“Alpha,” Aklesh addressed Bramir, “the mercenaries are in position.
The captains have promised support or non-interference.”
“Excellent.
Are our fighters in place?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go,” the rebel leader said decisively, adjusting the holster on his blaster.
Accompanied by a dozen bodyguards, he walked through the empty corridors to the station chief’s quarters and nodded to his deputy.
Aklesh pressed a key card to the sensor, and the massive door slid aside, revealing an ascetically furnished room.
“Well, hello, Fural,” Bramir sneered, looking at his rival, who had risen from behind a desk with an integrated terminal.
“And may you not be ill,” the gray-haired man, who had visibly aged in recent years, nodded calmly.
“Decided your time had come?” he asked, or rather stated the obvious fact.
“You spent so many years on trifles, forgetting about returning home, that I had to act.”
“You were a fool, and you’ve remained one,” Fural sighed.
“Do you have the nerve to challenge me properly?”
“Why take the risk?” Bramir grinned, drawing his blaster.
“And how do you intend to rule, starting by trampling on customs?”
“By force.
If your daughter refuses to marry me,” Bramir shrugged, and fired.
But Fural was feared by very, very many for good reason, and the conspirator himself wasn’t afraid to face him in an honest fight for nothing.
The plasma bolt flew over the head of the target, who had dodged with a roll.
Steel flashed as a drawn blade came out.
If not for the deputy, Bramir’s life would have ended right there, but things turned out as they did.
A shot in the back ended the life of Fural te Noiza.
The king is dead; long live the king!
“Bastard,” Bramir wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Animal!” he vented his fear and rage, kicking the corpse furiously.
“Alpha, we have unfinished business,” the deputy reminded the new leader of the Uriilan renegade refugees when he had calmed down a bit.
“Bring Araela to me,” Bramir ordered, sitting down on the nearest chair to catch his breath.
“She’s waiting outside the door, Alpha.”
“Well, let her come see her daddy!” the rebel leader ordered hoarsely.
“As you command,” Aklesh bowed his head in a short nod and gave a command into the communicator strapped to his wrist.
The massive door slid back into the wall pocket, and five soldiers led a girl of about twenty into the quarters.
The beauty glanced impassively at the conspirators, pressed her lips together for a moment when her gaze fell on her father’s corpse, then stepped forward and dropped to one knee.
“What does the new Alpha wish?” she asked, lowering her head, which drew considerable surprise and a smug smile from Bramir.
“You will be my female, Araela.
I do not wish to destroy your clan.
We will unite the packs.”
“The victor’s will is law, Alpha.”
“They raised you right, girl.
Good.”
“Will the wedding be traditional?” Araela raised her eyes.
“Yes,” Bramir nodded after a moment’s thought.
“Am I permitted to withdraw to my quarters and begin preparations?”
“Go,” the new station chief waved his hand magnanimously.
Bowing to her father’s murderer, Araela, accompanied by a pair of soldiers loyal to Bramir, left the quarters.
“Forgive my impertinence, Alpha, but she’s up to something,” Aklesh spoke up.
“Hardly.
Fural raised her by all the rules, but it doesn’t matter,” Bramir smirked.
Paying for repairs and funerals isn’t something I want to do.”
* * *
After a long joint meditation and a couple dozen sparring sessions, life felt a bit easier.
At least, the mental torment receded.
They weren’t perceived so sharply anymore.
Maybe the Force expressed some sort of approval, or maybe the distance from the planet helped — hard to give a clear answer.
Basically, I just accepted what had happened.
Perhaps what bothered me more was how I perceived the whole situation with the maniac, rather than my own actions.
Killed, and that’s that.
Cleaned the world of a couple of monsters.
Good for me.
As soon as I realized that if I found myself in a similar situation again, I’d do the same, it immediately let go.
And no, it wasn’t blindly following the will of the Force, but a fully conscious decision.
“What are you up to, Padawan?” the teacher peeked into my cabin one time.
“Oh, just playing with Pif,” I twitched an ear toward the hologram hanging in the middle of the cabin.
“Hm, never seen that before,” the mentor scratched the stubble on his right cheek.
“What is it?”
“Three-dimensional chess.”
Actually, it wasn’t exactly chess, more like some kind of strategy game, a wargame.
Instead of pieces, there were ship models, but the approach was roughly the same.
The point of the game was to capture the enemy station, which played the role of a sort of king, requiring something like checkmate.
In game terms — to land a boarding party.
“You know what,” Nemak drawled thoughtfully, looking at the floating holograms, “I’ve had a great idea!” The mentor broke into a smile.
“Do we have enough Bacta for it?” I twitched my bandaged tail — that last training session had been tough.
Honestly, I hadn’t expected such a dirty blow from sensei to my pride: how could he think to pinch my tail in the door!
It hurt, by the way!
“Don’t worry, Padawan, we’ll get by without any Bacta.
But we’ll definitely work on your telekinesis and Force-forging!” It seemed the teacher was finally convinced of the genius of his own idea.
His eyes were positively sparkling.
In short, it took us almost a full day, with the help of the Force, technical droids, and all that, to create fairly accurate models of military starships from the past.
We just got a bit carried away with the process; it happens.
But after that, life became more fun.
Try simultaneously holding a dozen or two pieces with telekinesis in a holographic sphere created by Pif, divided into segments, moving them around, and solving strategic problems.
In short, as a training exercise, it was something else.
Truly unforgettable sensations, and the progress in telekinesis was incredible.
And it was great for developing the brain, especially when we played three-player.
“Looks like a decent enough little planet,” the mentor grunted, setting aside his datapad.
“Let’s hope so,” I displayed moderate optimism, pressing a couple of sensors to zoom in on the image.
The sector’s capital world was a typical tech hub, supplying its products to hundreds, if not thousands, of surrounding planets.
But the ones who colonized it in its time had paid a certain amount of attention to ecology.
So, despite the enormous industrial-production zones, there were no domes or a dead biosphere here.
What’s more, at the local subtropical latitude, there were some very decent resorts.
Actually, the mentor and I had already discussed the option of spending a week or two at one.
And why not?
On one hand, it was a chance to relax and unwind, and on the other, a great way to gather information.
After all, it wasn’t your average citizen who stayed at local hotels, at least not the ones we were looking at.
True, they were beyond our budget for now.
After a couple more trips, though, we could consider the option seriously.
The cargo recipient, who turned out to be a literal “meatball” of the human race, was a bit late, for which he immediately showered us with apologies.
We weren’t complaining.
We didn’t have any urgent business anyway.
The teacher, due to the local late hour, wasn’t keen on roaming around cantinas.
I, together with Pif, preferred to check out the local commodity exchange.
Actually, if not for the cargo recipient, we’d probably just have crashed for sleep or gone off to meditate.
Theoretically, the droids could have done all the work, but local business etiquette required at least one of us to meet the client in person.
Anyway, after a round of apologies and greetings with mutual introductions, the simple process of unloading the ship began.
Pif controlled the droids, marking everything necessary as he went; the robots that arrived with the client helped actively; and all we had to do was look at the stars and yawn into our fists.
“Mr.
Olo, would you, by any chance, like to purchase our portion of the cargo as well?” I threw out a feeler out of boredom.
“What volumes are we talking about?” the “meatball” showed keen interest.
“Twelve percent of what you’re loading now.”
The client fell into thought here, though not about the proposal itself, as it suited him more than well, but about solving some personal problem.
Honestly, I was simply wary of looking too deeply into someone else’s thoughts.
I guess I still hadn’t fully recovered from contact with the maniac.
This particular mental quirk, by the way, needed to be dealt with as soon as possible.
I made a mental note on my urgent to-do list, duplicating it with a recording in my datapad just in case.
“Tell me,” Olo began cautiously, “you do cargo deliveries, right?”
“Of course,” I nodded and twitched my tail vaguely, prompting him to continue.
“You see, the thing is, I have a very good buyer — a golden client, I’d even say.
He runs a small mining colony.
So, could you deliver a shipment of equipment and supplies to him?”
“And what’s the catch?
Why us?”
“The thing is, the area where the cargo needs to go is…
not entirely safe,” Mr.
Olo formulated the explanation very evasively.
“Let me guess — it’s because of our guns?” I nodded toward the nearest turbolaser turret, clearly silhouetted against the spaceport lights.
“Yes, unfortunately, pirates have appeared in that area recently,” Olo didn’t prevaricate.
“My client insists on security, but mercenaries usually don’t have the right cargo holds on their ships.”
“And paying for at least a corvette’s services is completely out of your budget?” the teacher asked, surprising me with a subtle use of the Force.
It seemed the master hadn’t noticed it himself.
He must have picked up that unconscious influence while trying to get drinking buddies to talk.
“Exactly.
I’d be left with no profit,” Olo shrugged simply and frankly.
“Unfortunately, there’s a problem — we’re just traders,” I twitched my ears.
“That’s easily solved,” the meatball smiled, showing excellent teeth.
“The thing is, I know a mercenary who’s retired due to age.
For a purely symbolic fee, we can transfer his account to you.
That way, my client won’t have any questions — after all, you’ll be acting as a guard with a decent service record.”
“All this is very tempting,” I cut in before the teacher could open his mouth, “but I’d like to know how much you’re willing to pay us.”
The master shot me a, to put it mildly, highly displeased look but chose to remain silent.
Still, what he transmitted over our private comm was enough.
He just couldn’t help himself — as soon as he saw a chance to do good and bring justice, he was on point like a hound on a scent.
Mr.
Olo’s thoughts, however, pleased me.
I don’t know what guided him or what he saw in our pair, but he offered us not money, but an opportunity.