The ventilation hummed quietly, telling a knowledgeable person which ship systems were working and in what condition they were. From behind the closed partition, the din of the company that Rimon Rok had left could be heard, fully enjoying the solitude in his spartan cabin. There were almost no extraneous noises, which meant the crew maintained their ship in good condition.
A ship. Your own ship means freedom. Freedom to move wherever you want, to take on the work you desire, and to adhere to the schedule that is convenient for you.
For this alone, you will go to the edge of the galaxy and dance with any, the slimiest and most toothy partner.
But for Rimon, the ship left at the Alliance base meant something more. The ship remained with him when he became an orphan during the Clone Wars. The ship remained with him when he found a new family. The ship served him faithfully, becoming a part of him, just as he became a part of the ship.
This was his legacy. And if Rimon parted with it someday, it would be his personal choice.
And therefore, for the ship, he was ready to go even further than the edge of the galaxy. And completing the mission for a gang of rebels was an acceptable payment for him.
"Although stealing the ship would have been faster," a sarcastic voice had long been undermining his personal moral code of honor. He could indeed steal a ship. And he wouldn't even be shot down on takeoff. With a good probability. But the locals acquired the ship legally, and therefore the ship was theirs. And Rimon wasn't going to steal someone else's ship. He wasn't a thief, he was a smuggler.
Stars... In the cabin of the truck carrying him to his destination, the terrorists' cell, there wasn't even a small porthole to see their light. Enchanting and calming. It was calm that the guy wanted most right now.
From conversations with the local brethren, he understood one thing – they valued life even less than technology. And now he was heading to their lair, and he had to pass for one of them.
No. Not pass. Become one of them. The life of an enemy is a desired trophy. Destroying everything around. A large collateral damage and losses are even better. That's who he should be.
The thought made him uneasy. As if he had stepped into a puddle of mud with a running start. He never sought to kill. He always minimized damage. The ideal job is one that only he and the client know about. He needed to stop being himself. To become someone who hung on the tabloids "Wanted." A dangerous repeat offender who knocked down a patrol and escaped from Oovo IV.
If he remained himself, he would likely not live very long. And the last moments of his life would be difficult to call joyful.
After examining the cabin, Rimon sat on the only bunk. It was hard, covered with some smooth, non-marking material, and the local quartermaster had forgotten to even add a basic pillow. Folding his hands behind his head, Rok stretched out on it at full length and closed his eyes. A smile of a self-satisfied person played on his face. They could not only bug him, but also install a camera.
The ship. His ship. It's worth dancing with this gang.
Rimon had no idea what to do next, by what methods to integrate into the terrorist collective, what to do and what not to do. More precisely, he knew. Talk less, be ideological and cruel.
The latter was also not to his liking. He knew what toughness was. He often tried to be tough. But cruel? Never. Well, more precisely, never intentionally.
It was unclear how much time was left until arrival, so Rimon made the most logical decision in this situation – to sleep.
Asteroid Belt
Taking his belongings, Rok left the cabin and, glancing around quickly, headed towards the hangar from which he had come. Anyway, they were supposed to meet him. So he was not afraid of getting lost or going the wrong way.
A group of recruits was already crowding at the airlock. They eyed Rimon with a mixture of suspicion, apprehension, and respect – it seemed they had thoroughly gossiped about him while he slept, and what they had said about him to the mercenaries was only a matter of speculation. The airlock opened, the heavy hatch plate slid aside, clearing the passage into the transition chamber. When the pressure equalized, a passage also opened on the other side.
"One by one, without rushing," one of the recruiters winked at Rok. "You will be met there."
Rok had no intention of rushing anywhere. One of his acquaintances once said: "There's no need to rush, death will catch up with everyone anyway" – and Rimon didn't rush, but calmly walked in the column, paying no attention to those around him, as his status required.
They were led along a straight corridor, most resembling a pipe. Or a shaft. The air was cold and dry, frost glinted here and there on the plascrete walls, but as they moved forward, it became warmer. Twice they had to stop and wait for the durasteel partition blocking the passage to rise. The journey ended in a room with a domed ceiling, where several armed fighters awaited them.
"Welcome to the 'Punishers' base," one of them greeted the arrivals. "Here you will undergo combat training before you go to fulfill our duty to the Galaxy. The rooms, however, are for three people, but you won't be bored."
A room for three meant that privacy would not be possible. In any case, Rok did not refuse to communicate, and it would not have been possible, so he decided to find a familiar recruiter and ask who among the newcomers showed the most promise, so he could room with him.
Arkasa was not found – he had probably stayed on the ship. And the fighters quickly divided the arrivals into groups of three and began to lead them to their assigned rooms. Rimon got an incomplete set – only one roommate, but a chatterbox for three at once, as it turned out immediately, as soon as the door closed behind the escort.
"Listen, guy, did you really take down a patrol? Wow! My name is Kailas, and yours? They say it's gonna be cool here! How did you even get to them?"
Questions poured from him like sand from a leaky bag.
Rimon, unable to bear such a torrent of information from his neighbor, was ready to swat him. But he decided to restrain his impulses to make holes in the unknown for now. This means the flow needed to be directed into the right channel:
"It feels like you already know everything about me. Tell me instead, who are you, and how and why did you get here?"
Kailas practically jumped on his bunk, staring at Rok like a schoolgirl at a star of a capital group who suddenly found herself in the same room.
"Man, are you serious? Arcas told us all about you, how you totally schooled the imps, and how angry they are at you now! Lucky you, huh... I'd heard about them before, but I thought they were lying. And then suddenly they offered me to join them. Of course, I agreed."
Rimon felt sad. The guy just didn't know where he'd landed; he wanted romance, but he'd get death and pain. And that's in the best-case scenario. Arcas had apparently run a good PR campaign for Rok, talking about things he hadn't actually done. Thanks for the favor. But he was unavailable for now, so the contract had to be fulfilled and the ship returned. Looking at his neighbor, Rimon said sadly:
"I'm rarely lucky. Who did you hear about? Who offered? What did you do before?"
"Well, about them, the 'Punishers'," Kailas explained. "There used to be more of them, several bases like this, and the organization was called 'Black Freedom.' But recently, the Imperials got to them, and now only these are left. But we'll still show these bastards how Wookiees dance!"
Another sad smirk distorted Rok's face. He had been flying since he was seven, he had to learn, though the autopilot often helped. Then he had to learn to fly himself, study all the available courses, and only after two years of practice could he say that he wasn't a bad pilot. And the Empire trained aces.
"And where does such confidence come from that you'll show the flight academy graduates Wookiee dances? And that you won't be shot down on your very first flight?"
"We don't have to fly against them!" Kailas responded recklessly. And in a conspiratorial tone, winking at Rimon, he added, "And they don't have to fly against us either. You suggested a cool trick, Arcas said. They want to blow up the Academy on Carida."
Listening to Kailas, Rimon immersed himself in the Force to understand what emotions his neighbor was experiencing. What he felt, and whether it matched his behavior.
Behind the sincere admiration and reckless abandon, there was cold calculation – whoever this person was before, playing was as natural to him as breathing, and now he was playing. Brilliantly, talentedly, believing in what he said, to the last word.
But he treated Rimon himself as he would a valuable instrument requiring careful tuning.
Rok lay down on his bunk, hands under his head. Before him was a sleeper agent of these "Punishers." And a well-trained one, judging by how he played. Although, after the deception was revealed, his memory helpfully suggested that the newcomer couldn't possibly know so much information about this organization. And he himself had mentioned the name of the old organization. And that they would attack Carida. Rimon had no desire to do any of this, but the Imperials had brought it upon themselves.
"And what about those who are already trained?" Rimon grinned. "Did you not think about that?"
"Well, those who are already trained are not immortal or infinite," Kailas replied carelessly, flopping onto the bunk and propping his boot-clad feet on the backrest. Staring at the ceiling, he clasped his hands behind his head and said dreamily:
"When all this is over, I'll fly somewhere to Bestain and catch fish there..."
"Listening to you, it sounds like you've been here for years, not a rookie," Rimon said with a smile, getting up from the bed. "I've had enough sleep for today, I'll go look for the simulators or whatever we'll be flying."
"Nah, I'm just tired of space," Kailas glanced at him. "Should I go with you or lie around some more? You might as well flip a coin."
Rimon smiled. Let him think, let him worry; it would be good for him to worry. To think whether Rok had figured him out or not, and if he had, what he would do. And while he was worrying, he would make mistakes.
"You decide for yourself; I won't refuse your company. Who knows where I might wander alone, and this way it's more fun," he shrugged.
Kailas reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and flipped it with a flick of his thumb.
"Tails – I sleep further," he declared, holding out his palm for the falling disc.
Glancing at the result, he snorted and put the coin back in his pocket.
"Tails," Kailas informed Rimon. "If you find anything interesting, don't forget to share."
And he closed his eyes.
Rimon decided not to answer the last remark, thinking that they would share without him anyway, and went to wander around the base.
He didn't get far – only to the first intersection of corridors. There he encountered an armed guard.
"Any problems?" he inquired upon seeing the loitering newcomer.
"Uh-huh," Rimon said calmly, examining the guard and simultaneously checking what emotions were swirling in the terrorist's head.
The guard was bored on duty as usual. Problems promised at least some variety.
"What happened?" the fighter clarified, looking Rimon over. He didn't look beaten up.
"Insomnia," Rok explained just as calmly. "I decided to take a walk around the base, see what we'll be flying, if there are any simulators. Where the mess hall and canteen are."
"According to internal regulations, lights out is in six hours," the guard decided whether to send the newcomer to the medical bay for sleeping pills, since he had insomnia, send him back to his room, or just send him away, and settled on the third option.
"Down this corridor is the sports complex," he waved his hand. "Beyond that are the showers and the mess hall. This way," he nodded in the other direction, "is the officers' lounge and entertainment. Don't go straight ahead; you're not allowed there yet."
"Ugh-huh, have a pleasant shift," Rimon thanked him and headed for the sports complex to see what the local hosts had in store for him.
The gym was magnificent. At least, that's how it seemed to Rimon after the complete absence of any sports equipment. Walking around the perimeter of the hall, whistling a rough, cheerful tune, he saw everything he needed for happy hours on the trainers. Treadmills, stationary bikes, deadlift platforms, places for bench presses, seated, standing, squats... there were other, equally useful things, and even a sparring area. Approaching the pull-up bar, he rubbed his palms to warm them, jumped, and grabbed the bar. Hanging for three seconds, Rimon slowly pulled himself up, then did it again, letting his muscles warm up, then performed two muscle-ups and one front lever. On the last set, he swung his legs over and sat on the bar, surveying the room. In the far corner stood white cylinders, the purpose of which Rimon understood as soon as he noticed them. Jumping off the bar, he stretched, spreading his arms wide and yawning, and went to examine his find.
The simulators turned out to be Z-95 cockpits, a standard model. He had seen one before, but he had never flown a fighter. His ship was almost twice as large as any "Reaper" or "Nimbus," and the cockpit was much bigger, but he doubted he would be given much time to retrain. Sitting in the nearest cockpit, Rimon closed the door behind him and began to figure out what flight modes were available.
The set of programs was standard. One-on-one flights, against the computer, against another pilot, pair-on-pair flights – the number of pods didn't allow for more. Battles against the computer, in addition to single ones, involved sorties as part of a wing, squadron, and even an air group. You could set the parameters of your group and the enemy group, with a choice of their ships from similar "reapers" to the latest "fighters."
Flying one-on-one was foolish. In real life, no one would arrange duels, but flying as part of a wing was possible. But how to take a wingman? And how to give him instructions? The opponents could and should be TIE fighters, commonly known as "Ties" or "corpses." The same wing as his own. And, naturally, the opponents should be experienced, and his comrades not.
"Leader one to wing," a dry synthesized voice from the speaker announced, supposedly the wing leader. "Everything is clear on the scanners. We continue to follow the planned course."
"Wingman two to leader one, understood," Rimon replied, and two of his virtual comrades repeated the same thing exactly.
The massive hulk of the escorted transport shuddered and floated, obscuring the stars, towards the thin crescent of the moon, overturned above the planet. The four "reapers" had to escort the transport to the satellite, fending off enemy attacks. What valuable cargo it carried and why – was left for the pilots to figure out themselves.
The scanners remained clear right up until the transport with its escort reached the cluster of space debris at the libration point. In this junkyard, four red-marked dots suddenly appeared and quickly crawled across the screen – closing in.
"Leader one to wing, we have guests, switch to combat formation and move forward," the wing leader commented on the change in the situation. Rimon, looking at the scanner, estimated how long it would take to close the distance, how much time would pass before the wings collided, and then followed his leader.
The enemy split into two pairs. One pair moved in, opening harassing fire – still from a safe distance, the second headed for the transport. The latter increased speed, but couldn't compete with the agile "fighters." The distance was rapidly closing.
"Leader three, wingman four – protect the transport, wingman two – follow me, we'll destroy the approaching ones," the third and fourth detached and went towards the two "Ties" heading for the convoy. What did Rimon understand in this situation? The "ninety-fives" had shields, as well as proton torpedoes, while the "Ties" had neither. However, they had an advantage in maneuverability. Rerouting all power from the shields to the front hemisphere, he waited for orders from the leader, and they were not long in coming.
"Wingman two, your right."
Rimon aimed the torpedo targeting system at his "Tie" and prepared for target acquisition.