Nine years, seven months, and the twelfth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, seventh month, and twelfth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Two months and the thirty-second day since arrival)
The worst part of a starfighter pilot's career is sitting in your ejector seat like a useless hunk of meat, waiting for an operation to start—or waiting for the order to abort it.
In those moments, you have no idea what to do with yourself. You can chat with other pilots—fellow losers, also awaiting orders. You can do another full inspection of all your starfighter's systems. If you understand Binary, or don't mind staring at the onboard translator screen every second, you might even chat with your astromech about life. He'll gladly share a couple hundred excellent anecdotes.
Stories he overheard from other astromechs, who in turn heard them from someone else...
That's how you learn that the biggest gossips in the entire New Republic fleet are, in fact, the astromechs. Makes you wonder if that's exactly how the Imperials manage to get the freshest and most complete (not to mention accurate) intel on the Republic's military operations.
Wedge was already tired of listening to the astromech's whistling and buzzing, so he repeatedly ran the upcoming assignment through his mind—this same mission he'd personally explained to the pilots, ship captains, and squadron leaders. Rogue Squadron—"the Rogues"—together with everyone else, had meticulously studied all data relating to their objective: the planet Linuri.
That information turned out to be far from perfect, and even Republic Intelligence couldn't do much about it. There was enough data to plan the mission, but not enough to guarantee success. And that was even more discouraging.
Targeted hits on convoys, well-executed ambushes, enemy ops played out flawlessly, the sudden appearance of General Jan Dodonna at a private "Rogue Squadron" party—all that and more pointed to the enemy possessing access to top-level intel inside the New Republic.
Hence, the mission was classified. Officially, Wedge's group was ordered to head toward Brentaal IV, supposedly investigating attacks in nearby sectors. Those attacks had been blamed on the "Butcher of Atoan," Imperial Captain Erik Shohashi.
Shohashi was credited with many things, including the operation in the Milagro system after which a single Republic Star Destroyer, a princess, Generals Madine and Lando Calrissian, along with one and a half billion Republic credits, vanished… and that had been a secret mission!
So Wedge was plagued by vague doubts about whether the raid on Linuri would succeed. You can never fully guarantee a military operation's success, especially when depending on surprise. But he hoped—hoped very much—that they'd have good fortune today and discover prisoners from the Lusankya.
Because, after this operation, they were to make the jump to Commenor.
Iella and her people had figured out the place of manufacture and implantation of those rare device components that killed General Dodonna. Everything pointed to Commenor.
One could say that after Linuri, Wedge and the Rogues would be heading home—many of the pilots had once trained on a secret base located on Commenor's largest moon, back in the Rebel Alliance days. An Imperial raid later destroyed that base, but the nostalgia remained.
Those rare implant components had been imported officially, through customs, so they were traceable. Wedge mentally thanked the customs officer who insisted on listing even the equipment's serial numbers in the paperwork—that's what gave them the initial lead for the future operation.
And the lead for the actual implantation also ran back to Commenor—the poison that killed the general existed in several medical facilities around the galaxy, but only one local veterinary clinic on Commenor carried it. And wouldn't you know it, that clinic had recently received implantation equipment, including droids, from the same individual who brought in the rare implant components. His identity was faked according to classic, textbook Imperial methods. Coincidence? No, that was obviously a deliberate trail.
And Iella was convinced it had been left on purpose.
The dying general gave them one location, the evidence pointed to another… so they had to split their forces and lines of investigation.
Iella's target clinic had gone bust about two years ago, around the time Ysanne Isard fled to Thyferra. The building stood in a remote rural area, supposedly slated for future urban expansion, but with the Empire's downfall, Commenor's economy declined and the city never extended that far. One of the clinic's last programs was trying to get exotic animals dying out on other planets to breed in captivity. But rebuilding post-Imperial worlds overshadowed attempts to boost animal populations, and that project, too, collapsed.
Meanwhile, going by Iella's reports, the shuttered clinic was still consuming resources—energy, water, active sewage facilities. Pretty suspicious for a place that had "gone under" two years prior. Groceries were brought in from local stores, though not much. Locals figured the staff was living there, waiting for a new owner. But time went on… and no one had ever actually laid eyes on those employees.
Two problems emerged. The Rogues could have stormed the place, blowing the clinic to smithereens, but that wouldn't help rescue any prisoners. Destroying the building would lead to the destruction of all evidence—DNA, prints, data records. They'd never learn who owned it, who ran it, or who might still be there. That's why Iella and her people operated "quietly" on Commenor, while Wedge and his squadron would act "loudly" on Linuri.
A distraction, coupled with letting the enemy think the Republic either hadn't taken the obvious trail to Commenor—or was too stupid to follow it.
The second problem was more unpleasant than any Imperial resistance. Commenor had declared itself independent of both the Empire and the New Republic, following the example of Corellia and other systems and sectors. Occupying a key intersection of multiple hyperlanes, Commenor was hardly poor, able to maintain independence and attract the interest of every political party in the galaxy. A Republic assault on any Imperial institution could prompt Commenor's government to ban trade with the Republic, implement prohibitive tariffs, or even ally itself with a warlord like Delak Krennel, Kaine, or another Imperial thug—and Mon Mothma absolutely did not want that.
Thus, Iella had to figure out as much as possible during the time Wedge was off handling Linuri. If military intervention became necessary, he and his squadron would jump to Commenor. Yet few people wanted such an outcome—least of all Mon Mothma, who would be forced to choose between freeing the prisoners (if they were there) by force or resolving it diplomatically to avoid losing everything they had in relation to that world. Blocking a major trade planet, rendering it unavailable for future use, would cost trillions of credits the New Republic lacked. Interstellar commerce had only just begun bearing fruit—if they had to reroute crucial supply lines, best-case scenario, the Republic would derive no income. The treasury would remain empty, with no hoped-for surplus. Worst case? The government would go bankrupt. A fiasco reminiscent of Second Agamar—who, after an Imperial visit, declared neutrality, jacked up customs duties, and no longer professed loyalty to the New Republic—nearly ruined private commercial operations in the Northern Territories.
Of course, no one notified local authorities that Republic agents were operating right under their noses. They decided to wait until confirming whether the clinic lead was real or a dead end. At that point…
A voice sounded in Wedge's helmet headset:
— General, two-minute readiness.
— Finally! — Antilles exulted, turning to his astromech. — Mynock, get ready, time for a flight.
The droid skeptically questioned the mission's prospects, but Wedge didn't bother with its beeping protests, starting up the engines. Eleven Rogue Squadron pilots followed suit…
Eleven… They'd had to reactivate their Thyferran comrade—one of the few who truly met Rogue standards. Wedge tried not to think about what Corran would say upon returning and finding out that his callsign, "Rogue Nine," had temporarily been handed to his old "pal," with whom the former CorSec officer had scuffled more than once. They'd seemingly reached an understanding toward the end of the Bacta War, but… who knew what Corran would be like after finishing his Jedi training?
The streaks of light behind the atmospheric shielding shrank to points. The starship OCC granted clearance, and a dozen X-wings floated off the hangar deck, retracted their landing gear, and slipped into space behind Wedge's fighter.
He executed a steep climb, taking up a position "above" the projected battlespace to size things up with his own eyes.
So, four Mon Calamari Star Cruisers emerged from hyperspace in a diamond formation, overlapping deflector shields that were already starting to form an invisible protective layer over their hulls. In the center of that formation, a Quasar Fire-class carrier was busily deploying A-wings, waiting for new orders.
That ship was useless in direct combat, but protected by tough Mon Cal hulls from Dac, it could serve as the rotation hub for all the fighter squadrons, so they wouldn't need to open the hangars on MC80 cruisers. Wedge had gleaned this tactic from old Clone Wars archives—when you're in charge of a good fifty thousand souls, you stop swaggering and start using your head, even if you're a full-time X-wing pilot to your very core.
— Bridge, — he addressed his flagship's command center, which also served as the task force HQ, — what are the surface readings?
— There's a military base discovered, apparently Imperial, — the flagship captain reported quickly.
— Position the fleet to blockade orbit, Captain, — Wedge sighed. — Launch recon and ground troops. If they resist, destroy the defenses. Don't forget—they may be holding our allies.
— Acknowledged, General.
— OCC, are there any orbital contacts? — Antilles asked, more by rote, over another channel. And he was sure the answer would be negative…
— General, we've just detected three objects, — the controller said quickly. — Two are identified as Preybird-class fighters, the other is a Kuat freighter. Orbiting near the equator, minimal power usage.
— Identified? — Wedge frowned. What would a freighter and two not-the-greatest but still combat-capable fighters be doing here? Obviously not shipping bantha milk…
— Their transponder signals are clearly faked…
Well, that clarifies things. They could be smugglers, Imperials… or pirates. But Wedge doubted that a dying General Dodonna had used his last breath to tell "Rogue Squadron" where to go pirate-hunting. Regardless, it needed checking.
— Rogues, listen up, — he addressed the squadron. — Heading two-seven-five degrees, speed ten percent. Go.
The X-wings of his squadron shot forward, heading for their target. They covered half the distance at full burn when those three ships "woke up." Wedge commanded the wings to move into combat position.
— Unidentified craft, this is General Antilles of the New Republic Armed Forces, — Wedge announced himself. — You're in the active combat zone. I order you to power down and prepare for inspection.
— They're ignoring us, — Tycho Celchu, his wingmate, observed.
— How did I miss this, — Wedge muttered. — Prepare to repel an attack. Designate targets as hostile. Leave the freighter intact.
"Preybird" fighters… old SoroSuub designs, if Wedge recalled correctly. Some small-run model, nowhere near as good as an X-wing. That didn't mean it'd be easy, just that it shouldn't be too insane.
He glanced at his chronometer.
— Contact in five minutes.
Then an open channel crackled:
— Hey, General Antilles, what'd we ever do to you?
So they could speak, after all, once an X-wing squadron was about to stomp them.
— First off, you could identify yourselves, — Wedge suggested mildly. Turning to his astromech, he said:
— Mynock, give me a full scan of their ships. My guess is these aren't standard Preybirds.
He'd read about them somewhere. Perhaps the Alliance or New Republic once considered a purchase but… Right! They were indeed overpriced SoroSuub lumps, worthless in a real battle…
Compared to an X-wing, obviously.
— The name's Mazzic, — a reluctant voice responded. — Free trader.
— Really? — Something tugged at Wedge's memory. He'd heard that name from Booster Terrik, apparently. Right… — And what do such gallant smugglers want on a backwater planet like Linuri?
— Wedge, contact in one minute, — Tycho reminded him. — Are we firing or playing around?
— First we fire, then we see if we need to keep going, — Wedge said. He didn't want to kill Booster's acquaintances over a misunderstanding.
— Just private business, — Mazzic answered cryptically. — Nothing illegal.
— Then call off your Preybirds and pull up beside my flagship so we can have a proper talk, — Wedge ordered, glancing at the readouts from Mynock. Right, "simple traders." Right… Each ship heavily modded, classic smuggler style. Plus stealth systems. And the weaponry to turn a boring day for the Rogues into quite a show.
— The freighter's identified as belonging to the smuggler known as Mazzic, — OCC reported. — Intelligence says he deals with the Empire.
That gave Wedge a nasty feeling.
— Nah, General, — the smuggler said brazenly. — We're just passing through. Busy with our own matters, you know. Call it a rescue operation.
Wedge had a new surge of suspicion. The young General had a sense of looming trouble.
— Do not open fire first, — Wedge cautioned. — Let's watch them for a bit. Maybe we'll see what they're up to. Third and Fourth flights—handle the freighter. Be polite but firm and push them toward the cruiser. — Wedge perceived that an MC80, surrounded by A-wings, was rushing over to help.
— Whom exactly are you rescuing, if it's no secret? — he asked, neatly dodging one Preybird and boosting power, arcing in tandem with Tycho to rejoin the other flights while the second flight engaged the smuggler's fighters.
— A friend of ours, — Mazzic said without elaborating. — We're almost done, so if you don't mind…
Mynock let out a shrill whistle.
— Wedge, they've got a shuttle incoming from the surface, — Tycho warned.
— Already saw it, — Wedge replied gloomily. — Mynock says it's taking off from the Imperial base.
— And behind it, a flight of eyeballs, — Asyr Sei'lar added.
Indeed: a small, fast, low-profile craft was racing straight for the freighter, with a TIE fighter squadron trailing at a respectful distance. The formation was suspiciously like an escort, not a pursuit.
— They don't look like Imperials trying to shoot someone down, — Gavin Darklighter remarked.
— That's true for any planet, not just Tatooine, — Wedge said dryly. — Mazzic, any idea why the Imps are giving you an escort?
— I know as much as you, Antilles, — the other man answered grimly, sounding equally clueless about their courtesy.
Wedge sensed something was definitely off.
No identifying marks, scanners not flagging them as hostile. They could be anyone, including Mazzic's people messing with abandoned Imperial gear, stealing it for resale. So where was the proof otherwise?
— Second flight, keep those Preybirds in your sights, — Wedge said on the squadron channel. — Third, watch the freighter, intercept that shuttle. The rest, on me—let's go greet the Imps.
But the Imperial pilots offered the greeting first.
As if only then realizing that New Republic starfighters were hovering near the vessel they were escorting, with a Mon Cal cruiser just a few hundred units away, the TIEs suddenly went for the Rogues.
One TIE fired at Wedge. Missed, of course.
That alone proved them as genuine Imperials.
— Rogues, engage, — Wedge ordered, rolling away from the incoming laser bolt and performing a sloppy barrel roll to shake off a pursuer. Tycho gained two of his own admirers.
— Who are you rescuing here, Mazzic?! — demanded the General as he pulled another tight turn, unleashing a quadruple laser volley that sheared off the TIE's transparisteel canopy. The fighter flew a short distance before exploding.
— One of our own, — Mazzic said. — Probably not someone you'd know…
— Oh, there are plenty of names I do know, Mazzic, — Wedge growled, finishing off one of Tycho's pursuers with a proton torpedo. Tycho took care of the other. — Who is it?
He disliked everything about this. A smuggler allegedly in cahoots with the Empire loitering near the planet singled out by the dying General of the Rebel Alliance who'd been imprisoned on Lusankya. An Imperial base on the surface. The enemy's TIE squadron escorting a shuttle with something or someone valuable practically into a cargo hold—yet they instantly attacked New Republic pilots. Smelled like a setup. Maybe they could've shot them down at once, but oh well, it wasn't too late.
— What's the fuss, General? — Mazzic said, baffled. — We retrieved our man, we're done here. No idea what the Imps are up to on this weird base. We got our job done, and now we're leaving forever.
Yeah, but I see neither your fighters nor your freighter guns firing on the Imperials—and they're not firing on you. Coincidence?
— Detain those smuggler ships, — Wedge ordered a specific flight. — If they try to run, disable their engines.
Lock on an enemy fighter, switch to proton torpedoes, wait for the green target box to turn yellow. Mynock beeped frantically, computing the solution, then froze at a single note—the targeting box went red. Wedge nudged the stick forward, raising the starfighter's nose. Away went the torpedo.
Bright blue exhaust trailed the projectile toward the TIE. The pilot tried to dodge and partially succeeded, but the torpedo made a wide arc. Though it missed direct impact, it exploded close by, ripping off the fighter's left wing and sending shrapnel into the cockpit, which then shattered everything, pilot included. Spinning out of control, the TIE detonated.
— I won't repeat myself again, Mazzic, — Wedge demanded. — Move your junk freighter to our cruiser. We want a talk with your passenger.
— Don't think so, — the smuggler's tone hardened. — He says there's nothing to discuss right now. Maybe in a couple of days, once he collects his thoughts and knows what questions to ask…
Only a couple TIEs remained. They were worthless pilots, apparently.
— Seize the freighter, — Wedge commanded.
Then the "Preybirds" made their move.
Their first salvo nearly tore open Asyr's X-wing canopy. Another shot disabled Ooryl Qrygg's engine. The freighter returned fire as well, driving off the Rogues and charging forward.
— Cruiser, we need backup, — Wedge said grudgingly. — Send the A-wings to intercept.
— Antilles, are you insane?! — Mazzic cursed. — I told you— — at that moment, Gavin smashed one of the freighter's gun turrets with his lasers. — We're here on our own business! I have no clue what the Imps were up to!
— Then explain why your worthless pilots decided to shoot at my people, — Wedge retorted.
— We don't like it when people treat us unfairly, — Mazzic insisted. — We're here on a private errand, not working for the Empire.
— Especially you, — Wedge pointed out. — Not making big deliveries to them for high fees, right? Final warning, Mazzic, or we will open fire.
— Please don't, — muttered the smuggler.
— Then I assume you'll cut your engines now? — Wedge pressed him, finishing off the remaining TIEs and chasing off a "Preybird" with a burst of laser fire crossing its path.
— I'm not talking to you at all, Antilles, — Mazzic muttered gloomily. — Fine, if we must… My passenger is ready to speak with you.
— Good, — Wedge nodded. Switching to the squadron channel, he said, — Heads up, Rogues. The "Birds" are heading for the freighter. They'll probably try to run.
Another flick of the channel switch:
— I just checked with the galley, — Wedge went on, steering toward the battered smuggler vessel that now seemed to have stopped fighting, enabling the X-wings to keep it locked down. — They say we're having ribs in white sauce for lunch. So how about you steer that rust bucket over…
— Greetings, General Antilles, — a quiet, smooth male voice came over the open channel. — I won't pretend I'm pleased that we meet again under these circumstances…
— Wedge! — Tycho exclaimed. — It's who I think it is, right?
— Karrde! — Wedge's gloves were suddenly soaked in sweat. — What a pleasant surprise…
— I'd prefer a different time, place, and format for our reunion, — said the information broker. — I have a lot to tell you…
— Then start right now, — Wedge said through clenched teeth. — Begin with where our Star Destroyer Veracity is, and what happened to its crew?!
— General, — the man responded in a slightly exasperated tone. — I can give you all the answers as soon as I confer with my informants. This entire scenario is a carefully staged charade. We're all being played…
— It seems like this little smuggler doesn't understand what we're asking him, — Asyr commented, — or that he's in no position to bargain.
— Move your ship to our cruiser, Master Karrde, — Antilles ordered with forced calm, fighting the urge to lob a couple proton torpedoes into that freighter. — We'll talk there in detail. I'm especially curious about how Booster Terrik sought your help to find his daughter—only to disappear.
— General, — Karrde replied, sounding resigned. — I understand how you feel. But you must understand—this is Imperial propaganda. Grand Admiral Thrawn is using all his resources against both you and me to achieve his ends.
Grand Admiral Thrawn, is it? Interesting.
— And those ends would be? — Wedge asked, while the Rogues blocked Mazzic's and Karrde's freighter. The "Preybirds" were keeping their distance. It definitely seemed staged.
Wedge and Tycho lined up on the freighter's engines, ready to disable them.
— I don't know, — Karrde admitted. — I suspect he means to cut the New Republic off from its intelligence channels, sow panic and chaos, destabilize the economy, and quietly reclaim the systems lost by the Empire.
— Fascinating, — Wedge said, watching a Republic MC80 that was now within fifty units, A-wings not far behind. — Then let's dock with the cruiser and talk face-to-face.
— You really don't believe me, do you, — Karrde sighed.
— Your track record is unfortunate, — Wedge told him. The stench of deception filled the air—and in that sense he agreed with "the Claw." But Wedge believed none of it. — The people who trust you have a habit of disappearing without a trace. Booster Terrik, his daughter, Princess Leia Organa-Solo, Lando Calrissian, General Madine. I'm not volunteering to join that club.
— My apologies, General, — Karrde said. — Without trust, there's no conversation. Right now, our meeting will only hurt both of us…
— Fire! — Wedge snapped, personally tearing away the smuggler ship's engines with his lasers. Tycho mirrored him, and the other Rogues hammered the hull, knocking out a second turret and suspicious cargo pods…
— Shuttle! — Gavin Darklighter shouted, first to notice a nimble craft dart out from beneath the freighter, accelerating away from the Rogues. Ooryl Qrygg and Asyr Sei'lar pursued, but Wedge saw at once that the heavily modified vessel had a hyperdrive and was already spinning up for a jump. A few laser bursts from the X-wings and A-wings sizzled harmlessly off its shields. An instant later, the gray blur vanished.
Wedge turned to look for the "Preybirds." Naturally, they were gone, too.
— Classic smuggler trick, — Tycho commented. — Slick. They slipped right through our grasp.
— They did, — Wedge agreed, chewing his lip. — But that shuttle can only fit half a dozen people. Four crew from that rusty tub plus Mazzic and Karrde, with no space left for cargo. So if they tried to haul anything off this planet, it's still on that freighter…
In the same moment, the ship erupted in a blinding flash. Thank the Force no pilot or starfighter was too close—they'd kept their distance. This wasn't the first time they'd seen scuttling charges.
— Two-nil, — Asyr remarked.
— I hate being played for a fool, — Gavin muttered.
— We all do, — Wedge admitted. Without a Jedi in the squadron, their ability to sense trouble had tanked. Horn, where are you when we need you? — Alright, Rogues, back to the flagship. The cruiser's crew will gather the wreckage, and we'll see if there's anything salvageable…
— General Antilles, — the controller's voice broke into Wedge's helmet. — Reports from the surface say the enemy base was captured with almost no resistance. Apart from the fighter squadron, a science team, and some technicians, there's no one else.
"Three-nil," Wedge mused, biting his cheek. A great start to his new rank. He'd let potential accomplices in the disappearance of top New Republic figures slip away, lost potential evidence, failed to find the prisoners he'd come for… Fabulous. Fey'lya would be delighted to drag him through the mud—and Mon Mothma with him—just as the Bothan's politics demanded…
Wait—scientists?
— OCC, say that again, — he ordered. — A science team at that base?
— Yes, General, — the controller answered. — Our troops grabbed them in mid-calculation. Holding them in place now, awaiting further orders. Should we transfer them to the flagship?
— Wedge, — Tycho said softly. — Doesn't this ring a bell? A remote planet, an Imperial base, a science team… and swirling around them, half-criminal types with big intel networks.
— All working with the Empire, — Gavin added. — My Uncle Huff told me about Mazzic and Karrde. With the right fee, they'll get anything for anyone.
— I have a bad feeling about this, — Wedge sighed. — OCC, the Rogues and I are heading to the surface. We need to see for ourselves. Maintain comm silence for now.
They turned their X-wings, zooming past the scattered debris left by the destroyed TIEs, leaving the salvage to the Mon Cal cruiser's engineering teams. The carrier air group began returning to their ships until further orders.
All the while, no one in the New Republic's armed forces noticed the quarter-meter metal spheres drifting in orbit.
But the buzz droids did notice their targets.
Cloaked from starship sensors, they calmly latched onto the hulls of the big Republic vessels, revealing a varied arsenal of tools and digging straight into the thick plating, concealing themselves behind adaptable half-sphered outer shells.
Project "Morrt" was fully operational precisely where Grand Admiral Thrawn had planned.
Operation "Crimson Dawn" quietly, without fanfare, proceeded to its second phase.
***
The half-darkness of the suite, broken only by holograms of artwork spinning slowly beneath the cabin ceiling, lay in absolute silence. No music, no hum of working computers. Even the secondary bridge readouts on the walls of the Star Destroyer Chimaera were currently inactive.
I savored the quiet, replaying in my mind the events of the last few days, when from the entrance a soft beep announced a visitor.
No need to guess who.
Pellaeon burst through the small airlock as though the devil were chasing him. He cast an irritated glance back at the door, behind which I glimpsed the grayish skin of a Noghri, then came straight over. Being able to see so well in the dark and twilight is a Chiss trait I thoroughly appreciated. Our physiology truly is remarkable. A pity no suitable specialist has yet been found to whom I could entrust the study of my own DNA.
— Fresh reports, sir, — he said, handing me a data pad.
— Thank you, Captain, — I replied, accepting the personal device. Studying him, I asked:
— Rukh startled you again, Captain?
— Ever since you returned yesterday, he's gone back to his old habit, — Pellaeon grumbled. — Appearing out of nowhere in the dark.
— That's his job, Captain, — I reminded him. — And he's training his stealth skills every chance he gets.
— I'd appreciate it if he practiced on someone else, — Pellaeon remarked.
— Certainly, — I answered indulgently. I touched the panel on my desk, causing the cabin lights to rise slightly—just enough to alleviate the tension for the hapless human.
Skimming the first entry, I felt a faint smile form on my lips.
— So we've gained an extra day on Honoghr.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon confirmed. — Fey'lya ordered them to wait for the Bothan assault cruisers—ten ships. The fight…
— There will be no battle, Captain, — I said. — Our fleet is in no shape to teach them another lesson. We're leaving right on schedule.
— Yes, sir, — he replied automatically.
I glanced at the next report. Excellent.
— General Antilles's task force arrived at Linuri.
— More than that, — Pellaeon said. — They ran into the smuggler Mazzic's group, which came to free Karrde from captivity.
— According to Project Morrt's droids, Mazzic, Karrde, and Antilles had a rather intriguing exchange of information, — I concluded.
— Indeed, sir, — Pellaeon said. — So now Antilles and Rogue Squadron know your name, which complicates things.
— Nonsense, — I retorted. — Our personnel at the base performed their roles splendidly. Now Antilles will have no doubt Karrde is working for the Empire, receiving secret missions, so important that he's escorted by the only TIE squadron on Linuri.
— Easier just to kill him, sir, — Pellaeon pointed out. — The complexities… after all, once General Solo reappears, the New Republic will see that pinning it on Krennel was just your camouflage.
— You fail to grasp the current situation in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, — I said. — Mon Mothma found a loophole in their own laws, personally taking command of certain military forces as a member of the Provisional Government. Before her, only Admiral Ackbar had used that privilege over "Rogue Squadron" and certain other units. But Ackbar occupied not only a seat in the Provisional Council but also led the Republic Military. They overlooked his smaller liberties because he was playing in his own sandbox. Mon Mothma, driven to desperation by the political climate, staked everything on Antilles and Solo, arousing direct opposition from Councilor Fey'lya. Were it anyone else as acting commander, it would've stayed behind closed doors. Yet continuing failures and constant intel leaks forced Mon Mothma to assert authority in ways that infringe on that Bothan's power. He'll never forgive that. So when General Solo returns, having lost his fleet and spinning wild accusations of Fey'lya's collusion with the turncoat Octavian Grant, Mon Mothma's reputation will be wrecked with even more senators. Her hold on power will be so shaky that Fey'lya will knock her off the throne with ease.
— Unless Solo's cunning enough to remain silent, sir, — Pellaeon said doubtfully.
— Even if he tells only Mon Mothma, word will spread through the Palace, — I assured him. — Fey'lya's breathing down her neck, so as soon as she tries to confirm anything with her small circle, she must go through the bureaucracy. They made it so complicated that it's impossible without archivists, security staff, minor clerks, and such—people prone to gossip about every odd occurrence. One way or another, rumors of Mon Mothma rummaging in the Imperial Info Center under the Palace will reach Fey'lya. He'll blow it into a massive scandal. General Solo can plan his actions, sometimes calculating consequences, but only in a calm situation. Once the palace teems with rumors, a single barb from Fey'lya would provoke him, unearthing it all.
— Accessing those top-secret records would take a huge effort, — Pellaeon noted. — The security system died with the Emperor and his inner circle.
— True, — I nodded. — Per Delta Source's reports, even after all this time since seizing the Info Center, the New Republic has gleaned little from Imperial state secrets.
— It'll be ages before they uncover anything about you, — Pellaeon grinned. — If it's stored anywhere, it's in the top-secret archives, along with the other Grand Admirals' records.
— Without a brilliant slicer, yes, searching the sealed archives will take a while, — I allowed. — Rest assured, any data about me is hidden even deeper than for my colleagues who served publicly in known space. Palpatine initiated his manipulations in the Unknown Regions for a reason. He guarded his secrets carefully, unlikely to grant wide access. As you noted, the login procedures are lost—otherwise the Republic wouldn't be starved for intel. With the wrong people trying, they might even erase it.
— That's part of your plan too? — Pellaeon asked warily. — Those archives might contain critical info…
— Don't fret, Captain, — I advised. — Everything we need, we already have or soon shall. Shall we return to Linuri?
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon said. — So Antilles's success there offsets Solo's failure on Honoghr?
— In part, — I confirmed. — The data they uncover will not only convince them of Karrde's Imperial ties. Bits of information build the bigger picture. Precisely placed data at the right time completes the puzzle in the needed way. The base's command center on Linuri will prompt the New Republic to take quick, not always rational, action. They'll scour vast areas to find any trace of what they turned up.
— So Mr. Zion planted clues, I take it? — Pellaeon asked.
— Indeed, — I said. — He's not fond of the original project, calling it a waste of resources, but that's irrelevant. The main point is that Antilles's success helps Mon Mothma remain in power, further stoking the Botans' resentment. Whether she shares the Linuri data widely or keeps it restricted, Fey'lya will learn about it: she'll need ships to address the threat. Antilles's little task force alone can't cover it, so she'll need more. Which lets us gain what we want with minimal effort.
— I suspect Lady Santhe will be "quite pleased" to hear any accusations thrown at her, — Pellaeon smirked.
— However she defends herself, no one will believe her, — I clarified. — She won't grant them unrestricted access to her corporate ledgers or cargo records, seeing that as Republic overreach. That will only increase scrutiny. Fey'lya will have to divide the Fourth Fleet into multiple groups to cover more territory.
— But you're certain he'll attack the Ciutric Hegemony? — Pellaeon clarified.
— That's the plan, — I affirmed. — The fragments in Linuri's computers, properly interpreted, will reveal that the projects are nearly complete.
— They'll doubt it's feasible at all, — Pellaeon mused.
— Time, Captain, — I reminded him. — Enough years have passed. With the right funding and administration, it's quite doable—especially for these top figures.
— So the Republic ends up exactly where you want, doing exactly what you want, — Pellaeon summed up. — Fey'lya will withdraw ships from other fronts to form these search groups.
— Not easy in their precarious economic state, — I pointed out. — Even scanning the Ghost Nebula alone requires at least a sector fleet, and that's for known systems. But that's not our problem. When the Republic eventually sends ships, Devian will panic and reveal himself.
— Sir, there's something else, — Pellaeon said. — We don't have that many Morrt droids. We'll need more if we plan to track multiple sector fleets.
— Once possible, we'll give Project Morrt a new boost, — I assured him. — For now, every buzz droid we got from Booster Terrik and Captain Irv is in use.
— Yes, — Pellaeon sighed. — Never thought we'd be seeding entire systems with them.
— It's expensive, — I conceded. — Along with building cloaking-field generators. But necessary for real-time intel on enemy movements.
— Meanwhile, you're throwing Coruscant's politics into disarray, — Pellaeon concluded. — With the information you gave Solo about Fey'lya, plus confirmation from "our person" in the Imperial Palace, they'll waste plenty of time finger-pointing and mudslinging.
— Which only eases the second phase of Operation Crimson Dawn, — I confirmed. — Fighting off an external enemy is infinitely harder when preoccupied with an internal one.
— Hopefully we're not paving the way for Palpatine, sir, — the Chimaera's commander said uneasily. — The New Republic could crack. Another couple months of chaos, and some member worlds might conclude that staying part of it is pointless and leave.
— We won't see a huge wave of secessions, — I disagreed. — At least not from the important sectors. As planned, only a small percentage of worlds and sectors will exit.
— But you admit some might be valuable ones like Kuat, right?
— Every plan needs safety margins, Captain, — I said instructively. — And allowances for mistakes. A perfect outcome would be wonderful for us, but let's not ignore alternatives. On the galactic stage, you have to be ready for anything. The main New Republic core won't break away, but if any major yards do—Kuat, Rendili, Empress Teta, or another important sector—they'd stand a better chance of surviving Palpatine's offensive once he moves.
— Then what? — Pellaeon asked. — Didn't you say the galaxy must be united against the external threat?
— United, yes—but not necessarily monolithic, — I answered, finishing the briefing with a final report from Honoghr. — Fascinating.
— Right, sir, — Pellaeon murmured. His gaze dulled, lips pressed tight. Even this seasoned officer felt uneasy reading that message. — When we got the dispatch from Nistao, I have to admit, it shook me.
— The objective was achieved, — I noted. — The simple Noghri handled their justice against the dynasts themselves.
— That's why you made them confess everything to the clans? — Pellaeon gulped.
— That's one of the reasons, — I admitted. — Crucially, the Noghri remain ours, their debt of honor now rooted not in lies but their voluntary acceptance of me as ruler. See that they evacuate as soon as possible. For now, put them on our warships. They can watch our prisoners. Soon, all combat and transport craft from Suarbi will converge here to remove the remaining population. We won't risk taking a stand under these conditions.
— Transport ships? — Pellaeon frowned. — The entire fleet? You…
— They received orders to head for Honoghr right after we met Rukh in Trogan's orbit, — I explained.
— So you suspected this all along? — He tugged at his collar.
— Honoghr's location was revealed to our enemies, — I reminded him. — One way or another, we had to evacuate the Noghri. As for punishment… — My gaze dropped to the data pad. — The dynasts torn apart alive, plus the decimation that cost the Noghri a million souls, is the best compromise between outright obliterating them ourselves or turning them over to our enemies. Now the Noghri know that lying to their master never goes unpunished. This bloody purge proves they'll never dare betray or fail me again. They chose between a life of shame and upholding the ancient ways of the debt of honor. There are no more clans among the Noghri—now they form one single super-clan, swearing allegiance to me and whomever I designate. The best of bad outcomes. I can't deny some relief that they spared the children in the decimation—at least someone on that planet was innocent. In its own harsh way, one might admire such uncompromising adherence to their laws. — Pellaeon shuddered. — Back to work, Captain Pellaeon. We must finish evacuating nine million Noghri. It'll be cramped.
***
Antilles guided his X-wing toward the nearest landing pad outside the main base building. There was nothing remarkable about the place—a typical fast-deploy Imperial base. All the usual defensive stations, a communications center, a repair workshop… but apparently no garrison.
The General set the craft down gently and waited for its landing struts to lock onto the deck before sliding open the canopy and shutting off the engines. Only then did he jump down, his feet protesting with pain.
— Gotta tell those Incom folks we could use a portable step ladder, — he grumbled, wincing. Waiting a moment for the aches to subside, he strode toward the main entrance, where a handful of Republic troopers were stationed. Spotting the highest-ranking among them, Wedge walked up.
— General, — the older major said, saluting.
Wedge wanted to address him by name, but realized he didn't know it. He simply nodded.
— What's the situation here? — he asked.
— Something pretty strange, sir, — the major grimaced. — They deployed this base maybe six months to a year ago, apparently. Hard to believe the enemy was sitting in our rear, near major hyperlanes, for so long. — The major sighed. — According to the techs, a few weeks back, the garrison and all the gear were pulled out, leaving only a single squadron of fighters to guard the place, plus a maintenance crew. About a month ago, once they'd moved the main personnel offsite, scientists arrived. The people we interrogated say they were civilians, possibly conscripts. They worked in the command center, but everything was hush-hush. Then about a week ago, the military specialists replaced them, and the scientists were shipped out. But apparently, no one outside had any idea what they were doing—civilians, military, no difference.
— Any prisoners? — the young General demanded. — Are there holding cells?
— A brig, sir, — the major clarified, — but doesn't look like anyone was in it.
Wedge's face fell.
— Any smugglers come to the planet?
— According to the maintenance crew (the only chatty ones), armed civilian freighters periodically visited, — the major explained. — Brought in gear, food, people—both civilians and military. It's a great cover if you don't want to get snagged by a random Republic patrol.
— Thanks for the tip, Major, — Wedge said curtly, realizing how badly he'd messed up by failing to blast that freighter and shuttle on sight. But no, he'd assumed that shady info broker was still on their side, just driving a hard bargain—like last time, when he helped Han and Leia in the Dathomir sector. What a scoundrel. We'll find you if we have to dig you out of a Sarlacc.
— My apologies, sir, — the major muttered, offended.
— You said scientists were doing something here. Any idea what that was? — Wedge asked.
— We do now, — the major replied, frowning. — Found out a couple minutes ago.
— And?
— Better you see for yourself, sir, — the major answered grimly. — It's… not exactly pleasant.
— Sounds fun, — Wedge forced a grin. If only it was some twisted joke. But something told him it wasn't. If it turned out to be nothing, folks on Coruscant would have his hide. He was already 0-4 today. — You're sure you're not exaggerating?
— Sir, I've been in the Alliance since the early years, — the major replied stiffly. — When I say it's bad news, it's bad.
No sense arguing with a SpecForce type. Their sense of humor was lacking, and they didn't care much for rank. Wedge included.
They went deeper into the complex together. Wedge noticed the rest of the squadron had landed and was filing in behind them—eleven figures in orange flight suits hustling down the corridor from the landing area.
Wedge had visited enough bases like this to know the layout. Sure enough, traveling along the northern passage led to the base's command center. That's normally where the Empire set up all its cutting-edge gear, the sort of stuff that had Republic Intelligence or decryption specialists drooling.
The passage descended about twenty meters below ground level (the old "hide your valuables underground" tactic) and ended at a heavily armored blast door.
— Locked? — Wedge asked.
— You'll see why, — the major promised, pulling an Imperial code cylinder from one of his many pockets. — Only a few of my men actually saw what was inside when we captured the command center, so we're controlling all access. Otherwise it'd spark a panic we can't handle. Lucky for us, one of the specialists stepped out, so we stole his code cylinder. Otherwise we'd have had to blast it open, probably destroying any data we needed.
— Enough suspense, — Wedge said irritably. In his experience, whenever there was so much cloak-and-dagger, it often turned out to be a big nothing-burger. — I already had breakfast.
His stomach chose that moment to rumble, hinting he'd skipped lunch as well.
— I'm certain this sight will kill your appetite for a while, sir, — the major remarked, slotting the code cylinder into the panel.
There was a clear whir of servos, and the armored slab slid upward.
The major gestured Wedge forward. Glancing behind, Wedge saw the Rogues falling in line.
— Sir, about security protocols… — the major began.
— Yeah, I'm aware, — Wedge said flatly. — They're with me.
— Understood, — the major said wearily. — You're the General. Just remember—you've been warned.
With no retort in mind, Wedge simply stepped across the threshold into a spacious chamber packed with computers and computing equipment. Everywhere he looked were active terminals, each displaying diagrams, charts, designs, equations, formulas. All of it looked like gibberish to a layman unversed in science.
Though Wedge lacked advanced knowledge, he still felt uneasy.
This wasn't a command center.
This was a design laboratory. He'd seen something similar among the Incom engineers, glimpsed it on Sluis Van, and heard rumors of the big naval yards at Kuat using spaces like these. The concept presumably didn't vary much from world to world.
About the only piece of normal equipment here was a powerful holoprojector, beloved by starship engineers who used it obsessively to model their inventions mathematically and physically. As one Incom engineer once joked, "I'd rather fiddle with the holoprojector for a week than build a worthless flying hunk of scrap that'll get me reamed out." In an age of largely automated shipyards, it's more economical to perfect prototypes in simulation. Only a few mega-corporations—Kuat, Lianna, Fondor, Foerost—could afford to build test frames on a whim.
It was a little sad that some of these displayed sketches even bore corporate logos… Just one of those logos was enough to have the New Republic demanding an explanation from that manufacturer.
Seated off to the side were the captured Imperial personnel, hardly even sparing Wedge a glance. Each was a fit, neat-haired, well-groomed individual, more like stormtroopers than nerdy scientists.
Across the room, two Republic soldiers, equally glum and weighed down by grim thoughts, guarded them with weapons ready. SpecForce types seldom seemed so downcast—it wasn't their style to mope. Then again, theoretical science wasn't their style either.
— They don't look too cheerful, — Gavin Darklighter muttered over Wedge's shoulder, eyeing the scene.
— Right, — Wedge agreed. — Let's have a chat.
He noticed a small glass stand used for storing delicate processors. Wedge casually shoved it to the floor. It shattered. The sudden crash seemed to impress upon the room's occupants the gravity of the situation. The Imperials shot him ominous looks. The two SpecForce men jumped to their feet in alarm.
— Knock-knock, — Wedge said. — Am I interrupting?
The five Imperial "techs," all in identical coveralls, sneered in unison.
— Right, — Wedge said, exhaling. — I'm General Antilles, New Republic Armed Forces. The first one who tells me what rotten business you were up to here, and on whose orders, gets to be "cooperative with the investigation." Everyone else can enjoy life as a POW with substandard rations and unpleasant guards at a high-security prison. So… who's first?
No one stirred.
Strange, considering Imperials usually can't wait to cooperate if it might earn them clemency and a new life in the Republic. Sure, there are die-hard holdouts, but typically after a few weeks behind bars, they sing like birds.
— So no one, — Wedge concluded. — Very well. Major… — he turned to the SpecForce officer, — so what was I supposed to see?
He gestured at the holoprojector console in the center of the design lab.
— I kept hoping they'd wise up, — the major admitted, walking to a computer connected to the projector. He tapped in some commands. — Left them with time to think… but they're stubborn fools.
The major finished inputting instructions, and over the projector plate formed a large hologram. Immediately, it struck Wedge as sickeningly familiar—familiar enough to conjure the faces of fallen comrades who'd paid with their lives to destroy that abomination and ensure it would never again threaten the galaxy. They had succeeded… or so it seemed. Why was it back?!
The Rogues crowded in behind him, silent and tense.
So that was what General Dodonna had wanted him to know. Not about prisoners, but something infinitely worse.
Wedge felt a choking sensation in his throat. Again… again…
He turned his head to look at Tycho Celchu.
The Alderaanian stood rigid as if he'd swallowed a durasteel bar, staring at the bluish hologram and the swirl of structural detail around it. The knuckles of his clenched fists gleamed white. He stood taut as a vibroblade. His face had sharpened features, tension etched in every line. Usually Tycho was a master at hiding his emotions, but now, Wedge could swear the man's eyes were brimming.
The other Rogues looked on with mute resignation. All of them knew what would happen once they relayed these findings to Coruscant.
Rogue Squadron would be dispatched to hunt it down. Again, they would sacrifice everything so the galaxy could sleep safely. And there was no guarantee any of them would survive. Because after so many years, the Empire had evidently found a way to make its greatest trump card even deadlier…
— We'll need a bigger fleet this time, — Wes Janson barely whispered. He was one of those who'd fought alongside Wedge at Endor to destroy the second of these nightmares.
— Much bigger, — Wedge responded hoarsely. A sick knot of dread tightened in his gut as he kept staring at the holographic blueprint for a Death Star's hull. Judging by the data flickering around it, the Imperials were building three at once.
Just some schematics, whose mere sight was enough to scare any Rebel senseless.