"This is starting to turn into a 'Santa Barbara,'" flashed through my mind after the dashing privateer, terror of all nearby New Republic logistics, Captain Tiberos, removed his mask and revealed his clearly bewildered face to those present.
— But… how… — he stammered. — Nym bragged that he killed you, Mom…
Well, at least Aurra Sing didn't disappoint and didn't throw herself onto her "boy's" chest. Otherwise, I'd have definitely started spitting at this tearful family drama.
Even if it meant "breaking character."
— That scum would never have taken me down, — she hissed, casting a fury-filled glare at the pirate lying on the floor. She'd probably have hit him with something particularly heavy if she could. But the two squads of stormtroopers nearby had a sobering effect on her. — Seems he figured I'd be more useful alive as a trophy.
— Maybe, — Tiberos said, his voice dripping with disgust.
What, that's it? No tearful "hugs" to celebrate the family reunion? None? Really? Well, thank the Force. Or God.
— What's the real reason Captain Nym attacked the ship you were on? — I asked the only question that mattered to me at the moment. Someone who wants to kill a woman who chose another man kills her. They don't keep her captive for years next to a pile of treasure. Which makes the story of the "death" of Tiberos's parents, known to the Jedi Eymand and Captain Tiberos himself, far less believable.
Aurra Sing shook her dark auburn ponytail and looked at me with undisguised hatred. She didn't bother answering. You didn't need to be a Jedi to see the irritation mixed with arrogance and disdain frozen on her face.
— To the brig with her, — I ordered. Tiberos twitched as if to rush to his mother's aid, but he was immediately stopped by the soldiers of the Fourth Squad. The mercenary gritted his teeth, clenching his fists… For a moment, he weighed whether he could take on nine stormtroopers alone. And he definitely didn't know about the bodyguards accompanying me. Well, I'm certain of one thing: if he attacked directly, Rukh and a pair of Tierce's clones wouldn't leave even a memory of him. Let's see what the privateer decides.
— Grand Admiral Thrawn, — he addressed me. Well, negotiations in this situation are the best choice. Good thing I was spared the tearful pleading. — I request her release…
— As soon as we get the necessary information, — I replied, looking him straight in the eye. The man was still seething with anger but understood his position wasn't a winning one. Conflict wouldn't get him anywhere, but cooperation—now that's rewarded.
— But these are our personal matters, — Tiberos protested. — Family issues…
A last desperate attempt. He'd already accepted the inevitable, so there wouldn't be any trouble. He remembered well the consequences of crossing me, thanks to his encounter with Rukh and his blades. He knew there wouldn't be a second chance to survive going against me.
— I'm inclined to think otherwise, — I said, glancing at the stormtrooper medic finishing up with the battered Captain Nym, then commanded:
— Take this one to the Chimaera too. Inform the interrogators of his arrival and conduct a full debriefing. Captain Pellaeon will provide the list of questions.
— You're taking him too? — Tiberos's fists clenched again, a grimace of rage flashing across his face. — You promised! He killed my paren—my father!
Oh, right, how could I forget…
— Captain Nym will answer the questions I have about his work with Grand Moff Tarkin and then be handed over to you, as agreed, — I replied. — Not before. I assure you, it won't take long.
— As you say, Grand Admiral, — Tiberos replied, his eyes darting around. He was still irritated, probably hoping to extract a few secrets from Nym himself. Too bad. He'll manage. — What are your orders?
— The assault legions, supported by heavy armor and other units, are clearing out the ground bases of pirate gangs on Lok, — I reminded him. — Your knowledge of the terrain could be useful to them.
— Understood, — he replied. After a pause, he asked:
— Did you find Nym's treasury?
— Yes, — I answered honestly. Now his question and interest in Nym made sense. Likely, Nym had a more private stash somewhere. — After the campaign in the Karthakk sector concludes, your reward will be determined based on your merits and transgressions, in exchange for the information I need.
— Hint taken, Grand Admiral, — Tiberos replied, picking up a vibro-axe from the floor and yanking another from the wall. Wiping them on the bedroom sheets, he slung the weapons over his back. — I just had a thought. You wanted to win over the locals, right?
— Let's say I did, — I agreed, noting out of the corner of my eye that Rukh had emerged from behind me, positioning himself to block any potential attack from the privateer. — What do you suggest?
I'd bet he's trying to prove his usefulness and loyalty in my eyes to get his mother out of the Chimaera's cells faster. Well, he's in for a disappointment.
— Take plenty of pirate prisoners, — he said. — Then announce it and call on the locals to testify against each of them. After that, stage a mass execution. I guarantee, if you clean up the planet afterward—track down and wipe out the small-time gangsters and start shipping in food—every local will be eager to bend over backward working in your factories. But only if they see you executing everyone who's ever made their lives miserable.
— Thank you for the idea, Captain Tiberos, — I replied dryly. In other words, he'd rehashed my own plan, sprinkled in Lieutenant Creb's words, and added a few embellishments—possibly part of his own scheme to take over Nym's territory. And I'm supposed to be impressed? Since when does standard justice qualify as a brilliant idea? Though, for a pirate and mercenary, it might be a revelation. — Now, return to your current duties.
— As you command, Grand Admiral, — the privateer slid his mask back on and silently marched out, passing two Imperial Guardsmen.
Watching him disappear into the far reaches of Nym's fortress, I turned to Sergeant TNX-0297.
— Search everything here, — I ordered. — Any hidden compartments in Nym's quarters must be uncovered.
Pirate kings like him either keep their most valuable trinkets close at hand or in a particularly secure location. We'll undoubtedly extract that information from Nym. But it never hurts to back it up with our own findings.
***
Since the last time Sergius dealt with the Sluis Van customs service, a lot had changed.
Not surprising, considering that, thanks to him, rumors had spread across the HoloNet about Bothans meddling with the armament of previously demilitarized New Republic fleet starships.
Sluis Van found itself at the center of a scandal that wasn't easy to shake off. No wonder law enforcement from Coruscant had shown up.
As a result, security checks at the spaceports tightened. But the worst part was that the Republicans started digging into recently arrived sentients on the planet and its stations. Of course, that was to be expected—if the Imperials were in charge. But he hadn't seen the Republicans act like this before. Well, it seems these folks learn faster than he'd thought. Fine, he'd play by their rules. They wouldn't prove anything anyway.
Sergius sat in the office of a spaceport official, doing his best to play the part of a provincial dimwit, overly fascinated by the attention he was getting.
Across from him sat an agent from one of the New Republic's special services, who'd spent the last half-hour studying his personal file and travel documents stored in the spaceport's database. Sergius wasn't particularly worried about what these offworld specialists might think—his cover was airtight, impossible to crack. Though, admittedly, the operation had dragged on. Out of boredom, he'd figured out several smuggling and state property disposal schemes the local customs officers were running. But he wasn't about to tip off the authorities.
Especially since he'd been mostly right about his "friend" in customs from the start. At first, he thought she was funneling unaccounted weapons to criminals. Then, after a tip from command about Bothan activities, he shifted his focus to outgoing shipments. And he realized his customs acquaintance was sending military gear from his warehouse—and possibly others—in all directions. Some went through official fleet supply channels, while others bypassed them entirely, heading to the Bothans. What this "double bookkeeping" was for, he didn't know. Not yet.
— Looks like everything's in order with your ID, — the Republican said, finally done staring at the computer. And it took this sentient a whole hour to read such a skimpy dossier… Considering authenticity checks don't take long, he'd either been bored or stalling until the end of his shift. — You work at the warehouses, right?
— Yup, — Sergius nodded enthusiastically.
— Noticed anything suspicious lately? — the Republican asked.
Here we go… New Republic special services using Imperial recruitment tactics? Seriously? Now, no matter how Sergius answered, this guy would start preaching about the external and internal threats lurking around every corner of the young state.
— How'd I know? — Sergius shrugged. — I show up for work, sit at the console, do my job. Don't look around. If something's happening outside, I don't see it.
— Danger can be anywhere, — the Republican said meaningfully. — Like at your warehouse—ever notice anything odd, out of the usual routine?
— It's all the same stuff, — Sergius kept up the yokel act. — They bring me papers, I hand over the cargo. Cargo comes in, I file the papers. What's weird about that?
Simple-minded sentients are the most common category of unofficial informants, feeding operatives the bulk of their intel. They're the easiest to recruit, playing on their weaknesses or vices. The next couple of questions would tell Sergius whether this Republican was just checking boxes for a report or genuinely trying to enlist a warehouse worker.
— You'd know best, — the operative hinted. — You're a pro in your field, after all.
— Oh, you bet! — Sergius exclaimed eagerly. If only you knew, Republican, how spot-on you are. — Nobody does inventory better than me!
— Of course, of course, — the Republican agreed hastily. — But you must understand, with recent events and the Empire threatening the New Republic, every responsible citizen needs to stay vigilant and help the special services however they can.
Here it is… Seriously? Imperial recruitment manuals for agents and informants?
— Yeah, sure, we gotta win! — Sergius replied, waving his arms excitedly like a typical backwater bumpkin who can't control his emotions. — Those Imps are gettin' on my last nerve! We gotta, uh, smack 'em down! Take 'em out good so they never come back!
— The New Republic Armed Forces are tackling that very problem, — the Republican assured him.
"Really?" Sergius nearly asked aloud. From the HoloNet news, it looked more like the Republicans were the ones taking a beating.
— That's the way! — the Imperial agent nodded fervently.
— That's why I invited you here, — the Republican said, and Sergius wanted to weep at what he was hearing. Now they'd tell him how special and unique he was. — Every New Republic citizen must stay alert—enemies aren't just on the battlefield but deep in our rear. Only the vigilance of professionals like you can help us root them out. Without you and other responsible citizens like you, the New Republic will simply perish.
"To hell with it," Sergius wished silently.
Outwardly, he blinked in surprise.
— Uh, like I said, everything's fine at the warehouse, — he said, feigning confusion. — Well, everything I handle, anyway.
— No one doubts that, — the Republican said with a friendly smile. — But you should know our leadership has chosen you.
— Chosen? — Sergius put on a look of utter shock.
— Exactly, — the Republican confirmed. — See, we've received intel that not all military-grade equipment from your warehouse is making it back to New Republic warships.
— Uh, well… — Sergius blinked rapidly. He didn't believe they'd traced the HoloNet leak about secret Republican arms channels to the Bothans back to him—the trail was too well-hidden. — Where's it goin' then?
— That's what we'd like to know, — the Republican lowered his voice, a durasteel edge glinting in his eyes. It clashed with his demeanor, his face, his whole way of talking. This guy was trying to intimidate him without solid evidence. — How is military property disappearing from your warehouse?!
Time to play the offended innocent. Because it was a damn good question. And it didn't seem tied to the illegal Bothan supply line. Very interesting.
— Everything's in order at my warehouse! — Sergius pouted. — Box by box! What comes in, goes out! I never mess up!
His "colleague" stared at him with a withering look for a moment before softening.
— It's not about you, — the Republican agent said quickly. — You've been checked, multiple times. Never caught in anything shady, and you got the warehouse job through customs staff. But oddly enough, after you started there, military shipments—turbolasers, lasers, scanning and comm systems, deflectors—started vanishing…
How intriguing. Since he wasn't behind it, that left only a few possible "accomplices"—the warehouse chief and the customs officer who'd gotten him the job. The chief prepared and signed bills of lading, manifests, and invoices, while she oversaw intake, stamped every seal, and confirmed shipments left untampered.
Well, well, well… Looks like he'd missed something. He'd gotten complacent after hearing about the Bothan double-dealing, focusing on tracking where the shipments—official and otherwise—were going through the paperwork. The Republican mentioning missing military gear clearly wasn't about the Bothans.
Now he needed to figure out what the Republicans knew. Because he wasn't about to give up "his customs girl" until he knew exactly where she was sending everything she took from his warehouse.
— Uh, how's that even possible? — he said, feigning shock. — I check everything that comes in. Then I hand it over per the manifests…
— We have a theory, — the Republican said importantly. — You release the cargo sealed, right?
— Yup, — Sergius nodded vigorously. — That's the procedure, y'know.
— I know, — the agent replied. — Tell me how you receive shipments for storage.
A test. The Republican knowing the outbound procedure suggested he also knew how goods arrived. Now he was prodding the worker, whose head he'd filled with recruitment talk, to spill. If Sergius lied, it'd imply he was involved.
Lying here would be easy. The outbound procedure was never followed—not as written in the endless documents, anyway. That was the first trap—what happened behind warehouse walls didn't interest the special services until something like this came up.
Years at the same job taught a worker how to do things "right" and how to avoid scrutiny. But it also left extra paid time, funded by the spaceport budget, that could be spent however they liked.
A worker from Tanaab, by default, wouldn't know the "proper" way to work. If Sergius described how he actually operated, the Republican would have big questions for him personally. And he couldn't just say the warehouse chief taught him that way, with the smiling customs officer enabling it.
The scheme was simple, but it wasn't working for the Bothans—it was for "someone else." And it was designed to pin the blame on the dimwit from Tanaab. Clever. His own mistake. Noted.
— Uh, well… — He pretended to struggle recalling what he did. For a low-IQ sentient, which he was playing, rattling off a memorized manual would be absurd. No, they relied on memories of how they performed tasks. — So, I'm sittin' at the warehouse, doin' papers. Then the boss says, 'Hey, a new ship's here with cargo, customs guy's waitin', go check it,' and I head to the unloading zone. There, I look at the crates they dropped off. Me, the customs guy, and the boss open each one, check it matches what's in those… uh, whatchamacallits— — he paused, pretending to think. — Cono… Coto… Copro…
— Bills of lading, — the Republican prompted.
— Yeah, didn't I say that? — Sergius blinked innocently.
— What happens next? — the agent moved on.
— Well, once we check it all, we pack it up, seal it, and put it on the racks, — Sergius finished concisely.
— You seal it, — his "colleague" corrected again.
— Yeah, didn't I say that? — the Imperial agent asked.
— Fine, let's say so, — the man across from him agreed too easily. — And you release the cargo after the paperwork comes in, right?
— Yup, — Sergius nodded. — How else?
— Strange to see such law-abiding behavior from someone from a backwater planet, — the Republican squinted suspiciously.
— I love my job! — Sergius huffed indignantly. — How else am I supposed to do it? I do it like it's written!
— Maybe, — the Republican dodged a direct answer. — But how does half the cargo end up stolen?
— Stolen?! — the agent feigned shock. — No, no, no! That can't be! It's all by the book—what comes in, goes out! The papers match!
— That's the thing—only on paper, — his "colleague" said. — In reality, half the weapons and military shipments just vanish! I want to know—are they stolen as soon as they hit the warehouse, or later?
— That can't happen! — Sergius flailed his arms. — I check everything! Open every crate when it arrives. Match all the inven… invin… niver…
— Inventory numbers, — the agent helped again.
— Yeah, didn't I say that? — the Imperial agent said, surprised. — Anyway, nothing can disappear from the warehouse! No way, no how!
— And yet, the facts are clear, — the Republican pressed on. — Can you explain why half the weapons go missing?
Whoa. Half. He'd thought it was just a small portion, but this was way bigger.
— I think I know where it's goin', — Sergius said, mimicking deep thought before whispering conspiratorially.
— I'd love to hear your version of events, — the agent said.
— You're, like, the law, you know everything, — he flattered. — Heard the Bothans are stealin' weapons, huh?
The Republican inhaled sharply, closing his eyes. Then he opened them and looked at the "warehouse worker" like he was an idiot—which was exactly the role Sergius was playing.
— Intelligence checked that lead, — he replied. — I can tell you for sure the weapons stolen from your warehouse didn't go to the Bothans.
— Uh, well… — Sergius blinked, feigning surprise. — Where'd it go then? We just store it—other systems haul it off… I'm tellin' ya, no one's taken turbolasers from our warehouses in a month! Just random small stuff!
Though he already had a hunch.
— We've confirmed losses at other warehouses, but we suspect it's widespread, — the Republican admitted, contradicting his earlier claim. — That's why I turned to you, as an honest, upstanding Republic citizen.
"Sure, mostly," Sergius thought, realizing the man across from him was still trying to recruit… an Imperial agent… using an Imperial Intelligence handbook for handling potential assets. Surreal.
— Uh, I'm ready, — Sergius spread his hands. — What do I gotta do?
— I'll contact you later, — the Republican said vaguely. — We want you to help us stop this and other crimes.
— That ain't dangerous, is it?! — Sergius pretended to panic.
— No reason to worry, — his "colleague" said with a fake smile. So, at best, he'd either get caught or shot during the "task." — You'll just need to slip some trackers into the containers during intake. That'll tell us where they're going.
— Uh, how do I do that? — Sergius asked, surprised. — They're checked with the customs inspector. We seal 'em together—no one can open 'em without the other. Safety rule, and we're top-notch with that! — he recited a port service slogan with pride.
— You'll do it right before sealing, — the Republican said dryly. — Toss in the beacons while my team and I distract your trade inspector. Before she gets back, you'll pre-seal them with your stamps. She'll have no choice but to seal them herself and send them to storage.
Oh, you idiots…
— Sounds kinda safe, I guess, — Sergius chewed his lip. — But it's still kinda scary… What if the warehouse chief catches me? Then sees those beacon thingies…
— Trackers, — the Republican corrected. — Don't worry, we'll monitor the situation and step in if needed. It's all under control. The New Republic needs you. And we're short on time.
"Uh-huh, you have no idea how much," Sergius thought grimly.
The Republican's plan was simple and crude: We'll give you trackers, then make a scene to distract the customs inspector and the cargo so you can slip them in. We probably suspect the inspector's involved, so we picked you because you're dumb as a rock and expendable. We're not doing this the smart way because we can't—once the real thieves kill you for it, they'll panic, go underground, and we'll claim victory in the official reports, pinning it all on you.
In short, the Republicans just wanted to hush it up. They didn't care the gear was missing—on paper, it'd been returned to the ships ages ago.
Now they were just cutting loose ends. And they'd picked a gullible fool who'd fallen for it.
Time to figure out what was true and what was a blatant lie.
— Alright, I'll help ya, — he said. Because if he didn't volunteer, they might decide for him. If they really wanted to solve this, they'd have broken into the warehouse at night and figured it out.
Instead, they chose to mess with a "dimwitted" farmer.
— Great, — the Republican smiled unconvincingly. — We'll be in touch soon.
— Yup, — Sergius nodded. — So, uh, I can go now?
— Of course, go ahead, — the Republican waved him off, barely hiding a smirk. "He could just be working with the thieves," it dawned on Sergius.
As he left, he heard laughter behind him.
Let them. Let these sentients giggle behind his back if they want. We'll see how their chuckles turn to screams when Grand Admiral Thrawn shows up and solves their shipping problems for good.
Sergius knew he'd be the one laughing last.
And unlike the Republicans, he was determined to find out where that military gear was going. Bothans or not, the fact remained—the customs officer and warehouse chief were actively funneling Republic and Imperial equipment "to the side." And he had no doubt it'd benefit the Grand Admiral far more than it did the New Republic right now.
***
— The Star Destroyer is ready for combat operations, sir! — Lieutenant Tschel reported the moment Gilad stepped onto the bridge.
The Chimaera's commander gave his subordinate a stern look before nodding.
— Await further orders, — he said, knowing they'd come any minute—once he reached the command chair on the central platform and handed the Grand Admiral the latest recon reports.
— Yes, sir! — Tschel replied briskly. Gilad noticed the young officer hesitating.
— Questions, Acting First Officer Tschel? — he asked formally.
— Yes, sir! — Tschel's face lit up. — Tell me, why…
— Why I appointed you to this post? — Gilad cut in, frowning at his subordinate.
— Yes, sir. I just thought…
— Don't, Lieutenant, — Gilad advised, mentally kicking himself for letting his emotions slip and nearly insulting the man. To be fair, Tschel wasn't the worst candidate for the job. Thrawn was right—the kid wanted to grow, and that ambition needed support any way possible. On the fleet, such zeal wasn't always welcomed by Star Destroyer commanders—adding new faces, even cloned specialists, to an already tight crew wasn't considered good form. Clones were efficient, no worse than the originals… but treating them as part of the team? Tough. The days when clones dominated the fleet were long gone, back when you could hardly find a sentient who wasn't lab-grown. For those who'd lived through the Clone Wars, mixed crews and reassignments were no big deal… But Gilad was convinced Tschel wasn't ready to command a ship—be it a corvette, frigate, gunboat, or patrol skiff. Maybe Thrawn was right to "toughen him up" in the thankless role of first officer. After all, the first mate handled all the shipboard drudgery. Many couldn't hack it, thinking the first officer was some godlike figure aboard a starship.
Sadly, it wasn't. The first officer was the one stuck with the unglamorous, unnoticed work behind the commander's spotlight. Repairs, food requisitions, scheduling, crew disputes… Even a busted refresher couldn't be fixed without their say-so. And from Gilad's own time as first officer on the Chimaera, it was hardly pleasant. You either swam and toughened up, or sank and hated it forever. Tschel's youth could backfire here—that spark of ambition he'd recently kindled could easily fizzle out under the dull, seemingly pointless grind of the job. Losing a bet with Thrawn could mean two headaches: losing a decent watch officer and crushing the kid's career aspirations. That's how young officers' dreams died. No one wanted grunt work while the fleet smashed the enemy. Especially since, right after returning to the Chimaera, Thrawn had casually asked why Tschel, post-appointment, was in the main bridge with the commander—against fleet regs. Every rule, written in blood, demanded the second-in-command be glued to the auxiliary control post. If the bridge went down, the commander died, and the chain of command broke, the first officer at the ACP could instantly take over. Something they'd failed to do on the Executor at Endor.
— One piece of advice, Lieutenant, — he said quietly. — Never, ever bet against the Grand Admiral or play sabacc with him.
— Uh… Yes, sir! — Tschel replied, wide-eyed. — Can I ask why?
— Because you'll lose, guaranteed, — Gilad sighed bitterly. — Now, get to the ACP and await orders. We're moving out soon.
He expected Tschel to argue—outside of combat, he could roam the ship, regs didn't forbid it.
But to his surprise, the young officer just handed him a small data chip:
— Damage and casualty reports for the Chimaera from the last engagement. Separate files cover the fleet's ships, and the last document's a fleet-wide summary. The stormtroopers haven't sent their data yet…
— Because their mission's not done, — Gilad said gruffly, taking the chip. — Thank you. Return to your post.
— Aye, Captain, — Tschel saluted and briskly left the bridge for the auxiliary control deep within the ship, shielded by armor and decks. It was rarely used—bridge failures were rare in Imperial fleet history. So, regs about splitting the commander and first officer's posts were, frankly, ignored.
Heading to Thrawn, who was studying data on his deck, Pellaeon plugged the chip from Tschel into his datapad and skimmed the Chimaera's status and fleet overview. Hmm… Pretty good. Not back to peak yet, but progress.
And yes, he'd need to let Tschel know he'd done well—compiling a full fleet report in under an hour, when it took Gilad a quarter-day. Commanding a ship while playing first officer wasn't easy. Hopefully, Tschel's fire wouldn't burn out in a few weeks.
— Grand Admiral, sir, — he announced his presence beside Thrawn. — Recon picked up a steady signal from the tracker in Jedi Skywalker's droid. Looks like we've found them…
***
— …found them, — Pellaeon's last words snapped me out of my musings about what kind of mess I'd gotten into by attacking pirates in the Karthakk system.
First off, what was obvious from orbit: Lok was a barren, nearly lifeless planet. Growing anything without endless food shipments would take serious effort. Specialists could fix it—if it was even possible. Not full terraforming to make Lok a lush world—even I, no expert, knew that'd mean shifting its orbit. Closest to the local star, its scorched wasteland was largely due to that proximity. Still, there were technical fixes. It all came down to credits, time, and skilled hands.
Second point.
The Empire hadn't just focused on Lok's orbit back in the day. On the surface sat an abandoned Imperial garrison, weathered by time and battle. A massive landing force—six stormtrooper legions with heavy gear—spread across the planet like a cancer, seizing region after region. The locals barely resisted, which was good in a way—stormtroopers didn't harm or oppress them in return. That opened a door for future contact and cooperation.
An hour after I returned to the Chimaera, we learned Lok also had an old Imperial mine extracting minerals and gases. Essentially a labor camp for prisoners, it'd been taken over by locals, slaves, debtors, and others trapped in pirate debt bondage after the Empire left. The output was massive (by the standards of the Lok Revenants pirate gang), enough to offset any need to bother with the dangerous Lok Spine asteroid field. Perfect. A ready-made resource for future production, at least in theory.
Next. We captured an industrial site, Nym's Factory, with almost no trouble or damage. A droid production plant, likely from the Trade Federation's occupation days. The Lok Revenants used it to repair their craft and build new parts and hulls. But lately, most of the gear had worn out. And with the pirates' limited needs, they hadn't bothered with the B-1 droid assembly lines, barbarically repurposing them for fighter parts. Good and bad news. Good—we could jury-rig Scurrg H-6 Bombers, casting parts and assembling them by hand like Nym's pirates. Bad—it'd take billions to restore the factory to its original purpose. The H-6 didn't impress me much. And the pirates had no concept of maintenance—most of the plant was just a warehouse for Nym's latest loot. Only a fraction still worked. Fine, we'd deal with that asset later.
Nym's Factory.
What I liked even less was the discovery of an Imperial biological lab. At first glance, abandoned for years. But oddly, this unguarded relic hadn't been looted by even the most reckless pirates—at least not recently. Captain Dorya's stormtroopers secured it and set up a biohazard perimeter for closer study. Meanwhile, we questioned locals about the site and its rumors. Battle scars suggested someone stormed it years ago. That info should linger in nearby sentients' memories.
The question was—what had the Empire researched or produced here that, even after abandonment and assault, no one dared rob it? On Lok, where a broken terminal was valuable, it was unlikely locals left a trove of tech untouched out of kindness. We needed answers. This bio-research business worried me deeply. If the Empire dabbled in medicine or biology, it was usually plagues, diseases, bacteria, microorganisms—unconventional WMDs. Sure, in this galaxy, most weapons were fair game by might-makes-right rules, but I found such methods unacceptable. At least while other options remained.
And… finally.
I think I'd identified the Jedi who'd closely worked with Nym against the Trade Federation. It might be a hunch, but I'd learned this universe didn't deal in empty coincidences.
Lok had another notable spot for resource extraction.
Mount Chaolt—a massive volcano once mined for raw cationic chemical coagulant, a rare, valuable substance extracted with costly gear and high risk. Probably why the operation shut down. Maybe other reasons too, but that wasn't the point. The coagulant could be useful—though I hadn't yet figured out what it was.
What intrigued me more was the mountain's second name, given by Captain Nym after his Jedi friend. I doubted he had many Jedi pals, so it's fair to assume it honored the sentient who'd helped him fight the Trade Federation, earned respect as a pilot, and served as Nym's Jedi advisor.
That second name: Adi's Rest. It could be a coincidence, but I'd stopped believing in those.
Digging through memory, only one Jedi fit: an ace pilot named Adi, fond of crushing pirates, and—bonus—once hunted Aurra Sing.
Jedi Master Adi Gallia. She provided starfighter cover during the First Battle of Geonosis, the clone army's landing that sparked the Clone Wars. A battle where Captain Nym and the Lok Revenants fought.
As I recalled, she died hunting a pair of crazed Zabrak Sith minions with Kenobi. Speaking of, Obi-Wan Kenobi was an odd one. Per the records, anyone he teamed up with—unless they were a galactic icon—tended to die.
Still, the dead Jedi's fate didn't concern me. Nor did the volcano named after her. Right now, I cared more about how effectively the interrogators and their cold droids were breaking Captain Nym. The Feeorin was holding out, silent for now—but only because they hadn't used the special tools yet.
— Sir? — Pellaeon broke the silence after a while, reminding me of his presence. — We found Skywalker's droid.
— I heard, Captain, — I replied, closing my deck. — Coordinates locked?
— Yes, sir, — he confirmed. — An unknown system in the Dufilvian sector.
Hmm… I'd had a hunch Garm Bel Iblis didn't break his isolation after that operation for no reason. Now it was certainty.
— Log the coordinates, — I ordered. — Have the navigator plot the shortest course. The Inexorable, Stormhawk, Black Asp, Eternal Wrath, Crusader-2, and twelve Corellian corvettes will join us. Captain Dorya's in charge of securing and controlling Lok. Captain Stormaer handles the second and third planets, Maramere and Nod Carda. Captain Shohashi patrols and eliminates surviving pirates. Captain Shohashi oversees the remaining forces.
So, I was taking half the Star Destroyers and gravity-well-equipped ships. If I was right, Skywalker had led us straight to General Bel Iblis's base, now settled on one planet after years of shifting hideouts.
It could be a trap, sure. But with this force, I could crush either the Corellian's fleet or a comparable battle group.
— We depart immediately, sir? — Pellaeon clarified.
— First, recall our 501st Legion stormtroopers, — I directed. — The other legions stay for the final sweep. Contact Susevfi and Tangrene—I want all Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers redeployed here after the system's cleared.
— Orbital repair yards from Susevfi's orbit and Golan defense stations prepped for transfer too? — Pellaeon asked.
— Are you sure they can handle the trip in their current state, Captain? — I countered.
— No, sir, — Pellaeon faltered, realizing those assets were heavily damaged from past battles and still under repair, far from finished.
— We'll establish ourselves in this system first, Captain, — I declared. — Nearly 150 heavy cruisers in planetary orbits will quickly show the locals we're not leaving. Once they accept that, we'll win them over. I'm sure Maramere has plenty of residents eager to join us.
— Can't picture them on Star Destroyer decks, — Pellaeon chuckled.
— I never said they would be, Captain, — I reminded him. — But we have plenty of star cruisers built by amphibians. I'm confident the Mere, being the same species, would find serving on them far more comfortable than languishing on their impoverished world.
— I'll draft a plan to shift our reserve forces here, — Pellaeon took initiative. — Soon, we could move all the assets we want hidden from prying eyes.
— Good, — I approved. — Submit it for review later; I'll incorporate your suggestions into the campaign plan. For now, — I stood, straightening my tunic, — I'll leave you to prepare the ships for the coming battle. If you need me, I'll be in my quarters.
— Yes, sir! — Pellaeon saluted.
Hands clasped behind my back, I headed to my cabin with Rukh in tow. The flight time would be spent learning everything about my next foe and crafting the perfect tactic to destroy him.
Once again, fate adjusts Operation Crimson Dawn.
Well, wiping out Bel Iblis's fleet and forces shouldn't take long.
***
— The attack on the Ubiqtorate base was the pinnacle of our efforts, — Senator Bel Iblis gently swirled his glass before downing it. He gestured to the bartender, who nodded silently, confirming a refill.
Luke stared at his untouched mug of lum ale, a favorite among X-wing pilots. But today, he opted to keep his mind clear. Even with Jedi discipline, he lacked Han and Lando's knack for drinking without getting drunk. And he didn't enjoy it anyway. Ordering caf while talking to the commander felt beyond him.
— By then, we'd been waging our own war against the Empire for three years, striking precise blows—carefully planned, low-risk to our forces, — the senator continued. — We did much the same as the Alliance once did, or the Empire does now. On a smaller scale, of course: hitting minor outposts, military convoys, disrupting alert systems, and more. You can imagine, against the Empire's vast territory, these were mere pinpricks to a mastodon. But Tangrene… that changed everything.
— What exactly happened at the Ubiqtorate base? — Luke asked diplomatically.
— We hit their main headquarters and tore it to shreds, — the ex-senator said with relish, savoring the memory. — Three Star Destroyers guarding it couldn't stop us. From what I hear, the Ubiqtorate took that attack hard—they sent a dozen Destroyers to protect it and scoured the underworld to track us down. They failed. But they never stopped trying to find us, which is why we kept moving bases. Even a fool would've realized that after a stunt like that, they'd stop ignoring us and start hunting for real.
— I'm sure they did, — Luke said, quietly admiring the man beside him. The Ubiqtorate wasn't an outfit you could just roll up to with warships. Destroying a stronghold—a symbol of Imperial terror—and walking away unscathed took immense strategic genius. The Ubiqtorate didn't keep weak-minded officers or soldiers.
The Corellian downed half his new glass and smiled contentedly.
— Yeah, my five ships took no major damage, — he explained. — Roughed up, sure, but not critical. One was out of action for nearly a year—seven months sidelined. After New Cov, we'll have to patch up another Dreadnought. Hull breaches are fixed, but the interior work's a six-month job at least. A shipyard would speed things up.
— Don't you have six heavy cruisers? — Skywalker recalled the number of that class orbiting the planet hosting Peregrine's Nest.
— Back then, just five, — Bel Iblis replied after a slight pause. After a beat, he added:
— Just realized, in all my years fighting the Empire, this is my fourteenth base. Or fifteenth—I've lost count.
— Wow, — Luke marveled. — That must cost a fortune. I mean, the Alliance used to spend millions equipping each base.
— Yeah, I know, — the senator nodded, taking another sip. — And I learned from it. Our base structures are made of shape-memory plastic. Anytime we want, we can roll it up, load it onto ships, and set it up again elsewhere, exactly the same.
— Efficient, — Luke agreed. But something—judging by the drinks, gear, wall holopanels, cantina tables, and the slew of terminals and equipment in the command center—made him doubt the senator's claim of quick disassembly. Folding this base in an hour? More like days. Just removing the camouflage netting, separate from the hangars, could take hours. In that time, the Empire could land troops beyond AA and planetary defense range and advance on the surface. Packing turrets under enemy-controlled skies and orbital bombardment while boxing up the base? Not fun.
— Anyway, that's all trivia, — Bel Iblis concluded, finishing… what was it, his fifth or sixth glass? — After I went on the run, it took a while to realize even my tight-knit group couldn't fight alone. About two years before the Alliance took out the Death Star, I set up a meeting with leaders of several factions—Mon Mothma from Chandrilan resistance, Bail Organa from Alderaan. Plenty of others were supposed to show, but the meeting was compromised. I got captured, but help came from the last place I expected.
— Fey'lya? — Luke guessed.
That earned a warm chuckle from the senator.
— No, the Bothans reached out about a month after Tangrene, — he explained. — Remember…
— You can use 'you' with me, — Luke interrupted, unable to stand it. — I could be your son, and the formality feels awkward.
The senator offered to make it mutual, but Luke insisted. Calling a founder of the Rebellion a casual buddy felt wrong. He respected and honored the elder man.
— Remember when I asked you about Galen Marek and General Rahm Kota? — Bel Iblis clarified.
— Yeah, — Luke nodded. He'd decided not to mention his talk with Leia and General Cracken in the Imperial Palace vestibule. The senator wasn't fully open either and clearly held a grudge against the Alliance—at least against Mon Mothma. — I doubt I know those sentients…
— Not surprised, — the senator downed his glass and signaled for another. — Galen saved me—a young kid, about your age now, give or take. You've got something in common.
— Like what?
— You're both Jedi, — the commander said, grabbing his new drink. — So's Rahm Kota.
— You worked with Jedi from the Old Order?! — Luke's eyes lit up. — Are they alive? How do I reach them?
— Patience, — Bel Iblis smiled wryly. — I'll tell you everything.
— Sorry, — the young Jedi backpedaled.
— It's fine, — the senator assured him. — So, Marek and Kota helped unite us into the Alliance. But the moment we did, Darth Vader and stormtroopers showed up. Me, Mon Mothma, and Bail Organa were captured and locked up on the unfinished Death Star.
— You were there when we… I… — Luke flared up.
— No, no, — Bel Iblis chuckled. — Marek saved the three of us. Later, his allies told us it cost him his life. His death forged us. We became a real Rebellion. History credits Mon Mothma with founding the Alliance, but honestly, it should've been Galen Marek's name. That kid… — The Corellian squeezed his eyes shut, as if fighting tears. — Anyway, the Alliance grew. I planned military ops, Mon Mothma handled politics and diplomacy, Organa funded us. He was the only one who didn't go underground—Palpatine couldn't just arrest him. Organa wasn't a piece you could remove from the board. The Emperor had to dissolve the Senate first… and destroy Alderaan. His death threw the Alliance off balance. I always pushed for military solutions, but Organa and Mothma often shot me down. After Bail died, Mon took on his role. He was one of the few who could make her reconsider or— — pain flickered in Bel Iblis's eyes — see reason. That's when I realized she was sidelining me, consolidating more power.
— That doesn't sound like her, — Luke blinked. Honestly, this was the first he'd heard anything like this about the Provisional Government's head. Like he'd never known her.
— Sentients change, — the Corellian said sadly. — I started suspecting that after we toppled Palpatin, she'd take his place. The breaking point came when Mon Mothma, without my input or discussion, greenlit military action. I tried reasoning with her, explaining that, with all due respect, military ops weren't her strength. I just asked for time to review and discuss the plan, but she refused. In anger, I said too much—questioned her motives, accused her of plotting a power grab in the Alliance. We traded insults. I tried to make her see the target wasn't some garrison but an Ubiqtorate base, and her plan would drown our people in blood.
— She didn't listen?
— Worse, — Bel Iblis gave a sad smile. — She said the Alliance no longer needed me or my team. I didn't hold back—took my supporters and split from the Alliance.
— What about that attack? — Luke asked, suddenly curious.
— The Empire crushed the Alliance so hard it nearly fell apart, — Bel Iblis said grimly. — A lot of good people I knew died.
— My condolences, — Luke offered.
— Thanks, — the Corellian rasped, taking a big gulp. Luke noticed him slouch, as if his inner strength had cracked. — Since then, we've been on our own…
— What about Galen Marek and General Kota? — the Jedi pressed.
— It's… complicated, — Bel Iblis winced. — After he saved us from the Death Star, he was gone. His allies formed their own resistance group and gave the Empire hell for a while. Then… I didn't see it myself, but rumors say Marek came back from the dead.
— How? — Luke gaped.
— I don't know, — the senator said. — I heard Vader hunted Kota while we built the Alliance.
— Why didn't they join you? — Luke asked, puzzled. — You said he's a hero and…
— Galen Marek was Darth Vader's apprentice, — Bel Iblis said flatly. — I've never told outsiders this, but the Rebellion and Alliance's formation isn't as clean as it seems.
— But you just said…
— And I stand by it, — the senator confirmed. — We planned to unite. But if Marek hadn't freed me from mercenaries in Cloud City, if he hadn't pushed for a second leaders' meeting, it wouldn't have happened. And Galen was acting on Vader's orders—to gather resistance leaders in one place and wipe them out. But it… went differently.
— So Palpatin and Vader created the Rebel Alliance? — Luke said, horrified. Unthinkable. Yet… Palpatin had leaked the second Death Star plans to the Bothans to lure the Alliance into a trap, destroy them, and force Luke to take his father's place. That kind of scheme fit him perfectly…
— Looks that way, — Bel Iblis said.
— But what happened to Galen Marek and General Kota? — Luke pressed.
— No one knows, — the senator admitted. — His followers say he died on the Death Star. But I heard that about a year before Yavin, Galen and Kota resurfaced. Some claim they even captured Vader—at least a few mercenaries tied to Boba Fett said he freed him. True or not, I don't know, but… — He locked eyes with Skywalker. — Tell me, Luke, could you make an entire fleet act as one organism?
— Me? — Luke blinked.
— Or any Jedi, — the Corellian offered.
— I don't know, — Luke mused. — The Force flows through all life, but what you're describing… I can guess how it might work, but pulling it off… Linking minds through the Force…
He recalled Leia sensing him dangling from an antenna under Cloud City on Bespin. He remembered Yoda, Obi-Wan, even his father appearing after death… The Force was almighty—or at least capable of things most sentients would call unnatural. But a whole fleet acting as one? Was that even possible?
— Why do you ask? — he wondered.
— The attack on the Dufilvian sector was so perfectly executed, I suspected a Jedi was aiding the Empire, — Bel Iblis admitted. — I was a senator in the Old Republic; I've seen what Jedi can do. I don't know if the Empire has one, but they've got something coordinating their units flawlessly. At least during that attack, it was like that.
— And now? — Luke felt a bad vibe.
— Not anymore, — Bel Iblis conceded. — They're better at war, but that superhuman coordination's gone.
— It stopped after…? — Luke named the date Corran Horn vanished.
— We last saw it long before that, — Bel Iblis said. — Then it just cut off. Got any answers?
— Just guesses, — Luke replied. — A friend of mine, a Jedi descendant, heard a mental call through the Force. A Jedi named Jorus C'baoth reached out to him.
— Wait, — Bel Iblis frowned. — C'baoth? You said C'baoth?
— Yeah, the Jedi who pushed the Outbound Flight project and resolved the Alderaan power crisis…
— I remember something about that, — Bel Iblis darkened. — He was also Palpatin's personal advisor.
— That's what scares me, — Luke admitted. — With what you've told me and what I've found in archives, C'baoth might not be as pure as he seems. He could've been behind that coordination you mentioned. If he can touch a mind, why not relay an Imperial commander's thoughts to others?
— If so, your friend's in deep trouble, — Bel Iblis said. — Can you find him?
— He didn't leave coordinates, — Luke shrugged.
— Through the Force? — the Corellian senator asked.
Luke felt himself flush.
— Haven't tried, — he confessed. — But why do you care?
— If you can find your friend who went to C'baoth, we can find C'baoth, — the commander explained. — And strip the Empire of its superweapon!
— Oh, — was all Luke could muster. — Now I see why you planned Alliance campaigns. I'll get on it once we're done talking.
— Wait, we haven't…? — Bel Iblis frowned, then nodded as if recalling. — Fey'lya.
— Yeah, — Luke nodded. — I'd like to know what ties you to him.
— Why's that?
— Because he's gunning for Mon Mothma's spot, — Luke said. — And he's gaining from Imperial moves.
— Think the Bothans are playing both sides? — Bel Iblis's brows shot up.
— I'm just trying to figure things out, — Luke explained. — Sorry, but I have to ask straight: what business do you have with him?
— Less than they'd like, — the senator reassured him. — During the war, Fey'lya and the Bothans helped us some. He seems to think we'll be eternally grateful. He's wrong.
— What kind of help? — Luke pressed. Leia always said details mattered most in talks like this.
— He arranged food shipments from New Cov—that biomolecular stuff I mentioned. Once, he called in ships to chase off Imperial Destroyers. Gave us credits and resources we'd have struggled to get otherwise, if at all.
— But what does he want now? — the young Jedi asked. — Bothans aren't known for charity.
Bel Iblis gave a faint smile.
— You're right, Luke, — he said. — I've got theories. But to confirm or debunk them, I'd like you to answer a few questions first. It'll help me give you a clear answer about the Bothans' interest in us.
— If I know the answer, I'll tell you, — Luke said honestly.
— What's the deal between Mon Mothma and Fey'lya?
— Well… — Luke hesitated. — I gather they don't like each other.
— You said Fey'lya's climbing the power ladder, — Bel Iblis nodded. — But what's Mon Mothma doing to counter him?
— I don't know, — Luke sighed. — I'm not on the Provisional Council, unlike my sister. But she was seriously worried Fey'lya might be tied to Imperial attacks, using them to gain clout and topple Mon Mothma. And Mon Mothma… — Luke paused, unsure if he should mention what Leia and General Cracken told him before this mission. — Mon Mothma and my sister thought Fey'lya's New Cov goals were about sneaking pro-Imperial worlds like Rendili and Brentaal into the New Republic…
— Far as I know, they succeeded, — Bel Iblis took a sip.
— Yeah, I heard that too, — Luke admitted. — But… if Fey'lya wasn't doing Imperial business on New Cov, just using it as a meet-up point with you, that changes a lot.
— It changes nothing, Luke, — Bel Iblis chuckled. — Fey'lya came to me saying Mon Mothma had too much power. The Bothans claimed she was gearing up for a takeover—just like I'd suspected.
— So that's why they approached you?
— I'm sure of it now, — Bel Iblis nodded. — Fey'lya wants to use me and my resistance to boost his standing with senators and oust Mon Mothma. Sadly, we don't have enough eyes in the galaxy to know what's really happening in the Imperial Palace.
— That's why you had Irenez bring me here, — Luke guessed.
— Yes, — Bel Iblis agreed. — I wanted info not filtered through Bothan mouths.
— Sorry to disappoint, — Luke said.
— Not at all, — Bel Iblis smiled. — You've given me food for thought. If you can find this C'baoth, we could hit the Empire so hard their campaign might collapse back to the Remnants.
— That'd be nice, — Luke admitted, shivering at the memory of a galaxy map dotted with Imperial attack points.
— I offer my help in this tough task, — Bel Iblis smiled. — All of Peregrine's Nest's resources are yours.
— Thanks, — Luke smiled back.
He just had no clue where to start.
Though… maybe meditate and try reaching out to Corran?