Nine years, seven months, and thirty-two days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, seven months, and thirty-two days following the Great Re-Synchronization.
(Three months and seventeen days since the incident.)
After Commander Rederick, concurrently serving as the "chief of security" for Lord Hoffner, concluded his report regarding the transaction on Sallust and the meeting with Talon Karrde, I remained silent for a few moments.
Return the starships? Truly, what a foolish notion. A pretext, nothing more.
The true reason for this conversation is far simpler and more prosaic, isn't it, "The Claw"?
Your motives are clear to me. Your organization has slightly diminished, forcing you to handle the dirty work yourself. Very well, you'll get what you want—you'll follow. But the outcome will differ.
— Have you searched the ships?
— Yes, sir, — the scout replied. — We found three tracking beacons on each. At present, we are making diversionary jumps to secondary systems to simulate covering our tracks.
— Execute two more jumps, then proceed to the Rendili system, — I ordered. — While doing so, simulate a flight path toward Lianna.
— Understood, sir, — the man responded calmly. Yet, from his hologram, I could tell he had an unspoken question.
— There, initiate a simulated breakdown and drift in place. Do not leave your position until your convoy is attacked by New Republic starships, — I continued the briefing. — Six Mon Calamari star cruisers. You will attempt to evade them, a pursuit will be organized, after which your starships will be captured and brought aboard Republic vessels.
— Understood, sir, — Commander Rederick repeated his formal response.
That matter is settled. A trap for a trap. It should prove interesting, though the effect will be short-lived.
— Now, let us return to the matter of locating Molo Himron, — I made it clear that the previous topic was closed. What was there to discuss? Karrde wanted exclusivity? He wanted it. But instead of information on locating our base, he'll learn that a lackey of Grand Admiral Thrawn purchased production lines and was heading to Lianna, to visit Valles Santhe, who is "rumored" to be building herself a Death Star. And then the valiant Republic fleet attacks the convoy…
It will be awkward, especially when the New Republic denies this. Just as they'll deny that their ships were hunting transports to or from Lianna in nearby systems beforehand.
A small scandal never hurts. And how it will disrupt the cooperation between Santhe Corporation and the New Republic…
— Did you obtain additional information on Sullust?
— Affirmative, sir, — Rederick replied. — As previously reported, the freighter used to transport the group that captured Himron and his men is a Brail-class bulk freighter, manufactured by SoroSuub Corporation. Despite falsified identifiers, my team determined the starship was purchased new, directly from the shipyards, no more than six months before Ysanne Isard vacated Thyferra. A month prior, the ship arrived on Sallust for refitting. It was converted from a freighter into a vessel for transporting large animals in durasteel cages.
"An ersatz prison," the thought crossed my mind.
— Was the buyer's identity established? — I inquired.
— A front company for cargo transport, — the young commander answered. — The individual who signed the contract also used a false identity. However, this has no connection to the trail the Republic followed from Commenor to the Ciutric Hegemony.
Very well. Let us conditionally assume that Isard's clone is not behind Himron's abduction. The rationale that "this freighter doesn't match that one" is hardly conclusive, but it remains a mere assumption.
— Have you made further progress on this trail?
— We are currently conducting searches via the HoloNet to determine where this freighter's engine signature may have appeared, — Rederick explained. — I obtained this data from SoroSuub Corporation during the time Captain Hoffner was concluding the deal with the Sallustians. Simultaneously, we are searching for the ship's commander—if the identity is fabricated, the sentient may still be alive. Since they survived from the ship's acquisition to Himron's extraction from Mandalore, it suggests they are trusted by their command and likely reliable. Thus, there's a good chance they remain alive.
— Continue the search, — I directed. — The longer Himron remains captive, the greater the risk to his life and, with it, our plans.
Though the plans Himron knew are now mere fragments—only the basics. Even those cannot be entrusted to Isard.
— Understood, sir, — Rederick responded.
After the commander's hologram dissolved into the dimness of my quarters, my comlink beeped.
— Captain Tomax Bren has arrived for an audience with the Grand Admiral, — the device announced in Rukh's voice.
— Admit him, — I ordered.
Within a minute, the commander of the Scimitar bomber squadron stood before me at attention.
— You kept your word, Captain, — I said, deliberately ignoring that the machine's trials were completed several days behind schedule.
— Affirmative, sir, — the pilot responded reservedly.
His face betrayed an unspoken request. No, I'm neither joking nor exaggerating—Captain Bren clearly has something to say.
Very well, we'll hear him out. But later.
— Captain, — I continued, — you may return to your squadron and assume command. The technical documentation and prototype will be sent to our engineers for study, and in time, production of these Scimitar assault bombers will commence. I can assure you that the Scimitar squadron will be the first equipped with them, in recognition of your contributions to creating a fundamentally new type of ship.
— Sir, I merely built upon the previously developed concept of a dive bomber and supplemented it with my own vision, — the pilot clarified. Hmm, modest, but tasteful.
— Nevertheless, you have earned my gratitude, — I stated. — I see you have a request for me. Speak.
— Yes, sir, — Tomax's gaze wavered, as if he hesitated to choose what to voice. Curious—what could unsettle a veteran like Bren? — More precisely, I have three requests.
Now this is getting interesting. How highly does Tomax value his work to take such initiative? Let's hear him out. The Scimitar is indeed impressive.
— I'm listening, Captain, — no trace of interest in my voice. Not the slightest hint of curiosity.
— May I request that the Scimitar prototype remain on the Chimaera, sir? — he clarified. — As the flagship machine for the bomber wing. For study and production, the blueprints—drawn to all required specifications—will suffice. The prototype could serve as a valuable asset in upcoming operations, including for training my pilots to handle this machine.
— If production confirms the prototype is not needed, your request will be granted. Next?
— Technician Alex, sir, — he said. — The individual who assisted me in developing, testing, and refining the Scimitar. I request his transfer to the Chimaera and assignment to the repair crew for the bomber pilots' section. He knows this technology better than anyone besides me, ensuring quality maintenance that regular technicians cannot yet provide. With all due respect to the Chimaera's crew, sir.
The reasoning is sound, as Tomax articulated.
It's clear these two bonded during their work on the project—evident from the context that Technician Alex was the only one willing to undertake such a venture, both in development and testing.
— However, Captain, — I noted, — there is a dilemma.
— What, sir? — he asked, surprised.
— Technician Alex is responsible for restoring TIE Avenger fighters on Tangrene, remnants from the attack on the Hast shipyards. It's his initiative, and from what I know, he's made significant progress. Are you certain his transfer under your effective command will benefit that project? — I inquired. — He cannot continue their restoration on Tangrene while aboard the Chimaera.
At present, it's baseless to claim the TIE Avenger—two battle-worn, jury-rigged models repaired by the Republic—could become a primary frontline fighter, outshining current fighters and interceptors.
We lack the capacity to produce or properly repair this type, as well as factory components to even get them operational in the near future. Like the few TIE Defenders aboard the Imperious, belonging to Erik Shohashi, these fighters in their current numbers won't make a difference. For now, they're mere "toys" pleasing to the eye. Perhaps one day they'll see further use.
Restoring both TIE Avengers is currently more demonstrative—I want to understand these machines and whether they truly are among the best in the TIE lineup.
The situation mirrors the Scimitar—build, test, then decide if these ships are worth the credits and resources.
— With all due respect, sir, such work could be assigned to another technician team, — Bren stated.
— Unfortunately, it cannot, Captain, — I declared. — Technician Alex is the only surviving worker from the assembly lines for TIE Avengers and TIE Defenders—or the only one who chose to work for us.
The bomber pilot looked at me with slight surprise.
Did you think we assigned someone unfamiliar with this technology to develop the Scimitar's technical components? Of course not. We could've grabbed anyone off the street otherwise.
He's a professional, and I need him to complete his work.
Tomax understood.
— Sir, may I make a suggestion? — he said.
— I'm listening, Captain.
— After the current engagements and our return to Tangrene, we could transfer both fighters to the Chimaera. Here, with our highly skilled technicians, repairs could be completed faster, — the bomber pilot stated. — Collaborative work would also enhance other technicians' expertise with this type, should they enter service.
Truly, sentients are adept at finding solutions when motivated.
— I will consider your proposal, Captain Bren. You mentioned three requests.
— Affirmative, sir, — the pilot's face darkened. — However, the third request may be excessive and beyond the scope of my contributions and what we've discussed.
Curious…
It's rare to find such tact among Imperial personnel. Usually, it's just rote phrases.
There's an etiquette, of course, especially among those trained and serving during the Empire's galactic dominance.
But much of that has faded over time. Imperials have become a herd, following a leader only because he can bleat loudly and point the way.
Are we not fighting to preserve the best traditions?
Great things start small. Why not reinforce positive behavior, as outlined in training manuals for junior officers? Yes, I'm correct—Imperial doctrine doesn't mandate senior officers to mentor juniors beyond disciplinary rewards and punishments.
In essence, exemplary behavior from junior and mid-level officers is their own merit, not the result of their commanders' efforts.
Unfortunately, breaking this entrenched system now would be suicidal, leading to demoralization and resistance to radical change. We'll do it gradually, post-operation. When we're not fighting enemies at every turn.
Something tells me Captain Bren's unspoken wish will reveal more about his character than his file or colleagues' opinions.
We still lack cloned bomber pilots. With the GeNod program "in question" again, evaluating Bren as a donor candidate is prudent.
Especially since he's the only pilot in my fleet familiar with the Scimitar's systems (and I'm certain it will enter production). Using his clones could reduce pilot training time.
At least partially.
— Your third request, Captain, — I repeated.
— Sir, I request the reformation of the Scimitar unit as a wing, not a squadron, — the pilot said calmly and confidently.
— Is that so, — I said, narrowing my eyes slightly.
A "wing" is a unit stationed at one military facility—base, outpost, or starship. Here, on the Chimaera or similar Imperial Star Destroyers, a wing comprises six full squadrons: three fighter, two interceptor, and a dozen bombers. Ship types don't factor heavily, as they're auxiliary, not strike forces.
So, Bren proposes expanding the squadrons under his command. Not a bad idea—he's a competent officer, from what I've seen in his file. With the Chimaera's wing commander position vacant and no pilots aboard above lieutenant, Tomax is a strong candidate…
— Why not propose this first, as the priority? — I asked. — You aim to restore the unit as it was under your command, correct?
— Yes, sir, — the pilot confirmed.
— Then explain the reasoning behind your peculiar prioritization, — I said. — You understand the first request would've been granted without question as thanks for your work. The second, with caveats. The third is likely to be met with resistance.
— I understand, sir, — Tomax replied. — The priority is correct. Keeping the prototype on the Chimaera allows me to train pilots in real combat. A qualified technician can explain the machine's repair nuances, enhancing the hangar team's skills. Reforming the unit as a wing… In the past, Scimitar was the best because my pilots were the best. Enemies feared us, allies respected us for our professionalism. My current pilots are good but not the best. I hope to rectify that in time. That's when reforming the unit as a wing would be optimal. Hence, it's the third request, sir.
— In that case, Captain Bren, rest assured I've heard you, — the best soldier is a motivated one. This bomber pilot's motivation is off the charts. — Focus on training your personnel. As of now, you are the wing commander of the Chimaera's Star Destroyer wing, — confusion crossed the Imperial's face. Oh, right, that's the ship captain's prerogative. No wonder Star Destroyer captains feel so "free." They're authorized to handle any ship or crew matters. Literally anything, except executions. — It won't be Scimitar—not until our pilots match your former subordinates' caliber. So, Captain Bren, restoring your unit is entirely in your hands. In one hour, collect all necessary information from Captain Pellaeon per your clearance level. You have less than a day to meet your personnel and resolve all pressing issues before battle.
— Understood, sir, — Bren said reservedly. — Permission to depart?
— Go, Captain, — I nodded, meeting his gaze. — And ensure I have no reason to doubt entrusting my subordinates to you.
Not a muscle twitched on the ace pilot's face.
Excellent. This seasoned Imperial will shake up our fighter pilots. Their losses in the last battle were far from pleasing.
As they say, "There's no better school than the old school."
***
— Time's up, boys and girls, — Wedge Antilles, the New Republic's youngest general, surveyed the eleven pilots of Rogue Squadron. — Orders from Counselor Borsk Fey'lya, — his expression suggested he wasn't thrilled that a certain Bothan had once again personally briefed him. — The fleet has jumped to hyperspace, but you already know that. In just over a standard day and twelve hours, we'll be at our destination.
— And where's that, exactly? — Inyri Forge asked.
Wedge squinted, studying the eleven subordinates leaning forward, eager to hear what the fleet had been whispering about since Commenor.
— We're heading to Liinade III, — Antilles announced.
— Without Crimson Dawn? — Bror Jace, the Thyferran who rejoined his old unit at Wedge's invitation after Corran Horn's departure, spoke louder than the other grumbling pilots. — And without the First Division?
Wedge chuckled.
— Scared, Bror? — he teased.
— It's not about fear, — Asyr Sei'lar, the Bothan, came to the Thyferran's defense, her white fur practically bristling. — Something's off, General.
— I agree, — Gavin Darklighter echoed his friend. Interesting—does this have anything to do with her sharp claws resting where his right leg meets his 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 MC80 star cruisers and over fifty support ships, from assault frigates to gunships. A bit much for capturing a backwater planet, don't you think?
— Too much, — Tycho Celchu said. The Alderaanian appeared calm as always, but Wedge could tell his friend was equally puzzled.
Truth be told, Wedge himself wasn't fond of the situation.
But he had no intention of sabotaging orders. The First Division's failure to rendezvous had sparked morale-damaging whispers across the fleet. They knew only that they were striking an Imperial planet, but few knew which or where. Hence the tension.
From the pilots' grim moods, the squadron shared his and Tycho's concerns.
Unfortunately for the Republic's forces, their perspective couldn't sway Coruscant's orders.
Wedge signaled Nawara Ven, the Twi'lek near the briefing room's entrance, and the lights dimmed.
Wedge nodded gratefully to the former Rogue Squadron pilot, who lost a leg in the Bacta War. Despite a cutting-edge prosthetic, it barred him from the cockpit. So, through some maneuvering, Nawara stayed with the squadron as an aide. If he couldn't fly but wanted to stay, he'd remain with friends. Not to mention, this Ryloth native defended Tycho during his tribunal, when the Alderaanian was accused of betraying Horn. Of course, it later emerged that Ysanne Isard orchestrated that farce, but it cost plenty of nerves.
The young general tapped his datapad, and the connected holographic projector displayed a star system.
— Meet your target, Rogues, — he said. — Liinade III.
— That's the Ciutric Hegemony, — Gavin Darklighter blinked. — Why were we lingering near Handuine if the target's so far? That's at least a day's flight!
— Oh, Gavin, Gavin, — Wes Janson, his lead, chimed in. — You haven't spent enough time in the cockpit crossing half the galaxy. At least here, a cruiser's hauling us.
— Well done, — Wedge praised both. — Gavin, it's called misdirection. All units in our task force have been making divergent jumps, supposedly hunting enemy starships interfering with Lianna's tech shipments. It was to mislead enemy informants embedded on Coruscant. But we digress. The target, again, is Liinade III. A small world, but it sits at a hyperspace corridor junction. Cutting it off starts our invasion of the Hegemony.
— What's changed? — Asyr asked.
— The trail of prisoners from Commenor leads here, — Wedge explained dryly. — Amid its fields, valleys, pleasant climate, and charming xenophobic locals are secret prisons holding our captured personnel, including those from the Lusankya.
The pilots fell silent.
— The situation is complicated because Delak Krennel, after we hit his research base on Linuri, thought he could join the New Republic, — Antilles continued. — He even wants to offer Liinade III as a new home for Alderaanians.
— That guy's got nerve, — Wes Janson whistled. — Who'd accept him?
— Want me to spell it out, or can you guess? — the New Republic's youngest general asked.
— Not ku-pa, — Janson said grimly. — I guessed.
— If no one objects, may I continue? — Wedge smirked. — Liinade III has a small population. Reports indicate a patrol—one or two Star Destroyers, three at most. They arrive as a trio, then disperse. Our target retains only one. Our squadron's task…
Wedge glanced at his comlink, flashing urgently. A personal channel call. Perfect timing—during a briefing!
But it was a frequency only his closest friends knew…
To hell with Fey'lya's secrecy—friends don't call for nothing.
First, brief the team.
— Our task, as always: find, engage, secure the landing zone. Our task force handles that, while other division starships blockade the system.
— Bothans planned this, huh? — Bror Jace asked glumly.
— Hold on, — Asyr reminded him of her heritage. — Little guy with too much golden hair, you trying to be rude?
Wedge smirked crookedly.
Jace never excelled at making friends. His past jabs were aimed at friendly rivalry with Corran Horn, but now… From Gavin's sympathetic look, they'd need a new pilot soon.
Asyr's sweet and fluffy—when she wants to be. Otherwise, her neat little claws can dig under your skin and hurt. Sometimes literally.
Seizing the moment, Wedge activated his comlink.
— Antilles, listening…
Three sentences were spoken.
They made him want to dance and, simultaneously, tear someone's ears off—twice! Couldn't they have called earlier?
Wedge quickly issued instructions via comlink, then switched to the bridge channel, briefing the ship's commander. He hoped fervently the schedule delay would be minimal—so small no one would notice.
After coordinating, Wedge noticed an intriguing smile on his face.
Every Rogue Squadron pilot caught it.
Celchu rubbed his perfect chin.
— General, — he broke the silence, — tell me this Liinade III stunt just got canceled?
— Nope, — Wedge grinned broadly.
— Fey'lya's dead? — Derek Klivian asked hopefully.
— Sadly, no, — Asyr Sei'lar dramatically rested her head on Gavin's shoulder. The kid wisely avoided the contest for wittiest remark. She might not be as Bothan as other Bothans, but still.
— Ackbar's back in charge? — Wes Janson tried.
— Missed, Wes, — Wedge shook his head.
— Just for the record, Janson's our best shot, — Ken Nitram noted.
— Give me Fey'lya, I won't miss, — Wes promised darkly.
Wedge laughed with the rest but quieted them with a pointed grunt.
— No, the Liinade III attack isn't canceled.
— Then, General, — Inyri Forge spoke, — care to share what's got you so pleased?
— Oh, absolutely, — Wedge promised. Calculating speed, distance, and adjustments, he said:
— In forty-seven to fifty minutes, I expect everyone on the hangar deck.
— I don't like this, — Bror Jace declared. — General, give us a hint…
— And spoil the surprise? — Antilles raised an eyebrow. — No, folks. Head to your quarters. And be on the deck in dress uniforms. An unforgettable sight awaits.
He withstood the suspicious, pleading looks of ten out of eleven pilots before ordering them to leave the briefing room.
Only his old friend, Tycho Celchu, remained.
The Alderaanian, meeting the Corellian's gaze calmly, asked:
— Should I know what's got you so amused?
— You think I'd leave you to stew in mystery? — Wedge grinned. — Looks like the old days are back.
— Is it what I think? — Celchu grew serious.
Wedge sighed wistfully.
— How many times have I said I'm no Jedi? Not once! How would I know what's in your head? Hand over your patch, — he unceremoniously tore the Rogue Squadron chevron—a dozen X-wings, engines blazing around the New Republic symbol—from his wingman's shoulder. Only then did he realize the dress uniform patch lacked a number, unlike flight suits.
Awkward.
Rogue Squadron's New Republic chevron.
— Oops, — Antilles said, returning the patch. Good thing it's on a fastener. — Anyway, you're no longer Rogue Two.
— Not sure if that's good or bad, — Celchu sighed, his life having been tumultuous enough to wish on no enemy.
— No one's judging you, — Wedge teased with a laugh.
— That's a relief, — Tycho smiled. — So, while everyone rests and prepares, we're handling squadron handover?
— Sharp as ever, — Wedge nodded. — Peace is just a dream. Come on, I'll share my darkest secret.
— What's that? — Celchu tensed. — I'm already regretting wanting to lead the squadron.
— Relax, it's just the start of your career as Rogue Leader. You'll need to complete two years' worth of reports, — Wedge admitted. — You know paperwork's not my thing.
The holographic projector displayed a star system with a yellow star at its center, orbited by seven planets—three beyond an asteroid belt marking the system's midpoint.
***
— This is the Corvis Minor system, — Captain Irv explained. — The third and fourth planets are inhabited. The third is a semi-arid desert world with temperate polar zones; the fourth is tropical with excessive moisture.
— Both planets produce xenobiological products sold to the Ciutric Hegemony and Outer Rim as exotics, though all trade with the Hegemony routes through Liinade and then Ciutric, — Captain Pellaeon demonstrated his knowledge.
— No idea, — the privateer replied. — I don't bother with such things, and my recruiter's intel didn't cover that.
— But we have the data, — Pellaeon said.
— Easy, Captains, — I advised. No need to highlight that our Obroa-skai data is so comprehensive. — This isn't a trivia contest. Captain Irv, continue.
— Of course, Grand Admiral, — he agreed, manipulating the holoprojector's controls.
The image shifted, focusing past the asteroid belt to the fifth planet. Zoom: a gas giant with a dozen moons.
— Corvis Minor V, — he announced. — A gas giant with multiple orbiting satellites. The rendezvous point for pirates hired by Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel is the orbit of one moon, called Distna. Rumor has it—it's hollow.
Pellaeon's indifference vanished.
This feels eerily familiar.
— The invitation is valid for another day, after which there's no point showing up, — the privateer stated. — My intel suggests forty bands have already headed there—nearly a hundred mid-class starships, not counting smaller craft.
Pellaeon shifted in his seat.
— Thank you for the information, Captain Irv, — I said. — Return to the Colicoid Swarm and prepare your starship for departure.
— Sir? — the privateer clarified.
— You're heading to the Corvis Minor system, as planned, — I informed him. — Further instructions will follow en route.
— What about the patent? — Irv pressed.
— The Black Pearl and its contents are ours, — I reminded him. — Damage assessment is complete—Captain Yazuo Vain will receive one million ninety-seven thousand credits above that. We're entirely fair.
— Naturally, — Irv smirked. — I hope you don't mind if Yazuo and the organic crew from the Black Pearl stay on the Colicoid Swarm. He's invaluable in close combat and will lead the droid boarding parties if it comes to that.
— The Colicoid Swarm is your ship, — I noted. — Crew assignments are your discretion.
— Thank you, Grand Admiral, — he said seriously, leaving my quarters with Rukh.
— Am I correct that Krennel plans to strike the New Republic's forces moving toward Liinade III with hired mercenaries? — the Chimaera's commander asked.
— Precisely, — I confirmed.
— Even without the First Division, that rabble won't suffice against the Republic, — Gilad observed.
— But the Republic's ships are enough to handle the pirates, — I stated. — The mercenaries are merely the first wave. No matter how many die, they'll inflict significant damage on the Republic fleet. Then, Krennel's fleet from Ciutric IV will arrive to deliver the decisive blow. Since pirates are paid post-mission, Krennel will settle with few survivors—if the entire remaining Fourth Fleet is indeed at Liinade III.
— You suspect it's a diversion? — Pellaeon frowned.
— I'm certain, Captain, — I tapped the keyboard, pulling up a file tracking starship movements tagged by Morrt Project buzz droids. — See the pattern, Captain?
Pellaeon studied the galactic map's points, trying to discern it. If needed, I'd explain…
— Part of the Fourth Fleet has already consolidated, — he said. — The rest are moving to strike.
— Correct, — I confirmed. — Now, note the identifiers of the ships already grouped. Anything stand out?
— One MC80b Mon Calamari star cruiser, — he said. — And nearly two dozen Bothan assault cruisers…
— Nearly half the ships in the operation, — I noted. — The most modern and combat-ready.
— True, — Pellaeon agreed. — The MC80b recently entered service, used as flagships… Sir, are you suggesting Fey'lya's up to another scheme?
— He's a Bothan, — I remarked. — His actions are clear on this map. Note the positional gap between the flagship-led squadron and the scattered units.
— A good ten hours, — Pellaeon estimated.
— Now, — I used a laser pointer to trace a specific hyperspace route within the Hegemony. — No need for navigators to see that travel time for ships of this class, in the unified fleet, is exactly ten hours between these planets.
— A double strike, — Pellaeon muttered. — Clever.
— And it puts the Bothans in control, — I noted. — Why bother with diplomacy when you can send New Republic heroes to a backwater, while you resolve the issue decisively? Victors aren't judged in the New Republic. Any political misstep can be justified with "evidence" against the Prince-Admiral. One solid strike, and by the next day, half the Hegemony will pledge loyalty to the Bothans.
— You meant the New Republic? — Pellaeon clarified.
— If I meant that, I'd have said so, — I corrected. — Before Coruscant catches wind, a pro-Bothan coalition will control the sector, seizing its industry.
— That cannot be allowed, — Pellaeon said firmly.
— It won't, — I assured. — We'll adjust our travel coordinates. I'd appreciate it, Captain, if you tasked our navigators with ensuring our fleet arrives two hours after the Bothans.
— Isn't that too long? — Gilad frowned. — Such a force against Krennel's ships.
— The Prince-Admiral isn't foolish and has fortified his planets, — I noted. — Not to mention his hidden Mon Calamari star cruisers. Two hours is ideal for both sides to experience battle's thrill and one side's bitter defeat.
— Understood, I'll see to it, — Pellaeon reported. — Sir, what about the pirates in Corvis Minor?
— They'll face General Antilles' forces, — I said. — Understand, the Corvis Minor system has numerous navigational hazards, — I zoomed the hologram of the sector I'd studied thoroughly. I could navigate it blindfolded. — Large ships must maneuver extensively to reach jump points. I'm confident Antilles will encounter many small and mid-sized ships. Large ones, like our Colicoid Swarm, will be few. Dispatch a scout group on a cloaked starship. I want situational control if we need to drive the enemy from Liinade.
— It will be done, Grand Admiral, — Pellaeon stood, saluted silently, and departed.
Leaning back in my chair, I studied the holographic Ciutric Hegemony, pondering where and how Ysanne Isard would reveal herself.
Not the clone, of course—she's already planned the pirate ambush at Corvis Minor.
The "original's" silence concerns me.
It unsettles me deeply.
***
While pilots celebrated Corran Horn's return and tossed the newly official Rogue Leader, Tycho Celchu, into the air, Wedge and Luke stepped aside.
— You look like you've seen Ewoks roasting and gnawing stormtrooper corpses, — Wedge clapped the Jedi's back.
— Don't remind me, — Skywalker requested. — Wedge, I hope I didn't inconvenience you by using the personal channel.
— Oh, you just breached the secrecy of an operation against Imperial worlds, but it's fine, — Antilles grinned.
He didn't like how the young Jedi's expression darkened.
— Wedge, — Luke said softly, — I don't think this is a good idea…
— You're not alone, — Antilles admitted. — Come to my quarters, tell me everything. We'll figure out how to handle this.
***
As the airlock doors parted, Mara saw a figure in the dim corridor connecting the ships, clad in a dark brown cloak over simple dark clothing. A small spherical droid with numerous tiny emitters hovered over his right shoulder. A very familiar droid.
— Well, hello, — Thrawn's Hand smirked, arms crossed, watching the newcomer survey his surroundings.
— Good day, — a strong male voice replied from under the hood. The guest raised his hands and removed it, revealing to Mara a bony crest atop a smooth head adorned with black-and-blue patterns.
— A Zabrak? — Mara's right eyebrow arched. — You're kidding.
— It happens, — the alien said indifferently, crossing her ship's threshold without permission. His travel bag was deftly tossed through the corridor into the crew lounge, a move aided by the Force, executed confidently and skillfully. — I'm Eymand.
— A Jedi? — she eyed him curiously.
— We all have our sins, — he shrugged, reaching under his cloak for a flask at his belt. The parted fabric revealed a lightsaber hilt.
Mara tensed, ready to strike at the slightest hostile move. Her Force senses sharpened, but no hostility emanated from the Zabrak.
Seeing her grip on her lightsaber, he smirked, flicked the flask's cap off with a practiced thumb, and tilted his head back to drink. The cap clinked onto the corridor floor.
Mara caught the faint scent of Corellian whiskey.
— Getting drunk right after meeting? — she asked with biting irony, watching him Force-pull the cap from the floor and reseal the flask. — Now I see why Vader found it so easy to cut you all down.
— Note, — the Zabrak sniffed his sleeve, — he killed those who didn't drink. If Yoda had hit the bottle instead of chewing his stick in tough times, he might've carved the Emperor into steaks.
— I doubt it, — Mara scoffed. — I've seen what Palpatine could do. Even after four Jedi Masters failed to kill him.
Eymand burped contentedly, nodding at her gripped hilt.
— Windu's saber?
— A trophy, — she confirmed. — A reward for exemplary service.
— Ah, — the Zabrak picked at his teeth with his pinky nail. Thrawn's Hand grimaced in disgust. Is this really the Jedi Thrawn promised?
Temple Jedi often resembled Coruscant's underlevel riffraff (contrasting sharply with their lavish Temple and expensive ships and trinkets). But this one leaned into the role too well.
— Are we just standing in the airlock wasting time? — Mara asked. — We have a mission. Move it.
— You have a mission, — Eymand said. — I have a mission. And from what I gather, they don't overlap. So don't lecture me about hurrying. You're not my commander, and I'm not your errand-running Padawan. I delivered what was needed, so, see you! — The training droid zipped down the corridor into her ship. — I've got plenty to do. You'll figure out what you need to improve. Worst case, you'll get a good thrashing. But Grand Admiral Thrawn said you're used to losses lately, right?
Without farewell, the Zabrak turned to leave.
Mara, stunned by the Jedi's behavior—Thrawn's promised trainer for her Force skills—tapped into the Force. As her Imperial instructors and Palpatine taught: let negative emotions grow until the Force surged within her…
Then strike.
Without mercy or regret.
Her purple blade ignited, springing from the hilt.
— That's not how this works, — she declared, leveling the saber across his throat. She tensed, channeling the Force, ready for any surprise.
The Dark Side consumed her, though she rejected it, now understanding her training under Palpatine was manipulation. Breaking old habits—acting on emotional peaks—was hard. Especially when they came so easily.
Unfortunately, her Force and lightsaber skills had waned since Palpatine's death, when she renounced the Force to silence his voice in her head. Her two defeats—against the Dark Side and Winter Celchu Targeter—proved it. The first could be excused; Palpatine's minions outnumbered her, and she hadn't fenced in ages. But losing to Winter was solely because she aimed to capture, not kill.
She wouldn't let herself be humiliated.
Especially not by some marginal, alcoholic Jedi.
Pity she rarely practiced lightsaber duels in the past, using her crimson blade mostly against corrupt Imperials and conspirators.
Perhaps Thrawn was right? She was a courier, a saboteur—not Palpatine's true apprentice.
Though she likely couldn't have defeated Vader in open combat. He was a true monster, no longer human.
— Thrawn promised me training, — she hissed, deftly snatching the Zabrak's saber from his belt. — You're here. So you'll train me while my ship heads to the mission.
— Sweetheart, — Eymand looked at her lazily. — Back when Vader and Palpatine hadn't killed every Jedi they could reach, I was a Jedi archaeologist. Sure, I handled the Force decently—and still do—but you need to brush up on basics before diving into advanced manipulations. And from what I gather, Thrawn uses you as a covert agent.
— He doesn't use me, — Mara snapped. — We're allies.
— Sure, — Eymand smirked. — And I'm the Empire's next hero. Believe what you want—I'm as interested as a crack in my horn. I'm a simple Jedi researcher. I can teach you dead languages and ruin-digging. If that's your thing, I'll stay. But Thrawn, brilliant as he is, didn't consider that training could take years. If I spend years on you, when will I find Jedi knowledge hidden in the galaxy's corners?
— So you're pawning off Grand Admiral's training order onto that training droid? — Mara asked sardonically. — For your information, I have no issue deflecting blaster bolts. Or does your bag hold a few holocrons with Jedi secrets?
— Nope, — the Zabrak said. — I carried the bag out of solidarity with a colleague. Just my stuff.
Mara tensed.
She didn't like that phrase. At all.
— Whose stuff? — Her left hand instinctively rested on her blaster. Awkward to draw, but in a pinch, even a Tusken fits in a can.
— Mine, — a melodic voice came from the dark corridor.
Mara cursed her limited Force senses, unable to extend her awareness, and reached toward the voice's source…
But its owner, a woman in a simple combat suit favored by adventurers across thousands of worlds, stepped into the light. Mara noted two white-hilted weapons on her belt: a lightsaber and a shorter shoto.
The latter—a lightsaber with a blade rarely exceeding half a meter. A secondary weapon.
— Who's this? — Mara fluidly positioned herself behind the Zabrak, using him as a shield. Eymand resisted her armlock, but the red-haired woman was unrelenting.
— Old friend, — he explained. — We grew up in the same clan. She was taken as a Padawan; I was sent to the researchers.
— Because you're weak, — Mara said knowingly. — Thrawn didn't mention anyone else coming with you.
— He didn't know, — Eymand said. — We met almost by chance while I was searching for Jedi heritage.
— Am I interrupting? — the alien woman asked with a teasing smile. Mara instantly disliked her. Something about her mocking, ironic gaze reminded Mara of herself.
And it irritated her.
— Not at all, — Mara relaxed her grip on Eymand's arm, assured the woman wasn't attacking, but kept her saber at his throat. — It'd help to know who you are and what the kriff you're doing on my ship.
The alien woman smirked crookedly.
Seriously, it's infuriating.
— You were right, Eymand, she's just like me, — the woman smiled warmly, winking at the Zabrak. He sighed, pulled another flask from somewhere, and drank like a Tatooine native in the Dune Sea. — What am I doing here?
— Your hearing's fine, I see, — Mara said acidly.
— Imagine that, — the woman kept smiling. — I also build my own lightsabers, not use others'. You know, dear, borrowed ones aren't as effective.
— They'll cut my enemies' throats just fine, — Mara promised.
— Then I'm in the right place, — the alien woman grinned. — Eymand said someone in the Empire decided it's time to stop oppressing non-human species and prevent the chaos of the Old Republic and New Republic in the Outer Rim.
— There's someone like that, — Mara smirked. — What's your interest?
— Let's say my old Jedi friend's tales about reviving the Jedi Order intrigued me, — the woman's voice took on a durasteel edge. — To stand for the innocent, as it should be.
— And this someone's from the Empire, — Mara reminded her. — Last I checked, Jedi and the Empire had a complicated relationship.
— So do regular sentients and galaxy-wide bandits, — the woman noted.
— Ladies, am I in the way? — Eymand asked, pointing at the lightsaber.
— Not at all, — Mara and the third participant said in unison.
— Good then, — the Jedi researcher spread his hands.
The Force didn't warn Mara of danger from this pair.
So, Thrawn's Hand, deciding things weren't so bad, released her hostage and deactivated her weapon. Returning the Zabrak's saber, she hung her own hilt on her belt.
— Looks like you're already friends, — he smirked. — I'm off to my business. Don't pull out everything you can from each other.
— Insufferable, — the alien woman rolled her eyes.
— And drunk as a skunk, — Mara agreed.
— Oh, trust me, he's even more tedious sober, — the woman laughed.
— Like attracts like, — Eymand clucked, rolling his eyes and striding into the corridor. The airlock doors closed behind him. Seconds later, a click signaled the magnetic clamp's release, and the ships parted.
— Got a cabin for me? — the alien woman asked as they entered the crew lounge. She effortlessly slung the bag over her shoulder.
— Any you like, — Mara said, frantically thinking how to report Eymand's recklessness to the Grand Admiral. He hadn't marked her as dead in Imperial records for nothing. The Jedi researcher's actions blatantly violated her operational secrecy. — Except the captain's near the cockpit. That's mine.
— No claims here, — the woman replied with a crooked smile.
Mara shook her head.
What's wrong with these Jedi? What happened in their lives to make them so casually align with Grand Admiral Thrawn's forces?
Or is this crazy woman right—is the galaxy so bad that a strong hand is needed to restore order in the Outer Rim? Mara knew the chaos out there, but for a Jedi to emerge from hiding and ally with Imperials she'd never met…
Jade resolved to learn more about this "friend of Eymand's." Starting now.
— Hey, — she called to the woman, who'd vanished into the cabin once occupied by Winter Celchu Targeter. — What's your name?
The alien woman's head poked out.
— I'm not called; I go where I'm needed most, — she joked with a quip older than Mara's birth. — But if you mean my name, it'd be nice if you introduced yourself first. I know how you Imperial agents love codenames and aliases, so let's skip those. We're working together.
Fine, "friend," you've signed your own death warrant. Thrawn's Hand's secrecy must be preserved. Since you want a name (and Mara knew the Jedi would sense a lie, so she didn't want to start learning on mistrust), you'll get one.
— Mara, — the former Emperor's Hand replied. — Mara Jade.
— Nice to meet you, — the woman smiled, introducing herself.
Mara's heart skipped a beat.
Vader, may you rot in a sarlacc's belly for a thousand years—is this some twisted joke from beyond?
She remembered where she'd seen that face. And in what files she'd read that name…
Presumed dead…
— …Tano, — the Togruta finished. — Just Ahsoka will do. If we become friends, of course.
Right. Friends.