Even if you were brought here blindfolded, dead drunk, or completely spiced out, you'd still know where you ended up.
You wouldn't even need to look around—if you've been here once, you know exactly what the air on Nar Shaddaa tastes like.
Nar Shaddaa (Hutt Space).
There are plenty of proverbs and sayings that capture the essence of the largest moon of Nal Hutta.
"Business here equals betrayal."
"Every cubic meter of air on this moon reeks of betrayal and profit."
"If you think your life is over and completely rotten—fly to Nar Shaddaa, get invigorated by what you see."
"In the galaxy, there's a bottom reeking of decay. To see it, just visit Nar Shaddaa."
And dozens, maybe even hundreds, of other equally colorful and meaningful explanations.
It's unlikely anyone in the galaxy knows everything about Nar Shaddaa.
The moon's history is actually quite fascinating.
Of course, if you have the time and desire to dig into the dirt, betrayal, illegal dealings of the Hutts, and other wonderful things, for which you could be skinned alive in any alley on the orders of those who don't like some fly-by-night spacer poking into the past of the Smuggler's Moon.
That's why no one bothers.
Alaf Sagaal Shan lazily sipped Corellian whiskey from an unexpectedly clean crystal glass, admiring how the Twi'lek dancer, along with her companions from Zeltron and Mirial, bent like tidal waves crashing onto a sandy beach shore, striving to earn extra credits from the utterly drunk patrons.
Oddly enough, all three dancers were beautiful—even without the bright makeup that blinded no worse than the local star if you flew too close.
But unlike the thermonuclear giant, you could look at these ladies through an optical zoom device not just twice in a lifetime before your retinas burned out.
Such is Nar Shaddaa—a world of contradictions, opportunities, dangers, and a fine harbor for hiding if you need it.
When you have money and owe no one (at least none of the local bosses), you can calmly enjoy the delights of life on the glorious moon of Nal Hutta.
Of course, if you can afford it.
In his time, Alaf spent a lot of time studying the history and internal currents of Nar Shaddaa to carry out Imperial Intelligence assignments monitoring events in Hutt Space.
No matter how strong the Galactic Empire was at its peak, even it couldn't bring order here.
They couldn't, or didn't want to—that's a separate question.
One the Zygerrian had no desire to dive into.
Right now, he was just enjoying life, not overly concerned about someone sticking a vibroblade in his back or sniping him from across the grille inside a ventilation shaft.
He had settled all his debts, paying extra for the trouble and securing promises from former enemies to leave him alone.
In fact, he didn't care where to spend time, but this disgusting bar was just the place to settle scores without much hassle.
Security was bought and sold more often than a Zeltron prostitute, so with enough money and a desire to "make noise," you could shoot everyone here even with a turbolaser.
The main thing—pay for the trouble and associated damage.
So, if any former employers or enemies wanted to settle scores—this was the best place.
And knowing the Hutts and their underlings, you could say for sure—if anyone had claims against Alaf, they'd present them before he intended to leave Nal Hutta.
That is—in the next couple of hours.
After that, any attempts to kill him would be, first, ineffective, second—damage the client's reputation.
It's one thing to offer a bounty and send thugs after someone outside your territories.
It's entirely another to have the chance to kill him on Nal Hutta but not do it. And then chase the target across the galaxy.
The criminal world doesn't accept the second scenario, will ridicule it, and treat the one who gave such an order like a cheap gangster from holofilms.
And reputation in the criminal world means everything.
Exactly—everything.
Break your word, lose trust, forgive a serious offense, or conversely—seek revenge when you could have killed the scum, fail to fulfill a contract, shake hands and then strike—that's a death sentence. At best, you'll become an outcast, and your business will wither just because you're useless to anyone.
At worst, and most common—your own will kill you, realizing you've lost your grip and it's time for a new boss.
Therefore, Alaf wasn't in a hurry, wasn't hiding, and calmly sipped the not-so-high-quality but also not the most expensive counterfeit of the famous Corellian spirits.
He was giving time to settle scores, not hiding from anyone.
As soon as he flies away from here—all unspoken grievances will cease to concern him.
Almost completely.
The Zygerrian enjoyed the intrusive music and dance, pondering if any of the dancers he'd seen a couple dozen of tonight were ones he'd previously sold as a member of the slaveholding Zygerrian empire.
A complicated question, and honestly, who cares.
Oddly enough, slaves whose owners are Hutts live much better than their brethren whose owners are not Hutts.
Simply because the psychology of these fat slugs is so different yet similar to human that Hutts prefer to surround themselves with expensive toys, care for them, and show them off to demonstrate their wealth, influence, and "generosity" to each other.
In all the time he'd spent in Hutt Space, and especially on Nar Shaddaa, the Zygerrian concluded he agreed with those who say it's similar to Coruscant and this moon.
The surface of Nar Shaddaa is completely built over with urban agglomerations, and no one has even tried to reach it for thousands of years. And why would they? What to look for there?
However, the difference from the former Imperial Center is still there.
And quite striking.
If Coruscant was relatively dilapidated and dangerous only on the Middle and Lower Levels of the Galactic City, then Nar Shaddaa was like that almost completely.
Dirt, ruin, crime—at every step.
Alaf smiled, recalling a funny story about how some freighter crew was robbed by local bandits from the slums.
Who in turn were robbed by more serious guys.
But in the end, those were shot and robbed by some Hutt's guards whom they crossed.
Literally—crossed.
They just crossed the street while the fat worm was moving from one establishment to another.
And if you ignore the fact that here you can be killed, robbed, raped, and sold for organs (sequence arbitrary), then it's a wonderful place.
The vertical cities of Nar Shaddaa, once you get used to them, don't even make you want to vomit your last meal.
There's always work here—on the Smuggler's Moon, sometimes just called "Narsh," you could always buy and sell everything forbidden elsewhere in the galaxy. Disintegrators, for example. Or a large batch of slaves. Or an army of mercenaries. Or a privateer fleet. Or a batch of prime spice (but better to do it with a specialist on the team who can distinguish spice from fakes, because by your next visit, you might be known as such a rotten idiot that even Rodian prostitutes will refuse you—and those would sell their own child for a couple of credits).
Many young smugglers, pirates, bounty hunters, mercenaries, assassins, thieves, and other representatives of the flower of any nation started their careers on the Smuggler's Moon. To successfully and beautifully "take off," you just needed to competently and correctly "light up" in the right district of the moon, divided among criminals into quite specific spheres of influence so long ago that no one remembers.
There was something else extremely interesting on this moon—you could acquire a fairly large amount of advanced and at the same time illegal (otherwise why sold on Nar Shaddaa?) technologies.
Many corporations, to avoid rules and laws of the worlds where their official productions or headquarters are located, set up "daughters" on Nar Shaddaa. Hutts are always ready to sell a couple of empty premises on lower levels for big money. And they can supply needed equipment, subjects, personnel, protection—just pay.
Preferably—peggats, Hutt currency.
No peggats? Give precious metals?
None of those either? No, how stupid you are—that's not how business is done. You'll work for the Hutts, they'll teach you. Just first tell what you wanted to invent here, you local Wookiee rip-off.
A strong slap on the Zygerrian's shoulder caused genuine amusement among the nearest drunks.
Because such an audacious act on Nar Shaddaa could lead to one of three options.
First and most obvious—arguing starts, and that's free entertainment.
Second and even more obvious—a shootout starts, and that's even more fun.
Third and most boring—someone stabs with a vibroblade, and that's boring.
"Hello," without looking at the man who sat next to him, said Alaf, not tearing his eyes from the dancing Mirialan.
"I see you're not really hiding," noted Jahan Cross.
Only someone who'd seen him before in this guise could recognize him.
Instead of gray hair—a shaved bald head with aggressive tattoos applied.
On his face—three parallel scars made of synthflesh but painted to look fresh. An extra sign that this man recently participated in a serious scrap and came out victorious.
Dressed in simple jacket, pants, and blouse, but under the fabric armor vest, there's clearly something besides lining. Something very like a Verpine shattergun—meaning anyone who approaches with ill intent will be collecting their rich inner world from nearby walls, poufs, sofas, and if lucky, from the top of one of the dancers.
"I have no one to fear," declared the Zygerrian.
"Settled all affairs?" inquired the Dominion agent.
"In recent years, I've earned enough to close all accounts," evasively replied Alaf.
Jahan, of course, is a battle comrade and there's much more trust in him, but no one opens their soul wide to anyone.
The local gawkers had already lost interest in them, realizing there'd be no showdown.
Some tipsy Devaronian ended up next to them, waving a wad of credits and offering a large sum for them both to make a sea of blood here, as it got boring and anyway, these three dancers clearly aren't stirring the blood.
"No problem," easily agreed Jahan, taking the money.
Before the Devaronian could wipe the satisfied grin off his face, the agent pulled a weapon from a hidden holster (yes, a modified Verpine shattergun), and shot off the client's right leg below the knee.
"What are you staring at?" growled Cross at the frozen gawkers. "He asked for it himself! Even gave money. Confirm, friend," he elbowed the impassive Zygerrian.
"Swear on my mother," replied the latter, sipping from his glass.
Handing the bartender part of the money along with the leg and screaming Devaronian to cover the trouble and ruined carpet, Jahan poured whiskey into a glass and took a sip, watching the Mirialan.
"What's the deep meaning of tongue piercing?" he asked his comrade after the native of Mirial demonstrated her abilities, touching her chin with the tip of her tongue and flashing the mentioned jewelry.
"It's beautiful," declared Alaf.
"It's stupid," objected Cross.
"But beautiful," insisted the Zygerrian. "And adds variety."
"Yeah, the palate, teeth, and little tongue are so bored in the basic mouth configuration that they don't mind such company…"
Jahan fell silent, seeing Sagaal Shan turn his head toward him and attentively scan his comrade from bottom to top.
"What job?" he asked.
"Need to find one bastard," without preamble, said Jahan. "I thought I was on him, but it turned out to be an imitator. Now I have a few new leads, but need someone to cover my back."
"Assignment or personal?" clarified Alaf.
"Both," stated Jahan.
"That's detrimental to the cause," reminded the Zygerrian of the Imperial Intelligence axiom.
"I know," affirmatively nodded Cross. "So first I'll find the jerk, hand him to interrogators, and after they're done, take what's promised to me and with pleasure burn him with a flamethrower. And scatter the ashes into a star's corona."
Alaf drained his glass in one gulp, then returned it to the half-empty bottle of swill on the table.
"Is the target known to me?" he asked.
"Yes," after brief thought, admitted Cross.
The Zygerrian silently filled the glass halfway, tossed in a couple of melting ice cubes.
Took a sip.
"Who?" he quietly asked the simple question to assess the complexity of the future operation.
"I'm going after a Blackhole agent's head. First stop—Coruscant. And soon it'll be so hot there that Tatooine will seem a blessed oasis."
Sagaal Shan cast an attentive glance at his battle comrade, trying to understand what hid behind that gaze full of hatred.
Not reaching a specific conclusion, he topped off the glass with amber liquid to the brim, drank in one long drawn-out gulp, chewed the ice in his mouth, washed away the aftertaste.
"When do we fly?"
***
The grand moff's hologram flickered as the shuttle exited hyperspace, but the smart communication equipment restored transmission clarity, eliminating interference.
"The first line of metropolitan defense is fully completed," said Felix. "Maps of asteroid and mine fields compiled, stations brought to combat duty. Repair work continues on them, but they are already combat-ready. Mine fields placed before and after camouflaged asteroids. Captured and purchased orbital defense stations deployed to orbits of specified planets. Patrols report readiness of peripheral planets for prolonged sieges. Necessary reserves prepared, backups, accumulated required military equipment."
"Sabotage cells?" I asked.
"Distributed according to plan. Control communication sessions conducted, active responses received. As planned, groups transitioned to observation mode, awaiting orders."
"Stocks of hybridium from Garos IV and ryadonium from Abafar, asteroids from Karthakk and other systems formed?"
"Affirmative," replied the grand moff. "According to plans."
"Probability of popular unrest?"
"About thirty percent in recently annexed aggressive worlds. In the Ciutric Hegemony—less than one percent. In other sectors, as well as on the periphery—less than ten percent. Patrol forces of the Defense Fleet are in each sector."
"Planetary government notified of upcoming restrictions for the population?"
"Affirmative. Received without enthusiasm, but I assured that export, like import, will not cease, only border security measures will be strengthened. Customs inspection points prepared on routes to the Dominion. Databases of interstellar-class vehicles formed and entered into the unified Dominion database."
"What at the legislative level?"
"In the maximum possible variant, regulated all areas you specified, including military hierarchy, its connection to the political system, announced to the population state management bodies. Corresponding directives sent to places for familiarization and dissemination to the population."
"On any manifestations of disobedience, attempts at rebellion, react harshly, unambiguously, uncompromisingly," I warned. "Ensure military facilities are under constant and sufficient guard by proven and loyal Dominion forces. If such necessity arises—without delay cut off "HoloNet" connection with the rest of the galaxy, closing the information network inside the Dominion."
"Algorithm for emergency situations developed and tested," stated the grand moff.
"Tomorrow twenty thousand stormtroopers will be ready for release," I stated. "They are undergoing training and in a day will be delivered to Ciutric IV. These are your operational forces in case of rebellion in the absence of the regular fleet. Don't hesitate to seek help from generals Veers and Covell—they have sufficient resources to drown any coup attempt in blood. Colonel Astarion is also informed by me, and his people are ready to provide any assistance at any point in the Dominion."
"Affirmative, sir," confirmed the grand moff.
Hesitating, Ferrus still asked:
"Do you suspect that after Sluis Van there could be such serious reactions in our society?"
"The Dominion isn't even half a year old, grand moff," I reminded. "We stitched a state from systems that hated or exterminated each other for centuries. Undoubtedly, in case of a power crisis, various radical groups will try to exploit the situation for their goals. Your task—destroy them as soon as they manifest. Counter-Admiral Shohashi and his "Red Star" are in constant combat readiness and ready to arrive immediately at any point in the metropolis, periphery to resolve the issue radically."
"I hope it won't be needed," shivered Ferrus.
"Proceed from facts, grand moff," I advised in a commanding tone. "The concept of tolerance for dissent in a crisis period leads to nothing good. We—are not the New Republic. Freedom of speech exists here too, but only as long as this right is not used for treasonous purposes."
"I will do everything in my power to preserve the Dominion," firmly said Ferrus. "At any cost."
One could say something pompous: "That's not enough. Do more than you're capable of!", but what's the point in populism that has nothing to do with reality?
"I don't doubt it, grand moff," I stated. "Remember that the fleet will need at least six days to return to the main base. All this time, you will be responsible for the Dominion's security."
"Yes, sir. I won't let you or the Dominion down," rapped out the grand moff.
Nodding in agreement, I disconnected the channel with Ferrus, then activated the next subscriber's dial.
Not that I needed to talk to her so soon, but there's still half an hour of sublight travel ahead.
Sitting to my right, Rukh, and standing at the pilot's cabin entrance, as well as at the landing ramp, the guardsmen acted as if they were utterly uninterested in us heading to the cluster of Dominion regular fleet ships.
And any sufficiently important scientific project of the military-industrial complex simply needs reminding that they exist on state funds, and their work implies maximum efficiency.
In the civilian sector, it's "hourly pay," and the enterprise leader decides for themselves and their business—whether the worker spends eighty percent of time staring at the ceiling and does all the work in the remaining twenty, or works efficiently all hundred percent in comfortable conditions.
In defense, only the second option is possible.
And no other way.
The issue of labor productivity and control of isolated units didn't appear yesterday.
Even in this galaxy.
"Niclara Varnillian on the line," replied the girl's hologram, in whose appearance one could guess features of the "Butcher of Atoan." "Grand Admiral Thrawn, sir!"
The young woman stood at attention.
"Report on the progress of the PBC project," I said.
"Sir, the regular fleet specialists team with my direct participation fully disassembled the sample proton beam cannon of the star destroyer "Accuser,"" said the girl. "Sorry, sample PBC of "Twilight," sir. Used the old ship name."
"Continue," I said in an encouraging tone.
"The mechanism is fully studied, necessary schematics compiled, defectoscopy conducted. Restoration will require more time—up to half a year, since the obvious poor-quality makeshift repair by the New Republic did more harm than good."
"What do you need to accelerate the process?" I inquired.
"Sir, best of all—specialists in this type of armament," admitted the Alderaanian. "I'm an artillerist, not an engineer. My knowledge of this weapon's design is limited. Just studying the PBC device from the project start took weeks. If we had blueprints and experienced engineers—things would go faster. Perhaps we could improve something, not restore it to original state. Judging by markings and manufacturing dates of some elements, this specific PBC was created barely one of the first in the Imperial star fleet. Likely over years of operation, more modern, less costly, and cheaper production models appeared. Independently, we'll conduct modernization and repair in the stated terms. If we have the support I mentioned—terms will reduce by orders."
"We have technical documentation on the repulsor artillery platform TIE "Lancet" produced by "Santhe/Sienar Technologies,"" I said. Actually, we have all technical schematics and projects of this company, but I don't intend to go into such details. "Can these data help you?"
"Partly yes, sir," rejoiced the girl. "Ideal replacement could be the PBC installations on Dubrillion, but the test base was destroyed back in the Rebellion times, several years ago. The Death Star's composite superlaser is seventy percent identical technologically to our PBC sample, difference only in substantial energy costs, sizes, and technical filling of the overwhelming majority of subsystems. The "Lancet" though… Yes, the gun mount principle is the same. In the absence of alternatives, it'll do for eliminating some peripheral problems. But, I'll note right away, the "Lancet" installation's operating principle is different, we can only borrow some technical solutions. Because Sienar developed their "Lancet" for ground combat and destroying stationary targets, while the fleet PBC—is ship armament. They have different beam power output, different power and supply schemes, cooling and targeting. Cardinal difference, I'd say, in power schemes—the "Lancet" is excessively power-hungry, which didn't allow equipping this ship with any serious armament besides the PBC itself and a couple of AA guns. That's why this line was closed—a dead-end project. For normal functioning—by power/fire rate ratio—it needs something like a SPHA reactor, but then it'd be a flying SPHA. And also defenseless."
"In other words, the "Lancet" is useless," I summarized.
"Well-armed but defenseless—is almost the motto of "Santhe/Sienar Technologies,"" smiled the Alderaanian. "But you're right—its weapon excellently destroys a stationary target. However, for small craft, such armament is detrimental, as it makes protection installation impossible."
"And also short-ranged."
"Affirmative, sir," agreed Niclara. "It's hundreds of times worse in firing range than a simple turbolaser. But destructive. Allow me to remind—only against stationary targets."
"Prepare a memo in my name on all objects, scientists, or related proton beam cannon projects you're familiar with that could positively influence your work," I ordered. "We'll see how Dominion Intelligence can help you."
"We'll be grateful for any help, sir," said Niclara. "Object "Star Ray" communication session ended."
When the hologram faded, I sat for a few more seconds, staring at the projector plate, stirring thoughts in my head and seeking suitable options to direct intelligence to places of glory of the Galactic Empire's scientific genius.
Not so many options, actually.
I'll have to go through all of them.
***
Grappa the Hutt indulged in sleep in the luxurious chambers of his palace.
The richly decorated repulsor platform, serving him as both bed and place from which he received guests and gave orders, rose by a massive wall.
In the latter, as many in Grappa's entourage assumed, there was a secret passage, because no matter how he tried to portray himself as a hero, this Hutt by nature was no more than a coward.
And in case of the slightest danger, he would undoubtedly flee, leaving his minions to deal with the problems.
Rederick carefully stepped among the sleeping bodies of Grappa's servants.
A curious feature of these overgrown tadpoles: for some unknown reason to the agent, Hutts love to surround themselves during sleep and rest with crowds of minions, trusted persons, slave girls, and other rabble.
And it would be fine if related to security—but no, everyone in the palace throne room is snoring after another binge.
The reason was another successful capture of a Republican transport with armament.
Heading to Sluis Van and clearly intended for Imperial equipment, this starship should have arrived at destination five days ago.
But the following three days after Sol Mon's and his pirates' attack, it was in a sump: the attackers awaited the New Republic's reaction, expecting if a Republican patrol would come for the ship or if those hyperspace beacons Republicans started installing on their ships were found and removed completely.
As it turned out, the pirates' techs did a conscientious job.
Rederick and Vex, known among pirates as Tick and Pick, brother and sister, thugs and smugglers from the Kathol sector, also participated in this raid.
As in a dozen others like it.
Pirates consistently, and most importantly—with impeccable accuracy, calculated and struck supply lines of the New Republic, ambushing clumsy transports at course correction points.
Which never coincided with the maximum jump range allowed by the hyperdrive installed on them.
Which meant only one thing—the pirates have informants close to the New Republic's logistics leadership.
However, judging by other pirates' loot, similar "snitches" existed in other gangs too. But already in the Empire.
Especially—in Imperial Space.
Which in itself is no news, of course, but makes one think.
But "Pick" and "Tick" were here not at all to steal Grappa's captured ships.
The throne room was in semi-darkness, since Grappa preferred natural lighting streaming through narrow arched windows about ten meters above the floor of this room.
In the rest of the palace territory, habitual artificial lighting was used, and now it was empty and very quiet there.
Night, descended on Genon, filled all corners of the egg-shaped palace, partially hiding from human eyes the details and consequences of the ended feast.
Boots with barely audible sound literally peeled off the floor, on which blood from the amusing brawl of two Gamorreans mixed with cheap booze generously poured into themselves by mercenaries.
There was a disgusting smell of excrement, and Rederick barely shuddered when stepping over the body of a sleeping Rodian bounty hunter.
And it was this subject who set up a toilet in the corner yesterday, where the beaten Gamorreans now slept.
What filth.
He shifted his foot, hearing a barely audible crack of wood—he broke a tiny furniture splinter, smashed long ago.
Such a conclusion only because the only furniture items the drunk mercenaries wielded yesterday were chairs.
And those were metal—look, the Devaronian still has a seat sticking on his horns. How they hit him, so he fell.
Not even clear if alive or already passed.
No one cared here during the party.
Rederick looked around to note if anyone woke up.
But as before, the only one not sleeping at this time was his partner.
Vex silently shook her head, and her facial expression was more eloquent than any words.
The agent made an apologetic face: in such darkness, the best you can see is someone's limb. But not a small splinter.
Aveka Dunn, standing by the throne room exit and guarding so no one peeks in from tipsy gawkers or external guard, looked at him with a disdainful gaze.
After which Rederick, no longer holding back, showed her the gesture that usually starts all bloody fights.
Vex, squinting, drew her thumb across her throat, then pointed at the young man.
Yeah right, keep dreaming.
Hope and wait.
The man continued wading through the pile of bodies.
Finally, he reached Grappa's throne-platform, where, using a lockpick, he opened the decorative panel behind the Hutt's back.
As he suspected, control panel here.
As strange as it might seem, but absolutely no code panel or access key—just a big button, the size of Grappa's tiny palm.
As far as they've studied, no emergency circuits or alarms here—Grappa is essentially stingy, so didn't spend on expensive security means.
And he's cowardly, so understandable why the only button leading to salvation is not compensated by third-party security systems.
Pressing it, Rederick prepared for sudden alarm, but nothing.
Even the huge rectangle in the wall slid aside completely silently.
And then everything went off plan, as Grappa's throne began rolling into the opening.
Vex, seeing this, pursed her lips, gesturing with hands that she'd twist off her partner's head for such.
But no time to argue.
The agent drew his blaster from holster, switching to stun mode.
Hutts have skin and subcutaneous fat so thick that most aren't even afraid of energy weapon shots.
Lethal shots, naturally.
But no salvation from paralyzer.
Of course, stealing Grappa now would be the height of madness—in fact, nothing ready.
They intended only to penetrate his retreat lair, suspecting that's where he keeps his dirty secrets and talks with clients. Because the entire rest of the palace is occupied by either slaves or mercenaries.
And no holotransmitter in the throne room—at least working.
But the Hutt can't do everything literally in personal meetings! That's inefficient and stupid, plus—huge expenses.
And Hutts love money no less than Neimoidians.
Possibly even more than the latter.
But not certain.
Grappa began bubbling something in sleep when Rederick pressed the blaster right to his skin and fired.
A weak bluish flash ran through the body, so the agent repeated his actions three more times.
By then he was standing on the throne, watching a new one emerge from the floor to the place of the previous throne.
Clever.
Signaling Vex to wait, Rederick allowed the wall to close.
Right after, the platform sharply went down, dropping along guides a good hundred meters in seconds.
If not for the increased gravity of Grappa's throne and force field compensating part of inertia, and the metal handle on the platform, Rederick would simply be blown off, then smeared with good old free fall acceleration.
Their journey ended swiftly.
By the agent's estimate, he was deep under the palace walls, in a cave where he found a large amount of electronics, not to mention several sentients.
Whom he immediately stunned.
Well now all, no way back.
So, need to do maximum.
The man didn't ceremony much with computers, simply burning hinges at minimal blaster power and removing hard drives.
There were five, but small in size—enough to stuff pockets, and plenty of space left.
The man took out a portable holocam from decorative bracer, starting to capture the setting.
He almost immediately realized the cave has another exit and an evacuation ship. Relatively modern, quite comfortable, and ready for takeoff.
And empty platforms where obviously some equipment should be.
Which, for some reasons, was dismantled.
After a brief search at former installation sites of unknown devices, he confirmed it's clearly medical equipment: indicated by characteristic fine filtration systems connected to general supply and drainage network.
No one in their right mind would install equipment worth several thousand credits to filter both incoming to the grotto liquids and outgoing. And looking at the entire filtration structure, one can conclude…
"How long you gonna dig here?" hissed behind him Vex.
"I don't even want to ask how you got here," without tearing his gaze from the pipe structure under the empty pedestal, said the Dominion agent emotionlessly. "Just hope you didn't use the new lair and crush Grappa."
"No, I shorted the descent circuit three meters above surface," too innocently said Aveka. "Is this a closed liquid filtration system?"
"Yes," nodded Rederick. "Something with liquid inside stood here. And the liquid so valuable that our miser Hutt splurged on such equipment. This is clearly expensive equipment. Medical or experimental."
"Well, there you go, learned where he intends to send the ships," snorted Aveka Dunn. "You realize we can't play it back?"
"Realized right away when I had to shoot this fatso," Rederick photographed all equipment, then pointed at the yacht awaiting its owner. "Taking Grappa with us, these fellows," he pointed at both stunned sentients he met in the cave, "hard drives I took. Flying to base."
"On someone else's ship?" shook her head Aveka. "Don't be stupid—we won't have a wet spot left."
"Then fly to contact point or one of peripheral worlds, report and await further instructions," said Rederick. "Mission went off plan, but since we have Grappa himself, no sense staying undercover and trying to learn something new. No one on Genon will tell more than Grappa himself. Blow our ship and leave on the yacht."
"Sounds like a plan," shrugged Vex. "Only chur you drag bodies to yacht yourself."
"Knew you'd be as helpful as a protocol droid in battle," snorted, shaking his head, Rederick.
"Kid, I only help, not work," charmingly smiled, batting eyes, Aveka. "And also—didn't let you drool over local dancers so you don't fall apart."
Rederick grimaced like eating sour fruit.
"That's the most disgusting part of the assignment," he admitted. "When Grappa offered me a dancer after the first robbery…"
"And I said I won't share you with anyone," winked Aveka. "In any way."
"No need to quote," pleaded Rederick. "You said that only after I told the gang we're supposedly brother and sister."
"You should've seen how those Twi'lek dancers puked whom you groped before," dreamily raised eyes to ceiling Aveka, clasping hands before her, dreamily stretching up, standing on one leg, pulling the other as if trying to fly. "Yellow-green fountain, splashes on walls…"
"You're a terrible mentor," grimaced Rederick, grabbing the first captive by arms and dragging toward the open hatch of Grappa's yacht. "No respect for your fellow man."
"I warned you," winked at him Aveka, giggling. "Should've gone to the room with me nicely on Etti IV."
"Rather I'd roll in my grave," assured her Rederick, hauling the first body aboard and tying to nearest rail. A couple seconds to start all ship systems. "You're the most disgusting and lewd woman of all I know! You reek of lewdness per unit!"
"I know, kid," smiled Vex. "That's what I use. Who knew you'd become even cuter and more appetizing when angry."
"Drop this crappy act," advised Rederick, approaching the girl almost closely. "We work together. And nothing more. I have my own principles—and I won't step over them."
Vex, for a moment serious, as if stopped playing comedy. Then leaned forward, to his very ear and whispered:
"That's what you say now," she stated, pecking the "trainee" on the cheek, leaving a violet lip print. "Remember the main hunting rule, kid—the harder the target, the more desirable to get it."
And walked, hip-swaying, toward the platform with snoring and drooling Grappa Hutt.
"What's hunting got to do with it?!" clutched his head Rederick. "What kind of job—crazy mentors, idiotic hints. I want back to the fleet!"
"I'll get you there too, kid!" without turning, waved Vex. "I'm an excellent pilot, by the way…"
Groaning something between a cornered chick's cry and a dying tiger's roar, Rederick trudged after the Hutt.
Interesting, will they demote him to stormtrooper if he "loses" the mentor during assignment?
***
Captain Pellaeon tensed as the first pair of guardsmen in blue-black armor descended the landing ramp steps.
The stormtrooper honor guard performed the due salute to the Supreme Commander, after which Thrawn was next to the "Chimaera" commander.
"Let's go, captain," quietly said the Chiss. "I wish to hear the report on your actions deep in enemy rear."
"All detachments coped with assigned tasks," stated Pellaeon. "Our forces still undetected by enemy. At the same time, we clearly know disposition and enemy forces in system."
"And in the sector?" inquired Thrawn as they approached the opening leading from the main hangar.
"Affirmative, sir," confirmed Pellaeon. "Sectoral fleet ships engaged in convoy guard. Currently Sluis Van guarded by a little over twenty Mon Calamari star cruisers type MC80b. Remaining starships left sectoral base to escort New Republic transports. Buzz droids of "Morr" project work flawlessly. We are ready to strike."
"Is that so?" scorched him with flaming eyes gaze the grand admiral. "Sure of that?"
"Absolutely, sir," firmly said Pellaeon. "All detachment commanders received instruction packets. Ships in excellent technical condition. Preliminary works conducted. Our "surprises" also prepared. Droids only await your command to start operation."
"Well, sounds extremely optimistic," coldly stated Thrawn.
"Because the operation is verified to seconds, sir," frowned Pellaeon. "No unforeseen elements possible. Soon last cargo ships will arrive at Sluis Van shipyards, after which we can begin. Republicans already started moving warships to outer shipyards part—capturing them presents no difficulty. Admiral Duplex's fleet still at shipyards, obviously covering them."
"Thus we get echeloning of Sluis Van," stated Thrawn. "Outer perimeter—defense stations deployed to distant planet orbit, beyond shipyards borders. Next, by our arrival, transport ships will already be at shipyards, cutting off Imperial design warships from shipyards by their mass movement alone and hindering enemy fire on our invasion forces. Followed by our future trophies, after which space filled with New Republic civilian contract cargo ships begins. And only after that the orbital docks themselves, next to which are Admiral Duplex's starships. Interesting "layer cake.""
"I think it's more correct to say that by our appearance, the New Republic is unlikely to remove all transport ships from system periphery," noted Pellaeon. "They clearly will still be at system border, beyond orbital defense stations line, around Imperial design starships and before Duplex's fleet. Republicans as if brought their entire transport fleet there."
"Interesting starship diffusion on specific orbit," stated Thrawn thoughtfully.
"Republicans, sir," shrugged Gilad, but actually he wasn't so sure. Now, when Thrawn voiced it… Everything seemed wrong. Unreal. Fake. "No discipline. Promised private haulers who knows what, and now they all try to get free repair and only the Emperor's black bones know what else."
"On the contrary, captain," said Thrawn. "Republicans want to achieve quite specific goals. And applied maximum efforts to realize them at Sluis Van. Do you know the crew numbers for starships they intend to deliver to shipyards within a week?"
"Affirmative, sir. Over one and a half million sentients. This is staffing Imperial design ships, as well as replenishing losses on Admiral Argentus's fleet ships."
"Excellent," a smile appeared on Thrawn's lips. "Scouts detected arrival of fast or courier ships in recent days?"
"Yes, sir. Courier ship arrived at station. Literally three hours ago. In past day also noted activity of this type ship—but not speedy, armored courier. Such used for delivering…"
"Important and valuable cargoes," finished for him Thrawn. "Thank you, captain. I know. Well, now we can definitely begin. All spectators and operation participants are in places."
"With all respect, sir, but I don't understand," admitted Pellaeon. "You think someone from New Republic government arrived at Sluis Van?"
"I don't assume it, captain," softly corrected Thrawn. "I know it. A day ago, New Republic Defense Forces Supreme Commander General Bel Iblis flew into system. Personally to command his fleet forces to repel our attack and my destruction."
"He doesn't have that many ships for it," noted Gilad. "Without sectoral fleet support, he'll achieve nothing with current forces."
"That's why I'm sure they set a trap for us, captain," a smile played on Thrawn's face. "Corellians are good at several things. Ship handling, bluffing, and revenge. All three components merged at Sluis Van. And while, in their opinion, I should be proud, telling how smart I am, diverting their attention at Lianna and about to get what I want—all Imperial design line class ships and New Republic heavy cruisers, they set a trap for us deadly to Dominion fleet."
"But… what forces do they intend to pull it off, sir?" surprised Pellaeon. "Sectoral fleet after all…"
"In convoys, isn't it, captain?" clarified Thrawn.
Gilad nodded affirmatively.
"And we know it thanks to telemetry transmitted by "Morr" project droids," continued developing his thought the grand admiral. "Which the enemy learned about after unsuccessful docking of "Home One" with entire hull to Centrax-II surface. From survivors."
"Our droids compromised," groaned Pellaeon.
"To ease your conscience, we can right now order them to start sabotage on New Republic starships," Gilad didn't notice how they ended up in the grand admiral's quarters, and the latter sat in his chair.
"I don't think that's the right step, sir," stated Gilad. "So we might only scare them and report our understanding of situation."
"You noted that absolutely correctly, Captain Pellaeon. And what conclusion follows from this?"
"Sectoral fleet could be anywhere."
"Oh, I don't think sectoral fleet opposes us, captain," stated Thrawn. "I expect Bel Iblis will bring New Republic Fourth Fleet ships to Sluis Van. At least—all star cruisers. Sectoral fleet, I'm sure, will guard Sluissi sector systems to prevent us placing reinforcements for sequential commissioning. We'll fight line ships of nearest to Sluis Van military fleet—Fourth."
"First, Second, and Third recently suffered major losses and moving them disadvantageous," understandingly nodded "Chimaera" commander.
"That's why Bel Iblis will bring Fourth Fleet star cruisers to rendezvous—he already recovered from defeat and humiliation in Ciutric Hegemony."
"Over one hundred fifty star cruisers in that fleet," darkened Pellaeon. "Sir, it'll be a slaughter! They'll surely try to pinch us between system forces and brought reinforcements. Sluis Van has interdictor cruisers—if Bel Iblis unraveled one our trick, surely could understand how we use interdictors for precise ship exit from hyperspace. Meaning they'll be ready to crush us at any buildup point. Right away, as soon as we appear and prepare for attack."
"Bravo, captain," with teacher's pride stated Thrawn. "I was sure you'd understand it. You just lack small details to comprehend the entire process."
"Thank you, sir," downcast gaze Pellaeon. "So, we know enemy uncovered our plans…"
"We didn't really hide them," raised eyebrow Thrawn.
"And since so, attacking Sluis Van—dangerous venture," warned Pellaeon. "Bel Iblis unraveled key elements of this attack. We can't apply buzz droids for sabotage anymore."
"And was anyone going to?" surprised Thrawn. "Personally I—no. Bel Iblis consciously sacrificed to lure and destroy us in one blow. So it'd be shortsighted to think it'll always save us. By the way, what do you think in light of new information about disorderly buildup of New Republic transports on orbit?"
"That they are positioned so not due to captains' whim," stated Pellaeon. "One way or another, but they block direct movement to Imperial ships. This constrains movement of both our starships and fighters."
"Nice way to fight our "Scimitars," captain, isn't it?" inquired Thrawn.
"Naïve to assume "Rogue Squadron" stayed silent after Mustafar and Ossus about our wonder ship," confirmed Pellaeon.
"See," said Thrawn. "Our adversary can be smart. They just need more time to figure everything out themselves."
"Simple bottom line: in dry residue, a trap prepared for us," summarized Pellaeon. "Obviously your plan uncovered, grand admiral. What will we do?"
"Sometimes you sincerely surprise me, captain," stated Thrawn. "You can calculate situation but don't see its solution. Trust your thinking and intuition—you have them. I assume they are partially suppressed by my presence, but assure, soon all will correct. You were a diligent student, and I'm sure you won't let me down in future."
Not knowing what to say, "Chimaera" commander preferred to use Statute provisions.
Question not asked? No.
So no answer needed.
The grand admiral leaned forward, lips forming a barely noticeable smile, extending across the table a small rectangular bar:
"Operation "Crimson Dawn" approaches its end, Vice-Admiral Pellaeon. Already tomorrow you, my student, next face in Dominion command hierarchy, will prove ready to command own fleet and lead Dominion regular forces to victory in the hardest clash in last half year. And choose for yourself best ships from those our shortsighted adversary has at Sluis Van."
"Affirmative, sir," said Gilad, feeling as if Manarai mountains fell from shoulders, which on Coruscant recently lost their magnificent snow caps. "But, regarding the trap?"
"Same as always," as matter of course said the grand admiral. "We'll fall into it."
Well… And what, anyone doubted it'd be otherwise?!
***
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