Rimon emerged in his small ship at the rendezvous point precisely at the appointed moment. Whatever Kailas might have thought, Rimon knew how to pilot ships. And now, perfectly understanding what any mistake could lead to, he controlled all the ship's systems. However, even now, he differed from an ordinary pilot: instead of turning on the locator, he reached for the Force, searching for living beings. No one else should be here besides him and Kailas.
Flames struck the blister. It seemed to strike – but it was still too close, fatally close to the tiny spark of the ship. Kailas wasn't joking or showing off when he warned that he couldn't get out of here without him. He was somewhere nearby – as close as one could be in space. A couple of minutes of flight, not much, if the shields could withstand the radiation onslaught and the engines could handle the monstrous gravity.
"Catch, kid…" a foreign thought slipped across the edge of his consciousness.
Unlike Kailas, the freighter pilot didn't consider the situation hopeless, due to his character, due to the fact that for the past few days he had only been resting and enjoying life as much as he could. Just as the smuggler's romance dictates. He caught the thought; now he was focused on it, and continued to maneuver in the flashes of flame, heading for the ship. What was once intuition, now was the Force, sensing danger, avoiding it, calculating the course… What if Kailas worked like that? Danger calculation, logic, and the Force. A point where everything merges into one? In any case, he had a formula and it was easier to learn from a ready-made one. And now…
Docking in such circumstances is not just flying; it's an art that borders on, almost transitions into, suicide. You need to hit the magnetic clamps' range precisely, and due to lack of time, Kailas must already be in the airlock. Otherwise, there's no one to rely on. There's only him, the ship, and a point hanging in unstable space that needs to be approached and docked with. That's all…
But from the tension, the first drop of sweat fell from his brow.
The light freighter, stolen from an orbital junkyard, was dying. Kailas felt its structural integrity slowly fading, but now he could only wait. To start maneuvering would be to doom everyone.
"You'll manage…"
The speaker crackled to life once more. There, on Generis, they had already understood what was happening. They understood it in the way he needed. They were trying to convince him not to do anything foolish. To return. To let himself be saved.
"I have nowhere to return…"
"Tell them…" the bony finger pressed the communication button. "Tell them… I betrayed no one."
For some reason, this was very important. To have them tell.
"Maybe this will make your path a little easier…"
He broke the connection, simply turning off the transmitter. It had only minutes left to live anyway. He unbuckled his restraints, stood up. Now the melted contacts of the airlock would clang, docking the ships. He had no more time…
"Goodbye…"
The thin, pale-as-a-corpse pilot headed for the airlock.
Rimon was as cold-blooded as ever. Such a joke… To be cold-blooded while in extreme proximity to a star… There was no fear, only a task, a task that needed to be completed. To be completed to become the best. Another brick in his foundation. At this moment, the line of his life became clearly defined. He didn't see his future; he saw something else. He didn't even see it; he understood it. He found the answer to one constant question. Why he was doing all this… A smile played on his lips, and the salty taste of sweat was on his tongue when the docking signal sounded and Rimon's small ship became one with the dying light freighter. He delved into the Force, beginning to count the time… Which they didn't have. Kailas had to get on his ship so that Rok could break free…
Kailas didn't keep him waiting. The red-hot hatch shield had to be jettisoned as an emergency measure – otherwise, it wouldn't open. He had to use a bit of the Force to get over the barrier – it was better not to step on the hot metal with bare feet. Unfailingly finding the airlock control panel with his palm, the pilot commanded the hatch to close behind him.
"I'm here..."
Shed the dead weight, and continue his tango in the fire. Somewhere he had read a book, "Dance in the Fire," but he absolutely didn't understand what the book was about. The co-pilot's seat was ready. To abandon control even for a second in such a place... He hadn't ordered a tombstone for himself yet. Not yet.
Dazzling flashes danced across the cockpit, the canopy had become almost black, but the light filters were still coping. The door hissed softly, opening and closing again, the shock absorbers sighed gently – they had barely had to compress under the pilot's weight. Kailas buckled up, placed his fingers on the control panel.
"And now – together, kid..."
The mental shields fell, allowing Rimon to enter. To establish a connection between two gifted individuals that requires no explanation or words.
Trust beyond trust. A dark depth, in which the unknown awaits, glides invisibly and silently, waiting – for what?
If Rok had time, he probably would have been surprised. Although not like that... He would have been in deep shock. He didn't let himself think further. Too dangerous. Instead, he opened up. Not so much through the Force, but emotionally. He allowed what came from Kailas to flow through his mind. To absorb every movement, knowledge, action, ripple in the Force.
For that time, he knew exactly what needed to be done and how, and even more: if Rok had information in his head that surfaced about some specific knowledge, it was immediately reflected on Kailas, edited, and incorporated into changes. They became one unified intelligence, like two computers uniting for a single purpose. There was no need to explain anything: you simply knew how to do it, when to do it, and for what purpose.
The freighter groaned like a living thing, circling the furious sun in a wide arc. Slowly but surely, it broke the chains of gravity, gaining speed, moving onto the correct vector – and finally, the star's radiation swallowed the faint surge that marked the jump into hyperspace.
When the velvety blackness of space on one side and the wall of indomitable flame on the other were replaced by a multicolored corridor, the contact broke, leaving behind a feeling of strange emptiness – as if something had disappeared, something so necessary and important that life without it lost its meaning and purpose.
Due to extreme concentration, Rimon mechanically pushed all this a little deeper, with a note to deal with it when the adrenaline subsided. The first thing he did was run all systems for malfunctions. Due to the temperature, several secondary system stabilizers, unprotected, had burned out, but these were trifles.
Meanwhile, an analysis of the received data was going on in his head. Rimon increasingly compared himself to a machine, a logical computer, indispensable in moments of danger, even if not entirely useful. But now he needed to surface.
A deep inhale and exhale.
Afterward, he detached himself from the ship's control interface and looked at Kailas. The emotions that remained from the contact surfaced. It seemed that this man had lost too much recently. It seemed that against his background, even on Oovo, Rimon had everything going for him. Well, or almost everything.
"How are you?" he said, exhaling, the receding adrenaline leaving him short of breath.
The pilot sat with his eyes closed. He was even thinner now than when they had spoken.
"I think I'll live..." he said with complete indifference. "I'll... exist."
"Exist," Rimon finished the sentence. It wasn't that he felt warm feelings for Kailas. The suspicion hadn't disappeared. But thanks to him, he was now climbing to the top, partly thanks to him. Two forces fought within him, and the one that was a few tones lighter usually won.
"Do you have anywhere to go?" he asked, looking thoughtful this time.
Kailas just shook his head. It was difficult for him to speak – he was too tired.
"No."
Rimon wasn't so much thinking about the rightness of the action as he was considering the consequences. He also decided not to worry about what Kailas would say.
"Try to sleep," Rimon said, concentrating, he plunged into the Force, and then his hands automatically ran over the dashboard, entering new coordinates, formulas were calculated in his head, cross-referenced with what the Force would say. A minute later, the ship made its first jump from the cascade Rimon had just calculated. Kailas couldn't resist anyway. Not yet, at least, until he regained his strength. And Rimon knew who to entrust him to.
Kailas didn't answer. He was very busy and didn't care at all what his accidental partner was planning to do.
He was forgetting. Meticulously, diligently, picking out of his memory everything connected with his partner after he saw the destroyed base.
His partner was no longer in his life. Only memories of what had happened before this moment remained. The certainty remained that he was no longer alive. And the clear realization that it happened through his fault.
"I didn't make it..."
Injured memory would eventually heal the gaps in his recollections. He would remember things that never happened and sincerely believe that everything was exactly as it was. He had no other way to protect this person.
Kailas knew what he was depriving himself of. But he also knew that sooner or later he would try to return – and then...
"It will be better for both of us..."
A moment later, he was asleep, exhausted by the struggle to save the ship, the work on his memory, and the pain of unbearable loss.
When the starship emerged on the outskirts of the Y'Tub system, Rimon desperately wanted to sleep. It seemed that such flights exhausted the pilot qualitatively. So much so that he would fall off his feet and be ready to dislocate his jaw looking at the sleeping Kailas.
"Well, here's a prime example of a man who's withered away from work," Rimon quipped, sending a call signal via comlink and a landing request. The answer came almost immediately. With a promise to tear off his ears, rip off his hands, and reattach them where they normally grew on people.
Smiling, Rok left the ship on autopilot to make its way to the system and went to the cargo hold. There were several containers there, which Rimon had left out of habit, deciding they wouldn't hurt. Picking the most suitable one, with thick walls and a magnetic, coded lock, he dragged it to the exit and shoved a set of bedding and a cylinder of oxygen inside. And then he returned to the cockpit. If Kailas hadn't woken up, he would have to be roused.
Touching a person in such a state carried the probability of receiving an unpleasant pain grip. Rimon gently touched Kailas's consciousness and, just as politely, commanded: "Wake up."
The pilot flinched. The movement betrayed a reflexive readiness to obey the order, but the restraints prevented him from jumping up. Kailas opened his eyes.
"We're almost there," Rok said calmly. "You need to be hidden. On the ship that left Corellia, there was one pilot. Let it stay that way."
Kailas didn't look worried. He didn't seem to care at all what would happen to him next.
"Y'Tub system, we'll be on the smugglers' moon soon," Rimon said, smiling, he sat in the chair and ran his hand over the control panel. "Even if they're looking for you there... They'll waste time uselessly."
"I'm very expensive," Kailas replied indifferently. "I'm hard to recognize now. But it's still possible."
"Then don't draw attention," Rok said calmly. "That's all. Although I don't think the life of a terrorist and a Sith has much value. Life in general on this planet is worth pennies. In any case, there's a box in the cargo hold, bedding in the box. Get in and make yourself comfortable. The oxygen cylinder and mask are there too. Just in case. Make yourself comfortable."
"I won't survive more than three days there," the pilot warned, unbuckling his restraints and rising unsteadily. "There's no other way to slow down vital processes without harming others."
He moved towards the exit with that exaggerated carefulness of movement that distinguishes drunks. And mortally tired people.
"Maximalist," Rimon grinned. "You'll sit there for about three or four hours, get some sleep. No more than that."
Kailas glanced back at him in the doorway. He didn't turn his head, but turned his whole body – that's how a vornskr looks back.
"Kid, I'm not quite myself right now. And I won't be for a while. This isn't a threat, just so you know – I can be dangerous. If I snap..."
A crooked grin split his sharp, thin face.
"Don't hesitate to use whatever means necessary if you need to stop me."
He turned again and shuffled down the corridor, unerringly choosing the direction to the cargo hold.
"If you call me 'kid' one more time, I'll show you how uninhibited I am," Kailas heard in response. Rimon focused on the instruments. "I have a name."
One of the most expensive cantinas on the smugglers' moon, "The Last Haven," had a quite definite positive reputation. The main clientele consisted of a motley crew of freighters, among whom taking a stroll here before departing was considered a good omen.
The cantina owner, an anks named Jero, usually sat at his table in the corner, observing what was happening.
Among the attractions here was one of the walls in the cantina with a shelf in the middle, made of transplastic with many blaster marks, and exclusively live music.
Rowdy individuals rarely came here, and looking for work was a dead end, but if you were about to fly somewhere and weren't sure of a successful outcome, you could always drop by and have a couple of shots of Kashyyyk ale for a good result. Some genuinely believed it brought luck.
Rimon left the ship in a small hangar complex, paying for parking four days in advance. When exactly he was leaving, no one needed to know. After that, he ordered a speeder and, along with the container, headed for "The Last Haven."
The cantina was quite crowded at the time; two Twi'leks were arguing heatedly about something, sometimes shouting over the crowd.
"Rimon!" At that moment, Rok regretted that Jero wasn't going to kill him. Although, in essence, that's what he was doing for the next half minute. "Did I warn you?"
A slap came quickly, as expected.
"You shouldn't have gotten involved in that scam!" After which he received a second slap. And with that, the anks calmed down. "Let's go, shall we, have a drink."
"Certainly, order the container to be delivered to the room," Rimon smiled, obeying the owner of the establishment who was holding him. "What are we drinking?"
The conversation wasn't supposed to arouse any suspicion. Rok had been here once every three or four months. Although, lately, he hadn't had the good fortune to visit Nar Shaddaa, and perhaps it was for the best. On the stage, usually occupied by poles and pretty girls, a troupe of five musicians was playing. And they played well; he liked it.
"Bought it from the Hutts," his companion explained, realizing where Rok was looking, and then poured a dark liquid with a brown foam into glasses. "Dark ale. Brewed by Wookiees, so be careful."
Rimon took a sip of the drink and smiled. It was indeed brewed by Wookiees. And most likely, it was even a mild version of something truly potent, but even without that, the thing was excellent, like a hammer blow to the chest.
"I can't have much," Rok stated. "My build isn't right."
Jero waved his hand, taking a sip that was equal to Rimon's glass.
"You'd better tell me, you con artist, did you get involved with the Empire?" The alien smelled of disgust and interest. And Rok perfectly understood the reason for the former.
"I had to carry out an assignment..."
"Uh-huh, and 'lose' the Eye?" And this time, indignation.
"The ship is fine, you're mistaken. But I can't fly it anymore. It's too noticeable," the phrase, spoken with no small regret, was accompanied by a shrug.
"Well, alright, let's go take a look?"
"Let's go," Rok agreed.