Nine years, seven months, and twenty-seven days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, seven months, and twenty-seven days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and twelve days since the Arrival.)
"Grand Admiral," the comlink crackled with Captain Pellaeon's voice. "We're arriving at Tangrene. Exiting hyperspace in ten minutes."
"Thank you for the information, Captain," I said, opening my eyes and peering into the darkness of the quarters that were not at all hidden from me by the gloom of the deactivated light panels. The Star Destroyer commander had interrupted my musings, but that was no trouble. "Arrange for my shuttle to be prepared and inform Moff Ferrus and shipbuilder Zion of my desire to meet with them after the Chimaera docks at the shipyard."
"Yes, sir," Gilad reported. "I will inform you additionally when everything is ready."
"Excellent, Captain," I said, peeling myself from the back of the chair. Touching the active computer panel, my finger traced across the lighting system regulator, restoring the familiar semi-darkness to the quarters.
Glancing at the latest messages from Delta Source, I smiled. A divided approach to the objective, huh? A good try, Fey'lya. And, more importantly, timely.
My gaze stopped on a small cylinder lying on the table before me. A small object, with which my musings were, in fact, connected.
The summoning and control device for an automated ship. Seemingly a trifle.
But it was not. Not at all.
The homing beacon from the yacht of Talon Karrde's former boss — Jorj Car'das.
The man who gave the real Thrawn his first knowledge of much of the galaxy, who was his friend and advisor, puppet and observer.
They had met back when Thrawn was finishing his career in the service of the Chiss Ascendancy. Just before the destruction of Outbound Flight. A curious episode in the life of Syndic Mitth'raw'nuruodo, which greatly influenced the life of a smuggler named Jorj Car'das.
Because it was the latter who laid the foundation for the business in which Talon Karrde participated.
Jorj Car'das was the one who created the most extensive network of informants and information gatherers in the galaxy, now inherited by the Claw. The one I had struck, completely cleaning out and discrediting Karrde's organization. But it would be naive to think the organization was destroyed. Karrde was clever enough, even after returning from captivity and losing his closest underlings, to reclaim his former glory.
Yes, we had raided his bases, his warehouses, and obtained a huge stockpile of both Imperial and other goods, machinery, and cargo. All of this was being redirected to Lok, which would become a secret base, a place for fleet repair and preparation after the third phase of Operation Crimson Dawn concluded. And it was already approaching its beginning...
However, the homing beacon interested me not from the perspective of nostalgia for the famous Chiss's past.
Jorj Car'das, the creator of a vast information-trading empire, vanished overnight, leaving his organization to its fate. Karrde was merely one of his assistants, who seized the opportunity and subjugated the structure to himself, expanding and deepening it.
Seemed like the man was dead, and what was the problem. Such people almost always come from "nowhere" and go to "nothing." Karrde had survived several assassination attempts and had every reason to believe Car'das was behind at least a couple of the attempts to send his former subordinate to meet his ancestors. Whether that was true or not, I couldn't recall precisely; it seemed so.
Something else was far more important.
A situation that occurred, in the events I knew, ten years after Thrawn's death. A political crisis known as the Caamas Document Crisis. The core of the problem was the existence of a race known as the Caamasi. Famous diplomats and negotiators, whose mere presence forced many warring factions to the negotiating table.
The Caamasi were that very stumbling block that could have greatly annoyed the rising star of the soon-to-be Emperor, still Palpatine. That was precisely why the latter gave the order for the destruction of their planet.
The Imperial fleet, on the Emperor's orders, executed Base Delta Zero, after which the Caamasi homeworld was reduced to a lump of slag.
As Han Solo used to say: "Not even the might of the entire Imperial fleet is enough to destroy a planet." The Corellian was exaggerating a bit, of course, but the gist was roughly the same.
Caamas was equipped with planetary shields capable of withstanding almost any bombardment. However, at the moment of the Imperial attack, the planetary shield generators were sabotaged... by Bothans.
Yes, yes, yes, those furry, all-pervasive, cunning creatures from the planet Bothawui.
According to information from the Hand of Thrawn duology, the leadership of the Bothan clans knew neither the names nor even the families to which the saboteurs belonged. And they tried by all means to hide their involvement in what happened. Why did a story already over three decades old at the time resurface?
It was simple. Simultaneously with Thrawn's death, Mount Tantiss was also destroyed, where, besides the treasury, Emperor Palpatine kept many excellent sources of information. I suspect that the vast library of encrypted datachips, which escaped the fate of erasure, was precisely the source the Emperor used to write some parts of his works. Analysts are working on some of them — those that are relatively safe and not information bombs. And my suspicions are confirmed more than ever — the datachips contain a great deal of interesting information about politicians and Palpatine's own actions.
That is precisely why I so readily agreed to the destruction of the Book of Sith discovered by Mara Jade. The powerful knowledge Palpatine had gathered concerning the Dark Side of the Force must be consigned to oblivion — at least in this version of its presentation. Though I am more than certain that the information sources Palpatine used to form his knowledge of the Dark Side were never stored in the treasury. Byss was a different matter; there, almost every other person was practically a true servant...
But this was all a digression.
So, Thrawn's death, the destruction of Mount Tantiss. After this momentous event, in the events I knew, the Noghri were relocated to the planet. Also, the New Republic... Here I wanted both to cry and laugh... It allowed private individuals to sift through the rubble of the mountain. Not intelligence, not a special unit, but private scientists... Among whom was a shrewd information dealer who found several interesting chips.
I had found them too. Undamaged, and almost all of them were encrypted so heavily that even the access codes from the Grand Admiral's command cylinders did not remove the protection.
One of them, with minimal protection, surprisingly enough, was that very Caamas Document. An account of the agreement between Palpatine and a named list of the Bothan operatives who participated in the destruction of Caamas. This was an information bomb to be used to destroy the New Republic. But, unfortunately, doing so now would be foolish. However, after eliminating the threat from Palpatine — yes, why not.
In the known events, the New Republic only received a damaged copy, without the list of perpetrators. And they launched a real hunt for a full copy of the Caamas Document to call the guilty Bothans to account. And before that, in keeping with the best traditions of New Republic democracy, they announced the existence of such a document in the Senate.
The irony of the situation was that they were restoring the Lusankya in secret from everyone and keeping its location under seven seals, but a cause for discord like this — why not tell a bunch of quarrelsome, ever-arguing senators about it? Especially during times when Coruscant had delegated all authority for resolving internal sector problems to the governments of those very sectors. What could possibly go wrong?
As it turned out, it flared up so badly they could barely put it out. Despite the Caamasi themselves directly saying — we do not want to be involved in these disputes, the matter is in the past, stop it — the democrat gentlemen, with their characteristic enthusiasm, used the story of Bothan involvement in the destruction of Caamas... to settle their own scores with each other. And if not for Imperial Intelligence, redirecting the attention of the rioting mob towards the Bothans, the rug-makers would have gone unpunished. It was curious that in this confrontation, the Mon Calamari sided precisely with the Bothans. Charming, wasn't it? But what could you do — racial psychology, pushing them to participate in conflicts on the side of those who statistically had no chance of winning.
The New Republic was saved from a split back then by only one thing — the real, undamaged copy of the Caamas Document. Which, in the known events, was discovered only by Luke Skywalker and Mara Jade. On Nirauan. In the fortress known as the Hand of Thrawn.
And an identical designation was inscribed on another, heavily encrypted, datachip lying next to the homing beacon... Yet another problem, the solution to which I was postponing until Mara Jade and Zakarisz Ghent returned from Coruscant. They had made contact, and I was to meet them in a little while.
So, returning to Jorj Car'das's homing beacon.
In the midst of the Caamas Document crisis, Talon Karrde followed the trail of his former employer. Moreover, it was precisely this homing beacon, found by Skywalker, that led the first to the second. It was a rather long story, described by Timothy Zahn in the Hand of Thrawn duology, but that was a different story altogether. I had already digressed.
The homing beacon came to Karrde from Skywalker. Then the Claw hired Mara Jade and Lando Calrissian to find Car'das. And they honestly did everything so that Karrde could then follow their trail and find Jorj.
Who, despite the passage of time and his disappearance, turned out to be alive and well, and also possessed a vast library of intelligence data. And he helped resolve the conflict and the Imperial involvement in it.
And he had been hiding from the galaxy in the Kathol sector — a remote and rather grim place. Which did not interest me strategically — there were too many... problems there. Let us call it that.
But there, those who possessed a very interesting philosophy regarding the Force lived. The Aing-Tii monks. Non-humanoids who managed to teach Car'das to use the Force (despite the fact that the latter did not possess any particular sensitivity to it). And, if memory served me right, the new knowledge helped Car'das prolong his mortal existence.
The latter interested me. Yes, Aing-Tii knowledge of the Force could be very useful to the Jensaarai, but something told me the latter were not exactly eager to teach just anyone.
I did not know how much time I had left — the physiology of the Chiss remained, as before, a mystery to me. Perhaps it would become known when a suitable scientist was found to examine my body and give predictions. Or perhaps not.
I had backup plans for this, of course, but they did not solve the main problem. I had assessed fate's offer — to take Thrawn's place and replay his campaign with different cards. But I somehow did not want to know that in a year, two, five, ten, my time would come and...
No, I did want to know. Because then I would at least know how much I needed to accelerate my plan for preparing a successor. Gilad was making certain positive strides, but it was only the beginning.
However, this again was not related to the device.
Acquiring the homing beacon meant depriving Talon Karrde of at least the starting point for his investigations and, in the long run, the ability to reach Car'das. Working through the situation, I had nonetheless concluded that Car'das did not possess a copy of the Caamas Document. He had passed on to Karrde information about an actor the Imperials had used to stage the "Thrawn's Return" spectacle. And about the clone of Major Grodin Tierce, who, in the events I knew, was a prototype of Thrawn's project to create commanders embedded with the Chiss's tactical genius.
Genetic experiments that had turned out badly — the clone was a psychopath. Yes, I had abandoned genetic experiments; I did not intend to breed experimental Jedi clones or anything similar in the future. But Car'das's information base was a danger in itself. Especially if it fell into the hands of my enemies. Considering that despite all of Karrde's fears, Car'das was favorably disposed towards him, I had valid doubts that Jorj would allow one acquaintance to destroy another.
And leveling Karrde to the ground, after he had played his part in the staging of the third phase of Operation Crimson Dawn, was vitally necessary. General Cracken was dead. The New Republic's illegal agents were cut off from command. The Provisional Government's information sources would be paralyzed for a time. That time would be enough for me to implement my plans before Palpatine's return. Alternative information sources for the New Republic, in the form of Booster Terrik, Mirax Terrik Horn, and Talon Karrde, were currently "out of play." This trend should be maintained, and in the future, extended to Car'das as well. If I could manage a visit to the Kathol sector for that purpose.
And the Aing-Tii... It was not certain they could help me prolong my existence, but at the very least, I needed to explore that avenue.
By the light, barely perceptible trembling of the deck beneath my feet, I knew the Chimaera had reached its destination.
Well, time to go.
Rising from the desk, I straightened my tunic, pulled my immaculate white gloves tighter, transferred the datachips of interest to my inner pockets, and headed for the exit.
Gilad had notified me just as Major Tierce and Rukh were already striding briskly behind me towards the hangar.
* * *
The basics of investigation taught to field agents of Imperial Intelligence are the ability to find a target using crumbs of information. A useful art, if you have at least something connected to the target.
Torin Inek had leads for finding the Sa Nalaor. And he understood perfectly well that the trail had gone cold. Therefore, he needed to freshen it.
Finding a target is not solving a thematic problem with one move. It is a complex of skills that you also need to know how to apply. Creatively, at that — standard thinking had already yielded a dead end.
Unfortunately for those who stood between him and his target, Torin knew how to apply the information he had acquired at the Intelligence Academy. And he did so with great pleasure.
Work becomes routine when you do not get the proper return from it. Torin got it.
Especially when it came to covert operations undercover. It always stirred the blood, kept you on your toes.
So for now, he was nothing more than the captain of a less-than-fresh freighter, looking for an easy way to make some quick money. And a way to acquire a couple of cybernetic prosthetics that would give him an edge in combat.
That was the legend.
And its background...
To find a target, you need to infiltrate the same environment the target inhabited. And inquire about it carefully.
Imagine for a moment that you are a sentient who makes a living selling contraband Separatist advanced cybernetics developments on the black market. And you need to do it in such a way that neither the Republic nor the Confederacy takes notice. Because you need money, not problems, right?
You do not have much time to move your goods — otherwise, command will start asking you too many questions. And you also need to know how to sell illegal goods — for that, being a dashing captain is not enough. You need a dealer.
Rel Harsol was not a dealer. He was a soldier. Such people make bad traders.
And at the same time, he was smart enough to understand that experimental cybernetic prosthetics could not simply be sold to just anyone not involved in the business.
Consequently, he must have had an accomplice.
And the accomplice must have been connected to this kind of shadow operations zone.
Since you could not find a specific person — Rel Harsol — it meant you had to find his crew. But they had disappeared too, had they not?
Now, logic must be applied.
Could there have been a sentient among the crew of the Sa Nalaor who could act as a middleman in trading experimental cybernetics on the black market? Highly unlikely.
A middleman is usually cunning, smart, and resourceful enough to not stick his head into the maw of a civil war. Middlemen do not like to act independently — they prefer to work in comfort and on their own territory.
Consequently, Harsol's middleman, handling the sales, must have been a sentient who was not part of the Separatist frigate's crew.
This was already progress in the investigation.
Now it was time to think about how to find the middleman. About whom nothing seemed to be known.
But the last statement was not true.
The middleman had clearly been working with Harsol for more than a couple of months — possibly years. Consequently, the appearance of a new, unique product should have attracted the attention of certain relevant sentients. In a very specific point in the galaxy, where semi-criminal business was nothing more than everyday life. And its volume, ordinary.
Consequently, the middleman's base of operations was clearly a large planet or space station, where such transactions would not be out of the ordinary. Yes, the option that the middleman had his own little den somewhere was also possible, but then he would have to be a very big player in the market, capable of defending himself. And a Separatist captain would not need such a middleman — such a business partner could easily gut you and find out the source of your goods.
But a relatively small-time trader... Yes, that was what was needed.
So. Rough details for the search were already in place. But more specifics were needed.
For that, he simply needed to study the situation.
While Harsol had not disappeared, the middleman had been trading in cybernetics. With the disappearance of the Sa Nalaor, the middleman should not have been able to stay afloat for very long. Only if he had a stockpile of cybernetics.
The Separatist captain disappeared either in the first days of the Galactic Empire's existence or shortly before that. Which meant his intermediary's problems began around the same period.
As the cherry on top — to find the cybernetics traders, you had to understand how this market worked. Torin didn't know. But he studied it.
In the days of the Old Republic, cybernetics required licensing, and only large corporations could engage in that kind of business — entities that could turn a profit despite the constant bribes demanded by the authorities.
But at the same time, the Confederacy imposed roughly the same conditions. However, its sympathizers turned a blind eye to such illegal operations — as long as they generated profit.
Licensing meant certifying qualified employees, having production facilities, and so on down a massive list.
Of course, neither Harsol nor his intermediary would have agreed to that — the scheme would have fallen apart. You couldn't smuggle goods across the front lines and pass them off as being assembled in one of those territories. Because any inspector would find that the supposed production facility simply didn't exist. And then the outfit would get shut down — just like the Empire did when it took over the galaxy. And that was another hook worth holding onto.
So, to sum up what we had.
A mid-level intermediary, with a foothold in the semi-legal or illegal business. His base of operations — a territory neutral during the Clone Wars, one that neither the Republic nor the CIS paid much attention to.
Once the intermediary started working with Harsol, he must have set up a shell company to launder the experimental products. And that company must have gone under after the Empire took power — either the business got shut down for being a sham, or the intermediary had to scale back, or even stop entirely, in the experimental cybernetics field and switch to something else.
And that narrowed the search considerably.
It took a long time of intense work from the whole group before they managed to identify a likely candidate for Rel Harsol's intermediary.
A Twi'lek named Ropok.
This alien, who had sympathized with the Confederacy of Independent Systems, founded a company called "IsoTech" a classic shell company that owned nothing except trading floors and a laboratory complex on a station called "The Wheel" in the Besh-Gorgon system of the Maldrood sector. And the sector, by the way, had sympathized with the CIS back in the day. It was located in the Mid Rim — the border between civilization and the Outer Rim, a place ruled by brute force and big money. And connections, of course.
IsoTech wasn't particularly famous, but at the same time, the ISB archives had information that the company, according to rumors, had been involved in the illegal trade of unlicensed cybernetic prosthetics. Right time, right place, right atmosphere...
IsoTech's cybernetics business collapsed like a bantha the moment the Empire took over the galaxy. The company pivoted to buying and selling licensed prosthetics, but it soon came as a shock to Ropok that the Empire had no tolerance for those making money in the "gray zone" of taxation.
The Twi'lek was arrested and sent to Kessel. His children took over the company — a daughter and a son, who ran their father's business as best they could.
And as it happened, a few years ago, Ropok's son, Reom, vanished from the company. A brash, reckless guy, easy prey for all sorts of adventures. Only Ropok's daughter, Shira, remained at the helm, and under her leadership, the company somehow managed to stay afloat. But strictly within the legal field — if that term could even be applied to "The Wheel." That station was no joke. It was a den filled with casinos, slot machines, gladiator arenas, spice dealers, and all sorts of other lowlifes. The management of this pleasure palace had its own armed forces — a small private fleet that, combined with The Wheel's own arsenal, could give even an Imperial battle group a serious thrashing. In the past, they had operated strictly under Imperial supervision and had been a good source of income for the governor of the Maldrood sector. But now they had grown bold and declared themselves neutral territory.
Well, those were irrelevant details anyway.
Something else was far more interesting.
Torin sat at a cafeteria table across from the transparisteel panels of IsoTech, watching a pair of Rodians — the outright thuggish type — making demands of the pretty young Twi'lek, Shira. She was clearly irritated and, if she could, would have sent both of them packing.
Shira.
The problem was that IsoTech wasn't prosperous enough to have its own security. Not even droids. And Shira worked there alone.
Torin had been on the station long enough to learn a lot of interesting things about the girl with the head-tails and her company.
For example, rumors that her brother, Reom, hadn't just disappeared. He had taken all of IsoTech's savings with him. And had gotten involved with some Rodians from the salvage corporation "Yiyar." Nothing had been heard from him since.
It might have seemed like a coincidence.
But IsoTech fit all the criteria for Rel Harsol's intermediary.
And the salvage corporation "Yiyar" was a bunch of Rodian thugs from Ryloth. They specialized in (surprise!) rescuing crews from shipwrecks. Their services weren't cheap. Not cheap at all. But they knew the Outer Rim and the surrounding space like the back of their hand.
While Torin was debating whether to keep watching the scene unfold, the Rodians made their move. One of them — the more aggressive one — pulled out a blaster, grabbed the girl by her right lekku, yanked her down, slammed her face into the counter, and pressed his weapon to her head, making some kind of demand. Well, how interesting. Actually, no. If IsoTech weren't part of his mission, he wouldn't have even moved.
"Yiyar's at it again, intimidating Shira," grumbled an old man in baggy clothes sitting nearby. Torin glanced at him — the disheveled fellow had told him plenty of interesting stories, essentially filling him in on IsoTech's current situation. To him, Torin was just another pilot looking for some cybernetics. Cheap, but good.
"What's the problem?" Torin asked, taking a swig of whiskey from a glass that hadn't been washed in ages. If you chose the life of an agent, you got used to sometimes drinking what they called whiskey here in this backwater part of The Wheel — which was actually rancor piss.
"What, you didn't hear me?" the shaggy man said, surprised. "They're shaking her down for money over Reom."
"I must have missed it, old-timer," Torin admitted. "What happened?"
"Reom stole all the money Shira had saved up after Ropok got sent to Kessel," the local repeated. "Word was, he got a message from one of his father's friends, saying the old man had crashed somewhere. He hired Yiyar, and they supposedly found something, but they weren't happy about it. Anyway, one of their teams went missing. The Rodians aren't happy — they want their money. So they come to Shira and demand it. Money she," the old man sighed, "doesn't have, of course. The girl's scared off all her customers; IsoTech's about to get kicked off The Wheel. She can't afford protection anymore. Everyone's been bullying her — from the security patrols to the level administrators. They're all demanding money for security, protection, the right to work... And she's got nothing — all her suppliers have stopped working with her. She's got nothing to sell, just scraps. It's a shame about the girl. Her brother really screwed her over. So the Rodians are squeezing her — either they want Reom found, or the money. It's been going on for years. But ever since Yav took over the Yiyar clan," the old man pointed at the Rodian who was hurting the Twi'lek girl, "the pressure's gotten worse."
"It happens," Torin said, draining his glass. He stood up, tossed a few small credits on the table (if you had large bills in a place like this, you were either an idiot or a soon-to-be-dead idiot), and then sauntered over toward IsoTech. The plan came together on the fly. "Why doesn't she just give up her brother?"
"No one knows where he is," the lowlife said. "Though those blockheads from Yiyar think Shira's such a masochist that even if she knew where Reom was, she'd rather take the beatings and humiliation and watch her father's business fall apart."
"Idiots," Torin said with a yawn. Time to put on a show. "But the girl's cute. Think I'll go play the hero."
"Don't get your legs broken," the old man advised.
"For a looker like that," Inek chuckled, "it might be worth it."
Of course, the girl didn't interest him. He had no particular prejudice against aliens, but that type didn't appeal to Torin.
But the "damsel in distress" routine fit perfectly with his cover as a cheap-money hunter. And for the main mission, it also worked — he could use the girl to find her brother. The brother clearly knew more.
Could Reom have hired Yiyar to find the "Sa Nalaor"? Yes, without a doubt. That's why he stole the money.
Had he paid them? Unlikely. These two harassing the girl were clearly from Yiyar — judging by their insignia. If they had found the Sa Nalaor, they'd be rich, and the Twi'lek girl, even if she was relatively young and even, arguably, pretty, wouldn't have mattered to them at all. With big money — and the salvagers were owed not just their fee, but a nice percentage for finding the ship — they could buy anyone they wanted.
."..The whole first group is gone! The equipment, the ship!" the Rodian snarled, literally dragging the girl by her lekku over the counter. The girl struggled, muttering curses, but took no action to defend herself. Torin sized her up in an instant — not a fighter. Not at all. Now he understood why this had been going on for so long. Couldn't she have just bought a blaster?
"Yav, you've told me this already!" Shira's voice was cute — common among alien girls, he'd been taught at the Academy. A natural trait to attract the opposite sex, especially human males. Nonsense, really. Nature just made it so that this species had pretty girls whose appeal was immediately obvious. That's why they'd been bartered as slaves, kept as harem concubines, and so on for millennia. "Let go of me, you Gamorrean-faced brute! Reom was supposed to pay you! Go ask him!"
To be honest, most Twi'lek girls were trained to be obedient, meek, and submissive, bowing to their masters' will. Several millennia of slavery was no joke. It left a psyche twisted to hell. Usually by Hutts.
This one, though, seemed to have a complicated past, given how sharp she was. Signs of independence and a rebellious spirit. Good for her. But she'd still be better off with a blaster.
"I'm tired of waiting years for my money, Shira!" the Rodian continued screeching in Galactic Basic. Oh, he'd have been better off babbling in his own language — the Rodian lisp and their inability to properly pronounce words containing certain letters was just hilarious. Once, Inek had interrogated some thug from Rodia. While the guy spent three hours telling them about his gang, the operatives spent two hours laughing. No, seriously, that's why Rodians didn't bother speaking Basic — it was just too funny.
Torin locked eyes with the second Rodian — a run-of-the-mill thug. Nothing special. And his blaster was a piece of junk — way too much slack in the trigger. That couldn't be fixed. Cheap, low-quality weaponry. Not like the first Rodian. "Give me my money now! Or the capsule! Now!"
This one was clearly an experienced thug. A few scars on his face, a springy stance. And he'd apparently lost an eye under very interesting circumstances.
"Hey, boss!" the second Rodian said in his native tongue. And unfortunately for him, Torin knew that language. "Some human punk's here. Maybe we roll him?"
"Go roll a warehouse of contraceptives," Torin answered him in Rodian. No, it didn't sound funny in his delivery. "Why are you hassling the girl, you swamp-farters?"
At such an insult — one that would usually mean instant death for the speaker — even the Twi'lek girl's eyes went wide. And she was being held by her head-tails, which was extremely painful for anyone from Ryloth. Torin knew that for sure.
"Looks like you're asking for it, human," the lead Rodian said, switching to his native language. "I am Yav Yitr, of the Yirt clan!"
Yav Yirt.
"I'm guessing that's supposed to mean something important, given how pompously you said it," Torin smirked, pretending to put his hands on his hips. In reality, his fingers, hidden from the Rodians, had grabbed something interesting. "But who gave you permission to stink up the place with your pheromones? Hey, girl, don't you think it smells like week-old bantha dung stuck to a boot ever since the Rodians showed up?"
If you wanted to piss off a Rodian, remind him that his whole species emitted a sharp, irritating musky odor that many compared to exactly what Torin had just described.
"Your friend?" the one who'd called himself Yav asked the blinking Twi'lek. The second Rodian also turned to see Shira's reaction.
And that was their mistake.
Rodians were good at hunting in forests and swamps. But in enclosed spaces, different skills were needed.
Torin slid in front of the less dangerous opponent, grabbed the hand holding the blaster pistol by the wrist, twisted it so the pain prevented him from firing, and then drove a short combat knife into the base of the opponent's neck.
Spinning him around to use as a shield, he let Yav fire into his own lackey, then hurled the knife, landing it squarely in the center of Yav's chest. The Rodian crumpled to the floor. Not dead, but out of commission for the necessary time.
"You okay?" Torin asked the girl, who was still staring at him with wide eyes, after shoving the corpse aside. "Well, since everything's fine," he stepped over the body, "I've got a couple of questions. I heard you sell cybernetic implants..."
The girl just stared, stunned, at his smiling face. Then her gaze shifted to the bodies on the floor...
"You'd better get out of here quietly," she advised. She recovered from the shock of death pretty quickly. Seen bodies before. "The security officers are probably already on their way — and they don't tolerate disturbances on the station unless they're the ones causing them."
"Good advice," Torin nodded. "So, about that cybernetics?"
"Are you serious?" the girl blinked. "You're about to get caught."
"And here I thought the girl I just saved from dishonor, or more likely death, would tell the authorities that the bodies were a result of her self-defense," the Imperial agent snorted. Shira bit her lip, realizing he had a point. And even though she hadn't asked him to help her, no one knew how things would have turned out if Torin hadn't intervened. "Besides, from what I hear, the local security doesn't exactly like you. So I'm thinking you shouldn't be hanging around here either, what do you say?"
"Maybe," the girl said suspiciously. "The prosthetics — that's just a pretext, isn't it?"
"I have a ship, a supply of clean IDs, and plenty of free time," he said. "And, as I can see, you have a problem with a relative who started all this. I can help find him and make him answer for what he did. If I can make some money out of it, it's worth doing. Besides, those Rodians," he gave the fallen clan leader a light kick, "won't let this slide. They'll keep hunting you. I can just jump on my ship and be gone."
The security team's response time on The Wheel to an incident was fifteen minutes. Yeah, here in the slums, they took their time, preferring to deal with body disposal rather than live participants in a conflict. They were... interesting that way.
Three of those minutes had already passed. If they lingered another five, they wouldn't be able to escape.
Come on, tail-girl, make up your mind, Inek thought.
"If I had the money to hire a bounty hunter, I'd have done it already," the girl said, quickly emptying the thin cash register, scooping the cash into a purse and grabbing the few display samples from under the counter. "If you really want to help... I have nothing to pay you with."
"Let's go already," Inek snorted, taking her duffel bag. "You can tell me all about it on the ship."
"Do you actually have a reason to help me?" she asked once they were hidden in an alley. "If you're hoping for something personal, I should warn you that—"
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Torin advised. "I actually need a prosthetic. Something cool. I heard you have some for sale..."
"I haven't had anything for a couple of months now," the girl said gloomily. "Ever since the Imperials and pirates started hunting the New Republic transports I used to smuggle cybernetics from the Core Worlds to the Mid Rim, my suppliers decided not to deal with me anymore. So at best, you can count on a big Twi'lek 'thank you.'"
"That's a bit thin," the Imperial agent said, playing his role. "But... since it looks like things are over for you here, you can fly with me. Can you cook? I'm sick of ration packs."
"Keep dreaming," Shira snorted. "I can cook about as well as I can fight off the people my brother owes money to."
"Right," Torin drawled. By then they'd reached the dock where his ship was — another cover vessel, cobbled together by navy techs from a YT-1300 freighter captured during a raid on a New Republic base. "So what can you do?"
The girl gave his ship a professional once-over, then, shuddering and visibly restraining her disgust at the rust bucket, said:
"I can install your prosthetic for you," she announced. "I'm a cyber-prosthetics doctor."
"You have a license for that?" Torin whistled.
"Do you have proof this heap won't fall apart while we're flying where I tell you to?" she shot back.
"No, actually," in reality, his starship could give a decent corvette a run for its money, but who would tell all their secrets? "No."
"Well, neither do I," the girl replied. "But my patients survived."
"Many?" Torin asked. He didn't really care. The fact that the girl had so easily decided to run off with a stranger showed she was just acting on her intentions. And since women don't usually just "vanish into thin air," she must be planning to go to someone who could solve her Rodian problem. And since it had come to this, Shira was really feeling the heat. Which made his job a lot easier.
"All of them," she replied, walking up the ramp. "Though someone usually managed to shoot them afterward."
"You know, I've changed my mind about getting a prosthetic from you," Torin assured her.
"Oh, yeah?" Shira smirked, dropping her things right on the floor of the mess hall.
"Bad omen," Torin chuckled.
* * *
"The Signus Spaceworks star convoy has been intercepted by Captain Kalian's squadron," Moff Ferrus said. "The starships and all their contents are being taken to the Karthakk system. The crew has been left in escape pods. My contact at the company has already informed me that they can't compensate for the loss or refund the money. They're offering the services of their corporate lawyers for a small fee to litigate with the New Republic for the return of the lost cargo."
"How 'small' is this fee?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Enough to build us a couple of corvettes." That was about ten million credits. Clever bastards.
"Send an official claim to Coruscant with the appropriate demands," I said. "We'll maintain the 'narrative' of their attack to the very end."
"Yes, sir," he reported.
"Contact Signus Spaceworks again and ask them about the JV-7 shuttles," I said. "A production line for that type of starship would be useful."
"Sir, I already asked them about that," he said, his tone suggesting the answer wasn't positive. "They retooled that assembly line for Lambda production several years ago. Brand-new Deltas aren't really needed on the civilian market — a large number were built, and the secondary market satisfies the demand."
"In that case, take steps to procure used ships of that type," I ordered. Looking at Ryan Zion sitting nearby, I asked:
"Can you recreate the JV-7 production line?"
"If you'll permit a few observations, sir," well, well, well. Since when did our so ironically bristly shipbuilder become a model of discipline? Could Nick Reyes's departure have affected him? "The Deltas are, without a doubt, a good type of starship — as assault shuttles. But as cargo ships, they're completely unsuitable — too little cargo capacity. If the issue is small-scale production, we could set up a semi-automatic assembly line — that would be cheaper in terms of resource expenditure. In fact, most of the equipment and components are interchangeable with the Lambdas, so a full-cycle line isn't needed, just an assembly shop. We can get the assembly schematics from the damage control system in the onboard computer. And as for the alloy quality and chemical composition... We'll scrap a couple of ships for analysis."
"Good," I approved. "Prepare everything needed in the blueprints and pass them to the Moff — he'll determine the place and time for the project implementation."
"Will do," Zion grunted. Then, catching himself, he added, "Sir."
"Is the cargo transport from base RZ7-6113-23 still ongoing?" I asked the Moff.
"We've already emptied half the warehouse," he replied. "Your authorization to use inactive fleet ships has significantly sped up the process."
"In that case, Master Shipbuilder," I looked at Zion again, "you'll have to develop modernization plans for these antiques as well."
Ryan's single eye flashed. Clearly displeased. Well, what did you expect, my good man, when you went around boasting about your competence? Initiative, well... it's punishable.
"It will be done," the man replied with restraint.
"I also expect your report on the work for the 'Sunburn' project ships," I moved to the next item on the meeting agenda.
"Work is in full swing," he reported. "Given the cannon you delivered from the Corellian rebel base, we have the capability to upgrade all six ships to a relatively combat-ready state."
"We'll make do with what we have for now," I ordered. "I need the 'Dragon' and the other four upgraded Venator-class destroyers with ion cannons as soon as possible."
The shipbuilder's jaw muscles clenched.
"I'll reallocate the yard workers from other projects to 'Sunburn'," he said reluctantly.
"The 'Scimitar'," I shifted my gaze to the Moff directly overseeing the project. "What's the status of the prototype?"
"After installing the PLAE technology, the project can be considered ready for testing," the man said, not without pride. "Major reworking of most of the systems was required, but... the technical specifications have been met. The machine is ready, training flights have been completed, the results are quite acceptable."
"Have you familiarized yourself with the new bomber prototype?" I asked Zion.
"Yes," he admitted reluctantly. "Not my specialty, of course, but I can say the machine is essentially finished, high quality, truly worth the credits and time spent on it."
"How long does it take to assemble one unit?" I inquired.
"It was assembled by hand, so a month," the governor of the Morshdine sector said, looking puzzled.
"I'm taking the prototype and the technicians working on it to the 'Chimaera' for combat testing," I declared. The decision seemed to stun both men.
"Sir," Zion said cautiously. "Testing of new equipment takes months, on the ranges..."
"Didn't you just inform me that the 'Scimitar' is complete?" I clarified.
"That's correct, sir, however... There are procedures..."
"If the new bomber is ready, we'll test it in battle," I cut him off. "If your recommendations are confirmed, Captain Steben will begin the operation to acquire SoroSuub's 'bird of prey' production lines, and we'll put assembly on a continuous flow. The TIE bombers are good in their tier, but a new type of ship is needed now."
"I understand, sir, but there's a testing protocol..." Zion started hesitantly. However, he stopped himself and didn't dare continue.
"I need all the fully crewed starships of the active fleet to be ready for combat operations," I ordered. "The fleet is transitioning to the next part of the plan, and I need to understand..."
Suddenly, Ferrus's comlink came to life. But before that, my own communication device emitted the characteristic tone of an incoming call.
"What's the matter?" I calmly asked the commander of the flagship Star Destroyer.
"Sir, an Imperial Star Destroyer has entered the system," he reported quickly. "Based on the transmitted identifiers, it's the 'Void Wanderer', promised to us at Bilbringi. But most of our starships are damaged."
"On the other hand, we have Captain Dorja and a forward line of defense in the form of camouflaged asteroids," I reminded him, looking at Ferrus and Zion. "I trust the 'Golan' and ORV-II are still camouflaged?"
"Correct, sir," the sector Moff confirmed.
"In that case, send Dorja to intercept," I ordered Pellaeon. "Also, contact the 'Void Wanderer' and inquire about the reasons for their arrival in the Tangrene system."