounty hunters' hands in Cloud City, if he hadn't helped push the idea of a second meeting of the leaders — nothing would have worked out. And Galen was acting on Vader's orders — to gather all the resistance leaders in one place and eliminate them. But it turned out… a little differently."
"So Palpatine and Vader themselves organized the Rebel Alliance?" Luke said in horror. Unthinkable. But then again — Palpatine had deliberately given the Bothans the plans for the second Death Star to lure the Alliance into a trap. To destroy them in one blow and force Luke to take his own father's place. So a scheme like that was entirely in his style…
"It looks that way," Bel Iblis said.
"But what happened to Galen Marek and General Kota?" Luke asked curiously.
"No one knows," the Senator admitted. "His supporters say he died on the Death Star. But at the same time, I heard that about a year before the Battle of Yavin, Galen and Kota showed up again. They even managed to capture Vader — at least, some bounty hunters who knew Boba Fett said he supposedly freed him. I don't know if that's true or not, but…" The Senator fell silent, looking Skywalker in the eye. "Tell me, Luke, could you make an entire fleet of ships act as a single organism?"
"Me?" Luke was taken aback.
"Or any other Jedi," the Corellian offered another option.
"I don't know," Skywalker answered after thinking. "The Force — it pervades all living things, but what you're talking about… I can only guess how it might be done, but to actually put it into practice… Connecting minds through the Force…"
He remembered Leia telling him how she'd felt him dangling from the antenna under Cloud City on Bespin. He remembered that Yoda, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and even his father had managed to appear to him after death… The Force was truly omnipotent — or at least capable of things most beings would consider unnatural. But making an entire fleet act as one person… Was that even possible?
"Why do you ask?" he inquired.
"The attack on the Dufilvian sector was executed so perfectly that I started to suspect a Jedi was operating on the Empire's side," the Senator admitted. "I was a Senator back in the days of the Old Republic, and I saw a lot of what Jedi are capable of. I don't know if the Empire has its own Jedi or not, but they definitely have something that can perfectly coordinate the actions of numerous units. At least, during that attack, that was the case."
"And now?" Luke had a bad feeling.
"Now it's gone," Bel Iblis admitted, "but they've become better at fighting. That superhuman coordination is absent, though."
"It stopped after…?" Luke named the date of Corran Horn's disappearance.
"We last registered it long before that," Bel Iblis said. "But since then, it's been completely cut off. Do you have any answers?"
"Only guesses for now," Luke said. "An acquaintance of mine, a descendant of a Jedi, heard a mental call through the Force. A certain Jedi named Jorus C'Baoth called out to him."
"Wait a minute," Bel Iblis frowned. "C'Baoth? You said C'Baoth?"
"Yes, that's the Jedi who insisted on the Outbound Flight project and helped resolve the succession crisis on Alderaan…"
"Yes, I remember something," Bel Iblis darkened. "He was also Palpatine's personal advisor."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Luke admitted. "In light of what I've learned from you and from the archives, it seems to me that this C'Baoth isn't as pure as he might appear. It's entirely possible that he was behind the coordination you mentioned. If he could reach out to another mind, why couldn't he relay an Imperial commander's thoughts to the rest?"
"If that's the case, your friend is in big trouble," Bel Iblis said. "Can you find him?"
"He didn't leave any coordinates," Luke spread his hands.
"And with the Force?" the Corellian Senator asked.
Luke felt himself blushing.
"I haven't tried," he admitted. "But what's it to you?"
"If you can find your friend, who went to C'Baoth, then we can find C'Baoth," the Commander explained. "And deprive the Empire of its superweapon!"
"Oh," was all Skywalker could manage. "Now I understand why the Alliance had you planning the military campaigns. I'll get on it as soon as we're done talking."
"But isn't…?" the Senator frowned. Then, as if remembering something, he nodded. "Fey'lya."
"Yes," Luke nodded. "I'd like to know what connects you to him."
"Why are you interested in this?"
"Because he's aiming for Mon Mothma's position," Luke said. "And he only benefits from Imperial actions."
"You think the Bothans are playing a double game?" The Corellian's eyebrows shot up.
"I'm just trying to understand what's going on," Luke said. "Unfortunately, I have to ask directly: what business unites you?"
"We have far less in common than he would like," the Senator reassured him. "During the war, Fey'lya and the Bothans provided us with some assistance. And apparently, they think we'll be grateful forever. But he's wrong."
"What kind of assistance?" Luke pressed. Leia had always told him that in conversations like this, the details were the most important thing.
"In his time, he helped us arrange a food supply from New Cov — that same biomolecular mass I told you about. He also once summoned ships to drive off Imperial Destroyers. He helped us materially, assisting us in acquiring necessary items and resources that, without his help, we would have obtained much later. If at all."
"But what does he want from you now?" the young Jedi asked. "As far as I know, Bothans aren't known for altruism."
Bel Iblis smiled faintly.
"You're right about that, Luke," he said. "I have some hypotheses on that score. But to confirm or refute them, I'd like you to answer a few of my questions first. That will help me give you a precise answer regarding the Bothans' interest in us."
"If I know the answer to that question, I'll answer," he said honestly.
"What is the relationship between Mon Mothma and Fey'lya?"
"Well…" Luke hesitated. "I got the impression they dislike each other."
"Yes, you said Fey'lya is clawing for the top position," the Senator nodded. "But what is Mon Mothma herself doing to oppose him?"
"I'm afraid I don't know that," Luke sighed. "I'm… not on the Provisional Council, unlike my sister. But she seriously feared that Fey'lya might be involved in the Imperial attacks and using them to accumulate influence in order to oust Mon Mothma. And the latter…" Luke hesitated, unsure if he should reveal what his sister and General Cracken had told him before his mission. "Mon Mothma, like my sister, believed that Fey'lya's goals on New Cov were an attempt to bring pro-Imperial worlds like Rendili and Brentaal into the New Republic…"
"As far as I know, they succeeded," Bel Iblis took a sip from yet another glass.
"Yes, I heard that too," Luke admitted. "But… if Fey'lya wasn't involved in Imperial affairs on New Cov and was only using the planet as a rendezvous point with you, that changes a lot."
"It doesn't change a single thing, Luke," Bel Iblis smirked. "Fey'lya came to me saying that too much power had been concentrated in Mon Mothma's hands. The Bothans assured me she was preparing to seize power — just as I had suspected."
"So I take it that's why they approached you?"
"I no longer doubt that," Bel Iblis nodded. "Fey'lya wants to use me and my resistance group to boost her own rating and importance in the senators' eyes and to unseat Mon Mothma. Unfortunately, we don't have enough people across the galaxy to know what's truly happening in the Imperial Palace."
"That's why you asked Irenez to bring me," Luke realized.
"Yes," Bel Iblis agreed. "I wanted to hear information that didn't come from Bothan lips."
"Sorry to disappoint," Luke said.
"Not at all," Bel Iblis smiled. "On the contrary, you've given me food for thought. If you manage to find this C'baoth, we might strike the Empire such a blow that their campaign could fall back into the Remnants."
"That would be nice," Luke admitted, shuddering at the memory of the galactic map covered in dots marking Imperial attack sites.
"I offer you my help in this difficult endeavor," Bel Iblis smiled. "All of Peregrine's Nest's resources are at your disposal."
"Thank you," Luke smiled back.
Only he had absolutely no idea where to begin.
Though... maybe he could meditate and try to reach Corran?