Even if you were brought here blindfolded, dead drunk, and completely blasted on spice, you'd know where you ended up.
You wouldn't even have to look around — if you've been here once, you know exactly what the air of Nar Shaddaa tastes like.
There are plenty of proverbs and sayings that capture the essence of the largest of Nal Hutta's moons.
"Business here equals betrayal."
"Every cubic meter of air on this moon stinks of treachery and profit."
"If you think your life is over and utterly rotten — take a trip to Nar Shaddaa; it'll perk you right up."
"There's a bottom in the galaxy that reeks of decay. To see it, you just need to visit Nar Shaddaa."
And dozens, maybe even hundreds, of others, but no less colorful and meaningful.
It's unlikely there's anyone in the galaxy who knows everything about Nar Shaddaa, one way or another.
The moon's history is actually quite fascinating.
Of course, if you have the time and inclination to dig through dirt, betrayal, the Hutts' shady dealings, and other wonderful things that could get you skinned alive in any alley on the orders of those who wouldn't appreciate some passing spacer poking into the Smugglers' Moon's past.
That's why no one did.
Afar Sagaal Shan lazily sipped Corellian whiskey from a surprisingly clean crystal glass, watching a Twi'lek dancer — along with her colleagues from Zeltron and Mirial — undulating like waves rolling onto a sandy beach, trying to earn extra credits from the thoroughly drunk patrons.
Oddly enough, all three dancers were beautiful — even without the garish makeup that could blind you like the local star if you got too close.
But unlike a fusion giant, you could look at these ladies through an optical zoom device more than just twice in your life before it fried your retina.
Such was Nar Shaddaa — a world of contradictions, opportunities, dangers, and a fine harbor to disappear to if you needed to.
When you have money and owe no one (at least not to the local kingpins), you can quietly enjoy the amenities of life on the glorious moon of Nal Hutta.
Of course, if you can afford it.
In his time, Afar had spent many hours studying the history and inner currents of Nar Shaddaa while performing Imperial Intelligence assignments to keep an eye on things in Hutt Space.
No matter how strong the Galactic Empire was at its peak, even it had been unable to impose order here.
Whether they couldn't or wouldn't is a separate question.
One the Zygerrian had no desire to dive into.
Right now, he was simply enjoying life, not particularly worried that someone might stick a vibroblade in his back or shoot him with a sniper rifle from a vent grating across the street.
He had paid off all his debts, added extra for the inconvenience, and secured promises from former enemies to leave him alone.
In truth, he didn't care where he spent his time, but this lousy bar was exactly the kind of place where someone could settle scores with him without too much trouble.
Security was bought and sold more often than a Zeltron prostitute, so if you had enough money and wanted to "make a racket," you could shoot everyone here with a turbolaser.
Just pay for the inconvenience and collateral damage.
So if any former employers or enemies wanted to settle accounts, there was no better place.
And knowing the Hutts and their underlings, you could be certain — if anyone had a grievance against Afar, they'd present it before he intended to leave Nal Hutta.
That is, within the next couple of hours.
After that, any attempt to kill him would be, first, less effective, and second, damage the client's reputation.
It was one thing to put a bounty and send thugs after someone outside your territory.
Quite another to have the chance to kill him on Nal Hutta and not do it, then chase him across the galaxy.
The criminal underworld would not tolerate the second option; it would mock and treat whoever gave such an order like a cheap gangster from a holofilm.
And reputation in the criminal world means everything.
Absolutely everything.
Breaking your word, losing trust, forgiving a serious insult, or conversely — taking revenge when you could have killed the scumbag, failing a contract, shaking hands and then striking — that was a death sentence. At best, you'd become an outcast, and your business would die simply because no one needed you.
At worst, and most commonly, you'd be killed by your own people, realizing you'd lost your edge and it was time for a new leader.
So Afar was in no hurry, didn't hide, and calmly sipped the not-quite-quality but also not-the-cheapest counterfeit of famous Corellian spirits.
He was giving time for scores to be settled, hiding from no one.
Once he flew away from here, all unresolved grievances would cease to concern him.
Almost entirely.
The Zygerrian enjoyed the intrusive music and the dance, pondering whether any of the dancers — of whom he'd seen dozens of sentients this evening — was one of those he had once sold as a member of the slaving empire of Zygerria.
A tough question, and frankly, who cared?
Oddly enough, slaves owned by Hutts lived far better than those with non-Hutt masters.
Simply because the psychology of those fat slugs was so different and yet similar to human that Hutts preferred to surround themselves with expensive toys, care for them, and show them off to demonstrate their wealth, influence, and "generosity."
In all the time he had spent in Hutt Space, and especially on Nar Shaddaa, the Zygerrian had come to agree with those who said Coruscant and this moon were similar.
Nar Shaddaa's surface was entirely built over with urban agglomerations, and for thousands of years, no one had even tried to reach it. Why would they? What was there to find?
But there was a difference from the former Center of the Empire.
And a striking one.
If Coruscant had become relatively dilapidated and dangerous only on the lowest levels of the Galactic City, then Nar Shaddaa was that way — more than completely.
Filth, decay, crime — at every step.
Afar smiled, remembering an amusing story about how some freighter crew was robbed by local thugs from the slums.
Who, in turn, were robbed by more serious guys.
But they, too, were eventually shot and robbed by some Hutt's guards whom they had crossed.
Literally — they had crossed.
Just ran across the street when the fat worm was moving from one establishment to another.
And if you ignore the fact that here you could be killed, robbed, raped, and sold for organs (order arbitrary), it was a wonderful place.
The vertical cities of Nar Shaddaa, once you got used to them, didn't even make you want to throw up your last meal.
There was always work here — on the Smugglers' Moon, sometimes called simply "Nar Shadd," you could buy and sell anything forbidden elsewhere in the galaxy. Disintegrators, for example. Or a large shipment of slaves. Or a mercenary army. Or a privateer fleet. Or a batch of top-quality spice (but better to do that with a specialist on your crew who could tell real spice from fake, because by your next visit, you might be known as such a rotten fool that even Rodian prostitutes would refuse you — and they would sell their own child for a couple of credits).
Many young smugglers, pirates, bounty hunters, mercenaries, killers, thieves, and other representatives of every nation's elite began their careers on the Smugglers' Moon. To "take off" successfully and with style, you only needed to make a proper and correct "appearance" in the right district of the moon, which had been divided among criminals into specific spheres of influence for so long no one could remember.
There was something else extremely interesting on this moon — you could acquire a large quantity of advanced and simultaneously illegal (why else would they sell it on Nar Shaddaa?) technologies.
Many corporations, to avoid the rules and laws of the worlds where their official factories or headquarters were located, set up "shells" on Nar Shaddaa. The Hutts were always ready to sell a couple of empty premises on the lower levels for big money. And they could install the necessary equipment, test subjects, staff, protection — just pay.
Preferably in peggats, Hutt currency.
No peggats? How about precious metals?
None of those either? Man, how stupid are you — that's not how business is done. You'll work for the Hutts, they'll teach you. But first, tell us what you were trying to invent, you run-of-the-mill Chewbacca.
A firm slap on the Zygerrian's shoulder drew genuine amusement from the nearest drunks.
Because such a bold move on Nar Shaddaa could lead to one of three outcomes.
First and most obvious — a shouting match, which was free entertainment.
Second and even more obvious — a shootout, which was even more fun.
Third and most boring — someone would stab someone with a vibroblade, and that was dull.
"Hey," Afar said, not looking at the man who sat down next to him, his eyes still on the dancing Mirialan.
"I see you're not really hiding," Jahan Cross remarked.
Only someone who had seen him in similar guise before could recognize him.
Instead of gray hair — a shaved scalp with aggressive tattoos.
On his face — three parallel scars made of synth-flesh, painted to look fresh. An extra sign that this man had recently been in a serious brawl and come out the victor.
He wore a simple jacket, trousers, and blouse, but under the fabric-armor vest, there was clearly something besides the lining. Something very like a Verpine shotgun — meaning anyone who approached him with ill intent would be picking their rich inner world off the nearest walls, poufs, sofas, and, if lucky, from a dancer's top.
"I have no one to fear," the Zygerrian declared.
"Settled all your affairs?" the Dominion agent inquired.
"In recent years, I've earned enough to close all accounts," Afar answered evasively.
Jahan was a battle comrade, and he trusted him far more than most, but no one would lay their soul bare before anyone.
The local gawkers had already lost interest, realizing there would be no showdown.
Some half-drunk Devaronian appeared next to them, waving a stack of credits and offering a large sum for the two of them to cause a bloodbath, because it was getting boring, and those three dancers just weren't getting the blood going.
"No problem," Jahan agreed easily, taking the money.
Before the Devaronian could wipe the smug grin off his face, the agent drew a weapon from a hidden holster (yes, a modified Verpine shotgun) and shot the client's right leg off below the knee.
"What are you staring at?" Cross snarled at the frozen onlookers. "He asked for it! Even paid me. Confirm it, friend," he nudged the unruffled Zygerrian with his elbow.
"Swear on my mother," the latter replied, taking a sip from his glass.
Handing the bartender, along with the leg and the screaming Devaronian, part of the money to cover the inconvenience and the ruined carpet, Jahan splashed whiskey into a glass, took a gulp, and watched the Mirialan.
"What's the deep meaning of getting a tongue piercing?" he asked his comrade after the Mirialan native had demonstrated her skills, touching her chin with the tip of that taste organ and flashing the aforementioned jewelry.
"It's beautiful," Afar declared.
"It's stupid," Cross countered.
"But beautiful," the Zygerrian insisted. "And it adds variety."
"Yeah, sure — the palate, teeth, and uvula are so bored with the standard oral cavity configuration that they don't mind this kind of company..."
Jahan fell silent when he saw Sagaal Shan turn his head toward him and carefully look his comrade up and down.
"What sort of job?" he asked.
"I need to find a certain bastard," Jahan said without preamble. "I thought I'd tracked him down, but it turned out to be a copycat. Now I have a few new leads, but I need someone to watch my back."
"Mission or personal?" Afar clarified.
"Both," Jahan stated.
"That's bad for business," the Zygerrian reminded him of an Imperial Intelligence truism.
"I know," Cross nodded affirmatively. "So first, I'll find the scumbag, hand him over to the interrogators, and after they're done, I'll take what I was promised and burn him with a flamethrower. Then dump the ashes into a star's corona."
Afar drained his glass in one gulp, then set it back on the table next to the half-empty bottle of booze.
"Do I know the target?" he asked.
"Yes," Cross admitted after a short pause.
The Zygerrian silently filled the glass halfway, dropped in a couple of cubes of melting ice.
Took a sip.
"Who?" he asked quietly, a simple question to gauge the difficulty of the future operation.
"I'm going after Agent Blackhole's head. First stop — Coruscant. And soon, it's going to be so hot there that Tatooine will seem like a blessed oasis."
Sagaal Shan cast a careful look at his battle comrade, trying to discern what lay behind that hate-filled gaze.
Coming to no specific conclusion, he topped off the glass to the brim with amber liquid, drank it in one long, slow gulp, chewed the ice, and washed down the aftertaste.
"When do we leave?"
* * *
The hologram of the Grand Moff flickered as the shuttle left hyperspace, but the smart communication equipment restored the transmission's clarity, removing the interference.
"The first line of defense of the metropolitan territory is fully complete," Felix said. "Maps of asteroid and minefields have been compiled, stations have been placed on combat duty. Repair work continues on them, but they are already in a combat-ready state. Minefields have been placed before and after the camouflaged asteroids. Captured and purchased orbital defense stations have been deployed to the orbits of the designated planets. Patrols report that peripheral planets are ready for prolonged sieges. Necessary supplies and reserves have been prepared, and the required military equipment has been stockpiled."
"Sabotage cells?" I asked.
"Distributed according to the plan. Communication check-ins have been conducted, valid responses received. As expected, the groups have entered observation status and are awaiting orders."
"Have the supplies of hybridium from Garos IV, rhydonium from Abafar, and asteroids from Karthakk and other systems been assembled?"
"Yes, sir," the Grand Moff replied. "In accordance with the plans."
"Likelihood of civil unrest?"
"Approximately thirty percent in the recently annexed aggressive worlds. In the Ciutric Hegemony — less than one percent. In other sectors, as well as on the periphery — under ten percent. Fleet patrol forces are present in each sector."
"Has the planetary government been notified of the upcoming restrictions for the population?"
"Yes, sir. It was received without enthusiasm, but I assured them that exports and imports will not cease, only border security measures will be intensified. Customs inspection points have been prepared along the routes into the Dominion. Databases of interstellar-class vehicles have been compiled and entered into the Dominion's unified database."
"What about the legislative level?"
"We have regulated all the areas you specified to the maximum extent possible, including the military hierarchy, its connection to the political system, and the organs of state administration have been announced to the population. The corresponding directives have been sent to the localities for familiarization and dissemination to the population."
"Any displays of disobedience or attempts at rebellion must be met with a harsh, unequivocal, uncompromising response," I warned. "Ensure that military installations are under constant and adequate protection by forces loyal and verified to the Dominion. If necessary — cut HoloNet communications with the rest of the galaxy without delay, sealing the information network within the Dominion."
"Emergency procedures have been developed and tested," the Grand Moff declared.
"Twenty thousand stormtroopers will be ready for deployment tomorrow," I stated. "They are undergoing training and will be delivered to Ciutric IV in twenty-four hours. These are your operational forces in case of a mutiny in the absence of the regular fleet. Do not hesitate to call on Generals Veers and Covell — they have sufficient resources to drown any coup attempt in blood. Colonel Astarion has also been informed by me, and his people are ready to provide any assistance anywhere in the Dominion."
"Yes, sir," the Grand Moff confirmed.
Hesitating, Ferrus finally asked: "Do you suspect that after Sluis Van there could be such serious reactions from our society?"
"The Dominion is not even six months old, Grand Moff," I reminded him. "We have stitched together a state from systems that have hated or exterminated each other for centuries. Unquestionably, in the event of a crisis of authority, various radical groups will try to exploit the situation for their own ends. Your task is to destroy them as soon as they show themselves. Counter Admiral Shohashi and his 'Red Star' are on constant combat alert and ready to immediately proceed to any point in the metropolitan territory or periphery to resolve the issue in a decisive manner."
"I hope that won't be necessary," Ferrus said with a shiver.
"Base your decisions on facts, Grand Moff," I advised in an authoritative tone. "A policy of tolerance toward dissent during a crisis will lead to nothing good. We are not the New Republic. We have freedom of speech as well — but only as long as that right is not used for treasonous purposes."
"I will do everything in my power to preserve the Dominion," Ferrus said firmly. "At any cost."
I could have said something pompous like: "That is not enough. Do more than you are capable of!" But what is the point of populism that has nothing to do with reality?
"I have no doubt of that, Grand Moff," I declared. "Remember that the fleet will need at least six days to return to the main base. During that entire time, you will be responsible for the Dominion's security."
"Yes, sir. I will not let you or the Dominion down," the Grand Moff said crisply.
Nodding in agreement, I terminated the communication channel with Ferrus, then activated the call for the next subscriber.
Not that I urgently needed to speak with her, but there was still half an hour of travel at sublight speed ahead.
Rukh, sitting to my right, and the guards stationed at the cockpit entrance and by the landing ramp were making a perfect show of being utterly uninterested in the fact that we were heading toward a concentration of Dominion regular fleet ships.
And any sufficiently important scientific project of the military-industrial complex simply needs to be reminded that it exists on state funds, and that its work is supposed to be maximally efficient.
In the civilian sector, it's "pay by the hour," and the enterprise manager himself decides for himself and his business whether his employee will spend eighty percent of the time staring at the ceiling and do all the work in the remaining twenty, or work productively all one hundred percent of the time in comfortable conditions.
In defense, only the second option is possible.
And no other way.
The issue of labor productivity and control over subordinate units didn't spring up yesterday.
Even in this galaxy.
"Niclara Varnillian on the line," the girl's hologram replied, her features hinting at the "Butcher of Atoa." "Grand Admiral Thrawn, sir!"
The young woman snapped to attention.
"Report on the progress of the PBC project," I said.
"Sir, the regular fleet specialist team, with my direct participation, has fully disassembled the proton-beam cannon sample from the Star Destroyer 'Accuser,'" the girl reported. "Apologies — the PBC sample from the 'Twilight,' sir. I used the old ship name."
"Continue," I said in an encouraging tone.
"The mechanism has been fully studied, necessary schematics have been compiled, and a defect inspection has been carried out. Restoration will take more time — up to six months — because the obviously poor-quality patchwork repairs by the New Republic have caused more harm than good."
"What do you need to speed up the process?" I inquired.
"Sir, ideally — specialists specialized in this type of weaponry," the Alderaanian admitted. "I am an artillery officer, not an engineer. My knowledge of this weapon's construction is limited. It took weeks just to study the PBC's structure from the project's start. If we had blueprints and experienced engineers, things would go faster. Perhaps we could even improve something, rather than restoring it to its original state. Judging by the markings and manufacturing dates on some components, this particular PBC was likely among the first built in the Imperial Starfleet. Over the years of service, more modern, less costly, and cheaper-to-produce models probably appeared. On our own, we would take the stated time for modernization and repair. With the support I mentioned, the timeline would be reduced by orders of magnitude."
"We have technical documentation on the TIE 'Lancet' repulsor artillery platform produced by Santhe/Sienar Technologies," I said. In truth, we have all the technical schematics and projects of that company, but I don't intend to go into such details. "Could this data help you?"
"Partially, yes, sir," the girl said happily. "An ideal replacement would be the PBC installation chains on Dubrillion, but the test facility was destroyed during the Rebellion era, several years ago. The composite superlaser of the 'Death Star' is about seventy percent technologically identical to our PBC sample; the difference is only in significant energy consumption, size, and the technical content of the vast majority of subsystems. The 'Lancet' though… yes, the principle of the weapon mount is the same. In the absence of alternatives, it will serve to fix some peripheral issues. But, I'll state upfront that the operating principle of the 'Lancet' mount is different; we can only borrow some technical solutions. Because Sienar developed their 'Lancet' for ground combat and destroying stationary targets, while the fleet PBC is a ship-mounted weapon. They have different beam power outputs, different power supply and logistics schemes, cooling, and targeting. The fundamental difference, I would say, is in the power supply schemes — the 'Lancet' is overly voracious in terms of energy, which made it impossible to equip that ship with any serious armament besides the PBC itself and a couple of anti-aircraft guns. That's why this line was closed — a dead-end project. For normal operation — in terms of power-to-fire rate ratio — it needs something like an SPHA reactor, but in that case, it would become a flying SPHA. And just as defenseless."
"In other words, the 'Lancet' is useless," I concluded.
"Well-armed but defenseless — that's almost the motto of Santhe/Sienar Technologies," the Alderaanian smiled. "But you're right — its weapon excels at destroying stationary targets. However, for small vehicles, such armament is detrimental because it makes installing defense impossible."
"And also short-ranged."
"Yes, sir," Niclara agreed. "It is hundreds of times worse in firing range than a simple turbolaser. But devastating. Allow me to remind you — only against stationary targets."
"Prepare a memo addressed to me about all objects, scientists, or related projects concerning the proton-beam cannon that you are aware of and that could positively impact your work," I ordered. "We'll see what Dominion Intelligence can do to help you."
"We would be grateful for any help, sir," Niclara said. "Object 'Star Ray' has ended the communication session."
When the hologram faded, I sat for a few more seconds, staring at the projector plate, sorting through thoughts in my head and searching for suitable options to direct intelligence toward the glorious places of scientific thought within the Galactic Empire.
Not many options, really.
I'll have to go through all of them.
* * *
Grappa the Hutt was indulging in sleep in the luxurious chambers of his palace.
A richly decorated repulsor platform, serving both as his bed and as the place from which he received guests and issued orders, stood against a massive wall.
In that wall, as many in Grappa's entourage suspected, there was a secret passage, because no matter how much he tried to play the hero, this Hutt was by nature nothing more than a coward.
And at the slightest danger, he would certainly flee, leaving his minions to deal with the problems.
Rederick stepped carefully between the sleeping bodies of Grappa's servants.
A curious trait of these overgrown tadpoles: for some reason unknown to the agent, Hutts love to surround themselves during sleep and rest with crowds of henchmen, confidants, slave girls, and other rabble.
And if it were related to security — but no, everyone in the palace's throne room was passed out after another drinking bout.
The cause was another successful capture of a Republic transport loaded with weapons.
Heading to Sluis Van and clearly intended for Imperial equipment, that starship was supposed to have arrived at its destination five days ago.
But for the three days following the attack by Sol Mon and his pirates, it had sat in limbo: the attackers waited for the New Republic's reaction, to see if a Republic patrol would come for the ship, or if those hyper-space beacons that the Republic had started installing on their ships had been found and fully removed.
As it turned out, the pirates' technicians had done their job well.
Rederick and Vex, known among the pirates as Tik and Pik, brother and sister, cutthroats and smugglers from the Kathol sector, had also taken part in this raid.
As they had in a dozen others like it.
The pirates consistently, and with flawless accuracy, identified and struck at the New Republic's supply lines, waiting for clumsy transports at course-correction points.
Which never coincided with the maximum jump range that the ships' installed hyperdrives allowed them to achieve.
That meant only one thing — the pirates had informants close to the leadership of the New Republic's logistics services.
However, judging by the spoils of other pirates, similar "snitches" existed in other gangs. But already in the Empire.
Especially in Imperial Space.
Which in itself is not news, of course, but it makes you think.
But "Pik" and "Tik" were here not to steal Grappa's captured ships.
The throne room was in semi-darkness because Grappa preferred natural light, streaming through narrow arched windows about ten meters above the floor.
In the rest of the Hutt's palace, they used the usual artificial lighting, and now it was empty and very quiet.
The night that had fallen over Genon filled every corner of the egg-shaped palace, partially hiding from human eyes the details and aftermath of the concluded feast.
Boots made a barely perceptible sound, literally peeling off a floor where blood from a mock brawl between two Gamorreans and cheap booze generously poured down by the mercenaries mingled.
A foul smell of excrement hung in the air, and Rederick nearly shuddered as he stepped over the sleeping body of a Rodian-looking bounty hunter.
And it was this very individual who had made a toilet in the corner yesterday, where the Gamorreans, who had beaten each other up, were now sleeping.
What filth.
He shifted his foot, hearing a barely audible crack of wood — he had broken a tiny fragment of furniture, smashed long ago.
This conclusion was drawn only because the only pieces of furniture the drunken mercenaries had wielded yesterday were chairs.
And those were made of metal — look, the Devaronian still had a seat stuck on his horns. He had been hit and fell.
Not even clear if he's alive or already dead.
Nobody here cared about that during the party.
Rederick looked around to see if anyone had woken up.
But as before, the only one awake at that moment was his partner.
Vex silently shook her head, and her expression was more eloquent than any words.
The agent made an apologetic face: in such darkness, the best you can see is someone's limb. But not a tiny splinter.
Aveka Dunn, standing by the exit from the throne room and keeping watch so that no drunken onlookers or external guards would come in, gave him a withering look.
After which Rederick, no longer restraining himself, showed her the gesture that usually starts all bloody fights.
Vex, squinting, drew her thumb across her throat, then pointed at the young man.
Yeah, right, keep dreaming.
Hope and wait.
The man continued making his way through the pile of bodies.
Finally, he managed to reach Grappa's throne-platform, where, using a lockpick, he opened a decorative panel behind the Hutt.
As he had suspected, there was a control panel here.
Oddly enough, there was no keypad or access key whatsoever — just a big button, the size of Grappa's tiny palm.
As far as they had studied, there were no emergency circuits or alarms — Grappa was stingy by nature, so he didn't spend on expensive security measures.
And he's also a coward, so it's clear why the only button leading to escape wasn't compensated by external security systems.
Pressing it, Rederick braced himself for a sudden alarm, but nothing.
Even the huge rectangle in the wall slid aside completely silently.
And then everything went off-plan, because Grappa's throne began to roll into the opening.
Vex, seeing this, pursed her lips and motioned with her hands that she would twist the partner's head off for that.
But there was no time to argue.
The agent drew his blaster from its holster, switching it to stun mode.
Hutts have skin and subcutaneous fat so thick that most aren't even afraid of energy weapon shots.
Lethal shots, of course.
But there's no escape from a stun gun.
Of course, kidnapping Grappa now would be the height of madness — nothing was actually prepared.
They intended only to infiltrate his lair for escape, suspecting that that's where he kept his dirty little secrets and held conversations with clients. Because the rest of the palace was occupied either by slaves or mercenaries.
And there was no hologram transmitter in the throne room — at least no working one.
But a Hutt can't possibly do everything in person! That's inefficient and stupid, not to mention huge expenses.
And Hutts love money no less than Neimoidians.
Maybe even more than the latter.
But that's not certain.
Grappa started making gurgling sounds in his sleep when Rederick pressed the blaster point-blank against his hide and fired.
A faint bluish flash rippled across the body, so the agent repeated his intentions three more times.
By that time, he was already standing on the throne, watching a new throne emerge from the floor where the previous one had been.
Clever.
Signaling Vex to wait, Rederick let the wall close.
Immediately after that, the platform sharply descended, plunging down the rails a good hundred meters in a matter of seconds.
If not for the increased gravity of Grappa's throne and the force field that compensated for some of the inertia, and the metal handle on the platform, Rederick would have been simply blown off and then splattered by good old free-fall acceleration.
Their journey ended abruptly.
By the agent's estimates, he was deep beneath the palace walls, in a cave where he found a large amount of electronics, not to mention several sentients.
Whom he immediately took down with the stunner.
Well, now there's no going back.
So, he'll have to do the maximum.
Now or never.
The man didn't stand on ceremony with the computers, simply melting loops with blasters on minimum power and pulling out hard drives.
There were five of them, but they were small in size — enough to stuff them in his pocket, with plenty of room left.
The man took a portable holo-camera from his decorative vambrace and began recording the surroundings.
He almost immediately realized that the cave had both another exit and a ship for evacuation. Relatively modern, quite comfortable, and ready for takeoff.
And empty pads where, obviously, more equipment should have been.
Which, for some reason, had been dismantled.
After a brief search at the former installation sites of unknown devices, he confirmed that this was clearly medical equipment: the characteristic fine filtration systems connected to the common supply and drainage network indicated that.
No one in their right mind would install equipment costing several thousand credits just to filter both the liquids entering and exiting the grotto. And besides, looking at the entire filtration setup, one could conclude…
"How much longer are you going to dig around here?" Vex hissed behind him.
"I don't even want to ask how you got in here," the Dominion agent said without emotion, not taking his eyes off the pipe structure beneath the empty pedestal. "I'll just hope you didn't use the new bed and crush Grappa."
"No, I short-circuited the descent mechanism three meters above the surface," Aveka said, already far less spitefully. "Is that a closed fluid filtration system?"
"Yes," Rederick nodded. "Something was here that had liquid inside it. And that liquid was so valuable that our miser Hutt splurged on such equipment. This is clearly expensive equipment. Medical or experimental."
"Well, there you go — we found out where he intends to send the little ships," Aveka Dunn snorted. "You do realize there's no turning back now?"
"I realized that as soon as I had to shoot that fat bastard," Rederick photographed all the equipment, then pointed at the yacht waiting for its owner. "We're taking Grappa with us, these guys here," he indicated the two incapacitated sentients he'd found in the cave, "and I've grabbed the hard drives. We're taking off for base."
"On a strange ship?" Aveka shook her head. "Don't be stupid — they'll tear us apart."
"Then we'll fly to a comm point or one of the peripheral worlds, report, and wait for further orders," Rederick said. "The mission went off-plan, but since we have Grappa himself, there's no point staying undercover here trying to dig up something new. No one on Genon can tell us more than Grappa himself. We blow our ship and leave on the yacht."
"Sounds like a plan," Vex shrugged. "But you're hauling the bodies to the yacht yourself."
"I knew it — you're about as much help as a protocol droid in a fight," Rederick snorted, shaking his head.
"Little one, I only help, I don't work," Aveka said with a charming smile, fluttering her eyelashes. "And I kept you from drooling over the local dancers so you wouldn't fall apart."
Rederick made a face as if he'd eaten a sour fruit.
"That's the most disgusting part of the assignment," he admitted. "When Grappa offered me a dancer after the first robbery…"
"And I said I wasn't going to share you with anyone," Aveka winked. "In any sense."
"Don't quote that," Rederick pleaded. "You deliberately said that only after I told the gang we were supposedly brother and sister."
"You should have seen how those Twi'lek dancers you'd been groping before threw up," Aveka said dreamily, raising her eyes to the ceiling, clasping her hands in front of her, and stretching upward dreamily while standing on one leg, the other extended as if she were trying to fly. "A yellow-green fountain, splashes on the walls…"
"You're a terrible mentor," Rederick grimaced, grabbing the first prisoner by the arms and dragging him toward the open hatch of Grappa's yacht. "No respect for your fellow man."
"I did warn you," Aveka winked at him with a giggle. "You should've just come quietly to my room back on Etti IV."
"I'd sooner spin in my grave," Rederick assured her, hauling the first body aboard and lashing it to the nearest railing. It took him a couple of seconds to fire up all the ship's systems. "You're the most disgusting, foul-mouthed woman I've ever met! You reek of perversion from a unit away!"
"I know, little one," Vex smiled. "That's what I use. Who knew you got even cuter and tastier when you're angry."
"Drop that wretched act," Rederick advised her, stepping almost nose-to-nose with her. "We work together. That's all. I have my own principles — and I won't cross them."
For a moment, Vex grew serious, as if she'd stopped playing her part. Then she leaned in close to his ear and whispered:
"That's what you say now," she declared, planting a kiss on her "trainee's" cheek and leaving a violet lip-print there. "Remember the first rule of the hunt, little one — the harder the target, the sweeter the catch."
And she walked away, hips swaying, toward the platform where Grappa the Hutt stood drooling.
"What does hunting have to do with anything?!" Rederick clutched his head. "What kind of job is this — insane mentors, idiotic innuendo. I want back on the fleet!"
"I'll get you there too, little one!" Vex waved at him without turning around. "I'm an excellent pilot, by the way..."
Uttering something between the cry of a cornered nestling and the roar of a dying tiger, Rederick trudged after the Hutt.
He wondered — would they demote him to stormtrooper if he "lost" his mentor in the line of duty?
* * *
Captain Pellaeon tensed as the first pair of guards in blue-black armor descended the boarding ramp steps.
The honor guard of stormtroopers performed their proper salute to the Supreme Commander, and then Thrawn was standing beside the Chimaera's commander.
"Come, Captain," the Chiss said quietly. "I wish to hear a report on your actions deep in enemy territory."
"All squads accomplished their assigned objectives," Pellaeon reported. "Our forces have still not been detected by the enemy. At the same time, we have clear knowledge of the enemy's disposition and forces in the system."
"And in the sector?" Thrawn inquired as they reached the opening leading out of the main hangar.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "Sector fleet vessels are guarding the convoys. Currently, Sluis Van is guarded by just over twenty Mon Calamari MC80b-class star cruisers. The remaining starships have left the sector base to escort New Republic transports. The Project 'Morrt' buzz droids are operating flawlessly. We are ready to strike."
"Is that so?" the Grand Admiral's fiery eyes seared him. "Are you certain?"
"Absolutely, sir," Pellaeon said firmly. "All squad commanders have received their instruction packages. The ships are in excellent technical condition. Preliminary work has been completed. Our 'surprises' are also prepared. The droids are only awaiting your command to begin the operation."
"Well, that sounds extremely optimistic," Thrawn stated coldly.
"Because the operation is timed to the second, sir," Pellaeon frowned. "There cannot be any unforeseen elements. As soon as the last cargo ships arrive at the Sluis Van shipyards, we can begin. The Republicans have already started moving their warships to the outer section of the yards — capturing them poses no difficulty. Admiral Duplex's fleet is still at the yards, apparently providing their cover."
"So we get Sluis Van's layered defense," Thrawn stated. "The outer perimeter — defense stations deployed on the planet's far orbit, beyond the shipyard boundaries. Then, by the time we arrive, the transport ships will already be positioned at the yards — their mass movements alone will cut off the Imperial-design warships from the yards and make it harder for the enemy to fire on our invasion forces. Next come our future prizes, followed by space filled with cargo ships under New Republic civilian contracts. And only after all that, the orbital docks themselves, with Admiral Duplex's starships alongside them. An interesting 'layered cake.'"
"I think it's more accurate to say that by the time we show up, the New Republic is unlikely to have cleared all the transport ships from the system's periphery," Pellaeon noted. "They'll still be on the system's edge, beyond the line of orbital defense stations, around the Imperial-design starships, and in front of Duplex's fleet. It's as if the Republicans have brought their entire transport fleet here."
"An interesting diffusion of starships on a specific orbit," Thrawn said in a thoughtful tone.
"Republicans, sir," Gilad shrugged, though he wasn't actually so sure. Now that Thrawn had put it into words... it all felt wrong. Unreal. Fake. "No discipline. Promised private haulers who-knows-what, and now they're all trying to get free repairs and only the black bones of the Emperor know what else."
"On the contrary, Captain," Thrawn said. "The Republicans are trying to achieve very specific goals. And they have put maximum effort into realizing them at Sluis Van. Do you know the total crew complement for the starships they intend to deliver to the yards within the week?"
"Yes, sir. Over one and a half million sentients. That's the manning of Imperial-design ships, as well as replenishing losses on Admiral Argentus's fleet vessels."
"Excellent," a smile appeared on Thrawn's lips. "Have the Spies detected the arrival of any fast ships or couriers in the last few days?"
"Yes, sir. A courier ship arrived at the station. About three hours ago. Yesterday, activity of this ship type was also noted — but not a speed courier, an armored one. Those are used for delivering..."
"Important and valuable cargo," Thrawn finished for him. "Thank you, Captain. I know. Well, now we can definitely begin. All the spectators and participants of the operation are in their places."
"With all due respect, sir, but I don't understand," Pellaeon admitted. "Do you think someone from the New Republic government has arrived at Sluis Van?"
"I do not assume it, Captain," Thrawn corrected him softly. "I know it. A day ago, Supreme Commander of the New Republic Defense Forces General Bel Iblis arrived in the system. Personally, to command his fleet forces in repelling our attack and destroying me."
"He doesn't have that many ships for that," Gilad noted. "Without sector fleet support, he can't achieve anything with his current forces."
"That is precisely why I am certain they've set a trap for us, Captain," a smile played on Thrawn's face. "Corellians are good at a few things. Ship handling, bluffing, and revenge. All three components have come together at Sluis Van. And while they think I should be patting myself on the back, telling everyone how smart I am for diverting their attention at Lianna and being about to get what I want — all the Imperial-design line-class ships and heavy cruisers the New Republic has — they've set a trap that will be fatal for the Dominion fleet."
"But... what forces are they even planning to pull this off with, sir?" Pellaeon wondered. "The sector fleet is..."
"In the convoys, isn't it, Captain?" Thrawn specified.
Gilad nodded affirmatively.
"And we know this from the telemetry transmitted by the Project 'Morrt' droids," the Grand Admiral continued his line of thought. "Which the enemy learned about after the Home One's unsuccessful docking — its entire hull against the surface of Centrax II. From the survivors."
"Our droids are compromised," Pellaeon groaned.
"To ease your conscience, we could order them right now to begin sabotage work on the New Republic's starships," Gilad hadn't even noticed they'd reached the Grand Admiral's quarters, and the latter had settled into his chair.
"I don't think that's the right move, sir," Gilad stated. "That would only spook them and let them know we understand the situation."
"That is an absolutely correct observation, Captain Pellaeon. And what conclusion follows from it?"
"The sector fleet could be anywhere."
"Oh, I don't think we're facing the sector fleet, Captain," Thrawn declared. "I expect Bel Iblis will bring the Fourth Fleet of the New Republic under Sluis Van. At the very least — all of its star cruisers. The sector fleet, I'm certain, will be guarding the Sluis sector systems to prevent us from deploying reinforcements there for sequential commissioning. We will be fighting the line ships of the nearest military fleet to Sluis Van — the Fourth."
"The First, Second, and Third have taken heavy losses lately, and relocating them is impractical," the Chimaera's commander nodded understandingly.
"That is precisely why Bel Iblis will bring the Fourth Fleet's star cruisers to the rendezvous — it has already recovered from the defeat and humiliation inflicted upon it in the Ciutric Hegemony."
"That fleet has over one hundred and fifty star cruisers," Pellaeon darkened. "Sir, it will be a slaughter! They'll certainly try to pin us between the forces in-system and the reinforcements they've brought in. Sluis Van has interdictor cruisers — if Bel Iblis figured out one of our tricks, he could certainly understand how we use interdictors for precise emergence from hyperspace. Which means they'll be ready to crush us at any formation point. As soon as we appear and prepare to attack."
"Bravo, Captain," Thrawn declared with a teacher's pride. "I was certain you would understand. You only lack small details to grasp the entire ongoing process."
"Thank you, sir," Pellaeon lowered his gaze. "So, we know the enemy has uncovered our plans..."
"We haven't exactly been hiding them," Thrawn raised an eyebrow.
"And if so, attacking Sluis Van is a dangerous venture," Pellaeon warned. "Bel Iblis has cracked the key elements of this attack. We can no longer use the buzz droids for sabotage."
"And was anyone planning to?" Thrawn seemed surprised. "Personally, I was not. Bel Iblis deliberately accepted losses to lure us in and destroy us in one blow. So it would be shortsighted to assume this will always save us. Speaking of which, what do you think, in light of this new information, about the chaotic formation of New Republic transports in orbit?"
"That their placement is hardly due to their captains' whims," Pellaeon declared. "One way or another, they block direct movement toward the Imperial ships. This restricts the movement of both our starships and small craft."
"Not a bad way to counter our Scimitars, Captain, wouldn't you say?" Thrawn inquired.
"It would be naive to assume that Rogue Squadron kept quiet after Mustafar and Ossus about our wonder-ship," Pellaeon confirmed.
"You see," Thrawn said. "Our adversary knows how to be smart. They just need more time to figure things out on their own."
"The conclusion is simple: in the end, we're walking into a trap," Pellaeon summed up. "Obviously, your plan has been exposed, Grand Admiral. What will we do?"
"You genuinely surprise me sometimes, Captain," Thrawn declared. "You can analyze the situation, yet you don't see the solution. Trust your thinking and your instincts — you have them. I suspect they are partially suppressed by my presence, but I assure you, that will soon be corrected. You have been a diligent student, and I am confident you will not let me down in the future."
Not knowing what to say, the Chimaera's commander chose to rely on the regulations.
A question hadn't been asked? No.
Then an answer wasn't required.
The Grand Admiral leaned forward, and his lips formed a barely noticeable smile as he slid a small rectangular datacard across the entire table:
"Operation Crimson Dawn is approaching its conclusion, Vice Admiral Pellaeon. Tomorrow, you — my student, the next figure in the Dominion's command hierarchy — will prove you are ready to command your own fleet and lead the Dominion's regular forces to victory in the toughest engagement of the last six months. And you will select for yourself the best ships from among those our shortsighted adversary has at Sluis Van."
"Yes, sir," Gilad said, feeling as if the Manarai Mountains — which on Coruscant had not long ago lost their magnificent snowy caps — had suddenly fallen from his shoulders. "But what about the trap?"
"The same as always," the Grand Admiral stated as if it were obvious. "We will walk into it."
Well... and had anyone doubted it would be otherwise?