The man walking down the corridor toward Felix broke into a grin as soon as the Imperial looked up from reading his datapad and rose from the plush seat—a chair so luxurious and comfortable it was practically a bribe in itself.
— Moff Ferrus, — the commercial director of Cygnus Spaceworks addressed him in a tone so cordial as to be almost suspicious, greeting his old acquaintance. — You've finally come out of that backwater of yours?
— Yes, — the governor of the Morshdine sector replied curtly. — Managed to get away for a bit.
— No doubt, like the rulers of other Imperial Remnants, you're here for our products? — the Cygnus rep asked with a smug smile.
— I doubt talking business in the waiting area is the best approach, — Ferrus said.
— Of course, of course, — the man snorted, tapping his badge to the ID panel beside the old-fashioned double wooden doors, inlaid with precious ornamentation—remnants of former greatness and wealth, when the Galactic Empire had been a major client. — If you've got the credits, why wouldn't we?
An audible click signaled the door unlocking, and the moff silently pulled the handles toward himself. The panels didn't budge.
— Other way, — the shipbuilding rep snickered.
Ignoring the jab, Felix slipped inside the lavishly appointed office, striding past the overly cheerful host.
— May I bring you anything? — crooned the rather overly made-up and garishly painted secretary, whose cosmetics glistened in an unflattering way. The entire time Ferrus had spent in the reception area, she had silently ignored him, as though the moff was simply invisible. Then again, now that the Empire was neither their main nor sole customer, folks at Cygnus could afford that kind of haughty attitude. They now "ruled the roost," setting the prices for their wares—which, with the collapse of the Galactic Empire, had also become available on the civilian market.
— No need, — said the executive director. — The moff won't be here long, and I've already eaten.
Slamming the door behind him, the man, still wearing that condescending grin, walked the length of the office, humming something under his breath, clearly enjoying the fact that Ferrus was feeling slightly ill at ease among the large-scale models of warships and technologies produced by the company, as well as the decor of expensive natural wood. Or maybe he thought the huge rug, woven from the wool of some rare animal and covering the entire floor, made the moff uncomfortable?
Sitting down in a luxurious leather chair, the commercial director ran his fingers across a keyboard set into the desktop. A faint hum sounded, seeming to come from every wall in the room.
— Precautionary measure, — the Cygnus man explained, ceasing to smile like a smug idiot. — Ferrus, you really shouldn't have come here in person. Cygnus still does small shipments to the Remnants, sure, but half the people here still remember how the Empire lured away our best engineers and shipbuilders to Sienar. And you're not strong enough anymore to force us to "politely keep quiet."
— I wasn't exactly expecting a warm welcome, — Felix snorted. — If that's the case, why didn't you blast my cruiser to pieces the moment I dropped out of hyperspace?
— Because no one quite believes the rumors that you're no longer doing the Ubiqtorate's bidding, — the commercial director spat through his teeth. — You know that old saying: "Once you sell yourself to Intelligence, your backside belongs to them forever."
— It's hardly worth worrying about anymore, — the moff replied coolly. — And I didn't exactly have much say in which sector I governed.
— The gossip says otherwise, — the director sneered. — Word is you were cozy with some Ubiqtorate gal…
— Let's talk business, shall we? — Ferrus suggested. The other man gave a scornful chuckle.
— Did your new masters throw you some money? — he asked. — My, you have such generous overlords…
— Sometimes I wonder if you and I were really such good friends, — Felix remarked, leaning back in his chair.
— You did run off with my girlfriend, if you recall, — the office's owner reminded him. — And then you talk about friendship?
— You know very well she only jumped into my bed because she caught you in the sack with her best friend, — Ferrus retorted, not missing a beat.
— Hardly her best friend, — the "Cygnus man" grimaced. — And not such a close friend at that…
— Could we move on to business? — Ferrus proposed.
— You've gotten so dull, living in Morshdine, — the commercial director sighed dramatically. — Fine. Let's hear it—what do you need?
— Plenty of things, — Felix replied, smiling as he watched the greedy spark light up in the former classmate's eyes. — Depends what you have available and what you're willing to produce for us.
— Intriguing, you rascal, — his old pal snorted. — Alright, I'll cut to the chase. Some of our production lines are idle, since nobody but the Empire wants certain categories of merchandise.
— Not even the Hutts? — the moff asked in surprise.
The Cygnus Star Empire sat along the Oktos route in the Mid Rim—a region spanning a handful of inhabitable systems a few parsecs across. Because it was so close to Hutt Space, most of the hyperspace routes that passed through the star system led straight into territory run by those bloated slugs—crime lords who shunned civilized laws. Historians say that in ancient times, this region belonged to the Hutts, but eons ago it was given over to some galactic warlord who then colonized it with humans. Possibly so; that might have happened thousands of years ago. That warlord was long since destroyed, his empire torn apart, but the population of the Cygnus Star Empire, deep within which lay the headquarters and manufacturing facilities of Cygnus Spaceworks, continued in memory of their grand past to use designations in the old Tionese language—rather than Basic or High Galactic. Hence the quaint, archaic names for their fighters and shuttles: Tetas, Lambdas, Alphas…
— The Hutts have plenty of ships in their own fleet, — the executive director explained. — They do buy a few hundred assorted craft per month, but that's about it. As before, our main wholesale buyers are you Imperials.
— You used to wear the Imperial uniform yourself, remember, — the moff remarked.
— I had the good sense to resign in time and go into commercial work, — his former classmate replied. — Otherwise, I might be in your position now, with some arrogant fop breathing down my neck.
— You have no idea how right you are, — the moff murmured. Had he known that this was the man occupying that post, he might have sent one of his secretaries in his place. Evidently the old commercial director with whom they'd done business was gone. However, Felix had no intention of letting his ignorance show. — So—tell me what's for sale.
— Same as always, — the Cygnus man shrugged, handing him a datapad loaded with price lists. — The Lambda passenger shuttles and Sentinel landing craft sell on the civilian, Imperial, and now even the Republic markets. Our Genon-IV ion engines are doing well…
— The same ones fitted on Imperial Star Destroyers? — Ferrus clarified, fully aware of the answer but preferring to play the "long game" to gauge the other's reaction.
— The very same, dear moff, — six years earlier, that smug grin would have been wiped off his face by a few stormtrooper fists jammed down his throat. — If you've forgotten, four of them are mounted on the aft of every Imperial, as either backup or sublight engines.
— Right between the three big Kuat "Destroyer-I's," — Ferrus said with a smile.
— Doesn't bother us who Kuat sells to, — the commercial director said with a shrug. — We get paid either way—both for delivering finished engines and from the license royalties on previous sales.
— Right, you sold those licenses and production lines throughout the Empire at one point, — Ferrus said absently, scrolling through the list.
— Fat lot of good it did us, — the director sneered. — Only one of those license lines remains operational in Imperial territory—Bilbringi.
— Don't the New Republic folks buy your engines? — Felix frowned. — They've got Destroyers too.
— Well… — the Cygnus man drawled, — Kuat Drive Yards still holds one license to produce Genon-IV, and they use it extensively. Meanwhile, the rest of the licenses we voided, so now the New Republic either buys Genons from Kuat—netting us a hefty share—or directly from us—also our profit.
— They're not continuing the old Imperial licenses? — Ferrus asked in surprise.
— That's the kicker, — the director said with a grin. — Once Sienar lured our best employees away, we drew up extremely tight new contracts. So when the New Republic seized the factory lines once belonging to the Empire and building our engines under license, our legal department filed a couple hundred lawsuits in that "most honest, fair, and incorruptible court" in the galaxy, asking them: "On what basis do you, the New Republic, lay claim to equipment and licenses that we issued to the Galactic Empire?"
— I can imagine their faces, — Felix smiled involuntarily. — Bet that cost you a fortune.
— We went through all the appeals, — the director said. — Must've spent a couple of billion on bribes, but we won a decent payout from the New Republic and repossessed over a dozen lines for our engines and hardware. A decent investment.
— No argument there, — Ferrus agreed. — I see the "Nemesis" line is still out of demand?
— Would you pay four and a half million credits for a ship with a couple launchers and a single cannon? — the Cygnus man retorted.
— Basically a super-sized fighter, — the moff shot back. — No, of course not. I've got better ways to spend funds.
— When you have them, — the commercial director sneered. — But our 4K7 engines sell nicely, notice?
— The Empire has always loved and treasured the Xg-1 Alpha Assault Gunboat, — Felix muttered, noting mentally that the company had raised the price per ship on that model—though none of its specs had changed, not even the hyperdrive (still the same Cygnus HD7, which can store up to four sets of hyperspace coordinates). That might be the craft's only real weakness. And now Cygnus Spaceworks demanded one hundred fifty thousand credits per unit, rather than one hundred twenty-five thousand. Then again, these robust craft, armed with twin lasers, twin ion cannons, and two launchers capable of firing concussion missiles, proton torpedoes, and even anti-ship missiles or bombs, remained rare in the galaxy. A multi-role starfighter that a single pilot could handle. The manufacturer's decision to call it an "assault gunboat" meant little. Some people call corvettes "cruisers" just because the hull lengths are comparable.
Xg-1 Assault Gunboat.
— Only people seldom buy them, — the Cygnus man sniffed, half complaining, half sarcastic.
— The price is outrageously high, — Felix said. — Compare it to the TIE Defender…
— Why cling to those outdated Sienar fighters? — the commercial director sighed. — Or is Lianna not already draining your coffers, turning up its nose?
— They're not shipping anything, remember, — Moff Ferrus said. — Smuggling…
— I suspect we'll soon hear that gallant Imperial defenders are forced to fly half-baked Sorosuub designs or something—maybe "Razor Birds."
— They canceled those, as I recall, — the governor noted. — They set up some manufacturing lines, but never scaled up for mass production.
— Exactly, — the commercial director confirmed. — They produced only a test batch—barely that. They had major technical and bureaucratic hurdles. The Imperial Weapons Oversight Commission kept stalling approvals, imposing demands, etc. In the end, the cost for each prototype soared toward half a million credits.
— That's a bit of an exaggeration, I recall it was around two hundred thousand, with the plan that series production would reduce it to eighty or ninety thousand, right? But Sorosuub missed the boat since they could never finalize the weapons loadout with the Empire, so the result was under-armed—just two heavy lasers with a range of about twenty-five units, plus missile launchers with maybe seven or ten units' range. Overpriced and not exactly high firepower. Possibly the project could have been saved if Sullust's own defense forces had shown interest and bought a hundred or two "Razor Birds," but that never happened. I still don't get why the Empire didn't just buy out the design and start manufacturing. They could've refined it to meet standards, giving them a proprietary craft…
— It hardly fits Imperial weapons programs, — Felix objected, eyeing one of the catalog images. — A standard TIE fighter's only about six meters long, whereas the Razor Bird is… what, twenty-five meters from nose to exhaust and an equivalent wingspan…
— Hey, just a suggestion, — the Cygnus man said. — The Sullustans, I hear, would part with the entire design—blueprints, production equipment—for maybe two million or so. We're talking real salvage prices…
— Are you getting a cut or something? — Felix frowned. — You're pitching it so hard it's suspicious.
— I'm not hiding it, — the other man laughed. — I stand to make a little commission if it ever goes through.
"Sure, sure," Ferrus thought. "You must be desperate if you want me to adopt that raw, obviously underpowered fighter."
— Why not enlighten me on this new item, then, — Felix turned his datapad screen toward him and tapped a listing. — I don't recall Cygnus Spaceworks making missile boats.
— Oh, that? — the commercial director glanced at the advertisement for a craft. — Right, we did produce it at one point. Not anymore, though—it's a really specialized design. The XM-1 missile boat or "rocket boat," if you like. Actually, it was developed by our engineers in tandem with some high-ranked Imperial officer.
XM-1 Missile Boat.
— Zaarin, perhaps? — Ferrus named one of the Empire's outstanding commanders, under whose direction many starfighter designs had emerged.
— Couldn't say—I've only been in this position a couple of years, — the moff noted that the man's pompous manner seemed to slip a bit. So he wasn't entirely "corporate" yet; he was still trying to keep up appearances. He might not realize that if you wear a mask for too long, it fuses with your face. — I was curious about the design and its background, thought we might offer it for sale, but no one was interested. The story we pitch to potential buyers is quite splendid. I pieced it together from old staff rumors myself, — he boasted. — Put me on the spot, it's pretty good marketing, if I do say so…
— Surprise me, — Felix said, leaning back. — But please, no fiction. Whatever you guys claim is what I want to hear.
— You mentioned the traitorous Grand Admiral Zaarin, right? — the office's owner said. — Word is the missile boat was intended to fight his TIE Defenders.
— It's only got one gun, — the moff pointed out, referencing the specs. — That'd struggle to take on even a TIE Fighter, let alone a Defender.
— But it has four launchers, — the commercial director countered. — That's twenty to twenty-four missiles—be they concussion, ship-killers, or bombs. Meanwhile, your darling TIE Defender can carry at most sixteen warheads and generally smaller yield.
— So, details… please continue.
— Anyway, about half a year or a year before Endor—maybe right after Hoth, I forget—a peculiar Imperial admiral showed up at our offices. Or maybe right as Zaarin's rebellion began, I'm not quite sure. Doesn't matter—the point is, it was around that time.
— Peculiar how?
— He was an alien, — the man practically purred. — Looked mostly human, but had blue skin, red eyes… Some half-breed from a Duros or something…
Felix forced a smile at the joke, while behind clenched teeth thinking, "I'd love to see you say that to Thrawn's face, you worthless pile."
— He and our engineers used the Xg-1 gunboat as a base, fulfilling a special directive, — the man went on. — The alien wanted a reliable countermeasure against the unbelievably fast TIE Defenders. He also wanted a craft sure to cripple capital ships. And so, the XM-1 was born, focusing on missiles and torpedoes rather than lasers or plasma cannons, like standard Sienar or Incom designs. The interesting part is they installed a sublight booster system, so-called SLB, letting the boat accelerate to crazy speeds in a few seconds.
— How fast, exactly? — Felix asked.
— One hundred twenty-two MGLT, — the other man said, watching Ferrus's face go slack in shock. — Surprised? TIE fighters do maybe eighty MGLT; TIE Interceptors around a hundred ten. Not so impressive now, right?
— Remind me, how fast is the Alpha gunboat?
— Ninety, — the Cygnus man replied. Ferrus nearly shouted with excitement. That was it—a sublight drive assembly ideal for the Scimitar project. Or for any other starfighter, for that matter. Strange that Thrawn, sending him on this mission, hadn't pointed out the missile boat's existence, perhaps wanting to test whether the moff was cunning enough to find side opportunities in addition to the main task. Hutt's eyes, what luck! He had to get the designs for that booster system at all costs—without letting this pompous jerk suspect that there was any special interest in the missile boat. — Sure, the TIE Defender can hit a hundred fifty-five MGLT, but both it and the XM-1 share about the same acceleration profile of 21 MGLT/s. The boat's missiles, however, move faster and are more deadly.
— If it's that great, they'd have put it into service, — Felix said skeptically.
— Perks don't come free, — the commercial director sighed. — The sublight booster is great, but using it causes severe overloads on the power system, basically zero maneuverability while the booster is engaged. But that loss of agility doesn't really matter, since not even a missile can catch a craft at that top speed. In combat, the booster made life easier for pilots on their approach to the target, letting them zip right through defending fighters, fire missiles, and peel away. The SLB avoided the worst casualties bombers usually take from capital ship guns firing at longer ranges or from enemy fighters that break up an attack run.
— I asked for no marketing fluff, remember, — Felix realized the man was reciting leftover sales pitches for unsold stock.
— Sorry—force of habit, — he waved a hand. — The single cannon is basically an afterthought. Like ramming. As far as we know, in its first battles, it really took Zaarin's pilots by surprise. Then we gave it a tractor-beam projector like on the Defender, and that made things extra "fun" for the rebels. Sienar even sent a couple of spies to us, since the boat threatened the prestige of the TIE Defender and Avenger. Our security caught a few infiltrators from the Rebellion—pardon, the New Republic. Word is their RZ-1 A-wing interceptors might get turned into scrap. We even have some recordings of ace Maarek Stele blowing enemies apart…
— Maarek Stele? — Felix asked. — I think I remember… an ace pilot with more medals than half the moffs?
— Jealous, eh? — the Cygnus man chuckled.
— Not really, — the moff admitted. — I prefer a desk job. It gets me everything I want…
— Which is why you showed up in the Cygnus Star Empire aboard a Neutron Star? You couldn't find an even older relic?
"That relic, after rearmament, can slug it out about as well as a Star Destroyer," Ferrus reminded himself. Not to mention that the moff's flagship had been refitted with a starfighter wing comparable to an Imperial's, plus partial upgrades to turbolasers. Nik Reyes did good work turning it from a junky Rendili design into a real warship—though it cost practically all of Ferrus's personal savings.
— Seems the boat isn't bad, — the moff said with a note of caution. — The only shortcoming is poor maneuverability?
— And the lack of the usual twin laser cannon, — the company man reminded him. — But it's got a ton of missiles and a terrific booster—vital for quick strikes and retreats. Out of old friendship, I'll warn you though, not every rookie pilot can handle it. Only elite veterans or aces tested the prototypes—definitely not some second-rate cadets.
— You're hiding something, — Felix stated confidently. — Those flaws would only mean you'd give the craft to your best of the best, the way some Imperial Remnants do with rare TIE variants.
— Some Remnants did buy them, — the Cygnus man admitted. — We sold two to five squadrons total. No one else has inquired since—no maintenance or new purchases. So it's dead stock, requiring top-tier pilots like Shtel or Baron Fel. Though Fel would sooner rise from the grave than trade in his beloved TIE fighter.
— Anything's possible, — Felix intoned. — So that's all you can offer?
— That's not enough for you? — the director asked in surprise. — We've covered the top sellers. If you want, you can check out the Lambdas and Sentinels. Those remain big with Imperials. They're even ditching the Alphas now—too pricey, they say, plus Imperial pilots aren't used to missiles. And let's face it, they're spooked by the sight of a fighter with real wings instead of solar panels.
— Everyone has their quirks, — the moff said diplomatically, pausing for a moment. — So you're closing down Alpha production?
— Shut it two months ago, — the old classmate said gloomily. — We've got about fifteen hundred of them gathering dust in the warehouses, leftover from the previous director who mass-produced tens of thousands after Endor. Figured the Imperial Remnants would flock to us once Lianna declared independence. We nearly went bust. Ended up pushing everything on the civilian market just to stay afloat.
— So that's when you sued the New Republic? — Ferrus surmised. The other man just stared, resentment flashing in his eyes. So that was the real story: things weren't so rosy for Cygnus Spaceworks after all.
— Know what? Maybe I can help, — Felix said.
— How so? — the commercial director asked skeptically. — Your sector's never been flush with credits. Or maybe your Ubiqtorate overlords gave you a grant?
— They say, — Ferrus said, casually tossing a credit chip with a line of zeros onto the desk before his former classmate, — that if you don't insult the customers, they'll drop a lot of money in your shabby little company.
— Don't confuse our brand of service with bootlicking, — the commercial director said stiffly. He quickly scanned the chip to see if it was legitimate, then swallowed hard. — So… about that help?
— Nice figure on that chip? — he asked the man, who'd gone pale.
— A billion and a half New Republic credits, — again he swallowed. — Who wouldn't like that?
— Someone not willing to sell an old pal his shuttered production lines, — the moff replied, leaning back and planting his polished boots on the desk to show off the carved tread. — You say you have a dozen full-cycle lines for Genon-IV engines, that you've finished with Alphas, and those missile boats are out of production?
— Right, — greed flickered in the rep's eyes. Like so many big companies, top brass made big profit from these kinds of deals.
— Or should I turn to Sorosuub and scrounge up some Razor Birds? — Ferrus mused aloud, gazing at the ornate molding.
— Why would you want that junk? — his counterpart made a face. — Razor Birds are used by three major pirate gangs. Want your sector to be associated with pirates?
— You'd get a cut of that deal, — Ferrus pointed out, narrowing his eyes.
— I also get a cut from any Cygnus Spaceworks deal, — the old friend reminded him.
— So we can help each other, — the moff said, enjoying the role reversal. — And I'd appreciate quality products at major discounts.
— Can't promise you "major," — the other man quickly interjected. — Although if you buy our other items in bulk…
— I'll take every Xg-1 you have in storage, — said Felix. The commercial director's eyes widened at the potential profit. That dusty, unsold stock could net them around one hundred fifty million if sold at a hundred thousand each. — But only at a hundred thousand apiece.
— They go for one-fifty, — the retort sounded weak.
— Yes, but that's unsold stock, — Ferrus smiled. — Don't forget you have to store and maintain them, and they might've deteriorated after all this time. So first, I want your specialists to check and fix them. I need them with full fuel tanks, working systems, plus three full weapon loads each.
— That'll be pricey…
— You used to supply each one with ten loads, at 125k per craft, for the Empire, — the moff said sharply. — Don't forget, I came here with the credits, but I can leave if you prefer.
— Fine, — a slight smile betrayed the other man's relief. Sure, a profit of a hundred thousand per craft times fifteen hundred was still a huge payday for them. — Anything else? Shuttles, transports?
— We'll talk about that later, — the moff waved airily. — Ah, friendship… how not to help an old friend? How many full-cycle production lines for assault gunboats do you still have?
— One, — he clarified after the moff indicated he meant "full-cycle." — We only ever had one after we converted the second for missile boats. Converting it back would be too expensive. It's basically dead weight. Too pricey to restart.
— Moving on, then, — Ferrus said casually. The other man squinted at him. — I'm willing to save you the embarrassment of telling customers about that "wonderful" missile boat and gunboat by featuring them in your brochures. Nobody buys them anyway, right? I'll take the full-cycle production lines, all the technical documentation, plus general licenses to produce those crafts and their parts.
— That'll cost a fortune, — his friend tried to raise the price, all the while stroking the credit chip lovingly.
— Not more than we're spending to buy those fifteen hundred Xg-1 we just discussed, — Ferrus stated firmly.
— So you're at four hundred fifty million total? — the man asked hopefully.
— Three hundred, — Felix corrected him. — One-fifty for both lines, with all the supporting materials and the general licenses.
— The scrap metal alone is worth more! — the man burst out.
— Then scrap it, — Ferrus shrugged. — But oh wait, that would cost you even more. A little predicament, no? It's not being used but you're hesitant to dismantle it because maybe, just maybe someone will buy. At the same time, there's no real demand…
— You seem to want them, — the commercial director grumbled.
— Strictly because I'm your friend, — Felix smiled. — I'm hoping for good business relations between me and your company now and in the future.
— So you want to build them yourself and not buy from us? — the other man asked sarcastically. Yet from his words and manner, Felix knew he'd won—the company needed the credits in widely accepted currency. Thrawn didn't want such huge sums lying around anyway, but for buying these lines that the Empire needed, it was perfect. Odds were it'd be their only chance to land them.
— Even if so, let's just say I only need a third of the crafts I'm buying from you, — Felix said. — The rest, plus the technology, I'm taking just to make sure you and your management know who helped you out in tough times.
— Right, like we'd forget, — the other man snorted. — Let me guess, next you'll want a Genon-IV engine line?
— With a general license, same as before, — Ferrus said pleasantly.
— So you don't want to pay us royalties? — the commercial director asked, narrowing his eyes.
— I've read your contract, — the moff sighed. — Royalties for each engine, quarterly fees, half-year fees… Considering I might produce just one or two engines a year, it's ridiculous to pay millions at those intervals. Especially if it's easier for me to just handle my own repairs.
— You could've just bought them from us, — the director insisted.
— And haul them all the way through the Frontier? — Ferrus scoffed. — No thanks. I don't want the New Republic intercepting us in hyperspace, confiscating the merchandise. Better to keep quiet in my own sector, filling budget holes, not ferrying bulky engine equipment across hundreds of sectors and a couple of front lines. I'm sure you have a line or two idle—there are fewer and fewer Star Destroyers every day. Soon they'll be extinct. So I'm doing you a favor, ridding you of more dead stock…
— Seven hundred million, not a credit less! — the commercial director blurted out.
— So you want a total of a billion… — Ferrus murmured. — That's quite a sum…
— You could just walk away with the gunboat and missile boat lines, — his friend suggested. — And haul the engines through Hutt Space, like all the other Remnants do. Ciutric Hegemony, Pentastar Alignment…
— If I can't have Genon-IV, I might as well not bother, — Ferrus said. — This big purchase is a "symbol" of cooperation, not a desire to throw money around. If you won't sell me the Genon-IV lines, I'd rather keep a handful of medium cruisers for repairs at Loranar's shipyards in the Antimeridian sector.
— Don't you have your own yard? — the commercial director asked, recalling.
— Not anymore, — the moff lied, hoping it wouldn't be noticed. Soon the cloak fields would be tested and the station hidden. — It broke apart maneuvering in orbit. Two sections survived—that's all. Holes in the hull, broken machinery. You know… — he pretended to have an idea. — I'll spend that billion here. But along with everything we discussed—general licenses, a full set of documents, the complete production lines for both the gunboat, the missile boat, and the ion engines, plus fifteen hundred gunboats—I want a hundred Lambdas or Sentinels. Sound good?
— It's like you're preparing an army, — the man said suspiciously.
"No, just we have loads of Clone Wars junk to refurbish, and we're out of Imperial shuttles," Ferrus thought.
— Lambdas and Sentinels aren't exactly warships, — he pointed out. — They're for ferrying passengers and cargo between systems—regular charters or scheduled flights…
The other man hesitated a long while. So long that Felix reached for the credit chip to take it back. But the commercial director's hand quickly snatched it away.
— Deal, — he said. — I'll need a couple days to push it through the board, but I don't foresee major issues. Everyone loves money, whereas cluttered hulls and stockrooms that could be used for more profitable shuttles and transports are less appealing. Just know—if I need a favor, you're in my debt.
— Agreed, — Felix nodded. — But there's one condition.
— They'll definitely fire me over this… — the commercial director lamented. — What else do you need, a Lambda line?
— Why would I, if I can buy them from you anytime? — Ferrus asked, feigning surprise. — I just had a crazy thought—do you have staff who know how to run that equipment? Because I've been having trouble finding qualified personnel…
— No way, take that up with the Hutts, — the man cursed. — Trying to open a branch of our company in Morshdine behind our back, using our staff, our tech?
— Calm down, my friend, — Felix smiled. — I had no intention of turning my sector into a competitor for Cygnus Spaceworks.
— Then we're done here, — the commercial director said, still wary. — If you need workers, go see the Hutts. For your leftover five hundred million, they'll sell you tens of thousands of top-skill slaves, maybe more…
— A fine idea! — Ferrus flashed a reserved grin.
Inwardly, he chided himself: Right, slaves—the cheapest labor possible, forcibly taken, yearning for a better life. Grant them freedom and fair wages, and your shortage of skilled civilians to run the new tech is solved.
He sighed. "Imperial thinking is so stagnant, to forget the Hutt slave markets…" If only he'd thought to negotiate two lines for Genon-IV. Thrawn wouldn't be placing them in Morshdine anyway…
He wondered if his old classmate realized that with some fancy engineering, a bit of retooling, and sample units to reverse-engineer, you could produce standard destroyer-grade main engines (for Destroyer-I's) on a Genon-IV line. Or maybe that was knowledge possessed by that shipbuilder Ryan Zion at Yaga Minor, who never let it slip…
***
When Rukh finished speaking, silence hung oppressively in my quarters.
The former bodyguard was sitting relaxed across from me at the table, near Pellaeon, who was contemplatively chewing on his gray mustache. Grodin Tierce hovered behind me to the right in that red-and-black presence.
My thoughts buzzed like a disturbed hornet hive. The tension only grew, making it hard for each party to stay calm.
— This is the New Republic's doing, — I said, trying to break the silence.
— Any smuggler could have a retrofitted civilian craft, — Pellaeon ventured quietly.
— That's true, — I agreed. — But among the factions who know about Honoghr, the Empire wouldn't waste time on recon—they'd send a punitive fleet to bombard the planet from orbit. The Consortium would do the same if they wanted to punish the Noghri. Although they might capture a certain number of Noghri for themselves and leave immediately. Long covert ops with recon and infiltration aren't criminals' style, anyway: they prefer to carry out the job and flee before retribution. Our own forces have pulled out of Honoghr; I gave no order to return, and I see no reason for them to. That leaves the New Republic.
— But how would they learn where Honoghr is, Grand Admiral? — Rukh asked. — Even in your fleet, not many know my homeworld's location. Most high Imperial officers who did are long dead.
— Not all, — I countered, eyeing the ex–bodyguard. He shifted uncomfortably, then nodded in agreement:
— Emperor Palpatine.
— We've seen his agents before, — I said. — Since Palpatine's not openly revealing himself, they act discreetly. They don't realize the Noghri no longer support the New Republic—so to sabotage or preempt the Noghri's loyalty, they intend for someone else to strike first. The New Republic, which badly needs a public victory to make up for its recent chain of defeats, is perfect as that "someone else."
— I can't imagine the Republic collaborating with Palpatine's agents, — Pellaeon grumbled.
— Nonsense, Captain, — I sighed. — Palpatine's people are almost certainly using the NR in the dark. Otherwise, we'd have gotten word from our Coruscant agents of the Republic First Fleet mobilizing in the Core, ready to invade Deep Core. The NR would never openly ally with Palpatine or the Empire; that would destroy their reputation as the champions against Imperial tyranny.
— Yet General Solo cooperated with Admiral Rogriss to defeat Warlord Zsinj, — Pellaeon insisted. — That's widely known…
— A singular "one-off," — I continued. — Denied now by both sides. The ensuing scramble for Zsinj's territory is used by Coruscant as "proof" there was no real alliance. That's not the right angle, Captain.
— I'm just trying to gauge the threat, — Pellaeon clarified.
— The threat to "us"? — I repeated, giving my flagship's commander a sidelong look.
— Er… didn't the Noghri request our help? — Pellaeon stammered.
— Hardly, Captain, — I shook my head, looking at the subdued Rukh. — His story contained no evidence that the clan matriarchs authorized him to speak for the Noghri. This is his personal initiative.
After a pause, the bodyguard straightened in his seat. The uncertainty vanished from his posture as if it had never been there.
— The Grand Admiral is correct, Captain Pellaeon, — Rukh said. — I don't have the authority to speak for the Noghri. I left Honoghr a few days before my blade-brother relayed news of an unidentified scout. The matriarchs believe it was just a lost ship, so they're convinced there's no danger. But some clans, including mine, suspect an invasion. That's why I continued my journey to find you.
— Splendid, — Pellaeon muttered. — So we know Honoghr might be hit, but we can't go there uninvited for fear of angering them… If that's how the Noghri greet us, I'd prefer not to get involved. I had quite enough scares from Rukh showing up unannounced on my own destroyer…
— What did you hope to achieve, Rukh? — I asked, meeting the Noghri's eyes.
The gray-skinned humanoid didn't flinch. After a moment, he spoke softly:
— I hoped you would help my people, as you promised, Grand Admiral.
— That wasn't my question, — I clarified. — Why did you leave Honoghr in the first place?
Rukh blinked several times, never breaking eye contact…
— I wanted to join you, Grand Admiral, — he said. — You have many enemies, few friends, and you helped the Noghri by revealing the truth to them. Not all matriarchs are so blind as the ones ignoring your warning, believing the old Imperial base alone can repel any attack. Some clans are grateful and would serve again—not the Empire, but you. Yet they're bound by ancient laws…
— You know any Noghri who defies the matriarchs is an outcast, a traitor, — I said. — Fair game for the Death Commando squads.
— I do, — Rukh said hoarsely. — But I also know you can stop Palpatine and the vengeance he'll wreak on Honoghr. The least I can do is protect your life until you save Honoghr from destruction. I was able to deliver this warning that disaster is upon my people.
Well now… I wondered if the presence of Tierce complicated how either of them viewed each other. Probably a trivial curiosity. More pressing was how I should respond to Rukh's arrival, and what it implied.
— That was brave, Rukh, — I said. — To turn your back on your clan and the matriarchs because of what you believe is right… I'm pleased you've returned. And I appreciate your faith in me. You may go. Captain Pellaeon will arrange your old cabin if you'd like to settle there again.
— Thank you, Grand Admiral, — the Noghri said. — But first, I must know—do you intend to help Honoghr avoid another cataclysm? We've barely begun clearing the kholm-grass from our fields… War would finish our world off.
Again, he pinned his hopes on me, his unwavering gaze demanding an answer. My mind processed, searching for solutions…
— Captain Pellaeon, — I said, not breaking eye contact with Rukh. — Contact our Destroyers. Pull them from their current missions. Set a rendezvous in the Kessel sector.
— Sir? — Gilead's eyes went wide. — What about the trap at Lajnuri?
— In war, sometimes you must adapt your plans to protect allies, — I told him. — The Lajnuri trap is set—it'll spring without our presence, albeit less effectively.
After a pause, Pellaeon nodded.
— My thanks, Grand Admiral, — said the bodyguard. — I hope my people can repay you in kind.
Metal flashed in the gloom of my quarters, and I sensed my chair lurch backward as a crimson-black blur interposed itself, the vibropike leveled at the ex–bodyguard's throat…
— Stand down! — I roared, extricating myself from behind the Emperor's Guard, cursing myself for not seeing it coming. Tierce had ruined it!
Stepping aside, I took in the scene: Tierce's right hand gripped the pike aimed at Rukh's neck, his left hand pointed a blaster straight at the Noghri's forehead. The Noghri, in turn, held one of his throwing blades on the table, with the other in his left hand, aimed at a gap in the guard's armor. Each threatened instant death to the other. The Noghri pinned the vibrosword's blade aside from his throat, while Tierce's pike pressed at his neck.
— By the stars, what's going on?! — Pellaeon bellowed, leaping to his feet and backing away, eyes fixed on the impossible angles at which the Noghri twisted, blades in both hands. — This is a Star Destroyer, not a traveling circus!
A circus indeed. The Emperor's Guard vs. a Noghri… maybe I should order them to fight to the death so they don't keep scaring each other like that.
Wait, hold on. This must stem from Tierce's interrogation on Tangrene. That look in his eye…
— Easy, Captain, — I said, still watching the show. — Both of you, place your weapons on the desk. Now.
I'd considered calling them by name, but realized no matter who I singled out first, one of these proud professionals would take offense. Better to give the same order to both simultaneously.
— Sir, shall I summon a stormtrooper squad to toss them in separate cells? — Pellaeon asked quietly.
— That won't be necessary, Captain, — I said, noting how slowly Rukh and Tierce complied, never looking away from each other. — Well, since you're done testing each other's reflexes, you'll both take orders from Captain Pellaeon, who'll find you the grungiest compartment on the Chimaera for you to clean together.
— Grand Admiral? — Gilead said uneasily, while the pair continued their death glare. — The filthiest place would be the trash hold you told Kaine had a "molecular furnace."
— See, Captain, we just watched a little drama play out here, — I explained. — Rukh revealed a blade he brought as a token of returning to my service. Tierce moved first, thinking it was an attempt on my life, or so he'll claim. Rukh anticipated his move and blocked. Tierce pulled a blaster, Rukh pulled his own. Either kill the other and die in the process, or stand deadlocked. We got a front-row seat.
— So they're evenly matched, — Pellaeon snorted. — Grand Admiral, I never would've guessed.
"Neither would I if not for the smirk Tierce displayed after that interrogation," I thought to myself. And Noghri blades for oath ceremonies… that part I guessed, recalling Noghri's fondness for daggers.
— Still think we should hang them both, — Pellaeon grumbled.
— Absolutely, — I promised, not taking my eyes off the pair. — Next time they put personal pride above their professional duties, you may hang them from the Chimaera's antenna without asking me, Captain.
Rukh and Tierce broke off their silent stare-off to glance my way.
— The trash hold isn't going to clean itself, gentlemen, — I remarked calmly.
— As you wish, Grand Admiral, — Rukh said firmly.
— Order acknowledged, Grand Admiral, — Tierce's bass rumbled from beneath his helmet.
They scooped up their weapons and left, the tension crackling behind them. I had no doubt the trash hold would soon be spotless.
— If that's how the rest of the Noghri plan to "thank" us for our help, I've no interest in going there, — Pellaeon muttered, tugging his tunic straight.
— You weren't listening carefully, Captain, — I corrected, settling back into my chair. — Rukh came with a plea for assistance.
— Sure, but that's his personal whim. It'll be trouble if the matriarchs say they never needed it, — Pellaeon countered.
— Rukh's decision to rejoin me is personal, — I said, activating my computer. — Making him an outcast in his own people's eyes. No friendly bond can overturn that fundamental rule. I'd sooner expect Death Commandos to come after him than them encouraging him to contact us. But the news about a scout in-system, conveyed to a "traitor" via his brother? That's something the matriarchs did intentionally.
— But you said… — Pellaeon began.
— We still pretend ignorance, Captain, — I explained as the computer waited for me to start my tasks. — Some clans or all of them want to see if I'll stand by my word to come help Honoghr if necessary.
— Meaning they might be ready to serve us again? — Pellaeon asked.
— It means we've been given a chance to prove ourselves, Captain, — I clarified. — And we won't waste it. Might be our only shot to bring the Noghri back on board. In the present situation, I can't afford to ignore potential allies.
— Yes, sir, — the Chimaera's commander nodded. — And about our "lovely" pair—any further instructions?
— Indeed, Captain, — I said. — They either learn to cooperate as bodyguards, or I've no use for them. Keep them busy until we rendezvous with the fleet.
— So… more trash? — Pellaeon grinned vindictively.
— As much as possible, Captain, — I said, opening a new set of intel reports. — If they can't coordinate, feel free to hang them as you wanted. Now put me through to General Covell at Mount Tantiss.
— Will do, Grand Admiral, — Pellaeon answered, exiting my quarters.
***
Alex was whistling a jaunty tune—he couldn't recall if he'd heard it in a cantina in Anchorhead or Mos Eisley while on Tatooine—as he finished welding the laser cannon in place and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
— You realize slapping SFS L-s7.2 cannons from a base TIE Fighter onto a TIE Avenger is a mockery of design logic, right? — asked a voice behind the technician.
— Ah, Tomax, — the man turned to his coworker on this development project, who wore a black pilot's suit. — You know we don't have any spares of the four SFS L-s9.3 Avenger cannons. Judging by your scowl, something didn't go to plan?
— The flow stabilizer blew out, — said the commander of the Yatagan Squadron grimly. — Threw me around like a rabid bantha. Lucky it happened in vacuum—otherwise we'd be picking up the prototype in pieces!
He kicked a nearby coolant can in frustration, sending pungent fluid splattering across the hangar floor. Alex only just dodged the splash.
— The Scimitar prototype's intact? — Alex asked calmly.
— The Tangrene rescue guys will bring it in an hour, — the pilot replied. — Missing its port wing.
— Could've been worse, — noted the tech.
— Would be better if the engine had just blown! — Captain Bren exploded. — We've already used most of the time the Grand Admiral gave me for development. Now, not only do we have to fix the fuselage, we have to tear apart half the engine to figure out why the afterburner's failing!
He swiped his foot again, glowering at the floor. The frustration he'd built up was now evident, his voice tinged with the hurt any parent feels when their project fails.
— Not that bad, — Alex reassured him. — If it'd crashed, it'd be far worse…
— We've spent a week on the torsion strength calculations alone! — Bren ground his teeth. — And that's with an astromech doing half the work! So many other computations… The Scimitar can't hit the planned speed! As soon as we increase power output, the flow regulators desync, the craft shakes uncontrollably, and the wings tear off!
— This was just the first test. We still have fourteen days, — Alex said. — Once the ship's back, we'll review the damage and find a fix.
— We won't make the deadline, — the pilot sighed, his anger dissipating into resigned gloom. — We'll have to rework the entire power system, triple-check every section of the signals…
— Between the two of us, you're the pilot, I'm the mechanic, — Alex reminded him. — Don't rub in how tedious my daily tasks are, all right? I'm already dreaming about schematics at night.
— Right, but apparently you do have time to monkey with that junk TIE Avenger or something from the New Republic salvage, — Bren said scornfully, gesturing at the half-reconstructed Avenger near a second one.
— You expect me to sit around while you flitted about for five hours in orbit? — Alex retorted. — No, dear friend, you want to build a bomber superior to TIE, and I want to tinker with Avengers and Defenders.
— Don't forget the Avenger was developed by the traitor Zaarin, — Captain Bren grimaced.
— Couldn't care less if Vader himself built it, — Alex shrugged. — It's an interesting craft, with some design solutions we might adapt for standard TIEs or Interceptors, if it helps. Everyone wins, right?
— Sure, the fighter jockeys do, — the pilot sighed. — We bomber folks will still be stuck in slow crates and battered by flak. If only we could stabilize the power output so the regulator can handle full throttle…
— Hmm… — Alex mused. — So the problem's that a single ion drive can't give the surge needed for a fast approach, right?
— That was the whole idea, — Tomax reminded him. — Swift approach on target, bomb, and bail. But the engine doesn't want to sustain afterburn. It gradually builds power in the afterburn chamber, blows the stabilizers, and sends the craft into an uncontrollable spin.
Alex bit his lip. That was indeed a problem. The Scimitar's entire purpose was speed and armor. The twin ion engine idea for afterburn just didn't quite work…
— So either we install a standard engine and reduce missile/bomb capacity, — he recapped some design-phase ideas, — or cut down on fuel to reduce reactor output…
— Neither option works, — Tomax scowled. — Then we just end up with a TIE Bomber in a different shell.
— Agreed, a real dilemma, — the tech said sadly, glancing at the half-dismantled Avenger. — Fine, these exclusive "Zaarin designs" can wait. Let's go see what's up with the Scimitar's engine. We still have time—we'll figure something out.