I'd really like to know who designed the Trade Federation's maximum-security prison station, bearing the simple yet striking designation "1138." Because never before have I encountered such an absurd "establishment," made up of a vast number of passageways, arches, "spools," and countless small modules.
Another thing piques my curiosity.
1138 is a rather intriguing number in the Star Wars universe. At the very least, it's notable because any mention of it in books, comics, films, cartoons, and other products tied to this universe serves as a nod to the first film directed by the creator of Star Wars, George Lucas.
This is yet another piece of evidence that, despite my fears, my current reality isn't some alternate version of the Galaxy Far, Far Away, nor a fragmented "slice" torn from the multitude of events and stories. Rather, it's the all-encompassing, complete universe where the events of the New Sith Wars took place a thousand years ago—wars that left the Sith presumed extinct—and the tale of Revan unfolded: a renegade Jedi who became a Sith, only to later escape the clutches of the Dark Side.
Yes, it could all just be a coincidence, but the more indirect evidence I uncover, the more certain I become that my knowledge of this universe's past remains relevant. The same goes for information about its future events—those my current actions couldn't have significantly altered.
It follows, then, that somewhere out there, in the darkness of space, an entire civilization of Sith exists—the Lost Tribe, who made their mark in much later events of this universe, even after the Yuuzhan Vong invasion. There's also the Killik species—insectoids capable of subjugating sentient beings through their unique physiology.
And then there are the numerous threats lurking in the Unknown Regions—ruthless pirates and slavers like the Vagaari, whose destruction the real Thrawn tirelessly worked toward.
And there's Abeloth—a near-omnipotent entity, dangerous to Force-sensitive sentients.
And so much more besides…
Why am I dwelling on this again, even though there were hints of it in the past? Take, for instance, the appearance of Leonia Tavira and the Jensaarai—figures not heavily detailed in the books I've read. Or the Rakata temple on Honoghr, now sadly useless, as the Republic forces destroyed the unfamiliar droids there and used their remains to set explosive traps. The children of Leia and Han Solo, Mara Jade and Luke Skywalker, Palpatine's resurrection, the Katana fleet…
It's simple, really. It's one thing to rely on tentative knowledge of what's happening here and now—including events unfolding "parallel" to those I've set in motion.
It's another thing entirely to realize that even in tiny details, like references to 1138, my reality continues to function.
I no longer have any doubts—I'm in those very same Star Wars that began with the Je'daii and the Rakata and ended, chronologically, with Jacen Solo's turn to the Dark Side, Abeloth's release from her prison within the Maw, and the creation of yet another Sith Order, this time under the command of Darth Krayt, a former Jedi, no less…
This means the problems I once considered distant calamities—ones I'd do well to prepare for—will actually come to pass. Will I live to see them?
That's debatable.
But even if I don't, I need to ensure that those who've followed me survive. And that they're ready to face these threats.
Such were the thoughts filling my head as I walked, flanked by several guards, through the corridors of the maximum-security prison station 1138. Noticing numerous signs of fierce blaster firefights, I nonetheless saw not a single body. There were a few wrecked droidekas, which the cleanup crew—droid commandos and Major Tierce's clones—hadn't yet removed.
Both sides had taken losses in this operation. Though the droidekas were built long ago—the Trade Federation brought these specific ones to the station before the Battle of Naboo, nearly fifty years prior—they remained effective. So much so that a dozen and a half of these "roly-polies," as the non-clone stormtroopers call them, caused the deaths of two of Tierce's nine clones. Considering that those nine, alongside their donor, cleared this massive station, the droidekas' efficiency becomes evident. And it only strengthens my desire to visit Hypori and seize that factory for myself.
Well, first Crimson Dawn, then the droideka factory—we'll save that for last. We need to gather full intel on that planet and the Zann Consortium, which the Noghri commandos are currently handling.
— Grand Admiral, — saluted the stormtrooper commanding the occupation garrison. — Maximum-security prison station 1138 is under our complete control. The warden garrison has been eliminated, support droids destroyed. Report concluded.
— Thank you, Lieutenant, — I replied calmly. There's no point asking a stormtrooper about casualties or checking official reports from unit commanders mid-operation—loss statistics will be compiled once the Karthakk system cleanup is complete, broken down by units assigned to each star destroyer.
Maximum-security prison station 1138.
My primary interest lay in the central control room, where I could access all the necessary information about the prisoners. Honestly, is it such an honor for inmates when a Grand Admiral personally reviews their files?
I'd agree with that sentiment, except most of the cells are empty. Or, to be more precise, they lack prisoners. Instead, they contain… exactly. Where else would you store your most valuable trophies if not on a station so well-defended that, even half a century after its construction, it can still give an Imperial star destroyer a serious headache?
So I became curious about what Captain Nym deemed so priceless that he hid it here, defended by top-tier mercenaries—barely a match for stormtroopers—and numerous droids. And not rusted relics like those Rukh captured at the Trade Federation's Center station, but fully operational units undergoing regular maintenance.
Captain Pellaeon, walking behind me, cast disapproving glances around, clearly displeased at having to leave the Chemaera, which sat idle beside the prison station. The ship was in emergency repair mode after the station's attack left its hull breached—three proton torpedoes had torn through the plating. At least now we knew where the Hyena-class droid bombers from the other Trade Federation station had gone. A pity none survived our fighter wing's assault.
— Patience, Captain, — I advised as we entered the control room. The guards took positions on either side of the lone entrance. Rukh, slipping like a gray shadow, settled into his usual dark corner behind and to my left. — The Chemaera's crew can handle patching a few holes on their own.
— Agreed, — Pellaeon still frowned. — Otherwise, they'd be worth less than decicreds. I'm more worried about Lieutenant Tschel, whom you left in charge.
— He's the duty officer, — I reminded him. — In the absence of the first officer, he's the one designated to command the ship.
— That's what worries me, — Pellaeon admitted. — Tschel's from the new batch, poorly trained. He needs much more seasoning before he's ready for independent action.
— In the past, young officers were trained by sending them to smaller ships in remote sectors, — I recalled. — Unfortunately, we don't have that luxury now. Yet at the same time, — my attention shifted to the warden's active computer, — we currently have plenty of smaller vessels—corvettes, frigates, armed transports, and raiders from wolf packs—some crewed by naval personnel gaining combat experience in low-stakes operations with minimal risk of death. What's stopping you from recommending Lieutenant Tschel for one of those ships? Moff Ferrus recently acquired a sizable number of starships assigned to his sector's fleet. It's a calm region—perfect for honing skills and solidifying experience.
— That won't work with Tschel, — Pellaeon said. — It never worked in the past either, except on paper. Left unsupervised, young officers tend to do anything but serve. That's why the ISB so often uncovered ties between crime and patrol ship crews in distant sectors. No, sir, Tschel may not be the easiest stone to polish, but if we keep him close and don't let him slack, I'm confident he'll eventually make a decent corvette commander for the Chemaera's escort.
— I won't meddle in your jurisdiction, Captain, — I cautioned, pulling up the station's layout. — Just a reminder: to cook a dish in an oven, you need to balance two simple yet contradictory factors—don't take it out too early, but don't leave it in too long.
— No, I'll admit Tschel handled the slave situation on Solar Phoenix-2 brilliantly, — Pellaeon flinched. — I wouldn't have thought to sit through half an hour of that insolent fool trying to sell us the station, the captured pirates, and their gear. But he did it—listened patiently. Though I don't get why he shot the guy in the head afterward. Could've just wounded him, taken him prisoner.
— By killing the leader, Tschel proved we won't tolerate nonsense from anyone in this system, — I explained. — He followed my earlier orders to the letter. We're here to bring order. And we certainly weren't about to buy back an Imperial outpost stolen by lawless bandits. One death of the main troublemaker quickly sobered the rest.
— And now we have the station and workers ready to repair our bounty hunters, which we have fewer of than I'd like.
— We have enough to use them while they're still needed, — I delved into the cargo manifests. — Besides, it's far easier and cheaper to expand a worker's skill set than to train one from scratch. How interesting…
Pellaeon, intrigued by my remark, approached the computer panel I was seated at and skimmed it with his eyes.
— Who did he rob to fill all these prison cells with precious ingots? — he whistled, commander of the flagship star destroyer.
Truth be told, that question interested me the least. It was already clear the sums here were astronomical—possibly enough to fund the fleet for the near future. But we still needed to assess the value of everything we'd seized from Nym and determine which currency to convert it into. The valuables found at the Alliance station were straightforward—precious, yes, but fairly standard goods. These precious metal ingots, however…
Such goods aren't anonymous—unless acquired illegally. Official mining operations mark their ingots with identifiers and branding, making ownership traceable. If Nym obtained this wealth through illicit means—robbing a Hutt, a major industrialist, or even a wealthy sector government like Tapani's aristocrats—offloading it without "health risks" would be nearly impossible. Keeping it unused would weigh it down like a dead burden. Selling it off in small batches would be costly but safer than wholesale.
Yet if stolen auridium ingots from some powerful entity hit the galactic black market—ingots filling a hundred cells on station 1138—it'd spark a frenzy among the locals. Rumors would reach the original owners, bringing trouble from those who once held the goods. And with a hundred cells packed nearly floor-to-ceiling with auridium… I don't know the galaxy's turnover for this metal, but something tells me even this amount of missing wealth surfacing on the market would draw the former owners' attention to the seller. Only criminals, corporations, or governments could hold such reserves—no ordinary sentient could.
— If Nym swiped all these ingots from one source, how hasn't his head been torn off yet? — Pellaeon marveled. — This is… honestly, I can't even fathom how many credits this could be worth. But I don't get it—how, with this kind of wealth, didn't he buy himself a fleet? With ingots like these, he could've bought everything Captain Irv took from the CIS after the Clone Wars ended.
— Perhaps, — I said, as fragments of information began forming a cohesive picture in my mind. — Unless using these reserves would've been the last thing Captain Nym ever did.
— I don't follow, sir, — Pellaeon admitted. — What do you mean?
— Put the facts together, — I suggested. — Grand Moff Tarkin used Captain Nym to procure resources and specialists "off the books" for the Imperial bureaucracy.
— Yes, you mentioned something about their collaboration, — Pellaeon frowned, — but from what I've heard, the Death Star was built with perfectly legal resources and ample funding. Tarkin didn't need to involve riffraff…
— It's not about the Death Star, — I said. — Though I wouldn't be surprised if it later came out that Tarkin diverted some of its funds for other projects. I'm talking about the Kessel sector.
— The prison? — Pellaeon offered the most obvious answer. — Why would Tarkin need that dump?
— I'm referring to Tarkin's secret research facility deep within the Maw, — I revealed a sliver of the truth. — That's what Tarkin was building with Nym and his crew, keeping its existence hidden from everyone. He even redirected resources and funding from his own budget. And since direct purchases of equipment, materials, and contracts with pirates would've drawn attention, I wouldn't be shocked if the specialists you send to examine those hundred auridium-filled cells, Captain, find Imperial Treasury markings on the ingots.
— Attacks on Treasury ships! — Pellaeon gasped. — Of course! They were so brazen that rumor has it they caught the Emperor's eye. I heard he planned to send the Death Squadron, suspecting Rebel involvement, but Tarkin dealt with the pirates so quickly—no trace of the cargo was found. Though it seems they vanished around the Death Star's final construction phase. No wonder it piqued the Emperor's and Darth Vader's interest—billions, if not tens of billions, went missing…
— If not hundreds, Captain, — I added grimly. — Hundreds of billions of Imperial credits in auridium ingots, which Grand Moff Tarkin used to pay Captain Nym for building and supplying his secret Maw base. And perhaps even earlier—during the Death Star's construction. In doing so, he set Nym up, handing him "marked goods" the ISB could easily trace, leading them straight to Nym's head. I think we've finally uncovered the real reason Captain Nym wanted Tarkin dead. Tarkin exploited the pirates, effectively using them to store a massive auridium stockpile he could reclaim anytime. And he knew Nym couldn't escape—too afraid to sell it off or move it safely. Either way, Captain, we've stumbled onto a fascinating fact. And we're getting closer to Tarkin's research facility in the Maw.
— And… what might await us there? — Pellaeon asked, frowning at me. He seemed to have questions about my knowledge. This was the second time he'd seen Thrawn unveil secrets of colossal scale—first the Emperor's vault, now Tarkin's hidden research center. He hadn't pressed about the first, but the second… he might.
— I could be wrong, Captain Pellaeon, — though not about this, — but even building Executor-class super star destroyers required the Empire to first create a prototype, lost during the Rebel attack on Fondor's shipyards. So how was the Death Star built without a prototype? Without testing critical components? Constructing and operating a sixty-kilometer superlaser isn't like assembling an Imperial-class ship at some scrapyard like Raxus Prime's Outer Rim. There had to be a testing ground. A place and staff to develop the design—partial blueprints of which we retrieved from Imperial archives and used for disinformation on Linuri. If I once only had rumors of Tarkin's secret lab, bolstered by Captain Irv's reports of Tarkin and Nym's collaboration in the Kessel sector, now we have near-confirmation of its existence. Treasury ships collecting taxes across the Outer Rim don't travel alone—they're always escorted. They'd only be attacked if someone powerful diverted their guard… say, a Grand Moff issuing a direct order.
A satisfied smile spread across Pellaeon's face.
— I'm afraid, Grand Admiral, you're mistaken here. I was patrolling the Outer Rim territories at the time. I can say with certainty—there was an escort. And it was destroyed, immediately casting suspicion on the Rebels, since no pirate gang could take down four star destroyers…
Something clicked in my mind. It seems my favorite phrase, "Thought noted," now comes with sound effects. Imagination, what are you doing to me?
Four star destroyers. Escorting Imperial Treasury ships that were robbed, their cargo vanishing. And four destroyers "destroyed."
Now, the other side of the coin.
An Imperial officer guarding Tarkin's secret lab within a cluster of black holes commanded a fleet of four Imperial I-class star destroyers that obeyed her unquestioningly. Yet no one ever asked about their fate or whereabouts. Literally no one.
That's why their appearance on the galactic stage hit like a bombshell—albeit a brief and limited one.
— You once said, Captain Pellaeon, — I began, — that you'd bet on it. Do you still use that method to prove your confidence?
The Chemaera's commander frowned.
— Hm, — he eyed me suspiciously. — Sir, gambling's banned in the fleet. It was just a figure of speech, nothing more…
— Relax, Captain, — I advised. — I propose a wager. If you win, I'll reveal the entire campaign plan against the New Republic through year's end, — despite it being on the chip I gave him. — If I win, you'll give Lieutenant Tschel a trial period as first officer on the Chemaera. Deal?
— What's the bet? — Gilad chewed his mustache.
— The flagship's name escorting the Treasury ships and the admiral commanding the operation, — I specified. — You know I was in the Unknown Regions back then. Even if I knew every star destroyer stationed in the Outer Rim, the odds of guessing correctly are slim.
— Fair enough, — Pellaeon brightened, sensing he'd soon be privy to the innermost secrets.
— Gorgon, — the smile vanished from the flagship commander's face faster than withered leaves in an autumn storm. — Commanded by Admiral Natasi Daala.
— Hutt! — Pellaeon tore off his cap and nearly kicked a nearby chair in frustration, stopping himself just in time, remembering he wasn't young and his superior wasn't far off. — Sir, with all due respect, how do you do that?!
"Lieutenant Tschel, you owe me a drink," flashed through my mind.
— Study the art, Captain, — I gave the real Thrawn's standard deflection, distracted by a message on my comlink.
And I wasn't lying—Star Wars books are literature, a form of art.
— Time to go, — I ordered. — Captain Dorja and the Relentless have sprung the trap over Lok's orbit. The Karthakk system's pirate squadrons are nearly wiped out. We need to get to Lok before Captain Tiberos exacts his revenge and costs us a key witness's testimony.
— Yes, sir, — Gilad sighed deeply, touching the comlink headset on his uniform collar. — Acting First Officer Lieutenant Tschel, prep the Chemaera for departure. We're heading to Lok.
— Uh… er… ahem… Yes, sir, Captain, — came Tschel's flustered voice through the device. With the computer monitor shielding my face from Pellaeon, I allowed myself a smile, scanning the data on the prison blocks of station 1138. If all the cells are filled with auridium, stored here for years, where was Tiberos held? Hardly among precious metal ingots. Ah, here's the catch—it's just Block A. There's also Block B… Hm… with only one prisoner across its hundred cells. I recall Captain Tiberos and the Jedi Eymand mentioning that Captain Nym keeps his worst enemies here. As I just proved, there are no coincidences in this galaxy—it truly operates by the rules of a literary genre. Noted for the future. — Your shuttle's waiting in the station's hangar, Captain.
— We'll be there in five, — Pellaeon grumbled. Say what you will, Gilad knows how to take a loss.
— Make it ten, — I corrected. — We need to visit Block B, Captain. I suspect we'll solve another mystery from the past today.
***
Before the cabin door swung open without warning, the whistling and beeping of R2 snapped Luke out of his meditative trance.
He barely had time to pry his eyes open and focus when he saw the shaggy head of a Bothan.
— Wake up, Skywalker, — said Senator Bray'lia's aide. His fur bristled, and a menacing glint shone in his eyes. — We've arrived.
— That was quick, — Luke offered a restrained smile. — Any chance you know where we are?
— Same place as before, — the Bothan grunted. — On our ship.
"And what's with all this bickering?" Luke sighed to himself. "Can't they skip the jabs?"
— I meant, do you know which star system we're in? — Luke tried his luck.
— If I knew, I'd fly here direct and without company, — the Bothan snorted. — Get ready. They'll release the mag-locks soon, let us out of the hold, and our ship will descend.
— Thanks for the heads-up, — the young Jedi stretched his neck with relish. — Mind if I join you in the cockpit?
— Do as you please, — the Bothan retreated, casting a wary glance at the astromech. — Who are we to stop the great Jedi Master?
With that, the Bothan vanished from the doorway.
Loyal R2 erupted in a melodic trill, perfectly and pointedly summing up his thoughts on Bothans and their tact.
— Can't please everyone, — Luke shrugged. — But I think his distrust stems from that missing chunk of his ear.
The astromech beeped something.
— Last time I saw him on Coruscant, his ears were fine, — Luke said honestly. — Though that was a while back. Something must've happened on New Cov.
By the time he reached the Bothans' cockpit, the planet ahead filled half the viewscreen, a blue-green world teeming with life. His hope of memorizing local constellations fizzled—whether the Bothans hid them intentionally or not, he couldn't tell.
— Has Lady Irenez checked in? — he asked, studying the vibrant planet the Bothan ship steadily approached.
None of the Bothawui natives in the cockpit bothered to reply.
Sighing, Luke偷 peeked over the shoulder of the one at the sensor console.
So, the heavy cruiser that brought them here remained in orbit, surrounded by five more like it. "Quite a fleet they've got," Luke thought.
Six heavy cruisers, even outdated ones, were still six heavy cruisers.
The ship's comlink crackled.
— This is Irenez, — came a familiar voice. — We're arriving. Follow the landing vector provided.
— As you wish, Lady Irenez, — the senator's aide fawned.
Luke stayed diplomatically silent.
His eyes caught a weathered Corellian freighter landing ahead of them. Skywalker frowned. Irenez was clearly Corellian, and so was the ship. Had he stumbled onto a Corellian resistance cell? Or just coincidence?
He wisely held his questions, watching the Bothan ship continue its descent. Soon, a vast plain stretched before them, blanketed in thick green vegetation. Steep, rocky hills loomed ahead.
If someone called him a professional soldier, Luke would've been the first to argue otherwise. He'd been forced to take that title once, but never pursued a military career, knowing it was best left to experts. His path lay in mastering the Jedi arts.
Yet even he could see this terrain was ideal for a ship repair and maintenance base under a mysterious Corellian commander. And he was now nearly certain that Irenez's boss was her fellow Corellian.
Minutes later, as the Bothan ship cleared the ridge, they neared the camp's perimeter—a simple field base, like many he'd seen in his Rebel Alliance days.
Yet there was a difference.
The Alliance never kept bases in the open—Imperial detection could lead to an orbital bombardment, wiping out the work of hundreds or thousands. Here, the emphasis seemed to be on concealing the planet's location. The lack of other ships in orbit beyond the "dreadnoughts" suggested it was uninhabited—or at least not populated enough for locals to report starships or a surface base to the nearest Imperial garrison, New Republic, Hutts, or anyone else.
Secondly, this wasn't just a repair base or outpost—it was a full headquarters. Perhaps this resistance group had no other bases, or their commander deemed course changes sufficient without relocating.
The plain revealed structures draped in camouflage gear—simple netting that could hide them from orbital visuals, though not scanners.
There were standard living modules and massive hangars, though not all were large enough for heavy cruisers. They'd suit arsenals, warehouses, admin buildings, or command posts. Fuel tanks and vehicle parking spots dotted the area, but the gates were sealed tight, hiding their contents.
Sensors capable of detecting orbital targets were scattered everywhere. For a moment, Luke thought he glimpsed an anti-space defense cannon near a couple of standalone hangars.
His gaze locked onto repair hangar structures—big enough for those "dreadnoughts"—and a perimeter guarded by laser turrets and cannons. Long-range anti-infantry batteries adorned many rooftops, with heavier anti-armor emplacements interspersed.
In short, this garrison was ready for ground, air, and space threats—hinting at either illicit activities, borderline paranoia, or anticipation of an imminent counterstrike bringing troops, armor, and orbital firepower. Luke knew only a few groups this touchy. Given Irenez's tale of their group's past with the Rebel Alliance, he'd bet they were bracing for an Imperial assault.
This was the base of a small but well-equipped, competent army under a mysterious commander. And judging by some structures sinking into the ground or overgrown with vines, it'd been here for more than a few months.
A pit formed in his stomach. Past run-ins with small, well-armed private forces—be they Black Sun, Hutts, rogue Imperial Moffs, or neutral planetary governments—rarely ended well. At best, "not great." At worst, battles with hundreds dead on both sides. Back then, he had the Rebel fleet behind him. Now? Just R2-D2. Even his X-wing stayed on New Cov. It was this or risk leading a tail—or blowing up mid-flight.
Peregrine's Nest base layout.
Ahead, Irenez's ship reached a landing zone off to the side of the built-up area. The Bothan ship followed.
— Are you sure this is our designated landing pad? — Skywalker asked as neutrally as possible.
Bray'lia shot him a look dripping with arrogance and mockery.
— I'm certain, Jedi Skywalker, that I could land my ship on the command building's doorstep, and they'd say nothing, — his voice oozed pompousness and inflating ego, reasons for which Luke didn't care to know. But given how chummy the Bothans were with Irenez, they likely had tight ties with the commander. Or—Luke's sudden thought—secretly funded them behind the Provisional Government's back. That could explain their interest in New Cov—not for its nutrient-rich biomolecular mass or corrupt governor, but as a meeting point for Bothan reps and this commander. If New Cov joined the New Republic, Fey'lya could send agents there unnoticed.
The Bothan pilot set down near Irenez's ship. Shutting off the controls and computers, the Bothans wordlessly headed to the ship's far end. Luke followed, hearing the hiss of the lowering ramp. R2 trundled behind as he passed his cabin.
Pausing at the threshold, squinting against the blinding light, Luke expanded his Force senses to gauge this new world. He quickly picked up intense irritation from a group—two in what looked like Corellian uniforms (he thought, though the yellow jackets threw him off; Han and Lando never mentioned that style), dragging a man in smuggler garb, the source of the negativity.
Irenez, finishing a brief chat with Bray'lia and the Bothans, waved warmly at him. Luke stepped aside, letting the crew—grumbling—reboard. Apparently, only Bray'lia was allowed to roam the base. So the Bothans didn't fully run the show here.
— Welcome to Peregrine's Nest, Jedi Skywalker, — she said as he descended, levitating the astromech down with the Force. The young woman smiled as usual, genuinely pleased by his company—the Force confirmed it. But the blaster on her hip dampened the mood; you don't wear one like that coming home with friends.
— Yeah, me too, — he smiled back. Whatever was happening, he liked Irenez's company. Though she couldn't tell him everything, he sensed her openness and warmth—not traits of hired killers or criminals. So if something illegal was afoot, she likely wasn't in on it. — Trouble?
He nodded toward a landspeeder with Bray'lia inside, and another nearby where two operatives were forcing the irate smuggler in.
For the first time since meeting her, Irenez showed a flicker of annoyed frustration.
— A problematic acquaintance, — she said vaguely. — We suspect he's behind some of our people's deaths.
— A traitor? — Luke tensed.
— More like a black-market dealer who supplied us with goods, — he sensed her choosing her words carefully. — During one such deal's discussion, the Empire attacked the meeting spot. Our people were killed; he miraculously survived. We've watched him and his attempts to contact us, and now we're here to learn what happened. He's clearly hiding something—after our people vanished, he started a new business.
— You think he worked with the Empire? — Skywalker deduced.
— We're not ruling it out, — Irenez gave a tight smile. — But it could be a coincidence.
— Or he had no choice, — Luke mused, recalling Leia, Han, and Lando's tales of Vader's ambush in Cloud City on Bespin.
— That's why he's alive, — her voice carried distaste. She didn't seem to believe he was innocent. — The commander will sort it out.
Luke knew how "sorting out" worked when people pre-judged guilt based on flimsy assumptions of causing harm. Fate often ensured they weren't always right, yet the innocent suffered anyway.
— If you need my help, I'm ready to assist, — he offered eagerly. He lacked experience in such matters, but one thing he knew—if he'd used the Force back at New Cov's cantina, he might've settled that dispute peacefully. Here, he could at least sense the detainee's emotions and discern if he was hiding something or just fearing unjust retribution.
— Thank you, — she said. — I'll pass it to the commander. For now, please get in the speeder.
Once Luke and R2-D2 were aboard, Irenez took the driver's seat and sped toward the buildings, trailing the first speeder with the stranger.
Minutes later, their landspeeder stopped near a hangar repurposed as an admin building. It and another like it, where the first speeder headed, stood apart from the rest. A hundred meters behind, Luke now clearly saw anti-space cannons, and possibly deflector shield generators farther off.
Two guards at the entrance swung the doors open for Irenez, Luke, and Bray'lia, saluting. Luke couldn't place their salute's origin, but Han had jokingly done it to Leia a few times… So, he was right—Corellian rules reigned here. No doubt now: this was a Corellian resistance group, likely those unbowed by the power grab in the Corellian sector. And maybe they weren't bracing for the Empire, but for official Corellian forces.
Inside a short corridor lined with doors, Irenez stopped and looked at Luke, Bray'lia, and the rolling astromech.
— The commander wants to speak with you alone first, Jedi Skywalker, — she said, pointing to the central door, sending Bray'lia's fur rippling from neck to fingertips. — The aide, your astromech, and I will wait in one of the rooms.
— Fine, I'm ready, — Luke agreed, cutting off the Bothan's chance to protest. He took a deep breath and stepped forward.
He'd expected an office, but instead found himself in a fully equipped command center, like those he'd seen in the Alliance to Restore the Republic. The vast room stretched dozens of meters. Comms and control terminals lined the walls, manned by operators. To his shock, Luke spotted a V-150 Planet Defender ion cannon console—like the one the Rebels abandoned on Hoth. A large holographic tactical projector dominated the center, displaying a vast starry expanse with colored markers and arrows scattered among twinkling dots. Stunned, Luke realized he was staring at a map of half the galaxy, dotted with notes of recent Imperial attacks—and he didn't like their number.
Beside the hologram stood a man.
Despite the hologram's glare, Skywalker knew he'd never met him—or couldn't recall if he had. The man wasn't young, more middle-aged. Yet a nagging feeling told Luke he'd seen this sentient's image before.
— Welcome to Peregrine's Nest, Jedi Skywalker, — the man said with a voice full of strength and confidence, turning to face him. — I'm Garm Bel Iblis, former senator of Corellia. Perhaps you've heard of me…
— Yes, — it clicked. — A friend once called you an honest, decent man who always cared for his people's welfare.
— I'll guess that generous praise came from Captain Solo, — the senator said without a smile, stepping closer and extending his right hand. Luke shook it promptly.
— He also said you were dead, — the young Jedi recalled.
— Don't Jedi know how to tell the living from the dead? — Bel Iblis ventured, a hint of a smile creasing his weathered face.
— Sorry, — Luke faltered. — You're alive, of course, — he reached out with the Force to confirm, satisfying his curiosity, — it's just… Han's not one to lie.
— Believe me, Captain Solo didn't deceive you, — Bel Iblis said softly. — In a way, I am dead. The Empire tried to assassinate me, but only succeeded in killing my family. When I learned what happened, I realized the Emperor had stripped me of everything dear—my loved ones, my work, even my ability to shape my beloved homeworld's fate. All I had left was to break the law I'd so strictly upheld. You could say the Emperor made me a rebel. I think you understand what I mean.
Images of the past flashed before Luke's eyes.
A sandcrawler of Jawas, shredded by precise Imperial stormtrooper blasts, its owners slaughtered; the smoking Lars homestead, where he'd seen Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru's bodies amid fire and ash… That's when he'd decided to fly with Ben Kenobi to Alderaan and join the Rebel Alliance. In his first Imperial clash, he'd rescued a princess—his own sister. And in his first combat mission, he'd destroyed an orbital battle station with hundreds of thousands aboard…
— Yeah, I get it, — he said evasively. — It's a shame we didn't know you survived earlier. Your army and fleet could've helped the Alliance a lot during the war with the Empire.
A shadow crossed the Corellian's face, and the Force rippled with old pain.
— I'm not sure we'd have been much use back then, — he said dryly. — It took a long time to build everything you've seen at my base.
— Maybe, — Luke nodded. — Did the Bothans help you?
For a moment, Bel Iblis was silent, then gave a warm smile.
— Can't fool a Jedi, can you? — he asked kindly. — Yes, Councilor Fey'lya aided us greatly back then. But not entirely.
The last bit came out firm, almost harsh.
— Sorry, I didn't mean to offend…
— It's fine, — the aging senator waved it off.
— Are you worried about something? — Luke asked, recalling the defenses.
— When you're an outlaw, there's always someone to fear, — Bel Iblis said grimly, nodding at the galactic map. — That's why we never stay in one place too long, — the Force insisted he wasn't being fully open. — Linger too much, and expect Imperial visitors.
— Honestly, I thought you were bracing for the official Corellian government, — Luke frowned. Something didn't add up.
— Oh, — Bel Iblis gave a tight smile. — They forgot about me and my people long ago. Not so with the Empire.
— But they think you're dead, — Luke pointed out.
— Me, yes, — Bel Iblis confirmed. — But my group's surely on their radar.
— Why's that?
— A while back, over half a year ago, we hit an Ubiqtorate base on Tangrene in the Morshdine sector, — he said with pride. — Our biggest win… Seems after that, the Ubiqtorate fleet packed up and moved far from our operational zones.
— Uh… where are we? — Luke couldn't resist asking.
— Sorry, my friend, — the Corellian grew serious, — I can't reveal Peregrine's Nest's location. Not yet, — he glanced at the holo-map. — But naming the sector we're in now won't hurt. Dufilvian sector.
A bad feeling stirred in Luke's mind.
— Was the Empire's attack on this sector a few months back tied to your strike on the Ubiqtorate?
— I thought so for a long time, — Bel Iblis said bitterly. — But as the Empire's offensive grew, I started considering other ideas.
— Like what?
— They're preparing, Jedi Skywalker, — he said quietly. — Hitting New Republic convoys and bases, — he pointed to the map's blinking markers, dozens if not hundreds. — Bases, outposts, training camps. Their commander picks targets where help won't arrive fast, strikes, and burns them to the ground. He's capturing ships and taking prisoners—en masse.
— Why? — Luke still didn't get it.
— Like I said—they're preparing, — the ex-senator repeated. — For what, I don't know, but it's big. And somehow tied to Fey'lya's plans to attack the Ciutric Hegemony.
— But that's foolish, — Luke sighed. — After Zsinj's fall and his empire's carve-up, there was a power balance, neutrality… They didn't bother us, we didn't bother them. Why now?
— I've been asking myself that too, — Bel Iblis admitted. — Early attacks were sporadic, then they ramped up. Now it's not just raids—it's open war. Likely, the Empire was biding its time until the New Republic grew too big to avoid economic recovery needs. And recent events show the New Republic's military command did the Imperials a favor by disarming some ships into transports. A forced move, sure, but… hasty. Mon Mothma's trying to fix a systemic issue with one bold stroke again. I don't know who this new Imperial commander is, but this guy… I'm afraid, Jedi Skywalker, we've never faced anything like him. He's cunning, ruthless, devilishly clever. While he hits one spot to distract, his intel runs dirty ops elsewhere. You've heard about New Cov, I assume.
— Bits and pieces, — Luke admitted. — They tried recruiting the local governor.
— Not tried—succeeded, — Bel Iblis corrected. — From a reliable source, we learned the Imperials set their sights on the biomolecular mass production there—boosts food calorie content.
— Yeah, I heard that too. But why?
— Never heard of the biomass? — the Corellian smiled.
— No, sir.
— Let's say a trooper needs one and a half kilos of high-calorie food daily to stay at peak strength, — the commander's tone turned instructive. — For simplicity, say it costs 150 credits. Biomolecular mass, with negligible production cost, multiplies food calorie content—let's say five times, for ease. That one and a half kilos now matches the calories of seven and a half kilos. A rough figure. So, the same food volume feeds five troopers daily instead of one. And instead of 750 credits, you spend 155 to 170, depending on batch size. The Empire, true to form, roped in the governor to get the biomass for free. That's five times less food—and cost—to sustain the same troop numbers.
— They're saving credits?
— They tried, at least. We got a tip and ambushed them. But instead of a Victory-class star destroyer my six heavy cruisers could've handled, we faced an outdated CIS Providence-class carrier-destroyer. Once a terror, still a handful—my ships took heavy damage. We bloodied their nose, but they'll repair in days; we need weeks. Still, seems they've stayed off New Cov since.
— But Imperial Intelligence was active there, — Luke reminded him.
— Yes, that's the second issue, — Bel Iblis conceded. — We don't know how, but they uncovered our ops group there. They killed the operatives; Irenez was interrogated.
— Tortured? — Luke flinched, recalling how sharp and prickly Leia got whenever her Death Star interrogation by Vader came up.
— Oddly, no, — surprise tinged Bel Iblis's voice. — She said they were pros—not the green recruits flooding the Imperial Remnants' ranks, but seasoned vets with field and ops experience. From my experience, Jedi Skywalker, that's no fluke. For years, we watched the Imperials squabble, their training dropping to Outer Rim bandit levels. Now… someone's drilling them. I'd say these attacks, — he gestured at the hologram, — are less about intimidation or hurting the New Republic and more about rebuilding their confidence. They're… learning.
— Learning what? — Luke asked quietly.
— To win, — the senator replied just as softly. — I've long analyzed their strike data. It's… not the most elegant foe I've seen, but the terrifying efficiency he wields. As grim as it sounds, the New Republic could fall before its first decade if this keeps up.
— So that's why you're tied to the Bothans? — Luke probed cautiously.
Bel Iblis fixed him with a piercing stare, unnerving the young Jedi.
— Want the gist of our deal with Bray'lia?
— I doubt hearing about your middleman will help me much, — Luke smiled as warmly as he could. — It's all Fey'lya behind it, right?
The senator gave another faint smile.
— You know why the Old Republic feared Jedi—for their supposed mind-reading?
— No Jedi would harm ordinary sentients, — Luke said firmly, recalling Ben Kenobi and Master Yoda's teachings. — Palpatine just needed to smear them, turn the people against their protectors.
— And he succeeded, — the ex-senator said sadly. — You know… a command center's no place for these confessions. Let's take a break—you need rest after the trip. Then we'll meet in the cantina and talk openly. Deal?
— You say it like your guest has a choice, — Luke grinned. — I'll humbly await our chat, Senator.
He bowed respectfully and turned to leave.
— You want to restore the Jedi Order, don't you, Jedi Skywalker? — came the question from behind.
— It's my life's work, — Luke clenched his prosthetic right fist, turning back. — I'm just starting, with much to learn. But I'm sure there are still Jedi out there—or their descendants. And the knowledge I need. Maybe not now—maybe a year, two, ten—but the Jedi will return to the galaxy.
The senator paused. Luke sensed his hesitation.
— Tell me, Jedi Skywalker, — Bel Iblis pressed, as if crossing a threshold, — how many Jedi have you met in your life?
— Few, — Luke answered honestly. — But some haven't yet embraced their fate, their legacy. I'm sure they'll realize their purpose someday.
— Never crossed paths with ones called Galen Marek or Rahm Kota? — the Corellian asked suddenly.
— I've met many, — Luke dodged, guarding his cards. — Why ask? Are they tied to this?
— I'll answer all your questions later, Jedi Skywalker, — Bel Iblis smiled. — But then, — his smile hardened, — I'll have some for you too.
Luke held the commander's gaze, then bowed again.
— I'll look forward to our talk, Senator Bel Iblis.
Outside, escorted by a soldier to a barrack for the night with R2, Luke suddenly thought the issue he'd gone to New Cov to solve might run deeper than Leia and General Madine imagined.
And it might open new doors.
***
Tiberos effortlessly parried the Fiorin's vibroblade thrust, then, with undisguised glee, smashed one of his warhammers flat across the pirate's skull.
The sound of a breaking jaw echoed as blood clots and tooth fragments sprayed from the alien's mouth.
With gusto, the privateer kicked the pirate in the chest, sending him crashing back a couple of meters. Twirling his weapon, Tiberos eyed his helpless foe, pinned against his own bedroom wall, with relish.
— You wanted a meeting, Nym, — Tiberos growled through gritted teeth, fighting the pain of several cuts and a stab wound in his thigh. — Here I am.
The battered pirate captain wiped blood from his face, glaring up at the towering giant who could end him with one blow.
— Pathetic imitator, — Nym spat blood onto his bedroom floor. — I taught you everything you know, and you barge into my home, bring Imperials, all for petty revenge over a couple weeks in the clink?
Tiberos roared with laughter.
— You still don't believe what's happening, Nym? — he asked. — Your gang's gone. Stormtroopers took your fortress. Imperials besieged and stormed your bases. All your stashes and hideouts in this system are either found or soon will be. Your life's work—destroyed. It'll never rise again. But that's small fry, — he admitted. — I didn't destroy your outfit, but your death, — the giant flipped his weapon so its slanted blade pressed against Nym's throat, — that'll be by my hand. See these warhammers? — he asked.
Captain Nym.
The Fiorin stayed silent, but his eyes showed he recognized the weapons.
— I wasn't even twenty when you killed my father, — Tiberos recounted. — Attacked the ship he was on with my mom and unborn brother. You slaughtered them. Stabbed, slashed, smashed skulls and bones. Do you remember killing them?
The blade's sharp edge sliced the Fiorin's throat, blood spilling in thick drops, forming rivulets.
— Think that makes me understand what barbaric spawn you are, Tibby? — Nym sneered, baring shattered and missing teeth. — Not in the slightest.
Tiberos felt rage boil within him. The scum dared mock him.
Fire blazed inside. The same fire Eymand had warned him to avoid, never to give in to. The Dark Side, huh?
Who cares.
— I'm the Son of Aurra Sing, you dimwit! — Tiberos roared, swinging the warhammer. Thought flickered across Nym's face, then his eyes widened.
— Oh, you get it now, — Tiberos laughed, savoring the confusion and fear radiating from his foe.
— No, — Nym whispered. — No, it can't be… She said the child died…
— As you can see, — Tiberos relished Nym's scream as he drove the warhammer into the wall beside his head, severing several head tendrils. Nym howled, tried to stand, but was slammed back so hard the plaster cracked where he hit. "I just thought about it," a stray thought flickered in the privateer's mind. — I'm alive, Nym. I beat and humiliated you once. And I'm finishing you now. They say Fiorins grow stronger with age. But I'm stronger, — Tiberos stated. — Look me in the eyes! — he ordered, lifting Nym's head with the second warhammer. Pain washed over the pirate's face, and Tiberos sensed—somehow newly—Nym wasn't just hurting. He hadn't just lost this battle and war—he was broken. Mentally. And soon physically. — Your head'll hang over my fortress gates, reminding everyone how pathetic and weak you are, Nym. Look at me! — he struck the captive's face. — Look like my parents did when you killed them! Look with pleading! Beg for mercy!
— It's… not like that… — Nym managed, but Tiberos wasn't listening, tossing the warhammers aside and pummeling the pirate's body and face with his massive fists. With each blow, less of Nym's face remained intact. The fire in his chest flared, feeling so good, so glorious, that…
It stopped abruptly—so fast Tiberos faltered. He missed the moment Nym's pulped body slipped past him, yanked as if by invisible hands. That sensation… he'd felt it before! Talking to the Grand Admiral the first time! Someone cut him off from the Force!
Turning, Tiberos saw a squad of stormtroopers behind him, one injecting Nym with bacta. How'd they get here?! Why'd they want this filth!?
— No! — Tiberos bellowed, scanning for his weapon. Grabbing a warhammer, he gripped it, ready to charge all nine. But the clicks of blaster rifles off safety halted him. — Nym's mine! Ask Thrawn!
— The order's from me, — said the Imperial commander in the doorway. A lizard perched on his shoulder… but something else was odd.
— What's this joke, Grand Admiral?! — Tiberos snarled. — You promised him to me!
— And you'll have your revenge, Captain, — the Imperial vowed. — But first, I'd ask you to hear someone out. Bring her in!
Footsteps echoed—Imperial stormtrooper boots. But not just them.
Four "dolls" escorted another sentient. A very familiar one…
Whose image he'd always carried in his heart…
The warhammer slipped from his weakened grip, clattering onto Nym's marble bedroom floor amid the bloody traces of their fight.
— Mom?! — Tiberos croaked, staring at Aurra Sing, irritably glancing around.