A sound signal alerted Vice Admiral Shohashi that a visitor had arrived.
The commander of the Red Star squadron tore his attention away from studying the latest reconnaissance data, then looked with bewilderment at Brandei, who had entered the office.
His mind immediately noted several inconsistencies.
First—the visit of the Judicator's commander to the flagship hadn't been coordinated with the squadron staff.
The regulations of the Dominion Armed Forces did not permit such movements during combat readiness, which had recently been declared throughout the entire unit stationed in the Bosph sector.
Such rendezvous were only allowed in a few exceptional cases where circumstances brooked no delay.
And, to be honest, Shohashi had been expecting the arrival of the commanders of the other two Star Destroyers that had just entered the Red Star squadron's base system.
His comrade's face didn't have its usual relaxed look.
On the contrary, it was focused, even somewhat tense.
He held himself in a conspicuously regulation manner, saluting as soon as Eric saw him in the doorway.
His gaze was straight ahead, but his eyes tried not to look at the vice admiral; his back was straight; his step was crisp; his uniform was pressed to perfection...
Brandei also had an information chip clutched in his hand.
His service weapon was missing.
And since when had an old friend so meticulously observed the protocol for a subordinate's personal visit to a commander?
"Vice Admiral, sir, permission to speak?" Brandei said hoarsely, stopping a few meters from Eric's desk.
The MagnaGuards and a pair of VH commando droids hadn't even stirred when the Judicator's commander appeared.
Which meant they had already received data from the scanners covertly installed in the turbolift, walls, floor, and ceiling of the corridor leading to Eric's quarters.
No weapons. No dangerous items.
The guards protecting the entrance to Shohashi's office also hadn't raised any suspicion.
"What's the matter, Captain?" The situation clearly went beyond the acceptable and routine. "You have nothing scheduled for the current time."
"I asked the commanders of the Red Dragon and the Liquidator to delay their visit by ten minutes," Brandei explained, still looking away, avoiding direct eye contact with Eric. "I promise this will be the last disciplinary breach on my part during my time under your command, Vice Admiral."
What the...?
"What are you talking about, Brandei?" Eric pulled his cane closer and, leaning on the precious stone of its pommel, rose from his chair.
For the past week, his wounded leg had been hurting horribly, but he bore this trial steadfastly.
"First, you show up without reason. Now you say you asked the commanders of ships that arrived without explanation to join the squadron—which I didn't request—to delay their report," Eric listed his grievances. "And now you've decided to heap ashes on your head as well? Since you've decided to follow regulations, be so kind—don't take this as nitpicking—explain yourself and report properly."
"Yes, sir." Brandei looked him in the eye. "The Supreme Commander has approved my request for transfer from the Red Star to another post. Confirmation of this order was delivered specifically by the commander of the Red Dragon."
With these words, Brandei handed Eric the information chip.
"A transfer?" Shohashi frowned, snatching the device and hobbling toward the workstation. "Why wasn't I informed?"
"Because I acted in circumvention of the current regulation, sir, without notifying you of my appeal to a superior commander," Brandei said in an unwavering voice.
Verifying the document's authenticity didn't take long.
It was indeed an order releasing Brandei, the Judicator, and its crew from service in the Red Star.
Now it became clear why the Red Dragon and the Liquidator had arrived at the squadron's deployment site.
They weren't simply joining the squadron to replace the Judicator, which was being placed at the disposal of the regular fleet headquarters (meaning it would be reassigned elsewhere, but Eric wouldn't know where), but had also escorted two Acclamators. These had delivered two full legions of stormtroopers, equipped with excess armor, aviation, battle droids, gear, and other military supplies on board.
Which meant that patrol duty in the Bosph sector, after the surgically precise attack to destroy enemy stormtroopers, was continuing.
But the question remained...
"The order has been delivered; I will obey it, though without joy or inner conviction that it's right," Eric said, furrowing his brow. "What the hell is going on? I bent over backward to bring you under my command, and now you're asking for a transfer behind my back?"
The official tone of negotiations was clearly put aside.
"I'm grateful for everything," Brandei said, looking at him for the first time since he'd been in the office. "Truly grateful. But Ventress was right—I've been trading on our friendship. I know how important rules are to you, and time and again I ask you to break them, to abandon the principles that made you who you are. It's wrong."
"Did you talk to that witch after your recovery or something?" Shohashi squinted.
"I don't have that many uniform pants to wet myself every time we meet," Brandei shuddered all over. "No, Eric. I thought it over for a long time and came to the conclusion that coming under your command was instructive for me in terms of gaining additional experience. But, who would have thought, for the first time in my life, the idea settled in my head that regulations are written in blood for a reason. And the provision about the absence of close relationships between a commander and a subordinate isn't just another line."
"By 'close,' they mean a different kind of relationship," Shohashi noted. "Familial."
"You're like a brother to me, Eric," Brandei sighed. "A younger one, but more successful. Patient and unyielding. And I'm like an overgrown slacker who knows his job, loves it, but does it by the wrong rules because 'the little brother' will cover for me. Thank Ventress for knocking some sense into me with that situation. I thought it over for a long time, but I decided this would be better. I won't distract you with my problems, and you won't have to keep swallowing your principles to keep me from stepping in another pile of crap."
"I can feel there's some Force manipulation from our witch at play here," Eric shook his head. "The things you're saying are far too sensible, my friend."
"Even so, I only have her to thank," Brandei shrugged. "So, in my opinion, Eric, that lady is worth taking a closer look at. She's determined, has brains, is 'correct' in certain ways, and besides..."
"Shut your mouth," Eric advised. "Or the reactor will overheat."
Brandei smiled warmly.
"I told you—I get carried away," he said. "Sorry, I'm meddling where I don't belong. Either way, the best thing I can do so we stay friends and you don't have to keep 'turning a blind eye' to my shortcomings is to transfer to another post. I'm sure things won't be as fun under Pellaeon as with you, but at least there won't be any suicide attacks on a dreadnought in a destroyer."
Eric couldn't help but smile.
A joking jab, referencing how Shohashi, already the commander of the Star Destroyer Imperious, had attacked the Crimson Dawn when it belonged to the Republicans.
"Need I remind you that you also charged that brute with its guns on your Judicator?" Eric clarified. "And without orders."
"Well, together to the end," Brandei grinned, extending his hand.
Eric shifted his weight to his left leg and returned the handshake.
He already realized it was useless to try and reverse the situation.
Thrawn, by approving the transfer, clearly hadn't just gone along with Brandei's request.
The Grand Admiral knew everything that happened in his fleet.
And he surely knew that Brandei had left the hospital without being fully healed.
The decision to transfer was precisely a 'fresh start' for Shohashi, relieving him of responsibility for Brandei's actions.
His friend was absolutely right—he had gone soft when Eric, in gratitude for his help in capturing the Crimson Dawn, transferred him under his command.
Thrawn, by agreeing to the transfer back then, months ago, had unequivocally hinted there would be problems when he took two first-class destroyers from him and gave him a couple of weaker ones in return.
A hint Eric understood, but as a man of honor, he decided to fulfill his obligation to his friend.
Accepting the consequences of that decision.
And it only got worse.
To get Brandei's lover a position on the squadron, Eric had to shelve his own initiative to promote Brandei and give him the next rank.
Then there was that episode with the treatment...
On his own or with someone's help, his friend had realized things couldn't go on like this anymore.
And he made a decision.
If someone helped him reach that conclusion—it was bad.
If he figured it out himself—then there was still hope that mistakes and sloppiness would no longer haunt him.
Brandei was a capable officer.
He'd just gotten 'complacent.'
A change of post would help him get back on track.
"Together to the end," he repeated the first part of the old cadet saying he and Brandei had coined in their distant youth to cheer each other up in tough situations.
"Should one fall," Eric began the second part of the saying, following the proper interpretation order so the third part would sound exactly as the young cadets' minds had intended.
"The other will avenge," Brandei said confidently, tightening his grip on his palm and looking his friend in the eye.
A few seconds later, the handshake ended.
"Good luck to you," Eric said, encouraging his comrade before his 'leap into the unknown.'
That's what they'd called every service relocation and assignment about which practically nothing was publicly known, ever since they were cadets.
"May it rather be with you," Brandei replied with a modest smile, clapping his comrade on the shoulder. "I've got turbolasers."
The meeting that began with misunderstanding ended in a warm, friendly atmosphere.
They had met and become friends.
They had served as friends.
They parted as friends.
To never see each other again.
* * *
Arista Kabul thought the hum of the machine she was placed in had decreased.
That was good, because she was already severely nauseated.
After a few seconds, she realized her assumption was correct.
The hum stopped; the bed she was lying on moved, pulling her out of the monstrous-looking apparatus's 'centrifuge,' and caring warm hands touched her face, removing the completely dark blindfold from her eyes.
The girl opened her eyelids slightly, knowing that only emergency lighting was on in the room.
At least, that was what it was like when she'd climbed into the Dominion's apparatus this time.
Which, by the way, was what number?
Fifth?
Tenth?
She'd lost count.
Her eyes kindly accepted the dark blue illumination that allowed her to see everything without them watering too much.
"How are you feeling, Arista?" asked a familiar male voice, which had become almost the only one she'd heard since she agreed to inhale the sleeping gas from the respirator.
"These are the rules," Bravo-One had explained to her. "You're a civilian, and you shouldn't know where the equipment is located. Trust me. You'll be fine.."..
That's what he'd said...
"Excellent," the girl said, forcing a smile as Agent Bravo-One helped her sit up.
"You've been very brave. The Dominion appreciates—"
Arista flinched as she saw the agent casually push a chrome-plated trash can closer to her with his foot, its clean surface gleaming invitingly.
"Oh, come on," she blustered. "This time I have nothing left to—"
The girl doubled over from the cramp in her stomach and the spasms racing through her young body.
If not for the agent Bravo-One's strong, caring hands, she would have undoubtedly fallen straight to the floor from the bed.
Instead...
She hung on one of his arms, which he hooked across her chest, while the agent's other hand carefully held her hair back, keeping it from falling in her face and—
The compartment they were in echoed with very characteristic sounds of her stomach emptying its contents.
The girl was wracked with convulsions.
Tears sprayed from her eyes, her insides were seized with fits and urges, and her body was literally bent like a bow.
The agent held her in one position, not letting her get dirty, and reacting not at all to her nails digging into his forearms up to the edge of her fingertips.
After a few minutes of retching, it released her.
Tears streamed down her face; her mouth tasted of bile and stomach acid, mixed with thoughts of self-loathing.
Her body trembled slightly.
She felt cold.
Like a small child, the agent lifted her in his arms and carried her to a corner where a medical refresher stood.
Supporting her so she wouldn't fall, the agent washed her face and wiped it with a terry towel, then draped a warm hospital gown over her shoulders.
"Looks like my stomach is emptier than the Dune Sea on Tatooine," she said pitifully.
"You've been very brave, Arista," the agent said, patting her head in a fatherly way. "I... I don't even know how to thank you. I'm sure that when we're done, the leadership will come up with something. I'll make sure our gratitude is substantial."
"Will they buy me a doll?" the girl looked at him wearily, wiping teardrops from her eyes.
"Your sense of humor hasn't left you," he smiled, which was very, very uncharacteristic of a stern agent.
"Unlike my stomach," the girl sighed. "You didn't say it would be like this..."
"I'm sorry you're having to experience such discomfort," the agent said, helping her sit down on a table next to a small counter set with a couple of glasses of water and pills to replenish what her body had lost. "But your vestibular system and old head injuries are making themselves known."
"My father told me—wear a helmet in the tunnels, a rock will fall on your head, you'll become an idiot, no one will marry you," Arista downed the first glass in one gulp, after swallowing a handful of pills. "I was young and stupid."
"What, were you caught in collapses often?" Bravo-One inquired.
"Just once," the girl explained. "When my uncle blew up the mine with me and my father inside. But I'll tell you—the helmet didn't help. And when I was a little girl, I often ran through the drifts. Getting bumped and falling from several meters high is perfectly normal for a child. Sometimes you can even find a valuable ore layer that way."
"You're a brave and courageous girl," the agent squeezed her hand in his. "Seventeen treatments... Some of those who went through this procedure didn't agree to repeat it after one or two times."
"You can tell them about me later," Arista forced a smile, swallowing a second handful of pills. A new gulp of water sent the medication into her empty stomach.
"I'm sure that in time, what you're doing for us now will be told to the general public, and your example of courage—"
"No, don't tell everyone about me," Lady Kabul protested. "Your crazy doctor lady said it would only take one or two passes to download all the information. If you tell them I stuck my head in the 'centrifuge' seventeen times, they'll think you were digging around in the brain of some underdeveloped—"
"Your development is perfectly fine," a female voice rang out.
Also very familiar.
Accompanied by a chewing sound.
Arista flinched.
Her insides tensed, ready.
"You just have a few old hematomas," reported the young woman in a doctor's uniform, approaching the speakers.
The smell of a juicy steak hit Arista's nostrils.
And her eyes caught sight of a thick sandwich held by the one they called Third.
"If you want, I'll put you under quickly, open your skull, and remove them," the 'doctor' offered, her mouth full, waving the sandwich—gleaming with oil and sauce—in front of the patient's and the agent's faces.
"Doc, I don't think that's appropriate to mention..." Bravo-One said, casting a wary glance at Arista, seeing Lady Kabul shudder from the first urges.
"I came to say three more passes, and we're done. We'll create a complete virtual model, thank goodness our new specialists are smart enough—"
She spoke, continuing to tease Arista's taste and smell receptors with the tantalizing scent of food...
"Oh, shit," was all the girl managed to say as her body betrayed her and her stomach rebelled.
Two liters of water and the remains of undigested medication burst out like a fountain.
And her brain had forced the girl to turn her head toward the more familiar side of reaction beforehand...
"Sorry," was all Arista managed to say, lurching toward the now-familiar bucket.
"It's quite alright," said Agent Bravo-One, peeling the now-wet uniform shirt from his body. "Doc, can I ask you a couple of questions?"
Third, waving the sandwich in Arista's direction, said imperturbably:
"If you want my opinion, after all this, she should marry you."
Arista, even if she wanted to answer, couldn't.
It turned out she still had a reserve of stomach acid.