Ten years and the twentieth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year and the twentieth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months and the fifth day since the arrival).
This guy clearly wasn't claiming the title of "Friendliest Person on the Planet Bosf."
Honestly, he wasn't even human.
No doubt, he had once left his mother's womb, born with a full set of human genes and distinctive features, but now...
This two-meter mountain of muscle, whose arms and legs were replaced by massive prosthetics, and half his head was hidden under a metal plate so that the red photoreceptor replacing his eye made him look more like a droid than a human, clearly didn't inspire trust.
And definitely couldn't be their contact.
"Grissom," Arista said quietly, pretending to be occupied with sipping her cocktail, but in reality watching the approaching giant cyborg heading toward their cantina unblinkingly from under her long, fluffy lashes. "Looks like we've got trouble."
Arista Kabul.
The massive Gamorrean, whose build was in no way inferior to the cyborg's, was sipping lum ale with apparent indifference, but Arista understood that he was preparing for a fight.
Her loyal companion always tensed his neck before a brawl began.
Grissom.
"Plug your ears," came the Jawa's chirp from under the dirty brown hood. "Big boom-boom coming up..."
"No need, Tech," Arista replied in the same language, laying a hand on her companion's shoulder for emphasis. "Blowing up the cantina isn't part of our plans."
And picking fights wasn't, either.
But it seemed the trouble was seeking them out.
Ever since they had left Otunia, having blown up the Kabul Industries mines, the trouble had left them alone for a while.
And now, today, on the very day they were supposed to meet the contact offering help in preventing Seth from seizing the remnants of her father's corporation, this very cyborg appears, moving through the crowd like a Star Destroyer among civilian yachts.
And there was nowhere to run—they were sitting in the farthest corner, the only exit was also the entrance, and it lay behind the cyborg's back.
And a crowd of tipsy locals separated him from those present, locals who, in their current state, needed only a good personal reason to start a fight.
But the black-haired young woman wasn't sure that in this brawl, the scrawny local farmers would have any chance of victory in a fistfight.
If these people were locals, Bosfs, then maybe something could be devised, but as it was...
Her only hope was Grissom's muscles and her own agility.
"No boom-booms?" Tech chattered questioningly.
"No," Arista stated.
"I've got little boom-booms," a pleading note entered the Jawa's voice. "Really little boom-booms..."
"No need to draw attention to our compa..."
Arista didn't finish.
The cyborg unexpectedly quickly appeared behind Grissom as he rose from the table.
A heavy bar stool appeared in the air, crashing down on the Gamorrean's head with furious speed.
Jawa Tech.
Grissom rolled his eyes and went limp.
The massive Gamorrean bulk crashed to the floor, lying among the splinters without any signs of life.
"Damn it...!" was all Arista managed to think, watching as the cyborg unceremoniously grabbed the Jawa and knocked him out with a single powerful blow under the hood.
"Hey, tin can, what do you think you're..." the nearest farmer began, but the cyborg sent him into oblivion with one slap.
"Don't approach!" The cyborg's voice was artificial, too.
But the blaster that appeared in his hand from somewhere was the most real thing.
"What do you think you're doing?!" the other drunks began.
"Doing my job," the cyborg cut him off. "These three are terrorists and criminals accused of blowing up the Kabul Industries mines several years ago. My task is to deliver them to Otunia for trial. Anyone who interferes with fulfilling the contract dies on the spot."
As expected—this provocative situation didn't arise out of nowhere.
She had to react—and quickly.
Bounty hunters didn't much like letting go of their prey from their clutches.
Especially when the client was someone like her uncle Seth.
Arista sprang into motion.
Instead of lunging at the offender of her friends, instead of smashing something impressive into the cyborg's teeth, Arista slipped to the side, avoiding a blaster shot that punched a huge hole in the wall, and then, finding herself behind him, leaned on the tabletop of the nearest group and thrust out her long leg.
The blow, with all the force a fragile woman could muster, struck the cyborg in the temple on the side of the metal plate.
The bounty hunter staggered, while Arista hopped on one foot, realizing that she'd probably damaged the other in the strike at best.
And he just had to turn around, huh?
Only a few seconds passed before the cyborg rose again, back on his feet.
His monstrous weapon had vanished somewhere, and he clearly intended to deal with the fragile girl with his bare hands.
Especially since Tech had also disappeared from his grasp.
Arista understood that a direct clash with the giant would overwhelm her in any scenario.
The cyborg looked like the victim of a fatal speeder collision with a pedestrian, assembled from the wreckage of both.
And a fragile woman against him, even with a concealed mini-blaser in hand, was just laughable.
But then a new participant appeared on the scene—Grissom rose from the floor.
The Gamorrean didn't look disturbed by his head wound at all—he didn't even pay attention to the streams of blood.
His sculpturally chiseled body, the envy of most of his kin, his giant stature, his clearly experienced fighting stance—the opponent assessed it all in an instant.
And smirked: not a drop of amusement, cold, threatening.
The cyborg struck first again.
Scattering the patrons who fled screaming in all directions, he yanked a bolted-down table from the floor, raised it overhead, and swung at his opponent with a strained heave.
An ordinary human wouldn't have ducked in time, but Grissom wasn't human.
The Gamorrean charged forward, ducking, thereby evading the heavy projectile.
He went low under the cyborg and knocked him to the floor with the mass of his body.
Immediately after, Grissom took painful blows to the head from the cybernetic hands.
Teeth flew off to the side, and the Gamorrean's fanged head smashed into the cyborg's face with a powerful strike.
There was the clang of crumpling metal.
Grissom's heavy fists pounded the cyborg so that his photoreceptor flew off somewhere and the metal plates cracked on his head and upper torso.
The other bar patrons eventually reached a certain consensus.
They cleared space for the fighters and began placing bets, making wagers on the winner.
The cleared area allowed Arista to spot Tech, who was crawling out from somewhere in the back rows, furiously cursing.
The girl barely ducked: a mug flew over her head and shattered against the wall.
"Terrorist!" someone shouted from the crowd.
Arista just cursed powerlessly and silently.
Clearly, the cyborg had support or a provocateur to inflame the emotionally drunk crowd.
Over the years since the mine explosion, Seth, nearly bankrupt, had spread plenty of rumors that hundreds of corporation workers had died in the shafts.
Despite there not being a single living soul there, it hardly mattered now.
Whether they recognized her or not, hostile glares glinted in the crowd—any moment, bold ones would step up to tie her up and claim the reward.
Grissom was already slamming the cyborg's head full force, splintering the wooden floor and leaving cracks in the permacrete underneath.
And then the cantina suddenly swarmed with black jumpsuits of security forces.
Arista didn't have time to be surprised that humanoids identifiable by their figures were working as law enforcement on Bosf, when the crowd found itself under the sights of blaster rifles from four fighters.
The fifth, their commander, unambiguously gestured to her with his hand: approach immediately.
Defying a man in heavy armor who was also armed was foolish in itself.
Judging by how Tech was dragged to this sentient the same way, and Grissom and the cyborg were taken under crossfire by three soldiers at once, these were clearly professionals.
Mercenaries, perhaps, or...
The girl realized she was starting to get scared.
Especially because upon closer inspection, it was clear these guys were clad in elements of Imperial uniforms.
And that was definitely as bad as it could get.
The planet Bosf had been orbital-bombed by the Empire in the past, and the locals preferred to consign even the mention of Imperials to oblivion—according to the natives' beliefs, this was the highest sign of contempt.
And they definitely wouldn't hire Imperials for work.
Of course, these could be mercenaries using widely available black-market Imperial gear, but such groups cost too much for a remote sector.
So things were much more serious.
These were Imperials.
And they were surely working for her uncle's ally.
They'd sooner shoot them than let them go alive.
She didn't even notice as they took her blaster, pulled out spare power cells and the tibanna cartridge, the knife in her boot shaft, and fastened heavy manacles on her wrists.
"Out," the squad commander ordered.
The crowd, ceasing their rioting in an instant, just watched mesmerized as the law enforcers smoothly dragged each of the four detainees toward the doors.
They were led out of the smoke-filled bar onto the street without extra words, but no one noticed much change in the atmosphere.
It was pouring from the sky like from a bucket, and Arista was instantly soaked to the skin.
They were brought to the transport.
A pot-bellied windowless van, the kind usually used to haul prisoners.
One fighter flung open the rear doors, and the clearly out-of-it cyborg was shoved in, his head's metal parts so obviously loose that the staples fastening them to his skull were visible.
Grissom was clearly in a foul mood; he'd nearly finished off the bounty hunter.
The Gamorrean himself looked fairly lively and was clearly itching to start another brawl.
He tensed again when a blaster was jammed into the back of the cyborg's head.
The squad commander pulled the trigger, and several concentric bursts of white-blue energy ran through the bounty hunter's body.
He was immobilized.
The Gamorrean was already tearing at his restraints, but he, along with Tech who'd just squeaked "I'll give you such a boom-boom!", were taken out of commission.
Then one of the fighters shot each of her friends with a pneumosyringe into the body, putting them to sleep, after which both were tossed into the same van.
The trio of fighters climbed in after, the fourth got in the cab, and another silent airspeeder stopped beside the Arista stunned silent by the proceedings.
"This way," the squad commander ordered uncompromisingly, pointing the girl to the rear door he'd opened.
"Go to Hell," she snapped.
"Ma'am, I just got back from there," the mercenary said unexpectedly, then uncompromisingly shoved the girl into the cabin and sat by the door himself, cutting off the way back.
The airspeeder took off, moving along the deserted streets behind the prisoner van.
Inside it was dark—not just from the lights being off, but because the windows she could make out were fakes; from inside, armored plates were visible in their place.
So.
Short summary.
They'd lured her from her hideout to the cantina.
Staged a show.
Grabbed her.
Separated her from her friends.
Hauling her somewhere in an armored vehicle...
What else could surprise her today?
Suddenly, the cabin lights came on.
It stung her eyes painfully, but the girl shielded them and squeezed shut to adjust faster to the bright glow.
"So, I must apologize for our meeting not going according to plan," a male voice said.
Clearly not belonging to the squad commander sitting beside her.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, still struggling with photophobia.
"The one who promised you help in dealing with your uncle's problems," after about two minutes, she managed to restore her vision, and Arista finally could make out her interlocutor.
Like the squad commander, he was clad in black armor.
A strong-willed face, short haircut.
A piercing gaze and cold, appraising eyes.
Even sitting in the chair, he commanded respect and clearly had nothing to do with civilian structures.
An experienced military man sat before her.
The only question was whom he represented.
That's exactly what Arista asked about.
Not a shadow of a smile appeared on her interlocutor's face.
"It's not yet time to name names," he said. "But I can tell you that the forces behind me are clearly intent on breaking the Bosf sector blockade and at minimum establishing trade relations with Kabul Industries."
"The company is bankrupt," the girl stated. "The mines are destroyed."
"Your information is outdated," the man replied just as seriously. "Your uncle, Seth Kabul, with the support of former Moff Harsh, the crew of his Star Destroyer The Cauldron, and those sponsoring the subjugation of the sector's planets, has begun their full restoration. Now it's no longer just a couple of miraculously functioning mines trading minerals with the Corporate Sector. It's a full revival of all of Kabul Industries' industrial potential. Investments in restoring the enterprise and lining your uncle's pockets in exchange for handing over the entire business to the Corporate Sector. According to our information, your uncle intends to hand over the entire corporation and all its mines to the shadow government of the 'corporatists' and thereby finally subjugate the Bosf sector, establishing total dictatorship over the local population. That bounty hunter was supposed to deliver you to your uncle. After which your death and that of your friends would serve as a cautionary lesson for all who intended to rebel."
It grew cold inside the young woman.
"And you must be those fine Republican liberators from the New Republic base in our sector, fighting for all that's good against all that's bad, but lacking the funds to free us?" she asked with a light reproach.
"No," her interlocutor replied calmly. "We don't care about 'all good and all bad.' We need your enterprise's mines and resources. We're ready to provide all necessary support for you to regain control over your father's enterprise. We'll also help get rid of your uncle. If you want, you can put him on trial or blow his brains out right in his residence—we don't care. The only condition is equal partnership in your future enterprise. And naturally, we'll ensure your mines have constant demand for minerals."
The girl frowned.
"You're being awfully shady," she said. "You won't say who you are, won't explain why you're helping... What you're talking about is full-scale war, requiring thousands of fighters, hundreds of ships... The mines might be reclaimable, perhaps by capturing my uncle and forcing him to renounce the inheritance, but what to do with The Cauldron and the Corporate Sector fleet blockading the borders. Not to mention they have an army..."
"Some questions' answers aren't timely yet," her interlocutor stated. "But I can declare with full responsibility—we aren't afraid of such confrontation. We have soldiers, ships, and the desire to prevent this sector's subjugation by our enemies."
"Because you intend to conquer it yourselves?" the girl realized.
"My leadership has no desire to fight for annexing the sector to our holdings if it contradicts the will of the populations of the planets within the sector," her interlocutor stated. "We believe resources aren't worth spending time on occupation."
"Yeah, tell me about it," the girl snorted. "On Otunia alone, there are a large number of mines extracting nearly every metal from the periodic table. Not to mention over two dozen uninhabited systems in the sector rich in minerals that my father planned to turn into new mines. For the conquest of these planets, the Corporate Sector invaded Bosf and besieged the borders, not allowing the population to escape beyond and report the dire situation. These reserves would suffice to build an entire fleet, maybe more than one!"
"Yes, we know," her interlocutor replied. "And we prefer not just to waste time fighting for the sector only to get kicked out and told we're not welcome here. We'll either care for the population, its security, and develop the sector's economy, or there's no point for us. Constantly subsidized sectors in a state's composition don't interest us."
"Even in Imperial times, Bosf meant nothing; only mineral supplies somehow allowed the population to live decently," Arista noted.
"In that case, we just need to approach territorial development competently," her interlocutor noted. "The Outer Rim and everything beyond it is a source of vast resources always needed. For military affairs as much as civilian industry. Initial-stage investments pay off—if colonization is approached wisely."
"Sounds overly utopian," Arista stated.
"Sounds like a refusal to cooperate with us," her interlocutor calmly stated his opinion.
"From my side, it looks like you intend to use me as a nominal leader to regain control over the enterprise with your help, which you'll use in the future as the core of your own colonization," Arista said. "While taking half the company under your control, by your own words. But you won't even declare who you really are."
"Your position is perfect," her interlocutor stated. "Yes, Kabul Industries is set to become the backbone of the sector's industry, a source of jobs, and the main conduit for our aspirations of peaceful association. Understanding that makes you sufficiently competent and level-headed manager in my eyes. But your failure to realize that I and the forces behind me offer you not just half of your father's old company, but half of what Kabul Industries can become in perspective, is justifiably disappointing," he said, then added immediately. "Will become with competent management, of course."
The young woman was silent for a time, then, raising her head, asked:
"And when will the hints come that half of the family enterprise, obtained with your help and on your terms, is better than getting nothing, but on our own?"
For the first time in the conversation, a smile appeared on her interlocutor's face.
"As you see, I have no need to say it," the man said. "You understand it perfectly yourself. But if it makes you feel better, I'll repeat your own words but simplify the phrasing maximally: 'half,' growing proportionally, is better than a whole 'nothing.' Not to mention that, ridding your company of attacks, you'll also remove the target Seth Kabul hung on your back."
The girl forced a smile.
"You're not hoping for an immediate answer, are you?" Arista asked.
"Of course, you're free to think whatever and as long as you see fit," her interlocutor agreed. "But I think you should know our operation will proceed. Regardless of whether you consent or not."
"Then what do you need me for?" Arista wondered.
Her interlocutor smiled again, emotionlessly and strained, which led the young woman to think: she was conversing not with a diplomat, but a professional killer.
"Having the direct heir in charge of the company will let you launch it in maximally short terms," she realized. "My name and the fond memory of my father among the miners will draw them to the corporation much faster than if you did it independently."
"Correct," her interlocutor agreed. "Winning loyalty also requires time and money. We prefer to spend both on restoring the enterprise. But don't forget, one of the foundational reasons we offer you cooperation is your professional knowledge in managing your father's company. You were his right hand and perfectly understand how and why certain changes are needed in the company, how to manage it for the best results."
"And a direct heir in power at the company will help you avoid the reputation of invaders," Arista continued voicing her viewpoint, licking her lips from emotional overload.
"Yes," just like that, her interlocutor told her they simply wanted to use her. "Mutually beneficial deal. You help us establish in the sector, we help you—preemptively—gain control over the company and avenge your father's killer."
"But if I refuse, you'll destroy my uncle, the fratricide, yourselves," Lady Kabul summed up. "After which you'll declare yourselves liberators and start restoring the mines, building up the planets with everything the population needs, and methodically work them for loyalty."
"As cynical as it sounds, that will happen either way," her interlocutor grew serious. "We're not predators who only need resources."
"But you need them!"
"It'd be strange to deny it," the man shrugged. "And foolish to say we came solely to make the local population's life a fairy tale just like that. We have interests in the sector, and we intend to satisfy them. Without extra frills about democracy and other theses that will never come true."
For several minutes, Arista simply sat silent, pondering what answer to give her unexpected and undefined benefactors.
"At least honest," she said. "I understand your interest in Kabul Industries. The mining company and my father's ancillary productions, factories, provided jobs to hundreds of thousands of sentients across the sector. So you start with it. Demonstrate to the population that your interests are as important to them..."
"I perfectly remember what I said just minutes ago," her interlocutor said. "No need to repeat my own utterances back to me."
"I need to think," the woman stated firmly. "And at minimum, I want to know who's extending me the 'hand of friendship.' Stories about 'bad corporatists' and New Republic demagogues are good when you're not them yourselves. I don't even know your name."
"We're neither the Empire, nor the Republic, nor Corporate Sector representatives," her interlocutor assured her. "You can call me Bravo One. I represent the Dominion in your sector. And we hope for mutually beneficial cooperation."
Arista couldn't hide her bewilderment.
And skepticism.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn's Dominion?" she grimaced. "The same one whose admiral died less than a month ago? Honestly, after that news, my enthusiasm to cooperate with you has waned... The Holonet's been mocking you Republicans for a couple weeks now, saying without Thrawn you can't do anything, huddled in your metropole like womp rats..."
"As you know," Bravo One replied indifferently. "I won't bluster. But I'll say straight—after we take former Moff Harsh's Star Destroyer The Cauldron from him, we won't need you anymore. We'll rid the sector of his tyranny ourselves, and the locals, not immediately but will accept us as liberators."
Moff Harsh.
Seth Kabul's accomplice, who killed her father.
The man intent on seizing Kabul Industries for his own gain.
The scoundrel leading the Corporate Sector's sector takeover...
A man whom, like her uncle, conscience demanded be killed.
But circumstances didn't allow it.
"You may not consider yourselves Imperials, but you manipulate sentients' interests just like them," the woman replied with distaste.
"We took the best from the Empire," Bravo One stated. "If a person's prejudices hinder accepting the right and beneficial decision for him, we'll explain on a more accessible level. Believe me, when I set out on this mission, I thought I'd be working with a pragmatic young lady, not a child who's smart but poorly controls her emotions."
"You're mistaken," Arista raised her head proudly. "I control my emotions. And I agree to your proposal. You'll help me—I'll help you. But try to deceive me, and I'll stage a revolution across the whole sector, and your power won't last a month."
"If you could—you'd have done it already," Bravo One dismissed her threat. "Empty bravado doesn't interest me. Better to discuss more constructive aspects of our cooperation..."
Arista couldn't find anything to object to this sensible proposal.
***
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