Nine years, seven months, and twenty-third days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-fourth year, seven months, and twenty-third days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and eighth days since the Arrival.)
"And lastly," the young Imperial woman — no older than the princess herself — said in a didactic tone, a medical service chevron adorning her shoulder. "Your test results are excellent in their progression. Are you feeling well?"
"Yes," Leia answered monosyllabically.
"Sleeping normally, no nightmares? You've developed dark circles under your eyes." Concern appeared on the medic's face.
"Like a baby," the Alderaanian princess assured her. No need for Imperials to know she tried reaching Luke every night. But something prevented her from even getting past the apartment's boundaries. As if the Imperials had something blocking her connection to the Force. Throughout the entire complex, except for her own quarters. Where she could do nothing.
"I'll order additional tests," the female medic frowned. "It can't be that you feel perfectly fine while the bruises under your eyes grow larger and darker every day. This points to either an organ disease or you're being dishonest about your rest."
"Are you saying the Alderaanian princess might lie?" Leia tried to deploy her not-so-well-known but devastating tactic.
"I'm saying that whatever you're exhausting yourself with could end badly for your children," the Imperial woman didn't fall for the trap. "They're old enough now to sense your emotional state. Unconsciously, maybe, but they understand everything. As a mother, you should know your condition could affect them too."
"What business is it of yours what happens to my children?" Leia asked a question that had been tormenting her for a while. She wanted to hear the answer. But she feared what would be said — if, of course, they decided to share the truth with her.
"Exactly as much business as it is for all patients under my responsibility," the female medic said, stunned.
"This is the first time I've met Imperials who care about how prisoners are treated," Leia snorted.
"Maybe others don't," the medic blinked. "But not those under the Grand Admiral's command."
"That's a fresh fairy tale," the Alderaanian princess said irritably. "Though I'm sure you don't treat all New Republic POWs this way."
"How else would we treat them?" the female medic was taken aback. "We have orders — humane treatment of prisoners..."
"Are you saying that all those tens of thousands of military personnel from the Star Destroyer who were captured alongside me live in such comfortable conditions as I do, receive daily doctor visits and so on?" Leia, though she knew she was overstepping, couldn't stop her suddenly caustic speech.
"I... I don't know," she stammered. "But the order is the same for the entire medical service..."
"Well then, maybe you'd be so kind as to arrange a meeting with my fellow fighters so I can ask them myself, since you have nothing to hide!"
The Imperial woman suddenly bristled, furrowed her brows, and pursed her lips.
"I had a higher opinion of you, Princess Organa-Solo," she said, lifting her chin. "And you assumed my soft-heartedness would let you break detention protocol! You're callous and selfish! You didn't even consider that if I agreed and took you to my other patients, I'd violate a dozen regulations, decrees, and laws! I already understand that you couldn't care less about your own life or your children's, and now you decided you could make me commit a crime too!"
Leia felt a pang of conscience. Her old rebel habit — squeezing the maximum from every situation without caring about consequences — had not only failed this time. But the princess genuinely felt guilty. At the very least because she had nearly pushed an innocent person who cared for her toward a war crime...
"I'm sorry, I spoke without thinking..." she started, but the female medic had already risen from her desk and headed for the exit.
"Another doctor will finish your appointment," she said dryly. "I didn't join the military medical service to become a war criminal. The Imperials are right when they say you Republicans don't care about consequences, only about achieving your goals."
"Listen, I apologized and..."
The door leading to the large common hall, through which she was usually escorted under stormtrooper guard for medical procedures, swung open. Before, she had always been kept inside the office during the entire appointment, and she had never seen what happened beyond it — when they took her away, the room beyond the door was always empty.
For a moment, Leia could see what was happening outside.
And she was stunned. Her sense of shame grew even stronger.
"I assure you, no surgery will be necessary," a Duros doctor clad in the familiar Imperial military medical service uniform said irritably. The strange sight made her uncomfortable.
Especially when she saw an officer from the Allegiance standing on crutches before the doctor. Someone from the artillery, judging by the insignia.
"But I have a fracture!" he said capriciously. "What if bone fragments..."
"You have nothing more than a crack, Lieutenant!" the Duros shook his head. "There are no fragments! Seven scan results showed that! We put you in a cast and..."
"Sorry," the female medic said, addressing the Duros. "Could you finish with my patient?"
"What's the matter?" The Duros' gaze slid over the girl's head.
"She... I..." The medic glanced toward the open door. The Republican officer grinned upon seeing Leia and waved at her. "In short..."
"I see," the Duros sighed. "What is it with you," he looked at the officer, "Republicans? Can't you just let things be, huh? That's the fourth case today — you pester young doctors until they run to complain to the hospital's chief physician... Miri," he looked at the female medic, "you may go. In examination room ten, a couple of Sullustans are complaining about post-op pain. Check what's wrong — I think it's phantom pain, but still verify, alright. And call Doctor Patther — he'll take over your difficult patient."
After looking once more at the blushing princess, the Duros shook his head.
"Imperial officers with their legs torn off behave with more dignity than Republican councilors..."
Leia didn't get to hear the rest — the door's automation slid the panel back into place, cutting her off from the surreal picture that was shaking her worldview.
Non-human doctors in Imperial service? That was... not fitting into her usual picture of existence. No, Leia knew that the New Republic propaganda about Imperial hostility toward non-humans was greatly exaggerated. But she knew for a fact that non-humans generally weren't allowed into military service — yet here was a full doctor in a military medical unit... And from the looks of it, not an ordinary staff member.
Seems things were really bad for the Empire if they'd resorted to hiring aliens for military service. Though, maybe this Duros was just a top-class specialist and unique in his kind...
The door slid aside again.
A stately, tall, smiling doctor appeared on the threshold. For a change — male.
But one look at him made Leia's mouth go sour. It seemed the New Republic might lose the propaganda war soon. As soon as the POWs were returned to Coruscant.
"Hello," the doctor kept smiling. "My name is Doctor Patther, as of this hour I'm your physician. I was told you're having health issues. My dear, those circles under your eyes! Almost black eyes! Fear whatever deity you believe in — how can you treat yourself and your little ones so irresponsibly! Tut-tut, not good, not good! Well, never mind, we'll figure out what the problem is and everything will definitely improve before the birth..."
With those words, a smiling Twi'lek sat down across from her, interestedly examining the chip with her medical data...
And on his chest was a badge that read: "Doctor Patther, Third Category Physician. Military Medical Service."
Third category... An ordinary medic...
Leia felt like she could hear the bastion of human-centric propaganda against the Galactic Empire, built by the New Republic, crumbling.
"So," the Twi'lek smiled, looking into her eyes. "Let's begin our acquaintance with honesty. Why are you staying awake at night?"
And her tongue felt like lead.
* * *
Stopping before the door guarded by two guardsmen in black-and-red uniforms — beyond which lay a dimly lit anteroom leading to the Grand Admiral's quarters — Captain Pellaeon waited until both faceless guards deigned to let him inside. The door opened, sending him into semi-darkness. Gilad looked around, futilely trying to spot Rukh lurking in the shadows. "This is becoming a habit," he thought irritably, taking a step toward the inner door. Then another. And another.
Aha! Got you, you little rat!
A faint breath of wind told the Star Destroyer commander that the enemy was approaching from the left. The basics of self-defense, long forgotten by the young Academy graduate, immediately surfaced in his mind.
Extending his arm so Rukh would run into his fist, Gilad cursed as he realized a simple truth: the Noghri was no longer there.
The captain looked around for the bodyguard. Rukh should have been gliding in his blind spot behind him. Or somewhere nearby.
"Captain," a sepulchral voice purred near his right ear.
As it happened, this time he rewarded the little freak by shuddering so hard he dropped the infochip. Well... could have been worse — the very first time he'd screamed and jumped a good meter.
Gilad irritably bent down, picked up the data storage device, and casually kicked into the darkness. Oh, of course, the shortstack was already gone. Where are you now?
And when will you get tired of this?
Though, Pellaeon caught himself thinking he was asking the wrong question. Not "when" but "who." The captain suspected he knew the answer — him. He was continuing this childish game of hide-and-seek with the Grand Admiral's bodyguard, having decided long ago not to bother reporting the nuances of his relationship with Rukh.
At sixty years old, Gilad was no longer going to complain about some shortstack who made him recall his entire Corellian cursing vocabulary every time he went to report to the Grand Admiral. Thrawn was clearly aware, but at the very least wasn't interested in completely reining Rukh in. And if he went to tattle, the little gray bastard would emerge victorious from this standoff. No, that wasn't the level of a Star Destroyer commander.
Level meant coming up with reasons and explanations, convincing enough even for Thrawn, for the multiple, non-life-threatening injuries on his bodyguard's body that would pass for an accident and not raise questions from the Chiss. Unfortunately, Gilad was only at the beginning of his brilliant revenge. And before, he'd had more work to do, but with the arrival of the enthusiastically burning Tschel — who tore around the ship like a mouse droid — the aging captain had a bit more free time. And someday he would definitely find a solution. It was for this reason alone that he continued all these games. And he thanked all the higher powers that the Imperial Guards didn't participate in similar behavior. Because he categorically did not want to reach the Grand Admiral with news briefs across laser traps, minefields, tripwires, and sniper positions at his age.
"Your predictability is tiresome," Rukh said from behind Gilad, as expected. From the darkest corner. Uh-huh, noted. Next time I'll make sure there's a contact mine there. Oh, what a picturesque "non-living corner" that would leave behind...
He wanted to snap back with some barb, but right now the captain was most interested in whether a convenient moment had arrived to strangle the little bastard with his own hands.
"I wonder, would the Grand Admiral believe that Rukh decided to study the operating principle of a main ion drive, tripped, and fell head-first onto the floor about twenty times, then crawled to the combustion chamber on his own?" flickered through the captain's mind as he watched the bodyguard pointing toward the anteroom's inner door with a long, narrow, matte-black blade. What the hell was that? It was almost invisible in the dark — if not for the light reflection, he'd be a goner.
In proud silence, Pellaeon crossed the threshold of the Grand Admiral's quarters and thought it might be worth trying to convince Thrawn that if he so badly wanted two types of bodyguards, maybe he could find someone calmer than Rukh. And give the little bastard over to be torn apart... re-educated by Gilad?
Because the moment that happened, the Chimaera's commander would kill the freak with his own hands. Gilad had never experienced any inclination toward sadism or other perversions involving causing pain and suffering to other sentients (unless it was part of his official duties and happened on the battlefield), but the day that little bastard fell into his hands, even Wilhuff Tarkin — may the bastard rest in peace — would envy the afterlife Gilad would give him.
The familiar semi-darkness of the cabin greeted him with its expected holographic museum — Thrawn still couldn't get enough of his little figurines...
Pellaeon interrupted his thought, realizing one simple thing — now floating before him in the air were cultural items from completely different directions. No, it wasn't that there were both paintings and statuettes here, but that they had clearly been produced by representatives of different races. And these collections had absolutely no common denominator. Rather, there were two denominators — one clearly belonged to Corellian culture, and the second... Hmm... well, such mental contortions could only be produced by some kind of reptile, amphibian, aquatic creature... Mon Calamari?
And behind the golden holograms, in complete darkness, two crimson eyes burned.
"Come in, Captain," Thrawn invited, and only now did Pellaeon realize he had stalled in the doorway. "What news?"
"The first reports have come in regarding Captain Nym's treasury," Gilad reported, squeezing between sculptures and some eye-searing holograms. To his surprise, he realized some of them... were literally downloaded from the HoloNet, as indicated by characteristic digital markings.
"Which one?" the Grand Admiral clarified.
"All of them," Pellaeon summarized. Thrawn allowed free speech when they were alone. As if they were friends. But with the understanding that one of them outranked the other, and the second was obedient enough not to forget this and maintain proper subordination. "I admit, the interrogation team was impressed."
"You seem to be too, Captain," Thrawn noted calmly.
"And me," Pellaeon didn't hide the obvious. "Sir, our guesses were confirmed. It really is treasury-grade aurordium reserves. Moreover, based on the markings, most of it is funds allocated for the Death Star construction. The rest — about a couple billion — came from batches produced a little after Tarkin's death."
"Logically," Thrawn said. "The Grand Moff needed funds to search for the base location and conduct reconnaissance. That required money. So he simultaneously diverted funds from the Death Star project and pulled four Star Destroyers out from under fleet control. The remaining ingots, I take it, are Captain Nym and his gang's personal loot."
So... The interrogators said Gilad was the first to review the results of the pirate captain's interrogation. Or Thrawn had predicted everything again?
"Either way, sir, in ingots alone — at the most conservative estimate, at the official exchange rate — that's over fifty billion Imperial credits," Pellaeon said with bated breath. He had never even seen that kind of money — he was afraid to even imagine it.
"Good," Thrawn said in a completely calm tone. He reacted just as indifferently to news that the Imperial Ruling Council wanted to make him the new Emperor. Was there anything that could surprise him? "What about the other treasuries?"
"At the former Rebel Alliance outpost — about four hundred million in valuables, cash, and expensive goods. At Nym's Factory — another six hundred. Total," Pellaeon mentally tallied all their accumulated assets, "about fifty-five billion credits in the budget."
"Five billion," Thrawn corrected him. "The aurordium will remain unclaimed."
"Um..." Gilad hesitated. "As you command, sir, but may I ask why?"
"How many Star Dreadnoughts can be built for fifty billion, Captain?" the Grand Admiral inquired.
"Considering all circumstances and additional logistics costs — about twenty-five to thirty, certainly, at the old prices. But we could never crew that many in a lifetime."
"I'm not talking about us, Captain," Thrawn corrected him. "If this aurordium reaches the market, we'll find ourselves in the same trap as Captain Nym once did — if the precious metal is identified, which it inevitably will be, then a line will form from the Imperial Remnants to possess it. The Ubiqtorate fleet will be first at our door in particular."
"I didn't think their opinion mattered to us."
"Correct, it doesn't," the Grand Admiral confirmed. "But you're forgetting that this organization has spread its roots throughout the Empire. Having aurordium in our possession will lead the Imperial Space to hunt us. No, at present we have sufficient funds to pay our servicemen and maintain combat readiness. The aurordium will remain in the vault until we are ready for war with the Ubiqtorate."
"As you say," Pellaeon shrugged. What did he care? The fact was — they had money. Huge sums. And that wasn't counting the fact that they actually commanded a massive fleet — but even so, five billion would be enough to maintain the functionality of absolutely all units and projects.
"Captain Dorja reports that resistance on the planet has been suppressed," Pellaeon continued. "The locals are, shall we say, not particularly friendly, but they're grateful for the destruction of the pirate nests. Dorja has ordered the restoration and expansion of the Imperial base on the planet. Garrisons have been stationed at Nym's fortress, at the mine, around the biolab... Speaking of which. Specialists from the Inflexible conducted analyses and claim the complex is completely safe. What was produced there and what experiments were conducted is unknown for now, but there's nothing that poses even the slightest danger. Even the corpses — they've decomposed without a trace."
"Is the cause of aggression against the Imperial facility known?" Thrawn inquired.
"According to the locals, pirates attacked — but not local ones. Several people claim they were Hutts. Nym confirms that's exactly what happened — the Hutts interfered and destroyed the Imperial project. They were doing something with the dead, apparently another attempt at a supersoldier project. Either way, there's no data. But the facility can be used."
"The mine?"
"It'll take some work, since slave miners aren't the best option, but those on-site are confident it's located in a mineral-rich area, so a small investment and this facility will work for us."
"Good. The stations?"
"There's actually a proposal to dismantle some of them," Pellaeon reported. "Specifically — the Alliance station, the Blood Razors outpost. The construction isn't very stable, makeshift. Their weapons can be moved to other stations or used elsewhere."
"This issue doesn't require an immediate decision," Thrawn declared decisively. "Activate our intelligence — have them start selling Captain Nym's jewelry trophies. Let's increase our available cash reserves."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed.
"Now, directly to Captain Nym. What did you learn from him?"
"Exactly what you said," Pellaeon admitted. "In the past, he collaborated with Adi Gallia, a Jedi. He pirated and raided Imperial supply lines. Collaborated with the Rebel Alliance. Regarding his collaboration with Tarkin — it's exactly as you said. With the only exception that the Lok Revenants never got to surveying the asteroids in the planet's belt — for that purpose, they used an abandoned Imperial mine."
"Thus, we have a raw material base for our production," Thrawn concluded.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "As soon as Captain Kalian captures the Signus Spacework convoy with everything we need, and Captain Steben secures the Predator Birds production lines from SoroSuub on Sullast, we can consider our rear reliably covered by production..."
"Incorrect, Captain," Thrawn declared. "We'll only be fully confident in our self-sufficiency when we can procure sufficient fuel for our ships, spare parts, and tibanna to ensure complete autonomy. Production is merely the first step, nothing more."
"Yes, sir." Pellaeon winced in annoyance, noting the holograms of artworks. "All non-upgraded dreadnoughts, except those currently under repair in the workshops on Susevfi, will arrive in the Karthakk system within a day. There are positive reports regarding the restoration of structural integrity on the captured Golan stations. Also, from Tangrene, within two days, transport ships carrying cargo from the military depot will arrive at Lok's orbit, including the Star Destroyers currently 'idle' with us, as well as the escort carriers that have already been commissioned."
"Contact Moff Ferrus and inform him that the last part is unnecessary," Thrawn stated. "Have the shipyards prepare and acquire an additional two hundred plasma drills for the operation's third phase. We will also require twenty of the already available guided drills to complete the second phase. Furthermore, inform Captain Shohashi that as soon as the non-upgraded heavy cruisers arrive to guard the Karthakk system, he and his ships are to return to Tangrene. All transports with fleet repair supplies from Susevfi are also to proceed there, along with sixty repaired dreadnoughts to equip an air wing — they will escort the crew of the Steel Aurora on the return trip, as their ship is finishing its raiding cruise due to full repairs, as well as the transports from Tangrene that have been unloaded of obsolete equipment on Lok. On the way back, they will deliver all B-1 droids and droidekas. We are moving to the conclusion of the second phase of Operation Crimson Dawn. By that time, all our combat-ready ships must converge in orbit of the Morshdine sector capital. Including privateers and the wolf packs."
"Sir?" Pellaeon inquired, hoping for clarification.
"Fey'lya is seventy percent ready for his revanchist campaign," Thrawn revealed. "And I must admit, it is a most intriguing move... one that will lead to excellent consequences for our attack and the complete destruction of the influence the Bothans have so carefully cultivated on the New Republic."
"Delta Source?" the commander of the Chimaera ventured, seeking the source of the Grand Admiral's information.
"Precisely," he confirmed. "By the end of this month, he will be ready to move."
"The New Republic is ahead of schedule," Gilad lamented.
"Quite discourteous of them." Thrawn pointed to the right section of the display, precisely the one the elderly Corellian had identified as being created by amphibians. Or amphibians. Or reptiles. "Mon Calamari art," he explained in a tour-guide tone. "What do you think of it?"
Was that a joke? What was there to think about pieces of coral and colored pebbles? But aloud, he naturally said nothing and conscientiously began examining them, hoping to understand the secret message hidden within. But to his disappointment, he saw nothing beyond wavy lines and a striving for harmony.
"Quite fascinating," the commander of the Chimaera said with restraint.
"Indeed it is," Thrawn agreed, using a laser pointer to indicate a pair of small sculptures. "These specific ones were created by Admiral Gial Ackbar."
Pellaeon examined the indicated masterpieces, this time with exceptional attention, hoping to determine their difference from the rest of the Mon Calamari creative display. Unfortunately, he found none.
"I didn't know Ackbar was involved in art," he offered.
"Everyone has their little secrets and hobbies, Captain," Thrawn said meaningfully. Gilad ruefully thought that Rukh's tour of the combustion chamber would, unfortunately, have to be postponed. "These two sculptures were created quite a while ago, even before he joined the Alliance. Yet they still bear the traits of his character, and in that regard, they are very useful. As is studying his strategy from past battles."
Thrawn was being evasive. Why would he need to study Ackbar if they were about to face the Corellian?
But, following his established habit, he kept his thoughts to himself and instead asked, "Have you found a way to defeat him?"
"I have found a way to understand him," Thrawn corrected. "Battle is also a form of art, and in that field, Admiral Ackbar has excelled. While his early battles were marked by following the strategy of the late Grand Moff Tarkin, by the Battle of Endor, a completely different commander stood before us." So, could he explain the reason for this interest now? "Yet, at the same time, this Mon Calamari has changed little personally. He, just as before joining the Alliance, continues to favor individuals as determined as himself. He values intelligent and educated interlocutors, a symbol of his own past as a slave for whom knowledge was the highest value. But at the same time, he remains vulnerable to political intrigue, as Councillor Fey'lya demonstrated so easily by removing Ackbar from his path. He is completely defenseless outside a military standpoint, but he learns quickly. He does not hesitate to adopt enemy tactics and strategy if he considers them successful. Which, to a certain extent, makes him akin to an old acquaintance of ours." This time, Thrawn indicated the collection of items on the left with a red beam of light. "According to records from open sources, these art pieces were selected for his personal collection by our opponent from Corellia."
Well, now that was interesting.
Pellaeon examined each sculpture with great diligence, noting some differences. It was as if some had been created under circumstances which, by the time others were made, no longer held significance or weight. Moreover, the radical opposition in creative direction directly pointed to...
"These sculptures are from his office in the Old Republic Senate?"
"It took some effort to locate them," Thrawn said, pointing to several holograms with digital signatures. "And these," the Grand Admiral now indicated, "are from his workplace in the Imperial Senate." The far composition was from his personal ship. The last ones were discovered by analysts based on data obtained from Obroa-skai.
Well, well. And Pellaeon thought they had only gotten copies of the astrogation charts.
"Am I correct in understanding that the content of all the figurines remains the same, only the external attributes change?" Pellaeon clarified.
"Precisely," Thrawn agreed. "We are facing an individual extremely patriotic to the ideals of democracy and its attendant freedoms. He is ready for open conflict if he believes his cause is just. Notice this figurine." Thrawn pointed to one of those belonging to the 'found in Obroa-skai data' category. "It demonstrates how much this man values his family."
"If I remember correctly, it was believed that he and his family members were destroyed," Gilad searched his memory.
"Garm Bel Iblis survived, but the other people close to him did not," the Grand Admiral noted. "As a result, we have a tough, determined, pragmatic, and calculating opponent who was behind the attack on the Ubiqtorate base on Tangrene several months before the Morshdine sector came under our control. He will destroy even civilian targets without hesitation if he knows they will be destroyed anyway, but his first shot will result in fewer casualties and definitive victory." Gilad felt his mouth go dry. Was this really a supporter of democracy? Such behavior was usually typical of orthodox Imperials, sweeping everything from their path to achieve a goal. "Bel Iblis cannot tolerate politicians, so he will easily slip out from under the control of any government that ties his hands — but such a decision requires the strongest motivation. At the same time, he is ready for self-sacrifice for a higher cause. And he recruits subordinates with similar viewpoints. He possesses a sharp mind, a high speed of decision-making, and yet in the past, he was plagued by pride — see, the earlier statues, belonging to the Republican period, mostly depict a solitary figure, while from the start of the Imperial era, he began to prefer compositional statues. This demonstrates his drive to seek allies — reliable ones, bound to him by common goals."
"Which means..."
"The battle will not be simple," Thrawn declared. "Especially considering the presence of Skywalker on the base planet."
"And what can that young man do to hinder us?" Pellaeon asked with interest.
"Bel Iblis is not in the habit of setting aside the resources he has at his disposal," the Grand Admiral stated. "As a Corellian senator during the Old Republic, he had sufficient contact with the Jedi and knows their potential. On Corellia, there existed an enclave of the Order — the so-called Green Jedi, consisting solely of Corellians. Natural stubbornness, combined with tactical talent and native intelligence..." Thrawn was silent for a moment. "Yes, Captain, it will be an interesting battle."
Six heavy cruisers against three Star Destroyers and support forces? Really, this would be a massacre of the Corellian upstart.
"Well, we'll find out tomorrow," Thrawn concluded. "The tests of the Scimitar project were scheduled for yesterday. Any news?"
"Not yet, sir," Pellaeon admitted.
"Regrettable," the Grand Admiral concluded. "Well, after the battle with Bel Iblis, we will have time to visit Tangrene and see the project firsthand. Inform Moff Ferrus that they have some extra time — under these circumstances, thorough preparation for the tests is the best option, not speed of assembly."
"It will be done, sir."
"Also, instruct the Moff that the eighth batch of clones, which has now matured and will soon be delivered to Tangrene, is to be distributed among the Star Destroyers that underwent Republican modernization at the Hast shipyards. Considering the clones, the minimal crews already on the ships, and the soldiers from the D'Astan sector who have joined us, this will be sufficient for full operation."
Pellaeon felt an unbearable itch of anticipation for the coming battle. Two additional Star Destroyers in combat, on top of the ones he already had — that was truly fantastic!
Ah, if only the three Mark IIs and the one Mark I, the former Red Gauntlet, could join the battle, then under Thrawn's command, there would be as many as sixteen Imperial-class Star Destroyers alone! Not to mention nearly a hundred Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers, which had either completed their modernization or were in the final stages of refit. And the Steel Aurora with the Crusader were already combat-ready, not to mention the rest.
Pellaeon was about to reply, but at that moment Thrawn's comlink activated:
"Grand Admiral, sir, flight deck calling. The mechanics and technicians have finished work on the X-wing from New Cov and that YT-1300 that was captured aboard the Star Destroyer in the Milagro system."
"Were my instructions followed precisely?" the commander inquired.
"Yes, sir. The block was difficult to find, but... we did it. It won't affect the ship's functionality; the removal and installation are impossible to detect, even with scanners."
"Excellent work, Chief Mechanic," Thrawn praised, a semblance of a smile spreading across his face.
After these words, he closed the channel and sat in silence for a while, until Gilad decided to break it:
"Should I order reconnaissance to be sent to Bel Iblis's base system?" Pellaeon asked.
"And disturb his solitude?" Thrawn asked in surprise. "No, Captain. As long as our Corellian acquaintance relies on the secrecy of his location, he is exactly where I need him to be. And he feels completely safe. Our task is to ensure that the former senator and his subordinates continue to believe that."
He smiled darkly.
"After all, Captain, what difference does it make where the Empire strikes back?" Pellaeon didn't know what to answer. Thrawn answered for him. "Believe me — none at all."
* * *
At first glance, the sanitarium seemed like an easy target. All the trails of the missing prisoners from Lusankya led here — at least, that's what Wedge, Iella, and a bunch of other good guys hoped.
Neither satellite imagery, nor external surveillance, nor any other means of gathering information had revealed even a hint of the facility's defense systems. And that made it so depressing you could hang yourself.
Because if a mission looks too easy, then there are already problems.
Fortunately, Mon Mothma managed to use her diplomatic charms and appeal to the conscience of the Commenor government, convincing them to authorize Wedge's task force operation. The youngest general in the New Republic wasn't exactly sure what kind of Ewok dance-with-tambourines the head of the Provisional Government had performed, but she got her way — if necessary, Wedge's cruisers would be in orbit of the planet.
Meanwhile, the Rogue Squadron ships were painted a matte black to hinder identification and left on Commenor under the cover story that they were training fighters for the local defense forces. It was a flimsy cover, honestly — any fool knew that most pilot training was done on the ground, in simulators. No training ships were needed there; practical skills were reinforced later, on the pilots' own future machines.
So now, he was doing final checks on his flight suit and life support system, having carved out a little time after a brief briefing that boiled down to instructions: we fly in and blow everything up, our valiant scouts and special forces run on the ground, and if we all screw up, four Mon Calamari star cruisers will show up to save everyone, but then their crews will laugh at us incompetents for a long time.
Iella's voice came through his helmet's comms:
"We're ready."
"We are too," Antilles replied.
"Good luck," Wessiri wished him.
"May the Force be with you," Wedge replied with the phrase that had become commonplace for pilots in the Alliance days.
Switching to the squadron channel, he said:
"Mount up, boys and girls," he ordered. "Start engines, fly at treetop level. But switch the wings to combat mode only after we're outside the capital."
The hangar where their ships awaited orders was located within the main city on Commenor, so showing off their dashing skills here was pointless.
Once in the cockpit, Wedge listened to another round of Mynock's complaints about how miserable he was and how he absolutely needed more power, once again thinking that reformatting the astromech would be the best decision of his life, and guided his ship out of the spacious hangar doors.
The other Rogues followed.
The squadron flew further away to avoid attracting attention. Despite the city sleeping in pre-dawn tranquility, an occasional lone landspeeder appeared here and there. Well, their cover story would have to work.
"Course two-seven-five degrees, speed ten percent. Forward."
Holding back their eagerness at the pilots' insistence, the ships cleared the city limits, skimmed along a highway, weaving over hills, and only after the capital's lights began to fade in their exhaust nozzles did all twelve X-wings spread their wings, ceasing to impersonate overfed Headhunters.
Wedge glanced at the chronometer.
"Time to target — fifteen minutes," he reminded the pilots.
"Boss," Tycho's voice came through. "My scanners say we have uninvited company."
"Mynock, any contacts on scope?"
The astromech confirmed with a trill. Four contacts at the edge of the scanning systems' range.
Performing a simple aerobatic maneuver, Wedge caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. Whoever the pursuers were, they skillfully used the terrain for cover. Wedge felt uneasy. Almost no one in the New Republic knew about this operation. Was it possible someone had betrayed them? Or had the locals decided to attach their own observers? If so, it was stupid — that very option had been offered to them from the start, but they had declined, fearing retribution from the Empire for participating in a New Republic operation. Naive. Clinging to their neutrality like an Ewok clutching a stormtrooper helmet. As if the Empire had ever needed a reason to show up and thoroughly scorch a planet's surface with orbital bombardments.
"Rogues, increase speed to half power," he ordered. "Two: reduce speed, drop low, and wait to see who shows up. If necessary, take them out."
"Copy, Boss."
As soon as all the ships had skimmed, nearly belly-first, over the crest of another hill, Wedge and Tycho peeled off to the side, switched to repulsors, and moved away from the original course to flank the pursuers if needed. Both pilots tucked their fighters into small ravines.
And just in time — barely a minute later, TIE Interceptors flashed over the hilltop. Four ships. Wedge mentally cursed everything he thought of the situation, watching the "escorts" race after the X-wings ahead.
None of the four ships bore identification marks; the scanners hadn't flagged them as hostile. It could have been anyone, including locals on their own flights. But why hadn't the Rogues been warned?
As he pondered the identity of the unknown ships, they opened fire on the fleeing X-wings. Well, their position was clear now.
"In pursuit," Wedge ordered, steering his ship after the pursuers.
The first Interceptor exploded into pieces the moment a pair of Wedge's proton torpedoes "kissed" its rear hull.
The second Imperial-made ship tried to dodge Selchu's attack, and the torpedo veered. One more maneuver, partially successful — the projectile didn't hit the ship, but it exploded before getting too far away. The right group of solar panels on the Interceptor was damaged by shrapnel, and then the oncoming airstream tore them clean off, carrying them away. The crippled ship crashed to the ground and exploded.
The next torpedo hit the target dead-on and passed straight through the cockpit before detonating. The twin ion engines detached from the hull and were the first to meet the planet's surface. The torpedo blast shattered everything that remained of the ship. The field was marked by a long trail of burning wreckage.
Tycho finished off the fourth ship with his laser cannons just as the previous one was destroyed.
"Attention all," Wedge said on the squadron frequency, "encountered four sunbathers. We may have been compromised."
Grim acknowledgments of the information didn't inspire joy. The hint that the plan was exposed was so obvious it needed no further clarification.
"Continuing the mission." Wedge Antilles glanced at his instruments. "Mynock, anything else out there?"
The R5-series astromech droid buzzed a negative. The radar confirmed that Wedge was only being followed by his own subordinates. And nothing on the horizon...
Antilles looked at the chronometer.
"Everyone stay sharp, Rogues. Time to target is approximately thirty seconds. First pass, destroy any and all defenses."
"Whatever you say, boss," Wes Janson's terse reply came.
Wedge pulled up the nose of his T-65 Incom, clearing the last ridge of hills separating him from the target. And the sanitarium, long abandoned but instrumental in turning people into suicidal "messages," lay before him like on a platter.
The facility was built on a small rise in the heart of a wide hollow. Some structures were visible in the distance, and further still, unlit residential houses were scattered across the area. The strike zone was completely clear of civilian structures. You could stage an orbital bombardment if you wanted.
Though, in that case, few would survive.
Antilles entered the valley at treetop level, strengthening his forward deflector to ward off a possible attack, and led his fighter toward the largest building in the sanitarium complex, straining to see anything.
And he saw nothing. Flying over the roof, he rolled through the right wings.
"I'm being shot at," Wes Janson reported in a businesslike, decidedly non-panicked tone. "Weapon on the attic, no clean approach."
Wedge leveled his ship.
"I'll handle it."
"Covering," Tycho reminded him of his presence dryly.
Switching from main drives to repulsors, they gently dropped about twenty meters, turning their noses toward the indicated target. Wedge almost instantly spotted a pair of soldiers who, by all appearances, were handling a heavy blaster cannon with extreme professionalism — bursts started snapping against his forward deflector.
Okay, he'd spoken too soon about the professionalism.
"Why does groundpound infantry love shooting their pea-shooters at space ships?" Antilles wondered aloud. "It's clear as a Hutt's belly that nothing will come of it."
"Can't say the same for the opposite," Selchu noted.
Wedge's X-wing, barely affected by being shot at by a weapon that could have minced a small army of ground forces, locked onto the source of the danger and squeezed the trigger.
All four laser cannons on his ship swept across the building's top floor, punching straight through the thin metal walls. Two streaks of blood-red energy from Tycho struck the heavy weapon exactly as the gunner tried to swing it toward a landspeeder from the ground team that had appeared from behind the hills. But Wedge knew for certain that was only a diversion — Iella's group was supposed to have been dug in here since nightfall.
The gunner was fried on the spot, along with his blaster. As for the second one, he was treated to an exciting flight from the roof to the decidedly un-soft ground — the battery powering the weapon had exploded.
Lucky climbed to his feet and limped toward the main building, but he didn't get far. From an altitude of twenty meters, the bluish flash of a Stunner looked like little more than a spark. Even in the predawn darkness. But Wedge had worked with ground teams for so long that he didn't miss the way a pair of beings in dark combat jumpsuits started dragging a limp body into the darkness of another building. The following shadows, a squad's worth, surrounded the central building of the medical complex, and several more beings hurried toward the barn.
A tiny explosion flash — and the doors of the central building were gone, left only in memory. Beings began filtering inside. Judging by the flicker of flames, a serious fight was breaking out.
The door was blown off by a modest explosion; two shadows surged forward, threw something inside, and the windows and open loft lit up with bigger blasts. The shadows pulled back inside, and now the barn flared with blue flashes.
Wedge spotted someone climbing out a second-story window and sliding down. The fugitive looked around, toward the line of attack from the ground team, then apparently heard the repulsors, spotted the X-wings, and fired twice from a blaster.
"Were they shooting at you?" Tycho inquired.
"I thought they were shooting at you," Wedge admitted.
"No," he stated.
"And not at me either," the young general replied. Judging by the fact that on the scanners, every single Rogue was amusing themselves elsewhere, no one except the two of them could have been the target.
This time the fugitive decided to express his preference more accurately — red bolts started hammering the headlight of the Corellian's speeder.
Antilles smiled approvingly:
"Not bad. But clearly not enough."
The shooter, sensing a change in the X-wing's position, realized he'd blundered and was about to get hurt. He took off running, hunched over to take cover behind a low barrier.
"Does he know we can actually see him?" Wedge asked his partner just in case.
"Let's shoot him, then ask," Selchu suggested.
Not a bad compromise. Except that any of the laser cannons would at best cook the poor guy on a direct hit. So…
Wedge aimed at the low barrier and fired ahead of the target. The explosion not only tore a huge chunk out of the barrier a couple of meters in front of the runner's face, but also created a massive crater that he tumbled into at full speed.
Wedge switched his comlink to the ground team's frequency.
"Rogue Leader to ground team commander," he addressed Iella. "We've got a runner three hundred meters east of the central building. I scared him a bit with the cannons."
"Wedge, is there anything left of him?" In the background of the open channel, Iella's side was filled with sounds of shooting.
"I was gentle and caring, like with a newborn child," the commander of Rogue Squadron declared with responsibility. "But I think he fell in a hole and broke his face."
"You need some practice at fatherhood, Wedge," Wessiri lamented, and the Corellian felt his cheeks redden. "I sent two people after him. If it's not too much trouble, keep one eye on your charge, will you?"
"Copy that," he promised. "And how's—"
"We're done with the cleanup," indeed, the shooting had stopped. "If you want, you can set down and stretch your legs by walking on our sinful ground."
"Copy that. Tempting offer. I'm coming down," Wedge switched to the squadron frequency. "Two, I'm landing. Provide air cover and have the second flight secure the outer perimeter."
"Will do, Commander," Tycho, as always, was concise.
Antilles guided his fighter to a small space between the central building and the one next to it. The repulsors gently set the ship down on relatively solid ground, then he let the canopy rise and shut down the engines. Only then did he jump down. He started heading toward the central building, but was stopped by a person in black who had appeared beside his ship from nowhere. And in the most brazen manner, grabbed him by the arm.
"Um, right off the bat," Wedge hesitated.
"There's nothing interesting in the main building," Iella said in a voice nearly like a tomb. "Come on, in one of the local barns there's loads of interesting stuff."
"Whatever you say," Antilles shrugged, regretting that he couldn't put his arm around the girl's shoulders right now. Such "walks" were a bit out of place for the situation. And her voice was downright alarming. As was her unnatural pallor, visible in the first rays of dawn.
The doors to the indicated building were guarded by two Sullustans. The air smelled of burnt wood and plastic. The operatives looked grim — some were busy packing their own comrades into body bags. The bodies of the killed guards were wisely left untouched — they still had to be identified.
But the rest…
An unspoken question lodged in his throat.
One of Iella's operatives was squatting next to a living skeleton. The other troopers were freeing other prisoners from improvised cells. As carefully as possible, they carried them out into the central aisle, where other operatives were diligently providing first aid.
For the first time since his birth, Wedge, who was often chided for being skinny, saw with his own eyes just how emaciated a being's body could become. It was… terrifying. A nightmare that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The stench here was unbearable. These people had been forced to live in their own excrement… Wedge barely stopped himself from pinching his nose. The prisoner beside whom the medic sat, sequentially injecting him with tonics and vitamin compounds, had his wrists rubbed raw by cuffs down to the bone-white, and something was moving in his hair and beard, but Wedge didn't look away.
He simply couldn't tear his eyes from the sight of what civilized beings had been reduced to. Emaciated, so wasted they couldn't even stand on their own two feet… It was truly terrifying.
"Water," croaked the living skeleton nearest him. Wedge looked questioningly at Iella. Silently, she pointed to three empty liter flasks lying next to the man. The medic sitting nearby was mixing another batch of chemicals that could help these beings hold on until a specialized medical team arrived.
Wedge paused for a second to relay an order through Tycho to the flagship of his unit. Medics were urgently needed here. Many medics.
"Water," the living skeleton croaked again.
"Hang in there, kid," the medic told him in a trembling voice; his eyes seemed to be welling up at the sight. "You can't have more than three liters — the vitamin group will make you throw up. Take my word for it — you've got enough water in your system right now for everything to be fine."
"Water," the martyr rasped. As if it were an incantation, the other prisoners began repeating the same word. Like a chorus of the dead…
Wedge felt Iella trembling. The stench in the room had grown so thick it seemed tangible — the young general's eyes saw a literally still-living person being pulled from a puddle of excrement. The operatives started bustling about, found a water pipe, began checking the chemical composition for usability…
"The air in here needs to be changed," Wedge decided.
"The building is sealed," Iella echoed. "One entrance, no windows."
"And what's in the far part of this barn?" Antilles looked toward a pile of rusty scrap metal.
"A dump," the Corellian woman replied, not taking her eyes off the man begging for water. Finally the water line started working, and the operatives began filling the empty flasks to start cleaning the prisoners. At least a little, but hygiene had to return. "Nothing valuable."
"That's good," Wedge replied. He gave Tycho instructions and waited until the latter, with a grazing shot from his laser cannons, punched a ragged hole in the wall farthest from the entrance — from one wall to the other, along the path of his fighter.
An instant breeze began to blow the foul smell outside.
"Everything's going to be fine now," Wedge promised, crouching next to the living skeleton who was still rasping about water.
The prisoner, having stopped muttering about needing water, suddenly fell silent, then with surprising quickness extended a bony hand and scratched with curled fingers at the leg of Wedge's flight suit.
"I know you…"
Wedge didn't rule out that in this crowd of ragged and emaciated humans and non-humans there might be people he once knew. But right now they were simply unrecognizable.
"Were you in the Alliance?"
"Supply," the man explained. "Captured on Hoth…"
Wedge frowned: how many more guys like this, whom they had declared fallen heroes, had ended up in Imperial dungeons?
"Sorry it took us so long," Wedge's eyes began to sting. Iella standing beside him put a hand on his shoulder.
"The main thing is you're here," the man smiled, revealing nearly rotten teeth and ulcer-covered gums. But Wedge didn't look away. His heart clenched with pain. Now he understood, better than anyone, why Corran Horn had been racing so desperately across the galaxy looking for these people. The way they had been treated… It was beyond good and evil.
But worst of all was that the Alliance and the New Republic, until Horn's statements, had never even tried to search for their missing comrades. They had simply been forgotten. Written off.
"I feel warm," the liberated supply officer suddenly said, giving Wedge another terrible smile. Antilles held his gaze.
"The chemicals are working," the medic rejoiced. "There, this one will definitely live. Ma'am," he looked at Iella, "I'll take care of the others."
"Go ahead," she managed to say.
"Were you always treated like this here?" Wedge asked in a slightly unsteady voice.
"It was worse on the Lusankya," the living skeleton found the strength to smile. "Here they just starved, thirsted, and covered us in filth. There they broke your will too."
"Ships will be here soon," Wedge promised. "We'll get everyone on board, wash you, heal you, feed you. I promise. And we'll find whoever did this to you. I swear it."
"Someone else promised too," the living corpse suddenly said darkly. "Jan said that he would search for them. She got angry, and everyone who believed was mercilessly beaten. Many stopped believing."
"Are you talking about Corran Horn and General Dodonna?" Iella clarified.
"Corran, yes," the living corpse said. "Good kid. Didn't break. That made her angry. Too bad he isn't here."
Wessiri started to say something, but Wedge cut her off:
"Horn serves under my command," he explained. "He's on a special assignment now — looking for the rest of the prisoners. He asked me to tell you he's sorry he couldn't free you personally. But you'll meet again — all of you."
"So he's alive," the prisoner said in a benevolent smile. "Ysanne said they killed him on her orders. A lot of people were broken by that then. But not Dodonna. The Iceheart had to break him with extra effort."
"Well, a lot of time has passed since then," Wedge tried to cheer the former prisoner, smiling at him. "We destroyed Ysanne Isard soon after she moved you from the Lusankya to these prisons. About two years ago."
The only things that shone with life on that living corpse — his eyes, piercing blue eyes — dimmed. As if someone had cut off the man's source of clarity.
"Then you did a really lousy job, guys," he said quietly. "I hope Horn is lucky and finds the others. Because she said that no matter if you found us, there wouldn't be any clues here that would lead you to the others. Supposedly our rescue is a dead end."
Wedge and Iella exchanged glances. The Corellian felt the symptoms of a bad premonition stirring inside him.
"You only found us because she wanted you to get our corpses," the supply officer said dryly. "They kept us on little more than thin broth so that by the time you arrived, we'd be her message to you…"
"Who is this woman?" he asked, inwardly afraid of the answer.
The prisoner began to shiver finely:
"The Iceheart."
"Ysanne Isard was here?" Iella's hands clenched into fists. "But she died two years ago on Thyferra! The Rogues destroyed her!"
"She was here a couple of weeks ago," the prisoner said. "And you wouldn't say she has any health problems."
"But we killed her," Tycho Selchu's voice came from the entrance. Another prisoner of the Lusankya. Another one of those who had pulled the trigger, blowing up the shuttle the Iceheart had tried to escape in.
"I'm telling you, guys," the living corpse rasped. "You did a lousy job."