Ten years and thirty-one days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year and thirty-one days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months and sixteen days since the arrival).
Over the years of his service, Captain Shteben had been involved in no small number of scrapes.
Once, he had spent two days in the sewers of an ecumenopolis, tracking down those who wanted to profit from the smuggling of Imperial property.
And then he had to engage in a fight in that abode of stench and decay.
And to this day, he was sure that his olfactory receptors could no longer be surprised by anything.
Oh, how wrong he was.
The cell reeked as if someone had eaten a long-dead rancor that had deigned to begin the process of decomposition in all its delights.
But in reality, nothing of the sort—just one overly fat, overly dirty, and overly smelly Hutt who, despite his former position, was shitting himself.
And if it had been dictated by some objective reasons—Grappa the Hutt did it deliberately, mocking the counterintelligence officer.
"Well," Shteben looked at the enormous pile of excrement, almost the size of Grappa himself, towering in the center of the cell, "at least now I know where all this comes from. As for the aroma, do you like wallowing in such filth yourself?"
The Hutt, located in the far corner of the cell, once a prison storeroom and the only suitable one for holding a prisoner of such girth, merely favored the counterintelligence officer with a contemptuous glance.
"You know how your game of silence ends, Grappa," Shteben sighed, unbuttoning his tunic and taking out a mask-respirator from the inner pocket, along with protective goggles. "First, you stage these kinds of demarches, although last time with the vomit all over the floor was much more inventive, then the interrogation droids come in and do their dirty work." At the mention of the latter, the Hutt barely noticeably shuddered with his entire body. "It takes very little time, and you start talking, spilling like a Jedi under interrogation in the Inquisitorius. So why go through the same path every time?"
Grappa rumbled something in his native language.
"Mr. Grappa says that this is how he expresses his contempt for you humans, demonstrating that, like any respectable Hutt, he doesn't give a damn about human laws," translated the silver C-3PO-series droid standing nearby. "He is showing you his unbreakable spirit and readiness for torture."
"You couldn't control your salivation last time after meeting the interrogation droid, you disgusting worm," Shteben smirked, sitting down on the folding chair he had brought, "and now you've decided to play the unconquered one? If my command decides to publicize even a part of what you've already blabbed, so many bounty hunters will come after your carcass—sent by your own kin and former partners—that you'll demand political asylum from the Dominion."
The Hutt growled again in his bass voice.
"Mr. Grappa declares that he has powerful allies and patrons who will come to his rescue as soon as they learn he is in captivity. And then your sufferings will be endless."
"The key point is 'if they learn,'" Shteben emphasized logically. Sighing, the man asked:
"You clearly don't want to tell me voluntarily about your mentioned comrades, right? Neither about Tyber Zann, nor about whose orders you cloned Baroness D'Asta, nor where the original is now?"
The Hutt spat vigorously at Shteben, but he dodged the insulting moisture, the volume of which would have been enough to drown in.
"That was crude," Shteben stated.
"Mr. Grappa says that even his spit is more valuable than your life, Agent Shteben," the translator droid reported. "His friends will come for him, and retribution awaits you all."
"We've heard all this before," the counterintelligence officer assured, heading for the cell exit.
When the metal bulkhead slid aside, he looked at the Hutt, who had long ago begun to wag his tongue tirelessly but continued to play the innocent Alderaanian caught in an arsenal with a homemade explosive device.
"Are you sure you don't want to say anything before I leave?" Shteben inquired.
Grappa barked a response in Huttese.
"Mr. Grappa is detailing the executions to which he will subject you once he is free," the translator droid reported.
"Well," Shteben sighed, opening the door. "It's nice when you get under someone's skin that deeply. Come on in, lads, it's your time. But, Grappa, I knew you'd say that. Today, you'll have some special company of metal balls."
The Counterintelligence operative stepped aside, letting half a dozen Imperial interrogation droids, bought on the black market about a month ago, into the former storeroom one by one.
The Hutt spoke again, but now his voice dripped with fear.
Evidently, his skin, pierced with needles and repeatedly sliced with the finest scalpels, remembered what it was like to be in the manipulators of that type of droid.
And today, there were exactly five more of them than usual.
Meaning the pain threshold would be reached six times faster.
"Mr. Grappa apologizes for his words and says he wouldn't mind conversing with you one-on-one…"
"Certainly," Shteben assured him. "As soon as the 'balls' are done, we'll talk."
Locking the door, he ordered the stormtrooper guards to call him in six hours.
In that time, the interrogation droids would finish all the dirty work, and he could tally and cross-reference some early records.
There was also a great need to check a number of other sources to form an overall picture of events.
The case of Grappa the Hutt and his henchmen, tied to cooperation with the Zann Consortium and the cloning of Baroness D'Asta, stank to high heaven and required maximum attention to detail.
***
The armored doors of the tactical compartment of the Crimson Dawn parted to the sides.
"…a coordinated strike will bring them to their knees," General Ventress continued reporting her vision of the situation, pointing to the enemy markers on the holographic panel.
"If I may interrupt," Shohashi said, pulling away from the holographic terminal and, leaning on his cane, tilting his head to peer over the shoulder of the Dathomirian woman standing opposite him.
"Counter-Admiral Shohashi, sir!" came a familiar voice, energetic but still tinged with weakness. "Captain Brandei reporting for duty!"
"What a good boy," Ventress shook her short snow-white hair, turning toward the entrant. "You can bark even louder. It won't hurt operational planning at all."
"Stand down, General Ventress," Shohashi commanded, seeing Brandei wince at such a "warm" reception.
Circling the holoterminal, he approached his comrade, who, as if parodying his superior, leaned on a cane.
A simple metal one, the kind usually issued in hospitals to recovering patients with musculoskeletal issues.
"Glad to see you, Captain Brandei," Erik said, not hiding his restrained joy, shaking the hand of the Judicator's commander.
"Likewise, sir," the officer assured.
Glancing sidelong at the Dathomirian witch, who stood leaning her rear against the edge of the holoprojector, looking at both men with a sour expression, arms crossed over her chest, he barely noticeably nodded.
"Glad to see you too, ma'am."
Ventress mimed something like a figurative salute, then turned to the hologram, pretending that what was happening between the two colleagues and friends didn't interest her at all.
"The hospital didn't report that you'd come out of the coma," Shohashi noted cautiously.
"You'd be surprised how much effort it took me to keep that secret," Brandei chuckled. "Two days in a bacta tank, cognitive and physical tests just to get the discharge papers. And here I am, on the first available ship to the flagship. Decided to surprise you."
"It worked," Shohashi agreed. "A lot has happened in your absence."
"Yeah, I heard," Brandei nodded. "Thrawn died and came back…"
"You weren't supposed to know that," Shohashi narrowed his eyes. "That information was delivered personally."
"And it was," Brandei agreed. "To Stormaer. We left the Central Military Hospital on Ciutric IV together."
The finest military medical facility, where the best of the best Dominion medical specialists worked, provided centralized treatment, recovery, and rehabilitation for all Armed Forces personnel of the Dominion.
Erik mentally recalled if the commander of the Abyssal Fury had been at that briefing.
Yes, he had.
Fourth row, seventh seat.
"I didn't know Stormaer was also under treatment."
"He wasn't," Brandei stated. "He said the Dominion's military medical service had requisitioned his MC80 Home One, which he captured during the Battle of Sluis Van. The ship was badly damaged; fleet headquarters deemed restoring it as a combat unit too expensive. But the military medics hustled and got that Mon Calamari monstrosity turned into a hospital ship. Stormaer personally delivered it to Ciutric IV—they'll refit the star cruiser right at the orbital repair yard. We crossed paths with the captain at the hospital, where he was visiting some of his specialists who weren't so lucky as to avoid injury. Well, he gave me a lift to fleet headquarters. Good thing all my clearances were already restored, and I was reinstated to my previous position."
"Glad for you," Erik clapped his comrade on the shoulder.
Brandei winced, squeezed his eyes shut, and drew in air with a hiss, reflexively covering his shoulder with his healthy hand.
"How did they discharge you if you have pain reflexes?" Erik wondered.
"The skin healed, bones mended, organs patched—even the eyes were saved," Brandei smiled. "The hypersensitivity of the nerve endings will pass with time. A couple of weeks, maybe a month. Doesn't affect work, just have to avoid banging into doorframes, bumping into bulkheads, leaning against them, and all that…"
"Sir, if I may," Ventress said, "we were discussing the upcoming operation."
"The operation is still in development," Shohashi reminded. "It can wait a couple of minutes. And do all the nerves react like that?" he clarified with Brandei.
"About one in ten," the latter tried to put on a brave face. "But it's fine. Just let me get back to work, and you'll see I'll be on my feet in no time. Been lying on that hospital bed too long. Got a bit rusty…"
With these words, he handed Shohashi a flimsi sheet from the military medical service, with all the data confirming that Captain Brandei was fully healthy.
And no notes about "one in ten."
Erik quickly calculated how many nerve endings there were in the human body.
It came out to… a lot.
"This won't do," the counter-admiral declared. "With all due respect, but a star destroyer commander experiencing constant pain is not what we need on a combat cruise. We both know how many guys with symptoms like that or similar have gotten hooked on spice to dull the pain. I can't accept your discharge papers."
Most likely, Brandei had somehow negotiated with the doctors, probably even deceiving them, to get out of the hospital ward as soon as possible.
Hoping that Shohashi, understanding his friend's urge to "get back in the game," would turn a blind eye to the obvious.
The Judicator's commander was walking the edge again.
Just like back then, with his obsession with medicine.
This was starting to become a pattern.
"No," Shohashi replied categorically. "I can't accept this document. Captain, you're clearly not well."
"Erik," Brandei hissed through clenched teeth. "Stop it. I nearly went mad when I heard the Judicator almost died during the Taanab campaign."
"No more than a massive proton torpedo strike on the solar ionization reactor," Erik stated. "The damage wasn't critical."
"There wouldn't have been any if I'd been on the bridge," Brandei declared. "The XO did great, saved the ship. But he's not ready to command starships solo yet. Stormaer already told me about the manpower shortage in the regular forces. Sign this Hutt-spit paper! Don't let me rot on a hospital bed! I lost my edge and nearly went stir-crazy in there! Erik!"
"This isn't up for discussion," Shohashi said categorically. "I can't take that risk. What if a pain syndrome hits you in the middle of battle? Or shock from pain overload while you're in the command chair? The crews on star destroyers are diluted with recruits from the Defense Forces. They're not the rancors we fought shoulder-to-shoulder with anymore. If something happens to you—they'll panic and lose the ship."
"It'll be fine!" Brandei assured, biting his lip from the obvious pain. "Erik, please, one last time…"
"No, Captain, I can't…"
Despite all the joy that his friend and comrade had survived, Erik still (and always) put rules first.
And proportionality of threats.
A ship commander going down in the middle of a battle in front of the entire watch—that was a demoralizing factor that could turn into outright disaster.
"How many times does it have to be said!" he heard the irritated voice of General Ventress.
Turning his head to annihilate the intemperate Dathomirian witch with a glare, Erik involuntarily recoiled from the white-haired woman whose hands were enveloped in green flame.
"General, what…?" was all he managed to utter before both of Ventress's hands clamped onto the head of the terrified Brandei with a swing.
And in the next instant, a wall of green-white flame enveloped them both, reeking literally of deathly cold.
"Guards!" Shohashi bellowed.
But the BX droids and quartet of MagnaGuards were already there.
Their vibroblades and electrostaffs prepared to strike the witch when suddenly it all ended.
Ventress, no longer the source of the repelling flame, removed her hands from the head of the terrified—and possibly even a bit grayer—Brandei, who was shaking like a dry leaf in the wind and staring at a single point ahead.
"What did you do to him, General?" Shohashi demanded, mentally cursing the moment he had agreed to trust this witch even a little. He should have kept those damned ysalamiri with him at all times! "What happened to him?"
"He pissed himself," Ventress snorted, slapping the very shoulder hard. "Tough officer. Usually, it's a myocardial infarction."
Repeating Shohashi's action.
But instead of a grimace of pain, Brandei merely flinched and dropped the metal cane from his hands.
"Don't come near me, witch!" he took two steps back, pointing a finger at Ventress. "W-what did you do to me?"
"Interrupted your whiny bullshit," Ventress looked indifferently at the droids surrounding her. "Tired of seeing you undermine the counter-admiral's moral foundations. If it were up to me, I'd have booted you out of the squadron with a demotion to cabin boy long ago."
"How?!" Shohashi demanded. "What did you do to his nerves?"
"Accelerated his body's regeneration," Ventress explained, scrutinizing the Brandei standing before her, who was hiding behind a MagnaGuard. "And restored the missing piece of his fibula that was making him limp, though he didn't say."
"Jedi tricks," the Judicator's commander muttered, patting himself down. "Erik… It's true, no pain."
Another slap landed on the lower torso of the star destroyer commander.
"And… where's my gut?" the Judicator's captain clarified.
"Burned as fuel for accelerating the regeneration processes," Ventress said. "I'm not Mother Talzin, to conjure from nothing. Be glad you're even alive. Last time I tried this, my partner keeled over from a heart attack."
"Will Brandei live?" Shohashi asked cautiously.
"If he doesn't plan to shoot himself with a blaster or hit a proton torpedo detonator, then yeah, why not?" Ventress shrugged. "If that's all, Counter-Admiral, maybe recall your tin lapdogs before I think you keep droids here so I can warm up right in this compartment instead of the training one. And dare I remind you, we were discussing the operation until you decided to stage a holodrama in two acts here."
"Guards—stand down," Shohashi said.
When the droids returned to their previous positions and Ventress resumed her bored examination of the holomap, unambiguously hinting that she expected the squadron commander to join, Brandei, stuffing his hands into the slash pockets of his uniform trousers to keep them from dropping to the deck, approached the silently watching witch—and simultaneously utterly stunned—Shohashi.
***
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