Major Bren groaned and rolled his eyes from under his lids, but the lighting around was dim, and it took him several minutes for his vision to focus on the surroundings.
But little had changed.
He was still in some shaft.
Muffled voices of guards carried from somewhere, chatting among themselves about their own affairs.
His body ached as if it had not been treated but mutilated all this time.
Tomax listened to his condition.
He continued lying on the same metal bunk, or operating table, shackled by the same metal clamps, with the taste of metal in his mouth.
And besides, in a flight suit cut open at the arms, legs, and sides of the torso.
The last had evidently been damaged by this mechanical interrogator droid, stuffed into a medical droid chassis by the correctional facility's owners out of bafflement (or malice).
Bren, taking advantage of not being noticed, wiggled his arms, then his legs.
Assured of their presence and ability to manipulate the limbs, the pilot dismissed at least one worry.
But his overall condition was frankly poor.
Two, not three, of his ribs throbbed as if icy needles had been embedded in his body instead, which someone periodically heated to the scorching heat of Tatooine's deserts or cooled to the temperature of the icy plains of infamous Hoth.
In unison with the ribs, his left leg whimpered, indicating sites of healed fractures and tissue fusions.
Tomax felt weakness throughout his body, as well as the cold, almost icy covers of his own skin.
No one intended to warm him, of course.
Nor help him recover.
Despite his state, the major clearly realized that a cocktail of restorative and nutrient solutions could have him on his feet in minutes.
But what truly threw him was the presence of atmosphere in that corridor (or was it a cave?) where he was forced to remain at his jailers' whim.
He breathed calmly, feeling neither thin air nor other breathing issues.
He dared a deep, whistling inhale of the air filling the unfamiliar chamber.
And immediately coughed, hearing a muffled sound in front of his mouth.
Which was quite unusual and new.
He had to squint his eyes hard to understand the cause of his cough's odd resonance.
A small mask, more like a snorkel for aqualung divers, was attached to his mouth.
Remarkably, he hadn't felt it before.
And only now realized he should have noticed that during his talk with the droid, his voice had sounded muffled...
But evidently, his brain had chalked it up to hoarseness, not fully recovered from the initial awakening stupor.
"Awake," came a repulsive and loathsome voice, even in its inflections, from somewhere behind Tomax's head.
And he had thought only that tormentor droid could have such a disgusting tone.
In the next second, he was abruptly, without warning, shifted from horizontal to vertical.
His sternum ached, now pressing against a wide metal arc.
Once Tomax overcame the unpleasant sensations and his eyes adjusted to the light, he discerned the very guards he had seen before approaching him.
Four sentients whose uniforms did not quite match the Empire's standard for prison wardens.
Of course, it was already clear that the Empire had not held sway here for a long time.
The motley gear of the approaching sentients included armored plates and pads on vulnerable spots but no identifying marks, patches, or chevrons to guess their rank or unit affiliation.
Mismatched jumpsuits, varied weapons, no uniformity whatsoever in their gear.
Nothing in common except elements of body armor.
But, as far as Tomax could judge, even those were not in full kit on the sentients.
"Well, flyboy, flown too far?" one of the approachers inquired, guffawing like a tauntaun dying in Hoth's snowfields.
"Who are you scum?" Tomax asked.
"Talkative one," the same sentient snorted, his facial features obscured by the corridor's half-light. It seemed the light source was behind Bren, directed to illuminate him fully and completely, not the "visitors." "Well, nothing for it—we'll have a proper chat about our atmosphere generator once they're done with you."
'This one's probably their leader,' the major thought mechanically.
As in piloting—first identify the greatest threat source.
In gangs, it's usually the boss in person.
"So who has the guts to talk to me, eh, you mutts?" Tomax asked boldly and mockingly, deliberately escalating and provoking the foe.
Pain from potential beating wouldn't scare him, but enraging the jailers so their vision went red while they beat the pilot to death in response to their childish complexes and grudges—that needed doing.
Because they hadn't treated him for nothing.
And shackled him not for laughs.
They needed information.
Not these scum specifically—they were just bandits.
But they had someone commanding them.
And most likely, it was he who had spoken of the major's awakening.
"You want faces, Dominion boy?" the "leader" snarled, stepping forward.
Now the light allowed recognition.
Vicuay.
Typical mercenary.
But dressed too finely for that category of "character."
Like a private army fighter, or...
A criminal syndicate's.
"Go ahead, try," Tomax said contemptuously.
As his flight mechanic used to say, "Sometimes you can be such an Imperial that my hand itches to break that willful jaw for the arrogance."
Experience in command within the Galactic Empire's armed forces made itself known.
Strangely, the foe did indeed come quite close to Tomax.
Winding up his fist, he paused for a second, giving the pilot a chance to see the knuckle-duster on his hand, then delivered a quick and crushing blow...
To the surface to which Tomax was attached.
Looking at the hand the opponent still held in striking position, the major smirked crookedly.
The Vicuay had just confirmed he was not the figure here who could decide the prisoner's fate.
And that the pilot was to be preserved—undoubtedly, they hadn't treated him out of kindness, but to ensure he didn't die before they extracted the data their masters wanted under torture.
"And that's all you've got?" Bren clarified. "Then I pity you—you're either cross-eyed or a doormat for someone more important. Get out of my sight, filth."
For a brief moment, a smile visited the Vicuay's face again, then his physiognomy resumed its usual dull expression, going flat and lifeless.
"You...!"
"Enough!" came a voice again from somewhere behind the Dominion man's position. "The major is provoking you to end his life quickly. We'll talk to him first. If he refuses to answer—you can tear him apart."
Turning his head toward the sound source, Tomax finally glimpsed the one with command authority.
Yes, his assumptions were confirmed.
Now standing directly before him was the Zann Consortium's "Vulture" emerging from behind, in full battle armor.
Crimson-black armor, characteristic patterns on it...
"I hope our mechanical bonesetter helped you, Major, regain your senses after the crash?" The voice came through the helmet's vocoder, distorted so painfully to listen to. Most likely some technology was used. "It's important to me that you're in good shape to endure the upcoming interrogation. We want to thoroughly ascertain the purpose of your visit to Kessel."
It immediately occurred to Tomax that he need not hide his intentions.
Especially considering the "Vulture" intended to break his will and compel cooperation, demonstrating what would happen in case of refusal.
There, that Vicuay stood grinning, as if anticipating the impending thrashing.
Eh, amateurs.
If only you knew the psychological training the lads from the Scimitar Wing, in which Tomax had previously flown and which he intended to recreate aboard the Chimaera, underwent.
All this was child's play.
They had captured the wrong man.
"As far as I know, Captain Tschel already explained everything over open channel," Though he somewhat doubted sincerity would count in his favor here. "We're here to ransom the Imperial prisoners and make the exchange with Corran Horn."
The major couldn't see the "Vulture's" face under the helmet, but noted the slight side-to-side sway.
"Even Morut Dul isn't such an idiot as to believe that. And I'm a born skeptic to boot. You don't drag an Imperial Star Destroyer with a full wing and a legion of stormtroopers backed by armor for an exchange."
Hm... So former jailer Morut Dul commands the scum on Kessel?
A good nugget of information.
Only, as far as Tomax knew about "Vultures," the fighter in crimson-black armor before him wouldn't confide out of boredom.
A "Vulture" would never say or do anything that could harm the Zann Consortium.
Which meant they had no intention of letting him live.
"Well, you'll have to settle for that answer," Tomax said relaxedly. "I'm unaware of any other purposes for the Chimaera's presence here and all the add-ons you listed."
"I allow that may be so, Major," the "Vulture" again drew attention to knowing his rank. "But we know far more than you think. This conversation is merely your loyalty check. You don't want to cooperate, Major, so we'll torture you."
At his signal, the lickspittle leader activated the holocam.
"Let's begin the interrogation, Major," the "Vulture" declared, taking several scalpels from the obliging droid-"medic's" tray. "State your full name, rank, unit, and last combat assignment. Then proceed to describe your fighter and the reasons why its crash proved fatal to such a massive object as the atmosphere generator."
Like a broken record, droning the rank...
So either the Zann Consortium had a "rat" embedded in the Dominion, or they possessed a database of at least regular fleet officers.
And that was bad.
Of course, one could assume they cracked his code cylinder, but that was unlikely—Bren had left it in his cabin aboard the Star Destroyer per instructions.
So the option of enemies seizing it before the pilot regained consciousness after "landing" was extremely untenable due to objective reasons.
Since in combat a pilot could be shot down and even captured, carrying a device that could grant access to classified documents and internal wing and command correspondence was strictly forbidden.
Bren himself had drilled his pilots on following such requirements.
And here Tomax's eyes caught the "hook-and-loop" on the left chest side.
More precisely, a small tear just above it.
The very one Tomax had cut for attaching the rank plaque to the flight suit.
And the plaque was missing.
Tomax, like other pilots, removed it before mounting up—to maximally hinder identification in case of capture.
But there was a nuance.
And normally, the "hook-and-loop" held a fabric "patch" with the owner's surname.
Which was removed before launch so the pilot couldn't be easily identified.
"And you're a real piece of derm," Tomax declared. "A middling one at that. You gripe that you know 'far more' than I think. You know squat, you crap in a red tin can. You don't even know who I am—that's why you're pretending to conduct a recorded interrogation. So I'll spill it all myself. Sith in your face, not my testimony. I serve the Dominion!"
"Major, if I didn't know everything about you, I wouldn't even know your rank," the "Vulture" stated.
Tomax smirked with maximum arrogance and mockery, continuing to provoke the "Vulture."
"And you can recall that in Imperial armed forces, only the rank plaque from code eleven standardly includes a wide needle-holder that leaves a five-millimeter slit in the flight suit. And that's a fleet captain, line ship commander, army colonel, Pilot Corps major, Guard colonel, or equivalent in the Stormtrooper Corps. I don't look like a Star Destroyer captain—too good a flyer for an army man, not pretty enough for a guardsman, too smart for a stormtrooper. So I'm a pilot—considering you found me in the pod of a downed starfighter that carved up your fleet like a Tusken lamed bantha for meat. And above major, pilots usually prefer sitting in HQs and dispatch centers, not risking their asses. So all your mind games, tin can, are nothing but child's prattle. I spit on your interrogation."
The "Vulture" silently heard out everything Tomax said.
Then, without warning, drove a surgical scalpel into his thigh.
Bren, unable to hold back, screamed at the top of his lungs.
Next, as he registered the pain, another such scalpel was driven into the other thigh.
"For a pilot, you're too clever too, Major," the "Vulture" declared. "But thanks for sharing your logic chain. Now I know for sure you underwent corresponding training in Imperial counterintelligence. So you're from an elite unit. And a very, very valuable prisoner. That's good. Soon your friends on the surface will finish their fun, free all the prisoners, and clear out. And we'll leisurely head to my ship and go meet those who'll interrogate you very thoroughly. And after meeting them, you definitely won't survive. On the other hand, I could let you live after your eloquent cooperation."
"Go to hell," Tomax spat right on the "Vulture's" visor.
Silently wiping the insulting moisture with an armored glove, he struck the pilot in the gut without winding up.
"Wrong attitude, Major," the "Vulture" declared. "Your resistance stems from not understanding how futile your escape attempts are. But for you and your situational awareness, I'll conduct a little explanatory work."
"Run that scalpel across your own throat, canned goods," Tomax advised, biting his cheek so the new pain distracted from the sensation of blood running down his legs.
"Maybe next time," the "Vulture" promised. "See, Major, we're deep under Kessel's surface. Over three kilometers of shafts and tunnels separate us from this planet's rocky shell. As you may know, spice is mined on Kessel. Though the whole galaxy knows that. But few guess how exactly it's produced."
After these words, the bed to which Tomax was attached rotated one hundred eighty degrees, after which even the scant light in the tunnel went out.
Blinking, Tomax Bren saw some stirring at the far end of the cave.
Stirring amid a multitude of glistening webs, on the other side of a powerful energy field separating this section of the tunnel from its continuation.
A chill ran through his stiffened body, which until now the major had considered physiologically impossible.
"Meet," the "Vulture" offered. "This is an energy spider. Also known as a 'spice spider.' They inhabit Kessel's spice mines, live in total darkness, and weave their webs from glitterstim—a particularly valuable spice variant."
Kessel's energy (spice) spider.
"The Zann Consortium put considerable effort into understanding how to boost glitterstim production. Morut Dul's knowledge came in handy as never before. These spiders shoot webs to catch prey. Then they pierce it and suck it dry. They devour any biological component, whether beast or human," the "Vulture" looked at the stunned Tomax. "They hate light sources very much, because it harms their glitterstim webs, which react to radiation and spoil the webs. That's why all spice miners on Kessel work in total darkness. The deeper under the surface, the higher the risk of encountering them and becoming feed. So Morut Dul often sends the most unruly prisoners deeper into the mines—and quells riots while feeding the spiders."
"So these beasts," Bren looked at the writhing monster, "are the glitterstim producers?"
"Yep," the "Vulture" confirmed. "And the most wonderful thing is, they produce it by devouring someone. More food—more spice. We've already relocated a few to other planets to increase output. True, in most worlds, the spiders died, which is sad. But at least we now know more about them than the whole galaxy—and you have a fine chance to test firsthand how strong their jaws and claws are."
Tomax felt himself trembling...
To be eaten by a beast that would turn you into narcotics—a poor end to one's life cycle.
"Tell me what I want to know—and this beast stays behind the corpuscular field," the "Vulture" said in his vile tone. "Play hero—and one button press, and it'll feast on you, seeing the lamp flare bright over your head. The choice is yours, Major..."
"I've chosen," Tomax replied without hesitation, clenching his fists. "I have something to tell you..."
"Excellent," the "Vulture" practically purred. "Repeat the questions, or does memory serve?"
"You didn't get it, scum," Bren looked at him with a gaze full of contempt. "There are things far more valuable and eternal than one man's life."
"Yes," the "Vulture" agreed. "Money. And you'll have plenty if you tell about your wonder-fighter..."
"Honor," Tomax corrected, looking again at the monster. At both monsters. "Honor is more important than life, you dumb beast."
"As you wish," the "Vulture" said in an indifferent, bored tone. "Lads, fall back and..."
His phrase cut off midway as he glanced behind the major, where the mercenaries were.
A shot rang out, followed by a falling body.
Tomax tried to break free, but the bonds were strong.
And his body was already weakening from blood loss.
Directly before him, from the tunnel's half-shadow, emerged a human figure in pitch-black armor.
"Major Bren?" came the voice familiar to any with Imperial training, from the standard vocabulator of Imperial armor. "I am Sergeant TNX-0297, Fourth Special Squad, Storm Commandos, 501st Guard Legion. We're here for you. Thanks for keeping the 'Vulture' talking while we dealt with his mercenaries."
"Good thing you didn't wait till that beast bit into me!" the Scimitar Wing commander blurted on the edge of adrenaline overload, eyes fixed on the energy spider.
"No problem, sir," the sergeant replied, starting to treat the wounds on the rescued man's legs.
***
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