Nine years, seven months, and twenty-seven days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and twenty-seven days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and twelve days since the arrival).
— Grand Admiral, — the comlink crackled with Captain Pellaeon's voice. — We're arriving at Tangrene. We'll exit hyperspace in ten minutes.
— Thank you for the update, Captain, — I said, opening my eyes and peering into the darkness of my quarters, which wasn't truly dark to me despite the powered-down light panels. The commander of the star destroyer had interrupted my musings, but no matter. — Arrange for my shuttle to be prepared and inform Moff Ferrus and Shipwright Zion of my desire to meet with them after the Chimaera docks at the shipyard.
— Yes, sir, — Gilad reported crisply. — I'll notify you further when everything is ready.
— Excellent, Captain, — I replied, easing myself from the back of the chair. I touched the panel of the active computer, my finger sliding over the lighting control, restoring the familiar dimness to the quarters.
Casting a glance at the latest reports from Delta Source, I smiled. A divided approach to the goal, is it? Nice try, Fey'lya. And timely, too.
My gaze settled on a small cylinder lying on the desk before me. A modest object, yet one tied directly to my current reflections.
A beacon for summoning and controlling an automated ship. A trifle, it would seem.
But it was anything but.
The beacon belonged to the yacht of Talon Karrde's former boss—Jorj Car'das.
The man who introduced the real Thrawn to much of the galaxy, serving as his friend, advisor, puppet, and observer.
They met back when Thrawn was concluding his career in service to the Chiss Ascendancy, just before the destruction of the Outbound Flight. A curious chapter in the life of Mitth'raw'nuruodo, one that profoundly shaped the life of a smuggler named Jorj Car'das.
Because it was Car'das who laid the foundation for the business that Talon Karrde later inherited.
Jorj Car'das was the one who built the most extensive network of informants and intelligence-gatherers in the galaxy, a network now inherited by "The Claw." A network I struck at, thoroughly dismantling and discrediting Karrde's organization. But it would be naive to think it's destroyed. Karrde is clever enough to rebuild, even after returning from captivity and losing his closest allies.
Yes, we raided his bases, warehouses, and seized a vast stockpile of Imperial and other goods, equipment, and cargo. All of it is now being shipped to Lok, which will serve as a secret base, a hub for repairs and fleet preparation once the third phase of Operation Crimson Dawn begins. And that phase is drawing near...
But the beacon intrigued me not for nostalgic reasons tied to the glorious Chiss's past.
Jorj Car'das, the architect of a vast empire of information brokers, vanished overnight, leaving his organization to its fate. Karrde was merely one of his lieutenants who seized the opportunity to take control, expanding and deepening its reach.
One might think, so what? The man died, end of story. People like that often come from "nowhere" and vanish into "nowhere." Karrde survived several assassination attempts and had reason to believe Car'das was behind at least a couple of them. Whether that's true or not, I can't recall precisely—perhaps.
What matters more is something else.
An event from the timeline I know, occurring ten years after Thrawn's death: the political crisis known as the Caamas Document Crisis. The issue centered on a species called the Caamasi—renowned diplomats and negotiators whose mere presence could bring warring factions to the table.
The Caamasi were a stumbling block that could have hindered the rising star of the Emperor, who was still Palpatine at the time. That's why he ordered their planet's destruction.
The Imperial fleet, on the Emperor's command, executed Order Base Delta Zero, reducing the Caamasi homeworld to slag.
As Han Solo once said: "Even the might of the entire Imperial fleet couldn't destroy a planet." The Corellian exaggerated a bit, but the gist holds.
Caamas was equipped with planetary shields capable of withstanding nearly any bombardment. However, during the Imperial attack, the shield generators were sabotaged... by Bothans.
Yes, those furry, cunning creatures from Bothawui.
According to the books of the Hand of Thrawn duology, the Bothan clan leaders didn't know the names or even the families of the saboteurs and went to great lengths to conceal their involvement. Why did a story over three decades old resurface?
Simple. At the same time as Thrawn's death, Mount Tantiss was destroyed. Beyond its treasure vaults, Emperor Palpatine stored a wealth of invaluable information there. I suspect the vast library of encrypted datacards, spared from erasure, served as the source for some of the Emperor's writings. My analysts are working on some of them—those safe enough not to be informational bombs. And my suspicions are proving correct: the datacards contain plenty about politicians and Palpatine's actions.
That's why I so readily agreed to destroy the Book of the Sith that Mara Jade discovered. The powerful knowledge Palpatine amassed about the Dark Side of the Force must be lost—at least in that form. Though I'm certain the sources Palpatine used to build his understanding of the Dark Side were never stored in the vault. Byss, on the other hand, is another matter—every other being there is practically a true zealot...
But I digress.
So, Thrawn's death and the destruction of Mount Tantiss. After that pivotal event, in the timeline I know, the Noghri were relocated to the planet. And the New Republic... I could laugh and cry at once... They allowed private individuals to sift through the mountain's rubble. Not intelligence operatives or a special unit, but private researchers. Among them was a shrewd information broker who found several intriguing datacards.
I found them too. Undamaged, and nearly all of them encrypted so tightly that even the access codes from a Grand Admiral's command cylinder couldn't crack them.
One, with minimal protection, is none other than the Caamas Document itself—a record of the agreement between Palpatine and a named list of the Bothan operatives who carried out the Caamasi destruction. It's an informational bomb that could shatter the New Republic. But using it now would be foolish. After neutralizing the threat of Palpatine, though? Why not?
In the known timeline, the New Republic only obtained a damaged copy, lacking the list of culprits. They launched a frantic hunt for the complete document to hold the guilty Bothans accountable. And, in true New Republic democratic fashion, they announced the document's existence to the Senate.
The irony is that they keep the restoration of the Lusankya a closely guarded secret, but a spark like this? Why not share it with a gaggle of bickering senators? Especially when Coruscant had delegated all internal sector issues to local governments. What could go wrong?
As it turned out, everything ignited so fiercely it was barely contained. Despite the Caamasi themselves pleading to let the matter rest, the New Republic's democrats eagerly used the Bothans' involvement to settle personal scores. Had it not been for Imperial Intelligence redirecting the mob's anger toward the Bothans, the culprits might have escaped justice. Curiously, the Mon Calamari sided with the Bothans in this conflict. Charming, isn't it? Racial psychology at work, pushing them to back the statistical underdog.
The New Republic was saved from collapse by one thing alone: the discovery of the true, undamaged Caamas Document. In the known timeline, only Luke Skywalker and Mara Jade found it—on Nirauan, in a fortress called the Hand of Thrawn.
And a similar name appeared on another heavily encrypted datacard lying next to the beacon... Another issue I've postponed until Mara Jade and Zakarisz Ghent return from Coruscant. They've made contact, and I'll meet with them soon.
Back to Jorj Car'das's beacon.
During the height of the Caamas Document Crisis, Talon Karrde followed his former employer's trail. The beacon, found by Skywalker, led him to Car'das. It's a long story, detailed by Timothy Zahn in the Hand of Thrawn duology, but that's another tale. I've digressed enough.
The beacon passed from Skywalker to Karrde. Then "The Claw" enlisted Mara Jade and Lando Calrissian to search for Car'das. They did their part, allowing Karrde to follow their trail and find Jorj.
Who, despite the years and his disappearance, was alive, well, and in possession of a vast intelligence archive. He helped resolve the crisis and facilitated Imperial involvement.
He'd been hiding from the galaxy in the Kathol Sector—a remote, rather grim place. It holds no strategic interest for me; it's riddled with... complications, let's say.
But it's home to those with a fascinating philosophy regarding the Force: the Aing-Tii monks. Non-humanoids who taught Car'das to wield the Force (despite his lack of notable sensitivity to it). And, if memory serves, those teachings helped Car'das extend his mortal existence.
That last part piques my interest. Yes, the Aing-Tii's knowledge of the Force could greatly benefit the Jenssarai, but something tells me they're not eager to train just anyone.
I don't know how much time I have left—Chiss physiology remains a mystery to me. Perhaps a suitable scientist will study my body and offer a prognosis. Or perhaps not.
I have contingency plans, of course, but they don't solve the core issue. I've embraced the opportunity fate offered—to take Thrawn's place and replay his campaign with a different hand. But I'd rather not face the prospect of my time running out in a year, two, five, or ten...
No, I *do* want to know. Because then I'd at least have a timeline for accelerating my plan to groom a successor. Gilad is making strides, but it's only the beginning.
Still, this is beside the point.
Acquiring the beacon means denying Talon Karrde a starting point for his search and, potentially, access to Car'das. After analyzing the situation, I've concluded that Car'das didn't possess a copy of the Caamas Document. He gave Karrde information about an actor the Imperials used to stage "Thrawn's return" and about the clone of Major Grodin Tierce—an early prototype in Thrawn's project to create commanders infused with the Chiss's tactical genius.
Genetic experiments that ended poorly—the clone was a psychopath. Yes, I've abandoned such experiments and have no intention of breeding experimental Jedi clones or the like. But Car'das's intelligence database is a danger in itself, especially if it falls into my enemies' hands. Given that, despite Karrde's fears, Car'das is fond of him, I doubt Jorj would allow one friend to destroy another.
Neutralizing Karrde after he plays his role in the third phase of Operation Crimson Dawn is vital. General Cracken is dead. The New Republic's covert agents are cut off from command. The Provisional Government's intelligence sources will be paralyzed for a time. That window will suffice to execute my plans before Palpatine's return. Alternative intelligence sources for the New Republic—Booster Terrik, Mirax Terrik-Horn, and Talon Karrde—are currently "out of play." This trend must be maintained and, in the future, extended to Car'das. If possible, I'll visit the Kathol Sector for that purpose.
As for the Aing-Tii... They may not be able to extend my existence, but it's a lead worth pursuing.
A faint tremor beneath my feet told me the Chimaera had reached its destination.
Time to move.
Rising from the desk, I adjusted my tunic, pulled on my white gloves, tucked the datacards into my inner pockets, and headed for the exit.
Gilad contacted me just as Major Tierce and Rukh fell into step behind me, marching briskly toward the hangar.
***
The basics of investigation taught to Imperial Intelligence field agents revolve around piecing together a target from fragments of information. A useful skill, provided you have *something* tied to the target.
Torin Inek had leads for tracking the Sa Nalaor. He knew the trail had gone cold and needed refreshing.
Tracking a target isn't about solving a puzzle with one trick. It's a set of skills that must be applied creatively—standard thinking leads to dead ends.
To the misfortune of those standing between him and his goal, Torin knew how to use the knowledge gained at the Intelligence Academy. And he enjoyed it.
Work becomes drudgery when it yields no reward. Torin's work paid off.
Especially in covert operations. They always got the blood pumping, kept him sharp.
So now, he was just a captain of a weathered freighter, looking for quick credits and a few cybernetic implants to give him an edge in a fight.
That was the cover story.
The reality was different.
To find a target, you must infiltrate their environment and subtly inquire about them.
Imagine you're a sentient making a living selling black-market Separatist cybernetic tech. You need to do it quietly, avoiding attention from both the Republic and the Confederacy. You want credits, not trouble, right?
You don't have much time to move your goods, or command will start asking questions. And selling illegal wares requires skill—being a bold captain isn't enough. You need a dealmaker.
Rel Harsol wasn't a dealmaker. He was a soldier. Soldiers make poor traders.
Yet he was sharp enough to know experimental cybernetic implants couldn't be sold to just anyone outside the business.
So, he must have had a partner.
And that partner had to be connected to the underworld.
If you can't find the man himself—Rel Harsol—then you look for his crew. But they vanished too, didn't they?
Time for logic.
Could someone in the Sa Nalaor's crew have been a middleman for black-market cybernetics? Unlikely.
Middlemen are cunning, sharp, and slippery, avoiding the chaos of civil war. They don't operate alone—they prefer comfort, control, and their own turf.
Thus, Harsol's middleman, handling the product, was likely not part of the Separatist frigate's crew.
That's progress.
Now, how to find this middleman, about whom little is known?
But that's not entirely true.
The middleman worked with Harsol for years, not months. The appearance of new, unique products would've drawn attention from the right people in a specific corner of the galaxy where semi-criminal business is routine, its scale unremarkable.
So, the middleman's base is likely a major planet or space station where such deals wouldn't stand out. A private hideout is possible, but that would imply a major player capable of self-defense. A Separatist captain wouldn't need such a partner—they'd gut you and seize your source.
A smaller trader, though... That's the ticket.
The outline was taking shape, but more specifics were needed.
Time to study the situation.
While Harsol was active, the middleman sold cybernetics. After the Sa Nalaor vanished, the middleman wouldn't have lasted long unless they had a stockpile.
The Separatist captain disappeared either in the early days of the Galactic Empire or just before. So, the middleman's troubles likely began around then.
The cherry on top: to track cybernetics traders, you need to understand the market. Torin didn't, but he learned.
In the Old Republic, cybernetics required licensing, and only major corporations could profit, bribing officials to stay afloat.
The Confederacy imposed similar rules, but its supporters turned a blind eye to illegal operations as long as they turned a profit.
Licensing meant certified staff, production facilities, and a long list of requirements.
Obviously, neither Harsol nor his middleman would agree to that—it'd ruin the scheme. You can't smuggle goods across war lines and pass them off as locally made. Any inspector would see through a fake operation. And when the Empire took over, it crushed such schemes—a hook worth grabbing.
So, what do we have?
A mid-tier middleman tied to semi-legal or illegal business. Their base: neutral territory during the Clone Wars, ignored by both the Republic and the Confederacy.
When they partnered with Harsol, they likely set up a shell company to legitimize the experimental products. That company would've collapsed after the Empire rose—either shut down for being fake or scaled back, possibly abandoning cybernetics for something else.
That narrows the search.
It took considerable effort from the entire team to pinpoint a likely candidate for Harsol's middleman.
A Twi'lek named Ropok.
This alien, sympathetic to the Confederacy, founded IsoTech—a classic shell company owning little beyond trading space and a lab on the Wheel station in the Besh Gorgon system, Malrood sector. That sector, by the way, leaned toward the Confederacy back then. It sat in the Mid Rim, the border between civilization and the Outer Rim, where might and credits ruled, along with connections.
IsoTech wasn't renowned, but ISB archives noted rumors of its involvement in illegal, unlicensed cybernetic prosthetics trading. Right time, right place, right vibe...
IsoTech's cybernetics business collapsed almost immediately after the Empire took control. The company pivoted to licensed prosthetics but soon faced a rude awakening: the Empire didn't tolerate "gray zone" tax dodgers.
Ropok was arrested and sent to Kessel. His children—a daughter and son—took over, running the business as best they could.
Then, a few years ago, Ropok's son, Reom, vanished from the company. A brash, impulsive thrill-seeker. That left Ropok's daughter, Shira, to keep the struggling company afloat, strictly within legal bounds—if that's even possible on the Wheel. The station's no ordinary place. It's a den of casinos, slot machines, gladiator arenas, spice dealers, and other riffraff. The station's leadership maintained a private fleet, which, alongside the Wheel's arsenal, could rough up even an Imperial battle group. In the past, they operated under Imperial oversight, funneling profits to the Malrood sector governor. Now, they've grown bold, claiming neutrality.
But that's beside the point.
What's more intriguing is this.
Torin sat at a cafeteria table across from IsoTech's transparisteel panels, watching a pair of rough-looking Rodians harass a comely Twi'lek named Shira. She was visibly irritated and, if she could, would've sent them packing.
Shira.
The problem was that IsoTech wasn't prosperous enough to afford security, not even droids. Shira worked alone.
Torin had spent enough time on the station to learn plenty about the girl with the head-tails and her company.
Like the rumor that her brother, Reom, didn't just disappear—he took IsoTech's savings with him and got mixed up with Rodians from the Yiyar salvage corporation. Nothing's been heard of him since.
It could be a coincidence.
Except IsoTech fit the profile of Harsol's middleman perfectly.
And the Yiyar salvage corporation? Rodian thugs from Ryloth who (surprise!) rescue shipwrecked crews. Their services aren't cheap. At all. But they know the Outer Rim and nearby space like the back of their hands.
As Torin pondered whether to keep observing, the Rodians made their move. The more aggressive one pulled a blaster, grabbed Shira by her right lekku, yanked her down, slammed her face into the counter, and pressed the weapon to her head, clearly demanding something. Oh, how interesting. Not really. If IsoTech weren't part of the mission, he wouldn't have budged.
— Yiyar's bullying Shira again, — muttered an old man in baggy clothes sitting nearby. Torin glanced at him—a human with disheveled hair who'd shared plenty of tales, essentially briefing him on IsoTech's current state. To the old man, Torin was just another pilot looking for cheap, quality cybernetics.
— What's the deal? — Torin asked, sipping whiskey from a grimy glass. If you choose the agent's life, you get used to drinking what passes for whiskey in a backwater like the Wheel—rancor piss, basically.
— Didn't you hear me? — the scruffy man said, surprised. — They're shaking her down over Reom's debt.
— Must've missed that, old-timer, — Torin admitted. — What happened?
— Reom stole all the credits Shira saved up after Ropok got sent to Kessel, — the local repeated. — Word is, he got a message from his dad's friend, saying he'd crashed somewhere. Hired Yiyar, who either found him or didn't. Either way, they're pissed. One of their teams went missing. The Rodians want credits and keep coming to Shira, demanding money she doesn't have, — the old man sighed. — They've scared off all her clients. IsoTech's about to get kicked off the Wheel. She can't pay for protection. Everyone's on her case—security patrols, level admins—demanding credits for "safety," rent, the right to operate. She's got nothing. Suppliers cut her off, and what she's got left to sell is junk. Poor girl. Her brother screwed her over big time. The Rodians want Reom or the credits. It's been going on for years, but since Yav took over the Yiyar clan, — he pointed at the Rodian hurting the Twi'lek, — it's gotten worse.
— Tough break, — Torin drained his glass, tossed a few small credits (flashing big money here marks you as a fool or a dead one), and sauntered toward IsoTech. A plan formed on the fly. — Why doesn't she just rat out her brother?
— Nobody knows where he is, — the drifter said. — Though those Yiyar boneheads think Shira's such a masochist she'd rather take beatings and watch her dad's business crumble than give up Reom's location.
— Idiots, — Torin yawned, ready to play his part. — But the girl's cute. Guess I'll step in.
— Careful, or they'll break your legs, — the old man warned.
— For a beauty like that, — Torin chuckled, — I'll take the risk.
The girl didn't interest him, of course. He had no prejudice against aliens, but they didn't spark any attraction either.
The "hero saves damsel" routine, though, fit his cover as a credit-chasing drifter perfectly. And for the mission, it was a solid way to get to Shira's brother through her. He likely knew more.
Could Reom have hired Yiyar to find the Sa Nalaor? Absolutely. That's why he stole the credits.
Did he pay them? Doubtful. The two harassing Shira were clearly Yiyar, judging by their patches. If they'd found the Sa Nalaor, they'd be swimming in credits, and a young, even attractive Twi'lek wouldn't concern them. Big money—salvage crews got a hefty cut of recovered ships—could buy them anyone.
— ... The whole first team vanished, gear, ship, and all! — the Rodian growled, dragging Shira by her lekku over the counter. She resisted, muttering curses but doing nothing to defend herself. Torin sized her up instantly—not a fighter. At all. No wonder this has dragged on. Why not buy a blaster?
— Yav, you've said that already! — Shira's voice was sweet, typical for alien women. A natural trait to lure mates, especially human men, as they taught at the Academy. Nonsense, really—just nature's way of making Twi'lek women striking. It's why they've been enslaved as concubines or worse for millennia. — Let me go, you Gamorrean-faced thug! Reom was supposed to pay you! Take it up with him!
Truth be told, most Twi'lek women are trained to be docile, submissive, and obedient to their masters. Thousands of years of slavery aren't a joke—it's a shattered psyche, often broken by Hutts.
This one seemed different, sharp and defiant. A spark of independence. Good for her. A blaster would've been better.
— I'm done waiting years for my credits, Shira! — the Rodian snarled in Basic. He'd be less grating in his native tongue—their lisping accent butchering certain sounds is comical. Torin once interrogated a Rodian thug for three hours; his team laughed for two. Seriously, that's why Rodians avoid Basic—it's hilarious.
Torin locked eyes with the second Rodian—a typical goon, nothing special. His blaster was junk—too much trigger slack, unfixable. Cheap and shoddy. Not so for the first Rodian.
— Give me the credits now! Or the capsule! Right now!
This one was seasoned. Scars on his face, a coiled stance. And, judging by appearances, he'd lost an eye in a memorable way.
— Hey, boss! — the second Rodian spoke in his native tongue, unaware Torin understood. — Some human's sniffing around. Shall we rob him?
— Rob a contraceptive warehouse, — Torin shot back in Rodian. No humor in his delivery. — Why're you hassling the girl, you swamp-stinking slugs?
That kind of insult usually meant instant death, and even Shira's eyes widened, despite the pain of being gripped by her lekku—a sensitive spot for Twi'leks. Torin knew it well.
— Looks like you're asking for trouble, human, — the lead Rodian switched to his language. — I'm Yav Yirt, of the Yirt clan!
— That's supposed to mean something, with all that swagger? — Torin smirked, feigning hands on hips while his hidden fingers grabbed something useful. — Did anyone give you permission to stink up the place with your pheromones? Hey, girl, don't you think it's smelled like week-old bantha dung stuck to a boot since these Rodians showed up?
To enrage a Rodian, remind them their species reeks of a sharp, musky odor many compare to what Torin just described.
— Your boyfriend? — Yav asked the gaping Twi'lek, while the second Rodian turned to gauge her reaction.
Their mistake.
Rodians hunt well in forests and swamps, but indoors require different skills.
Torin glided forward, seized the less dangerous one's blaster hand at the wrist, twisted it to prevent a shot, and drove a combat knife into the base of his neck.
Spinning him as a shield, he let Yav shoot his own lackey, then hurled the knife, hitting Yav square in the chest. The Rodian collapsed, not dead but out of commission for now.
— You okay? — Torin asked, shoving the corpse aside as Shira stared wide-eyed. — If you're fine, — he stepped over the body, — I've got a couple of questions. Heard you've got cybernetic implants for sale...
She gawked at his smiling face, then at the bodies on the floor.
— You'd better slip away quietly, — she advised. "She's quick to shake off the shock of death. Not her first time seeing corpses." — Security's probably already on their way, and they don't tolerate chaos unless it's on their terms.
— Good advice, — Torin nodded. — So, about that cybernetics?
— Are you serious? — she blinked. — They'll grab you.
— Here I thought the girl I saved from dishonor—or more likely murder—would tell the law I was protecting her, — the Imperial agent smirked. Shira bit her lip, realizing it was fair. She hadn't asked for help, but who knows how things would've gone without him? — From what I hear, local security isn't fond of you either. Maybe you shouldn't stick around either, hmm?
— Maybe, — she said warily. — The prosthetics are just a pretext, aren't they?
— I've got a ship, clean IDs, and plenty of time, — he said. — And you've got family trouble that started this mess. I can help track him down and settle his debts. If there's credits to be made, it's worth it. Those Rodians, — he lightly kicked the downed leader, — won't let this slide. They'll keep hunting you. Me? I'll hop on my ship and vanish.
Security response time on the Wheel for an incident was fifteen minutes. In these slums, they took their time, more interested in cleaning up bodies than dealing with live troublemakers. Interesting folks.
Three minutes had passed. Five more, and escape would be tricky.
"Come on, tail-head, make up your mind," Torin thought.
— If I had credits to hire a bounty hunter, I'd have done it already, — she said, swiftly emptying the meager cash register into a pouch and grabbing a few display items from under the counter. — If you really want to help... I've got nothing to pay you with.
— Let's go, — Torin snorted, snatching her bag. — You can explain everything on the ship.
— Why would you help me? — she asked as they slipped into an alley. — If you're hoping for something personal, I'll warn you—
— Don't flatter yourself, — Torin advised. — I really did need a prosthetic. Something fancy. Heard you had some for sale...
— Nothing for months, — she said glumly. — Since the Imperials and pirates started hitting New Republic transports I used to smuggle cybernetics from the Core to the Mid Rim, my suppliers dropped me. Best I can offer is a big Twi'lek 'thanks.'
— A bit light, — the agent said, keeping up the act. — But... since your business is toast, you could tag along. Can you cook? I'm sick of ration packs.
— Don't get your hopes up, — Shira smirked. — I cook as well as I fight off my brother's creditors.
— Yeesh, — Torin drawled. They reached the dock where his ship waited—a beat-up YT-1300 freighter, cobbled together by fleet techs from a New Republic base raid. — So, what *can* you do?
She sized up the ship professionally, then shuddered, barely hiding disgust at the rusty heap.
— I can install a prosthetic, — she declared. — I'm a cyber-prosthetic surgeon.
— Got a license? — Torin whistled.
— Got proof this junker won't fall apart mid-flight? — she shot back.
— Nope, — he said. Truthfully, his ship could tangle with a decent corvette, but why spill secrets? — Not really.
— Me neither, — she replied. — But my patients survived.
— Many? — Torin asked, not caring much. Her quick decision to flee with a stranger suggested she was acting on a plan. Women don't just "vanish nowhere"—she was heading to someone who could fix her Rodian problem. That made his job easier.
— All of them, — she said, climbing the ramp. — Though someone usually shot them afterward.
— You know, I'm rethinking that prosthetic, — Torin teased.
— Why's that? — she smirked, tossing her bag onto the lounge floor.
— Bad omen, — he laughed.
***
— The Cygnus Spaceworks caravan was intercepted by Captain Kalian's task force, — Moff Ferrus reported. — The ships and their cargo are en route to the Karthakk system; the crew was left in escape pods. My contact at the company says they can't cover the loss or refund, but they're offering corporate lawyers for a small fee to sue the New Republic for the cargo.
— How "small"? — I asked, curious.
— Enough to build a couple of corvettes, — about ten million credits. Clever bunch.
— Send an official complaint to Coruscant with the appropriate demands, — I instructed. — We'll maintain the "attack" cover story to the end.
— Yes, sir, — he confirmed.
— Contact Cygnus Spaceworks again and inquire about JV-7 shuttles, — I said. — A production line for those ships would be useful.
— Sir, I already asked, — his tone suggested bad news. — They repurposed that line for Lambdas years ago. New Deltas aren't in demand on the civilian market—there's plenty already, and the secondary market meets the need.
— Then arrange to procure used ships of that type, — I ordered. Turning to Ryan Zion beside me, I asked:
— Can you recreate the JV-7 production line?
— If I may, sir, a few remarks, — interesting. Why's our usually prickly shipwright suddenly a model of decorum? Did Nick Reyes's departure have an effect? — Deltas are solid as assault shuttles, no question. But for cargo? Useless—too small a hold. For small-scale production, a semi-automated line would be cheaper in resources. Most components are interchangeable with Lambdas, so a full-cycle plant isn't needed—just an assembly shop. We can pull assembly schematics from the damage control systems in their computers. As for alloy quality and composition... we'll dissect a couple of ships for study.
— Good, — I approved. — Draft the plans and hand them to the moff. He'll determine the location and timeline.
— Will do, — Zion smirked, then caught himself. — Sir.
— Is the cargo transfer from base RZ7-6113-23 proceeding? — I asked Ferrus.
— We've cleared half the warehouse, — he replied. — Your permission to use inactive fleet ships sped things up significantly.
— In that case, Shipwright, — I turned back to Zion, — you'll also develop modernization plans for those relics.
Ryan's single eye glinted, clearly displeased. What did you expect, my friend, when you bragged about your skills? Initiative comes with consequences.
— It'll be done, — he said curtly.
— I also expect your report on the Sunburn project ships, — I moved to the next item.
— Work's in full swing, — he said. — With the cannon you retrieved from the Corellian rebel base, we can upgrade all six ships to a reasonably combat-ready state.
— We'll make do with what we have for now, — I decided. — The Dragon and the four other upgraded Venator-class destroyers with ion cannons are needed soon.
Zion's jaw tightened.
— I'll redirect yard workers from other projects to Sunburn, — he said reluctantly.
— Scimitar, — I shifted to Ferrus, who oversaw that project. — What's the prototype's status?
— With the PLAE tech installed, it's ready for testing, — he said proudly. — It required major overhauls, but the specs are met. The machine's complete, training flights are done, and results are satisfactory.
— Have you reviewed the new bomber prototype? — I asked Zion.
— Yes, — he admitted grudgingly. — Not my field, but it's a finished, quality machine. Worth the credits and time.
— How long to assemble one unit? — I inquired.
— It was built by hand, so a month, — Ferrus said, puzzled.
— I'm taking the prototype and its technicians to the Chimaera for combat testing, — my decision stunned both men.
— Sir, — Zion said cautiously. — Testing new tech takes months, on ranges...
— Didn't you say the Scimitar was complete? — I clarified.
— It is, sir, but... there are procedures...
— If the bomber's ready, we'll test it in battle, — I cut him off. — If your assessments hold, Captain Shteben will begin acquiring SoroSuub's raptor production lines, and we'll scale up assembly. TIE bombers are fine for their role, but we need this new type now.
— I understand, sir, but there's a testing protocol... — Zion started, then stopped, unwilling to press further.
— I need all active fleet ships combat-ready, — I ordered. — We're moving to the next phase, and I need to know...
Ferrus's comlink buzzed, but my own device chimed with an incoming call first.
— What's the matter? — I asked the flagship's commander calmly.
— Sir, an Imperial star destroyer entered the system, — he said quickly. — Its transponder identifies it as the Void Wanderer, promised to us at Bilbringi. But most of our ships are damaged.
— We have Captain Dorja and a forward defense line of cloaked asteroids, — I reminded him, glancing at Ferrus and Zion. — I trust the Golan and ORY-II are still concealed?
— Correct, sir, — the moff confirmed.
— Then send Dorja to intercept, — I instructed Pellaeon. — And contact the Void Wanderer to inquire about its presence in the Tangrene system.