Nine years, seven months, and thirty-two days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and thirty-two days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and seventeen days since the Arrival.)
After Commander Rederick — who also serves as Mr. Hoffner's "head of security" finished his report on the deal on Sullast and meeting with Talon Karrde, I remained silent for a few seconds.
Return spaceships? Honestly, what nonsense. A pretext, nothing more.
The real reason for this conversation is much simpler and more prosaic, isn't it, Claw?
And your motives are clear to me. The organization has shrunk a bit, and you have to do the dirty work yourself. Very well, you'll get what you want — you'll track. But the final outcome will be different.
"Did you search the ships?"
"Yes, sir," the scout replied. "We found three beacons on each. We are currently making diversionary jumps through peripheral systems to throw off any pursuit."
"Make two more, then proceed to the Ren Var system," I ordered. "Simulate a course for Lianna."
"Yes, sir," the man replied calmly. But from his hologram, I could tell he had an unasked question.
"There, initiate an apparent malfunction and go adrift. Do not leave your current position until your convoy is attacked by New Republic starships," I continued the briefing. "Six Mon Calamari star cruisers. You will attempt to flee from them, they will give chase, after which your ships will be captured and brought aboard the Republic vessels."
"Yes, sir," Commander Rederick repeated his regulation response.
Well, that's settled. A trap upon a trap. It should turn out interesting. But the effect won't last long.
"Now let's return to the matter of finding Molo Himron," I made it clear that the previous topic was closed for discussion. And what's there to discuss? Karrde wanted exclusive access? He did. But instead of information on how to find our base, he'll get information that Grand Admiral Thrawn's underling purchased production lines and was headed to Lianna, to visit Lady Santhe, who "they say" has decided to build herself a "Death Star." And then the valiant Republic fleet attacks the convoy...
Awkward, especially when the New Republic denies this fact. As well as the fact that before this, its ships had been hunting in nearby systems for transports heading to or from Lianna.
A small scandal never hurts. And think how much it will hinder the cooperation between Santhe Technologies and the New Republic...
"Did you get any additional information on Sullast?"
"Yes, sir," Rederick replied. "As I already reported, the freighter used to transport the group that captured Himron and his men is a Brill-class bulk freighter, manufactured by SoroSuub Corporation. Despite the falsified identifiers, my team managed to determine that the starship was purchased new, straight from the shipyards. No more than six months before Ysanne Isard left Thyferra. A month prior to that, the ship arrived on Sullust for refit. It was converted from a freighter into a vessel for transporting large animals in durasteel cages."
Stand-in prison, a thought flashed.
"Did you identify the buyer?" I inquired.
"A shell transport corporation," the young commander replied. "The identity of the person who signed the contract is also fabricated. However, none of this has anything to do with the trail that led the Republicans from Commenor to the Ciutric Hegemony."
Good. Let's assume, conditionally, that it's not an Isard clone behind Himron's kidnapping. The reasoning, "that freighter doesn't match this one," isn't really adequate, but that's why it's only a conditional assumption.
"Were you able to make any further progress on that trail?"
"At the moment we're searching the HoloNet for any other traces of that freighter's engine signatures," Rederick explained. "I obtained that data from SoroSuub Corporation during the time Captain Hoffner was finalizing the deal with the Sullustans. Simultaneously, we're tracking down the ship's actual commander — if the identity was fabricated, the individual himself might still be alive. Since he lived from the time of the ship's purchase until Himron's extraction from Mandalore, that means he enjoys his command's trust and is considered quite reliable. So there's every chance he's still alive."
"Continue the search," I ordered. "The longer Himron remains a captive, the longer his life, and with it our plans, are in danger."
Though nothing remained of the plans Himron knew — only the basics. But even those couldn't be trusted with Isard.
"Yes, sir," Rederick replied.
After the commander's hologram dissolved into the dimness of the quarters, a comlink chirped.
"Captain Tomax Bren has arrived for an audience with the Grand Admiral," the comm device informed me in Rukh's voice.
"Send him in," I ordered.
Within a minute, the commander of the Scimitar bomber squadron was standing before me at attention.
"You kept your word, Captain," I said, deliberately ignoring the fact that the machine had passed its trials a few days past the agreed deadline.
"Yes, sir," the pilot replied evenly.
And on his face — an unspoken request. No, I'm not kidding or exaggerating — Captain Bren clearly has something to tell me.
Well, let's hear it. But a little later.
"Well then, Captain," I continued. "You may return to your squadron and assume command. The technical documentation and the prototype will be handed over to our engineers for study, and in time, mass production of these bomber types will be established. On my behalf, I can promise that the Scimitar squadron will be the first to be equipped with them, in recognition of your contributions to creating a fundamentally new class of ship."
"Sir, I merely utilized the previously developed dive-bomber concept and supplemented the work with my own vision," the pilot clarified. Hmm, modest but tasteful.
"In any case, you have earned my gratitude," I said. "I see you have a request for me. Speak."
"Yes, sir." Tomax's gaze darted somewhat, as if he couldn't decide exactly what to say. Even interesting: what could possibly embarrass a veteran like Bren? "To be precise, I have three requests."
Now that's getting more interesting. How highly does Tomax value his work, to dare such an initiative? Well, let's hear it. Because the Scimitar really is good.
"I'm listening, Captain." No interest in my voice. Not the slightest hint of curiosity.
"May I request that the Scimitar prototype remain aboard the Chimaera, sir?" he asked. "As the flagship bomber for the wing. For study and subsequent production, it would be sufficient to send the plans to the factories — and they've been compiled with all tolerances and mandatory requirements for such documentation. The prototype would serve as a valuable asset in upcoming operations, including for my pilots to practice flying this machine."
"If production confirms that they do not need the prototype, your request will be granted. Next?"
"Technician Alex, sir," he said. "The man who helped me design, test, and refine the Scimitar. I'd like to request his transfer to the Chimaera and his inclusion in the repair crew for the bomber pilots' section. He understands this technology better than anyone besides me, so quality maintenance of the machine would be guaranteed — something we can't expect from ordinary technicians anytime soon. With all due respect to the Chimaera's crew, sir."
The thought is not without logical basis, which Tomax himself provided.
It doesn't take much reasoning to see that these two have become friends during their work on the joint project — that's obvious from the context that technician Alex is effectively the only one who agreed to such an adventure: both participating in the development and in the testing.
"However, Captain," I noted. "There's a certain dilemma."
"What is it, sir?" he asked, surprised.
"Technician Alex is responsible for restoring the TIE Avenger fighters that have been on Tangrene since the attack on the Hast shipyards. That's his own initiative, and as far as I know, he's made considerable progress there. Are you sure his transfer under your command would positively affect that project?" I inquired. "He won't be able to continue their restoration on Tangrene if he's aboard the Chimaera."
At this point, it's completely baseless to say that the TIE Avenger — of which we have two battered, shoddily repaired Republic models — could become the primary frontline fighter, overshadowing current fighters and interceptors with its performance.
We at least lack the capabilities for production and quality repair of this type, and we don't have the factory components to even get them "off the ground" in the near future. Just like the few TIE Defenders aboard the Imperious belonging to Shohashi, these fighters in their current numbers won't "make a difference." Right now they're nothing more than "toys" to please the eye. And someday, maybe, they'll have a chance for further use.
At the moment, restoring both TIE Avengers is more of a demonstration — I want to understand what kind of machines they are and whether they truly rank among the best in the TIE lineup.
So the situation is about the same as with the Scimitar — first we build, then we test, and only then do we decide if these ships are good enough to spend money and resources on their production.
"With all due respect, sir, but that work could be assigned to any other team of technicians," Bren said.
"Unfortunately, no, Captain," I declared. "Technician Alex is the only one among all those assembly-line workers who built TIE Avengers and TIE Defenders who either lived to the present day or decided to work for us."
The bomber pilot looked at me with mild surprise.
Did you think someone completely unfamiliar with this technology was brought in to develop the Scimitar's technical side? No, of course not. In that case, we could have just grabbed someone "off the street" and dragged them in.
Of course, he was a professional.
And right now, I need him to see the job through.
Tomax understood.
"Sir, may I make a suggestion?" he said.
"I'm listening, Captain."
"After the current combat operations conclude and we return to Tangrene, we could move both fighters aboard the Chimaera and, with the help of the ship's highly qualified technicians, complete the repairs much faster here," the bomber pilot said. "Additionally, the collaborative work would allow other technicians to improve their competence with this type of machine, should they be adopted."
Truly, a man is resourceful and inventive when he needs to be.
"I'll consider your proposal, Captain Bren. You mentioned you had three requests."
"Yes, sir." The pilot's face darkened. "However, the third request would be excessive, exceeding the proportion of what I've done and what has already been discussed."
Interesting...
You don't often encounter such tact among Imperial military personnel. Usually, it ends with standard jargon and nothing more.
No, a certain etiquette is present in almost everyone, that's undeniable. Especially in those who received training and began service during the Empire's dominance over the galaxy.
But the truth is that most of it has faded from their minds over the years. Imperials have turned into a kind of herd, trailing after the leader only because he can bleat loudly and point the direction.
Isn't it for the preservation of traditions — the best of them, of course — that we fight?
Great things start small. So why not reinforce positive behavior, as prescribed in the methodological literature on junior command staff training their subordinates? Yes, I said it correctly — the Imperial doctrine of continuity and officer training does not dictate that a senior officer must educate juniors by any means other than disciplinary rewards and punishments.
In essence, one could say that exemplary behavior among junior and mid-level command staff is their own achievement. Not the result of the "father-commanders."
Unfortunately, trying to "break over a knee" the established and entrenched system under current conditions would be suicidal and lead to demoralization and organic rejection of radical, drastic changes. We'll do it gradually, after the operation. When we don't have to fight a horde of enemies at every step.
Something tells me that Captain Bren's unspoken wish will be more informative for assessing his character than studying his personnel file and interrogating his colleagues.
Because we still don't have cloned bomber pilots. And since the GeNod program is once again "in question," the best course is to evaluate Bren himself as a candidate for donor.
Especially given that he's currently the only pilot in my fleet familiar with the Scimitar systems (and I have no doubt it will go into production). Using his clones would shorten training time for flight personnel.
At least partially.
"The third request, Captain," I repeated.
"Sir, I would like to ask you to reconstitute the Scimitar unit as a wing rather than a squadron," the pilot said in a calm, confident voice.
"Is that so," I said, squinting slightly.
A "wing" is a unit stationed at one military facility — a base, outpost, or starship. In this case, aboard the Chimaera and any other Imperial Star Destroyer of similar type, a wing consisted of six full squadrons: three fighter squadrons, two interceptor squadrons, and a dozen bombers. Specific ship types in the complement don't matter much in this count, as they aren't part of the strike force — they're auxiliary craft.
So Bren is proposing to expand the number of squadrons under his command. That's generally not bad — he's a quite competent officer, as far as I've studied his personnel file. Considering that the position of the Chimaera's air wing commander is currently vacant, and there's no pilot on board with a rank higher than lieutenant, Tomax is actually a decent candidate...
"Why didn't you state this proposal first, as the highest priority?" I asked. "You intend to restore the unit to its former form under your command, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," the pilot confirmed.
"Then please explain the reason for such a strange preference in prioritizing your proposals," I said. "You understand perfectly well that the first would have been fulfilled without any questions as a token of gratitude for your work. The second — with reservations. The third — with a high probability, it would already be met with resistance."
"I understand, sir," Tomax replied. "The priority is correct. Keeping the prototype aboard the Chimaera will allow me to train pilots on the new machines in real combat conditions. A qualified technician can explain the specifics of maintaining the machine to the rest of the personnel, which will also improve the hangar crew's professional training. And restoring the unit as a wing... in the past, Scimitar was the best precisely because my pilots were the best. Enemies feared us, and allies respected us for our professionalism. At present, my pilots are good, but they are not the best. Over time, I hope to correct that shortcoming. That would be the optimal moment to reconstitute the unit as a wing. That's why it's the third request, sir."
"In that case, Captain Bren, rest assured that I have heard you." The best soldier is one with motivation. This bomber pilot has it off the charts. "Begin training the personnel. As of this moment, you are the wing commander of the Star Destroyer Chimaera." A puzzled look appeared on the Imperial's face. Ah, right — that's the prerogative of the ship's captain. No wonder starship captains feel so "at ease." In their service, the naval expression "first after God" is indeed close to the meaning of the phrase. They are authorized to resolve any issues concerning their ships and crews. Literally any. Well, except perhaps execution. "This will not be 'Scimitar' at least not until our pilots meet the level of your former subordinates. So now, Captain Bren, restoring your unit is entirely in your hands. In an hour, you will receive all necessary information from Captain Pellaeon, corresponding to your clearance level. You have less than a day to familiarize yourself with the personnel and resolve all pressing issues before the battle."
"Yes, sir," Bren said restrainedly. "Permission to go?"
"Go, Captain." I nod in agreement, looking him straight in the eye. "And make me confident that I haven't made a mistake entrusting my subordinates to you."
Not a single muscle in the ace pilot's face twitched.
Very good. This seasoned Imperial will give our fighter pilots a thorough shake-up. I'm not pleased with their losses in the last battle.
As they say — "There's no better school than the old school."
* * *
"Time's up, boys and girls." The youngest general of the New Republic, Wedge Antilles, swept his gaze over everyone present. All eleven pilots of Rogue Squadron. "An order has come from Councilor Fey'lya." From the expression on Antilles's face, it was clear he wasn't exactly thrilled that a particular Bothan had once again honored him by personally instructing him on further actions. "The fleet has jumped to hyperspace, but you all know that already. Just over a standard day and twelve hours more, we'll be at the rendezvous."
"And where's this rendezvous, exactly?" asked Inyri Forge.
Wedge squinted, studying his eleven subordinates, who had involuntarily leaned forward, eager to be the first to hear what the entire fleet had been whispering about since Commenor.
"We're moving on Liinade III," Antilles announced.
"Without the Crimson Dawn?" The voice of Bror Jace, a Thyferran who had rejoined his old unit by Wedge's personal invitation in place of the departed Corran Horn, rang out louder than the other protesting pilots. "And without First Division?"
Wedge snorted.
"Afraid, Bror?" he taunted.
"It's not about fear," the Bothan Asyr Sei'lar unexpectedly came to the Thyferran's aid. Her white fur was literally on end. "Something's wrong, General."
"Second that," Gavin Darklighter echoed his girlfriend. Interesting — was it related to the fact that her sharp claws were currently resting where her right leg met her torso? "We're going into battle without the Fourth Fleet's flagship?"
"But with most of the Fourth Fleet's line forces," Wedge noted. "Ten MC-80 Star Cruisers. And over fifty support ships, from strike frigates to gunboats. Isn't that excessive honor for capturing some backwater planet, wouldn't you say?"
"Too much," said Tycho. The Alderaanian looked as calm as ever, but from his expression, Wedge could tell his friend was equally puzzled.
To be honest, he himself wasn't thrilled with the situation.
But he wasn't about to sabotage the order. Because First Division hadn't arrived at the rendezvous point, murmurs of a sort unfavorable to combat morale had started in the fleet. The fleet only knew they were to strike a planet of the Empire, but which one and where it was — few knew. That's why they were so jittery.
Judging by the pilots' gloomy mood, the squadron agreed with him and Tycho.
But unfortunately for the Republic army, their point of view couldn't influence the cancellation of orders from Coruscant.
Wedge signaled to the Twi'lek standing near the briefing room entrance, named Navara Ven, and the lights in the room dimmed.
Wedge nodded gratefully to the former Rogue Squadron pilot who had lost a leg in the Bacta War. That injury, despite the most modern prosthetic, had become an obstacle for the brave pilot to return to the cockpit. So Navara, through simple maneuvering, stayed with the squadron as an assistant. If you can't fly but really want to — you stay with your friends. Not to mention that this guy from Ryloth had defended Tycho at the tribunal when the Alderaanian was considered a traitor who had gotten Horn killed. No, later it turned out that Ysanne Isard had been behind that entire stage show, but it had frayed plenty of nerves back then.
The young general ran his fingers over a personal datapad, and the holographic projector connected to it painted a solar system.
"Meet the Rogues," he said. "Our target — Liinade III."
"That's the Ciutric Hegemony," Darklighter blinked. "Then why were we hanging around near Handuin if the target is so far away?! It's at least a day's flight from there!"
"Ah, Gavin, Gavin," said his wingman, Wes Janson. "Guess you haven't spent enough time in the cockpit flying across half the galaxy. They'll bring you there aboard the cruiser."
"Well done," Wedge praised them both. "Gavin, this is called disinformation for the enemy. All units in our task force have been making multi-directional jumps all this time, supposedly searching for enemy ships that, again supposedly, are interfering with equipment shipments from Lianna. This was necessary to mislead enemy informants who've settled on Coruscant as if they were invited. But we've digressed. The target, I repeat, is Liinade III. A small world, but it lies at the crossroads of a hyperspace corridor. One that we can cut. And thereby begin the invasion of the Hegemony."
"What changed?" Asyr asked.
"The trail from the captives taken on Commenor leads to this planet," Wedge explained dryly. "Among all those fields, valleys, pleasant climate, and nice, kind xenophobic people, there are secret prisons holding our military personnel captured by Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel. And the captives from the Lusankya."
The assembled pilots were silent.
"The situation is compounded by the fact that Krennel, after we seized his scientific base on Linuri, decided he could join the New Republic," Antilles continued. "He even wants to offer Liinade III as a new home for the Alderaanians."
"Well, this guy's got some nerve," Wes Janson whistled. "And who would accept him?"
"Do you want me to tell you straight, or can you guess yourself?" the youngest general of the New Republic asked.
"Not good," Janson said grimly. "I guessed."
"Then, if no one objects, with your permission, I'll continue?" Wedge smirked. "The population on Liinade III is sparse. Reports indicate a patrol — one or two Star Destroyers. Three at most. They reach Liinade in a trio, then split up. Only one remains at our target. The squadron's mission..."
Wedge glanced at his comlink, blinking with every possible light. An incoming call on his private channel. What timing! A briefing is in progress!
But on the other hand, the call is on the frequency known only to his closest friends...
Ah, to hell with Fey'lya and her secrecy — friends don't bother him over trifles.
But first — inform the subordinates.
"Our mission is the same as always — find, punish, and ensure the landing of ground forces. Our task force will handle it, while the other starships from other divisions will establish a blockade of the system."
"The plan was cooked up by Bothans, wasn't it?" Bror Jace asked grimly.
"One moment," Asyr reminded him of her heritage. "Little boy with clearly unnecessary golden hairs, are you trying to be rude?"
Wedge grinned wryly.
Jace had never had a knack for making friends. But in the past, all his jokes had been aimed solely at his friendly rivalry with Corran Horn. Now... Judging by Darklighter's sympathetic look, he'd have to find a new pilot for the squadron.
Asyr is sweet and fluffy — when she wants to be. Otherwise, she can sink those neat little claws right under your skin and make it hurt. And that's not always just a figure of speech.
Seizing the moment, Wedge activated his comlink.
"Antilles here..."
He was given exactly three sentences.
On the one hand, they made him want to dance. On the other — they made him want to grab someone and give them a good earful! Twice, even! Couldn't they have contacted him sooner!?
Wedge spoke the necessary instructions into the comlink quickly. Then he switched to the channel linking to the bridge. He briefed the ship's commander. And then he started hoping very, very hard that the delay in the schedule would be minimal afterwards. So minimal that no one would even notice.
Having spoken with everyone who needed talking to, Wedge noted that an intriguing smile had appeared on his face.
One that every single pilot in Rogue Squadron noticed.
Celchu stroked his perfect chin with his palm.
"General," he was the first to break the silence. "Tell me that the Liinade III operation just got canceled."
"Nope," Wedge grinned from ear to ear.
"Is Fey'lya dead?" Derek Klivian offered hopefully.
"Unfortunately, no," Asyr Sei'lar made a show of busying herself by resting her head on Darklighter's shoulder. The young man himself didn't risk joining the contest for the most hilarious comment on good and bad news. Maybe his girlfriend wasn't as much of a nerd as the rest of the Bothans, but she was still a Bothan.
"Is Ackbar back in power?" Janson tried his luck.
"Missed, Wes," Wedge shook his head.
"I'll just state the obvious for the record — Janson is considered the best shot in the squadron," Ken Nitram declared.
"Give me Fey'lya and I won't miss," Wes promised grimly.
Wedge laughed along with the others, but then a pointed clearing of his throat got the amused crowd to quiet down.
"No, the Liinade III attack mission is not canceled."
"Then, General," Inyri Forge spoke up, "perhaps you could share what made you so happy?"
"Oh, absolutely," Wedge promised. Doing a quick mental calculation of speed, distance, and correction time, he declared:
"In forty-seven to fifty minutes, I want everyone on the hangar deck."
"I don't like the sound of this," Bror Jace stated. "General, can you at least give us a hint..."
"And spoil the surprise?" Antilles raised an eyebrow. "No, kids. Come on, head to your quarters. And I want everyone on deck in dress uniform. We've got quite a show waiting."
He held out with honor against the ten suspicious and silently pleading looks from eleven pilots before ordering them to vacate the briefing room.
Only his old, good friend Tycho Celchu remained.
The Alderaanian looked at the Corellian with a clear, calm gaze and asked:
"Do I need to know what got you so amused?"
"You don't think I was actually going to leave you in the dark and be all mysterious, do you?" Wedge grinned. "Looks like the old days are coming back."
"Is it what I think it is?" Celchu turned serious instantly.
Wedge sighed wearily.
"Look, how many times do I have to tell you — I'm no Jedi, not at all! How am I supposed to know what's going on in your head!? Hand over your patch," he unceremoniously ripped his wingman's squadron chevron off his shoulder — a dozen X-wings surrounding the New Republic symbol with their engine flames. And only then did he realize that the serial number wasn't actually printed on this chevron. Right, this was a dress uniform, not a flight suit.
Awkward.
New Republic Rogue Squadron chevron.
"Oops," Antilles said, handing the patch back to its owner. Good thing it was on velcro. "Anyway, you're not Rogue Two anymore."
"I don't even know if that's good or bad," Celchu sighed. His life had been tossed around so badly you wouldn't wish it on your worst enemy.
"Well, no one's going to judge you, that's for sure," Wedge said with a teasing grin.
"At least that's a relief," Tycho smiled. "So, if I understand correctly — while everyone has time to rest and prepare, you and I will be busy handing over squadron command?"
"Sharp as ever," Wedge nodded. "Rest? That's a dream. Come on, I'll tell you my darkest secret."
"Which is?" Celchu tensed up. "I'm already not sure I want to be squadron commander."
"Relax, it's just the start of your career as Rogue Leader. You'll have to fill out the reports for the last two years," Wedge confessed. "You know me — paperwork isn't my thing."
* * *
The holographic projector displayed a star system with a yellow dwarf star at its center, around which seven planets orbited — three of them outside the asteroid belt marking the system's midpoint.
"This is the Korvis Minor system," Captain Irv explained. "The third and fourth planets are habitable. The third is a semi-desert, arid world with temperate zones at the poles. The fourth is a tropical world with excessive moisture."
"Both planets produce xenobiological products that are sold to the Ciutric Hegemony and the Outer Sectors as exotics, though all trade with the Hegemony goes through Liinade and then on to Ciutric," Captain Pellaeon added, showing off his knowledge.
"No idea," the privateer replied. "I'm not interested in that kind of thing, and the information my recruiter gave me didn't include those details."
"Well, we have them," Pellaeon said.
"Easy, Captains," I advised. There was no need to reveal just how thorough our Obroa-skai data might be. "This isn't an erudition contest. Captain Irv, please continue."
"Of course, Grand Admiral," he agreed, manipulating the holoprojector's keyboard.
The image shifted, the focus moving past the asteroid belt to the fifth planet. Zooming in: a gas giant with a dozen moons.
"Korvis Minor V," he announced. "A gas giant with multiple orbiting satellites. The assembly point for pirates hired by Prince-Admiral Krennel — in orbit around one of the moons. The moon is called Distna. And according to rumor — it's hollow."
Pellaeon's impassive expression vanished.
And that sounded distressingly familiar to me.
"The invitation is still valid for another day; after that, there's no point in showing up," the privateer stated. "From what I know, about forty gangs have already headed there. That's close to a hundred mid-class starships, not counting the 'swarm fleet.'"
Pellaeon shifted in his seat.
"Thank you for the information, Captain Irv," I said. "You may return to the Colicoid Swarm. Prepare your ship for departure."
"Sir?" the privateer clarified.
"You are heading to the Minor Corvis system, as planned," I enlightened him. "You will receive further instructions during the flight."
"And what about the patent?" Irv pressed.
"The Black Pearl and everything aboard it becomes ours," I reminded him. "The damage assessment is complete — Captain Vane will receive one million and ninety-seven thousand credits on top of that. Everything is perfectly fair."
"Oh, I'm sure," Irv smirked. "I hope you won't object if Yazuo and the organic crew from the Pearl remain aboard the Colicoid Swarm. He's indispensable in close combat, so he'll lead the boarding parties of droids, if it comes to that."
"The Colicoid Swarm is your ship," I reminded him. "Crew composition is at your discretion."
"Thank you, Grand Admiral," he said seriously, then left my quarters accompanied by Rukh.
"Am I correct in understanding — Krennel plans to hit the New Republic task force heading for Liinade III with mercenary forces?" the Chimaera's commander asked.
"Exactly right," I confirmed.
"Even after the Fourth Fleet lost its First Division, that rabble won't be enough to deal with the Republic forces," Gilad noted.
"However, the New Republic ships will be quite sufficient for dealing with the pirates," I stated. "The mercenaries are nothing more than a first-wave force. No matter how many of them fall, they will inflict significant damage on the New Republic fleet. After that, Krennel's fleet will arrive from Ciutric IV and put a victorious end to the battle. Since the pirates are paid upon completion of the job, no matter how many Krennel hires, he'll only have to pay a small number of survivors. Of course, assuming the entire remaining New Republic Fourth Fleet actually shows up at Liinade III."
"You suspect this is a diversionary strike?" Pellaeon frowned.
"I'm certain of it, Captain," I ran my fingers over the keyboard, calling up the tracking file for the starships already carrying the buzz droids from Project Morrt. "Do you see a pattern, Captain?"
Pellaeon studied the points on the galactic map honestly, trying to understand by the expression on his face. Well, I'd explain if I had to...
"Part of the Fourth Fleet has already united," he said. "The rest are only just moving out to strike."
"Exactly right," I confirmed. "Now look at the identifiers of the ships that have already gathered. Notice anything?"
"One Mon Calamari Star Cruiser, MC80b class," he said. "And almost two dozen Bothan assault cruisers..."
"Roughly half of all ships participating in the operation," I noted. "And the most modern and combat-capable ones at that."
"True," Pellaeon agreed. "The MC80b was only recently commissioned. They're used as squadron flagships... Sir, are you suggesting Fey'lya is planning another dirty trick?"
"He's a Bothan," I noted. "Moreover, his actions are perfectly visible on this map. Pay attention to the difference in positions between the squadron led by the task force flagship and the scattered groups."
"A good ten hours," Pellaeon estimated.
"Now," I used a laser pointer to trace a specific hyperspace route inside the Hegemony, "I don't think we need to consult the navigators to realize that the transit time between these two planets for ships of the classes present in the 'unified' fleet is exactly ten hours."
"A double strike," Pellaeon whistled. "Clever."
"And that puts the Bothans in the driver's seat," I noted. "Why bother with diplomacy and negotiations when you can just send the heroes of the New Republic off to some backwater world and solve the problem yourself, decisively? The New Republic doesn't judge victors. And any political misunderstanding can be justified with 'evidence' against the Prince-Admiral. One good strike — and by the end of the next day, half the Hegemony will be swearing allegiance to the Bothans."
"You mean the New Republic?" Pellaeon clarified.
"If I had meant to say that, I would have," I clarified. "Before Coruscant even finds out which way the wind is blowing, the sector will already be run by a pro-Bothan coalition. Which will, first and foremost, seize all the sector's industry it can reach."
"This cannot be allowed," Pellaeon stated firmly.
"It won't be," I confirmed. "Because we are also changing our travel coordinates. I would be grateful, Captain, if you tasked our navigators with solving the problem of having our fleet arrive right behind the Bothans. With a two-hour gap."
"Isn't that a bit much?" Gilad frowned. "That much firepower against Krennel's little ships?"
"Prince-Admiral is no fool, and he's taken good care of his planets," I noted. "Not to mention he has Mon Calamari star cruisers stashed away. Two hours is the perfect delay for both sides to taste the joy of battle and the bitterness of its outcome for one of them."
"Understood, I'll see to it," Pellaeon reported. "Sir, what about the pirates at Korvis Minor?"
"They are about to face General Antilles's forces," I said. "However, it's important to understand that this star system, Korvis Minor, has numerous navigational hazards," I zoomed in on the hologram of the sector I had studied inside and out while planning the battle. At this point, I could practically navigate it blind. "Large ships will need considerable time maneuvering to reach the jump points into or out of the system. Therefore, I am more than certain that Antilles will be facing a multitude of small and medium ships. Large starships like our Colicoid Swarm will be far fewer. Arrange for a group of scouts to be dispatched there on a disguised ship. I want to be in control of the situation if it becomes necessary to flush the enemy out of the Liinade system."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," Pellaeon rose, silently saluted, and withdrew.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the holographic image of the Ciutric Hegemony, pondering where and how Ysanne Isard would make her move.
Not the clone, of course — she had already planned the pirate ambush at Korvis Minor.
It was the silence from the original that worried me.
It worried me to the bone.
* * *
While the pilots celebrated Corran's return and tossed the now officially appointed squadron commander Tycho Celchu into the air, Wedge and Luke stepped aside.
"You look like you just saw ewoks roasting and gnawing on stormtrooper bodies," Wedge said, clapping the Jedi on the back.
"Don't remind me," Skywalker asked. "Wedge, I hope I didn't put you in too tight a spot by contacting you on your personal channel."
"Well, you only compromised the operational security of the attack on the Imperial worlds, but other than that, everything's fine," Antilles grinned cheerfully.
And he really didn't like how grim the young Jedi's expression became.
"Wedge," Luke said quietly. "I don't think this is a good idea..."
"You're not the only one," Antilles admitted. "Come to my quarters, tell me everything. And we'll figure out how to get out of this together."
* * *
As soon as the airlock doors slid open, Mara saw a figure standing before her in the dark connecting corridor between the two ships — a sentient clad in a dark brown cloak over simple dark clothes. A small spherical droid with dozens of tiny emitters hovered over his right shoulder. A very familiar droid.
"Well, hello," Thrawn's Hand snorted, crossing her arms and watching the newcomer look around with an ironic little smile.
"Good day," a strong male voice came from under the hood. The guest raised his hands and pulled back his hood, revealing to the red-haired vixen a crown of bone atop a smooth, knee-shaped head covered in blue-black patterns.
"Zabrak?" the girl's right eyebrow rose. "You've got to be kidding."
"It happens," the alien said indifferently, crossing the threshold of her ship without permission. With a precise motion, the travel bag in his hand was sent flying down the corridor straight into the common room. The girl didn't miss the fact that he had reinforced his actions with the Force. He moved confidently and with clear expertise. "I'm Eymand."
"Jedi?" the girl looked at him with interest.
"We all have our sins," he shrugged again, reaching his right hand under his robe for the flask on his belt. The parting edges of his outer garment allowed the girl to see a lightsaber hilt dangling at his waist.
Mara tensed, ready to attack the guest at the slightest sign of hostile intent. Her senses sharpened through the Force, but no hostility emanated from the Zabrak.
Seeing the lightsaber clutched in her hand, he just snorted, then, with a deft flick of his thumb, popped the cork off his flask, tilted his head back, and started drinking. The cork hit the corridor floor with a light metallic clink.
A faint aroma of Corellian whiskey touched Jade's nostril.
"Getting drunk right after meeting someone?" she asked with biting irony, watching the Zabrak use the Force to pull the cork from the floor and put it back. "Now I see why Vader had such an easy time wiping you all out."
"Notice," the Zabrak sniffed the edge of his sleeve. "He killed the ones who didn't drink. If Yoda had belted one down instead of gnawing on his cane in hard times, he might have carved the Emperor up for steaks."
"Highly doubt it," the girl snorted. "I've seen what Palpatine can do. Even after the Jedi failed to kill him. Four Masters, no less."
Eymand belched contentedly, nodding towards the hilt in her hand.
"Windu's saber?"
"A trophy," Mara confirmed. "A reward for excellent service."
"Ah," the Zabrak picked at his front teeth with his right pinky nail. Thrawn's Hand grimaced in disgust. Was this really the Jedi Thrawn had promised?
No, even in the old days, the temple knights were more like the scum from Coruscant's lower levels (which starkly contrasted with the luxury in which their Temple and the expensive ships and trinkets they surrounded themselves with were drowning). But this one had really settled into the role to the point you couldn't tell the difference.
"So, are we just going to stand in the airlock while time ticks by?" Mara asked. "We actually have a mission. Get moving."
"You have a mission," Eymand said. "I have a mission. And, as far as I understand, they don't intersect. So don't start telling me to hurry up. You're not my commander, and I'm not your errand-boy Padawan. I delivered what was needed, so, take care!" With these words, the spherical training droid flew down the corridor into her ship. "I've got plenty of my own things to do. I'm sure you'll figure out what you need to work on from there. In the worst case, you'll get a thorough thrashing. But, Grand Admiral Thrawn did mention you've been getting used to losing lately, hasn't he?"
Without saying goodbye, the Zabrak turned to leave.
Mara, quite unpleasantly surprised by the behavior of a Jedi who, according to Thrawn, was supposed to improve her Force skills, reached out to the Force. Just as her Imperial instructors and Palpatine himself had taught her. Experience negative emotions, let them grow strong enough for the Force to surge within her like a fountain...
And then strike.
Without mercy or regret.
A violet blade came to life, emerging from the hilt.
"That's not how things are done," she declared, unambiguously pointing the saber across the man's throat. The girl tensed, calling upon the Force as an ally and channeling it through herself to be ready for any surprises.
Even though she was now being consumed by the Dark Side, from which she organically recoiled, understanding now that all her training under Palpatine's supervision was nothing more than manipulation, it was extremely difficult to break the old habit of acting on the peak of her emotions. Especially when they came so easily into her life.
Unfortunately, her skills with the Force and the lightsaber had noticeably weakened after Palpatine died and she had to get his voice out of her head. That was made abundantly clear by her two defeats — against the Dark Side Elite and Winter.
And if the loss to the first could be chalked up to there being more of Palpatine's minions and her long neglect of fencing practice, she lost to the Targeter solely because of her desire to capture her, not kill her.
But she wouldn't allow herself to be humiliated.
Especially by some alcoholic fringe Jedi.
Such a shame that in the past she hadn't practiced lightsaber duels as often, using her weapon with the crimson blade mostly against corrupt officials and conspirators within the Empire.
Maybe Thrawn had been right after all? She was just a courier, a saboteur, but never a full-fledged student of Palpatine.
Although...
No, she probably couldn't have beaten Vader in an open fight. He was a true monster. Even despite having long ceased to be human.
"Thrawn promised me training," she hissed, deftly snatching the Zabrak's blade from his belt. "You came. So you will train me while my ship flies to the mission."
"Honey," Eymand looked at her lazily. "Back in the day, when Darth Vader and Palpatine hadn't yet killed all the Jedi they could reach, I was a Jedi archaeologist. Yes, I was — and still am — pretty good with the Force, but you should brush up on your basic skills before diving into things like subtle manipulations of the Great Force. And, as I understand it, Thrawn is using you as a secret agent."
"He's not using me," Mara retorted sharply. "He and I are allies."
"Yeah," Eymand snorted. "And I'm the future hero of the Empire. Fine, believe what you want — it's as interesting to me as a crack in a horn. I'm a simple Jedi researcher. All I can teach you is dead languages and digging through ruins. If that's what you're after, I'll stay, sure. But you see, Thrawn might be the smartest of you all, but when he gave me this assignment, he somehow didn't think that training could take years. And if I spend years on you, when will I ever find whatever Jedi knowledge might still be left in the distant corners of the galaxy?"
"So you decided to pawn off the Grand Admiral's training assignment on that little training ball?" the girl asked ironically. "For your information, I have no problem deflecting blaster bolts. Or do you have a couple of holocrons in your bag with the great secrets of the Jedi?"
"Nope," the Zabrak declared. "I carried the bag purely out of solidarity with a colleague. It's just some stuff."
Mara tensed.
She didn't like that phrasing. Not one bit.
"Whose stuff?" Her left hand instinctively moved to her blaster. It would be awkward to draw, but when you're scraping the barrel, even a Tusken Raider will do for canned rations.
"Mine," a melodic voice came from the darkness of the connecting corridor.
Mara, cursing and scolding her own limitations in the Force that prevented her from expanding her control zone, reached out towards the source of the voice...
But its owner — or rather, its female owner, clad in a simple combat suit favored by adventurers on a thousand planets — had already stepped into the light. The red-haired girl didn't miss the fact that on this woman's belt, who looked to be about forty or so (though she was very well preserved, which was fairly typical for exotic races), hung two snow-white hilts. A lightsaber and a shorter hilt — a shoto.
The latter was also a lightsaber, but its blade rarely reached half a meter in length. A backup weapon.
"Who is this?" Mara moved behind the Zabrak in one fluid motion, using him as a living shield. Eymand tried to resist the arm lock, but the red-haired beast was unyielding.
"An old acquaintance," he explained. "We grew up in the same clan. But she was taken as a Padawan, and I was given to the researchers."
"Because you're weak," Jade said knowingly. "Thrawn didn't mention anyone else being with you."
"Well, he didn't know," Eymand stated. "We basically ran into each other completely by accident while I was working on tracking down Jedi heritage."
"Am I interrupting?" the alien woman asked with a light, mocking smile. From the very first second, Mara felt a dislike for her. Something about this lady with her mockingly ironic gaze reminded her of herself.
And that's irritating.
"No, it's fine," Mara said, having made sure the woman wasn't going to attack, and loosened her grip on Eymand's arm slightly. But she didn't move the sword from his throat. "I'd still like to know who you are and what the hell you want on my ship."
The alien woman grinned crookedly.
No, seriously, it's just irritating.
"You were right, Eymand. Just like me," the woman said with a good-natured smile, winking at the Zabrak. Sighing, he pulled out another flask from somewhere and attached himself to it like a Tatooine native in the middle of the Dune Sea. "What am I doing here?"
"Oh, so your hearing works after all?" the red-haired girl inquired caustically.
"Believe it or not," the alien woman continued smiling. "And I can also assemble my own lightsabers, not use someone else's. You know, darling, the latter aren't as effective."
"They'll slit my enemies' throats just as effectively," Mara promised.
"Well, then I'm in the right place," the alien woman grinned. "Eymand said someone in the Empire decided it was time to stop oppressing non-human races and at the same time — to prevent the same kind of chaos in the Outer Rim that existed under the Old Republic, and also reigns under the New."
"Well, there is someone like that," Mara snorted. "And what's your interest?"
"Let's imagine for a moment that I was intrigued by my old Jedi friend's stories about how the Jedi Order could be revived," the woman's voice took on a dura steel edge. "And that it would stand guard over the innocent, as it should."
"Yes, and that someone is from the Empire," Mara reminded her. "As I recall, the Jedi and the Empire have a rather complicated relationship."
"Regular sentients and bandits across the entire galaxy do too," the interlocutor remarked.
"Girls, am I interrupting?" Eymand clarified, pointing a finger at the lightsaber.
"Not at all," Mara and the third participant in their meeting answered in unison.
"Ah, well, that's fine then," the Jedi researcher spread his arms.
The Force didn't warn her of any danger coming from this pair.
So, Thrawn's Hand, figuring things weren't all that bad, released the hostage and deactivated her weapon. Returning the Zabrak his sword, she clipped her own blade's hilt to her belt.
"I see you've already made friends," he grinned. "So, I'll be off to my own business then. And you two, don't go tearing everything out of each other."
"Insufferable," the alien woman rolled her eyes.
"And dead drunk," Mara agreed.
"Oh, believe me, when he's sober, he's even more tedious," the interlocutor laughed.
"Birds of a feather," the Zabrak clicked his tongue, rolled his eyes, and quickly disappeared into the passageway. The airlock doors closed behind him. A couple of seconds later, with a characteristic click, the magnetic lock disengaged, and the ships separated.
"Is there a cabin for me on board?" the alien woman inquired as they entered the common room. The non-human woman easily picked up her bag of belongings and slung it over her back.
"Any one you choose," Mara was frantically thinking about how to report this kind of liberty Eymand had taken to the Grand Admiral. He hadn't listed her as dead in all Imperial archives for nothing, after all. And this Jedi researcher's actions directly violated all the secrecy protocols that could have been devised for her operations. "Except for the captain's quarters by the cockpit. That one's mine."
"I won't contest it," the alien woman replied with a crooked little smile.
Mara just shook her head.
What's wrong with these Jedi? What exactly happened in their lives that they just up and cooperate with Grand Admiral Thrawn's forces like this?
Or was this crazy woman right, and the galaxy was in such a bad state that a strong hand was needed to restore order in the Outer Territories? No, Mara had an idea of the chaos going on there, but for that to be the reason a female Jedi came out of the shadows and bowed to Imperials she'd never met before…
Jade firmly decided she needed to find out more about this "friend of Eymand's." And she'd start right now.
"Hey," she called out to the young woman, who had already disappeared behind the door of the cabin that used to belong to "Targeter." "What's your name, anyway?"
The alien woman's head appeared in the doorway.
"I'm not called, I show up where I'm needed most," she joked with a line that had grown a long gray beard by the time Mara was born. "But if you're asking about my name, it would be nice to introduce yourself first. And I know how you Imperial agents love your code names and nicknames, so let's skip that, shall we? We are going to be working together, after all."
Well, "friend," you just signed your own death sentence. The secrecy of Thrawn's Hand's work must be preserved no matter what. So, since you want a name (and Mara knew for sure the female Jedi would detect her lie, so she didn't want to start appropriating other people's knowledge on a foundation of distrust), she'd get one.
"Mara," the former Emperor's Hand replied. "Mara Jade."
"Nice to meet you," the alien woman smiled, giving her own name.
Mara's heart skipped a beat.
Vader, may you simmer in a sarlacc's gut for a thousand years, is this some kind of elaborate joke from beyond the grave?!
She remembered where she had seen that face. And in what documents she had read that name…
Presumed dead…
…"Tano," the Togruta finished introducing herself. "You can just call me Ahsoka. Provided we become friends, of course."
Uh-huh. Become friends.