Waking up brought him back to the times when long hyperspace routes were spent solely in the position of "found a third point of support – fell asleep." But this did not prevent the guy from waking up rested and ready to move mountains. Sitting on the edge of his bunk, Rick stretched with pleasure and began to warm up his neck and shoulders in this position, simultaneously recalling the base schematic in his head and looking around.
The Elder was present in the cabin – he sat with blaster parts spread out on the table, cleaning and assembling the weapon. At Rick's movement, he turned his head slightly, not tearing himself away from his task.
"A good sleep is the key to healthy nerves and an empty stomach, Captain Monroe. Breakfast is in the galley; your share has been left for you."
"Thank you," Rick said after finishing his warm-up, stood up, and stretched again. "Do we know the estimated arrival time?"
From his feelings, there were about five hours left, but it was better to know the exact time.
"Four and a half standard hours," the mercenary replied.
Half an hour's difference was an acceptable deviation from his internal clock. Throwing on a jacket, he zipped it up and put on his cap. The fewer people and non-people who saw his exact portrait, the better.
He returned already full and with a new handful of questions for the Elder.
The latter had finished assembling and was now working on a small hologram displaying the nodes and structures of the technical sector, making some notes from time to time.
Rick did the same in his head. Sitting opposite him, he brought up a hologram on his deck.
"Is there already a movement route?" the counter asked, looking closely at his work. If you know some technical conventions, even a few straight lines can tell a lot.
"Only rough outlines so far," the Elder looked back at him. "A good technician could greatly facilitate the group's work if he could hack into the station's network and find out where these rats have their fortified points. And if there are any hostages there who might be useful to us. If there are no hostages... I prefer not to expose my people to gunfire."
"That's exactly what I wanted to suggest," Rick brought up one of the technical sector areas on the screen. "Here, judging by the reinforced walls, is the station's core, and inside these bulkheads are the power conduits. In standard schematics of this type of station, there is one control room and two backup terminals. One in the hangar and one in the living sector. Judging by how the bulkheads are located, they are here and here."
Rick marked two points on his hologram:
"If we break through to the one in the hangar and give me a few minutes... I can take over control of some of the station's systems," he looked at the man questioningly.
"That would be very timely," the Elder nodded. "Let's see, where is it..."
He transferred the marks to his own schematic, slowly rotated it around its axis, marking key points that would allow him to keep the hangar under control.
"A couple of squads will be enough."
Rick nodded: if the Elder said they could handle it, then they should be able to, it wasn't his place to teach an experienced mercenary.
"In theory, I can de-energize all the lighting systems. For a while, until the emergency lighting comes on, we can gain an advantage if we have the appropriate equipment. And if there are no hostages..." Rick made a small gesture with his hand, "we can turn off the life support. Not as quickly, but effectively. And I have a question. Should the station remain intact in the end?"
"If there are no hostages, I'll just punch a hole in the hull and wait until there's no one left who can resist," the Elder said harshly. "I don't need them alive."
"Alright," Rick nodded, turning off the hologram. "Is there anything else I need to know?"
The question was direct, but the guy didn't use the Force to get an answer. It was enough to sense what the Elder would feel to understand if he was lying.
"Light armor doesn't protect well against heavy blasters," the Elder replied just as directly. "Don't rush headlong into gunfire, and everything will be fine."
Rick chuckled, giving the Elder a salute:
"Thank you for not doubting my sanity," he said with a touch of irony and began the final inspection of his equipment. The Elder was sincere, and that meant a lot. And most importantly, the fighter doubted his sanity.
"I doubt they'll welcome us with open arms," the Elder grumbled. "They know perfectly well what awaits them. And a cornered rat can attack even a rancor. Alright, so here's the deal... We don't shoot into this corner, otherwise, we'll have to storm the backup terminal in the living block. I'll go warn the captain."
The mercenary folded the hologram and headed for the exit.
From the very beginning of his career, the smuggler had learned a number of rules that helped him live and survive. Audacity. No one will give way, and if you want something, you have to be first, sometimes over the heads of rivals. Sarcasm. Everyone doesn't care what you are and who you are; don't pry into another's soul, don't let anyone into yours, and you'll live a little longer. At the beginning of a relationship, the person sitting opposite is always perceived as inexperienced, prone to foolishness.
And now...
The entire behavioral model he trusted, by which he lived, was cracking like a shell under the blows of a waking chick. What was crawling out of this egg, Rick didn't know. But he understood that the conclusion drawn from his life experience was incorrect. Based on the Elder's reaction.
"Don't mind company?" he asked, standing up. "It's useful to see who commands this vessel."
The mercenary paused at the door, thought for a second, and nodded.
"Go ahead. You'll see it during the operation anyway."
The bridge was just a few meters down the corridor. Knocking softly, the Elder waited for a response and pushed the door open.
"Cap, the new guy is going to crack the base network. Try not to damage this corner of the hangar; I'll show you on the schematic now."
"Captain Monroe?" the pilot's chair turned, and the unblinking gaze of a Falleen fixed on Rick. "Your talents are simply endless..."
"I'm just fulfilling the terms of the contract," the counter said immediately after overcoming a surge of surprise. It was, after all, the most convenient place to observe his abilities, some of which he didn't intend to show. He allowed himself to smile. "I didn't think you were going to participate personally."
"There are things I prefer to do personally," the reptilian shifted his gaze to the Elder. "Show me."
The mercenary unfolded the hologram, repeating Rick's explanations.
"I think a couple of squads will be enough to control the hangar. Especially if the element of surprise works."
"No 'ifs'," whistling notes again slipped into the Falleen's voice. "I remember. You may be dismissed."
Rick turned and headed back to the room. The presence of the Falleen here, if not complicating the task, certainly didn't make it easier.
"Does he often participate in such operations?" the guy asked the Elder.
"Twice in my memory," the mercenary replied, adjusting the group's plans. "It seems someone owes him a lot here..."
"Interesting," Rick said, pondering whether someone really owed him, or if the Falleen had found something very interesting for himself. And whether he would have to... However, that "have to" was the most extreme option, and he didn't want to think about it until the time came. Now he needed to focus on the present.
As soon as the passengers had recovered from the pirate attack, a new flash tore through space. Someone appeared in response to the distress signal.
It quickly became clear that they were not rescuers. They didn't conduct searches. They breached the airlock door, immediately patched the hole with a plaster that was then pierced by a flexible hose nozzle. Sleeping gas was released into the yacht's air.
They needed live cargo. And preferably unharmed...
Hylan woke up lying on the floor. His clothes were still on him, but his pockets were empty. Others lay nearby – fellow unfortunates. The darkness was barely dispelled by the faint light of the ceiling fixture. No furniture was visible. Walls, floor, ceiling. Motionless bodies.
To be completely honest, Hylan hadn't liked this flight from the start. He didn't particularly like sudden company, and on a passenger ship, even a yacht, it was hard to avoid. And things hadn't gone well on Corellia itself; he hadn't even managed to get a license to hunt the local panther with poisonous claws. A shame, it would have been a good trophy. But is it about trophies now?
Slavers – and judging by everything, the yacht had been captured by them – they hardly suspected who exactly had fallen into their hands. And Hylan wasn't going to report it. Firstly, he didn't want to feel even more indebted to the House. Secondly, he had never been captured before. The situation itself was excitingly extreme, and Solka felt a smile spread across his face. Undoubtedly, he would have more to tell his friends. Especially if he could get out of this mess on his own.
For now, he should look around. Which Hylan did.
There were about two dozen prisoners. Some began to moan, moving unconsciously. Others were still motionless. Like Hylan, they only had their clothes left. And there were only men here.
The deck trembled underfoot, and the echo of a dull thud went through the bulkheads.
Or an explosion.
Well, it could be worse. One should be philosophical about things that didn't directly depend on him, Hylan. The thought that he was on a ship only occurred to him now. In a building, if there was solid ground underfoot, there wouldn't be such noise. And you can't escape from a ship easily. At least, not beyond the hull.
Carefully and unhurriedly, Hylan stretched, checking his stiff muscles, carefully moved his arms and legs, and tried to stand up. He could have used a drink – after all these sleeping gases and stunners, his throat was terribly dry – but he hadn't seen any water.
Standing up wasn't entirely without problems, but he managed. He was hardly swaying. He felt a little nauseous and his cramped muscles tingled, so he had to lean against the wall. Hylan slowly looked around in search of the coveted liquid. No matter how monstrous the slavers were, they couldn't have left their cargo without water, could they? And indeed. In the far corner of the room, a sanitary block was found. It seemed to be an emergency one, but even that was enough. Limping over to it, Solka got water and drank for a long time with pleasure. Then he wiped his face. It felt a little better, and he felt almost human. Almost alive. It was time to look around more carefully. Not that he thought those who had captured them would be complete idiots and leave air vents open, or even worse, the entrance door, but who knows? In general, before setting traps, he should get acquainted with the area.
The area looked bleak and dilapidated. The plastic on the walls had peeled off in places and hung in tatters. Two rings were screwed into the wall, one above the other. Two more rings on the opposite side. The door responded with complete indifference to attempts to open it.
Poking the door, Hylan shrugged, not expecting anything else. He paid a little more attention to the peeling pieces of plastic trim, trying to pry them harder. After that, he began a more thorough examination of the ring-shaped brackets. The lighting was dim; from a distance, something could be missed.
Behind him, a sheet of plastic crashed down with a noise, revealing the lattice structures of the bulkhead.
The lower ring, the size of a fist, was at chest level. The second was slightly higher.
After examining the entire structure, Solka grunted thoughtfully. The room strongly resembled a hall for playing ball, severely damaged by time. At least, a net of appropriate size could be tied to these rings. Apparently, they were not on a ship after all. For a ship, such a non-target expenditure of volume would be unacceptable. An asteroid? Possibly.
In any case, Hylan could not afford to sit idly. Examining the grate, he tried to shake it. Useless. Just in case, he went around the room for a second time, already looking for some kind of lever. He tried to unscrew the ring. Then the other three. It was difficult without tools.
One of the rings, though tight, yielded to attempts to twist it out of the wall. The only lever could be the faucet mixer, if he could wrench it from its mounting without flooding the entire room.
There was nothing else to do anyway. Settling comfortably near the ring that he had managed to persuade, Hylan began to persuade it further. It was a load, after all. Tying it to his belt, he could make a flail. And that was already a weapon. If he was lucky, and someone came in alone... He couldn't count on luck, but it was better to have an improvised weapon than none at all.
After several tight turns, the ring suddenly gave way and moved more easily. It turned out to be seated on a pin about thirty centimeters long.
Twisting the ring, Hailan pulled out the resulting construction and decided that it was even better this way. It wouldn't make a flail. Unlike a mace. Or a lever. Inserting the pin into the next ring, and using it as a lever, he began to twist it as well. He didn't need a second one for himself. But there were many people in the hall. Perhaps soon the rest would come to their senses, especially since they had been stirring for a long time.
With the tool, things went more cheerfully. By the time the scrawny aristocrat had the second club in his hands, several prisoners were already trying to sit up. Not all of them succeeded, but the commotion stirred up the others.
"Guys, how are you doing?" Hailan said quietly, not addressing anyone in particular.
"Are you alive? There's water in the corner. And, if anyone has already recovered, help unscrew the rest of the pins."
Rick spent the rest of the time gathering his things, performing a final check and diagnostics of his armor, and by the time the ship was supposed to exit hyperspace, he was fully prepared, awaiting orders from the Elder. He also had to rethink his strategy. The mercenaries might not understand who they were going into battle with. But not a single movement, not a single glance would escape this scaly one.
Fifteen minutes before the scheduled time, the intercom in the cabin came to life. A familiar voice with a hissing undertone invited everyone to the cargo hold.
The squad, dozing with their gear clutched to them, woke up, quickly equipped themselves, and headed for the exit.
Rick followed the others in armor that was not yet activated: it was quite possible that its operational time would not be enough for the entire operation, which meant they needed to be as economical as possible with the batteries.
In the cargo hold, the group quickly broke into squads, fell silent, and looked at the Elder.
"As I've already informed you, the operational plan has changed," the mercenary began.
"We'll exit under the ID of one of the suppliers and approach. Before they figure out what's what, the first thing to enter the hangar will be a torpedo, then us. Monroe will take control of the systems, we'll cover him, Roy, your squad holds the hangar."
The Zabrak nodded.
"The rest – control the transports in the hangar, if anything survives, and our ship. Any questions?"
Rick helpfully remained silent. Although he was curious where they got the ID from, and what guarantees there were that the torpedo wouldn't blow up the terminal. But… If something went wrong, he would improvise. That was all.
The group had no questions. For the remaining time until arrival, the fighters checked their gear for the tenth time and told stories, glancing at Rick. A newcomer always arouses interest, and this one was also a protégé of the head of the local emergency department. And, as it turned out, a slicer. A useful кадр.
The arrival was marked by a slight jolt – the transport entered space and began to brake.
"Prepare yourselves..."