When the ship jumped, Rimon left course correction to the autopilot, and he himself brewed some coffee and took out a packet of small energy bars. His hand trembled as he held the cup over the dispenser. Placing it on the table, Rimon covered the hot drink with his palm. The coffee steam burned his skin, but he continued to hold his hand for a few moments. Then he pulled it away, clenching his other hand. Usually, this helped, but not now, his fingers continued to tremble betrayingly, revealing his state of a contrabandist.
Wrapping the mug with both hands, he took one small sip, the hot liquid flowed down, but it brought no peace, nor did the energy bar. Rock couldn't find a way out of this situation. All his adventures in the end were less hopeless, and here...
Who was this Varu to be trusted? Who was he himself for Kailas to save him? The only thing he was sure of was that he wouldn't have half an hour to escape the kill zone. He probably wouldn't even have a minute. And as soon as the ship was over the academy – there would be an explosion. And hundreds of innocent people would die. Because of him. Because he was short-sighted, because he put his life above the life of the galaxy.
In a sharp fit of a previously unknown feeling, he swept all the dishes off the table with a gesture of his hand. It was disgust. At himself, at the "Executioners," at all the people who, in this way, carried out their justice – vile, cowardly, underhanded, giving no quarter to anyone, not dividing between military and civilians, between guilty and innocent, measuring everyone by the same yardstick. And he was among them...
But what could he do? In despair, Rimon clasped his head in his hands, completely failing to notice that they had stopped trembling. Even if he didn't let this shuttle explode – there would be others. There would be others... His obliging conscience immediately suggested that this was a weak excuse for his cowardice. Glancing at the deck, he looked to see if there was a reply to his message.
There was a reply. It didn't make any adjustments, didn't give explanations. It was exactly the same wound-up spring as the whole situation Rock found himself in. "Rely on Varu." Signed by Maliha. Getting up from the table, Rimon took the sleeping pills that the "Executioners" had given him, took the necessary dose to sleep until he exited hyperspace, set an alarm just in case, and passed out. To hell with them... All these worries. He could make the fatal jump after getting some sleep.
The wind hit his body with a strong wave, throwing the contrabandist away from the ship. A prolonged jump without a single chance of salvation, relying only on someone else's word, believing what was impossible to verify...
Below, the planet's surface was unfolding, the wind squeezed tears from his eyes, but even so, Rimon couldn't help but see a blinding flash illuminating the sky.
The shuttle exploded. Earlier than calculated.
"As expected," flashed through the contrabandist's mind with the same speed with which he was approaching the ground, spreading his arms and legs to somehow delay his inevitable death. There were no extraneous thoughts in his head anymore, only curiosity about how Varu would save him, and if not, whether he would have time to feel his last landing, or if his heart would stop sooner, from fear...
For a moment, a shadow covered the sun. It couldn't be a cloud. A transport ship passed by the falling man, gradually slowing its descent and shifting towards the contrabandist. When their falling speeds equalized, and the ship was directly under Rimon, it tilted to the side, and the falling man was able to see the opening ramp.
Carefully planning for the ramp, Rimon grabbed its edge, hoping his hands wouldn't be torn off. His hands were yanked, the metal edge bit painfully into his fingers – not enough to damage them, but Rimon couldn't hold on and began to slide down. Into the hospitably open maw of the cargo hold. Simultaneously, the metal beneath the smuggler responded with a dull tremor – the hatch was closing. Sliding down like a roller coaster at an amusement park, off the rising ramp, Rimon crashed into mattresses piled against the wall, clearly taken from all the bunks in the cabins, and was immediately thrown to the side.
The transport ship was pulling out of its dive.
Rimon urgently searched for any object he could grab onto and not get more bumps and bruises than he already had. Because he didn't want to joke with gravity any further.
The compensation on the ship was fine; the final lurch was the last greeting from the inertia gained during the fall. He could get up.
"I... need... a drink..." Rimon said breathlessly as soon as he recovered, "preferably something that'll scour my throat, and then the bottle can be smashed."
He got to his feet and looked around, searching for a way to the cockpit. The cargo hold was lit, although the pilot was clearly saving energy – in the dim light of the panels, the door was barely visible. Passing through it, Rock almost unerringly found his way to the part of the ship he needed.
The pilot was sitting in the chair. Approaching the navicomputer, Rimon checked the route, and then said tiredly:
"Do you have anything to drink?" His voice carried a deathly calm.
Kailas, without looking, pulled a flask from under the seat, shoved it into his hand, and returned to the controls. The navicomputer confidently displayed the shortest route to the Academy. Rimon exhaled and took an impressive gulp from the flask.
In his mouth was Corellian whiskey, which was a pleasant surprise. The liquid pleasantly burned his throat, although if it had been tihaar, or garrmlor, or that Cortygian brandy, he wouldn't be on his feet now. The alcohol immediately hit his head, just as the adrenaline that was leaving his blood subsided. Sitting in the second chair, Rock hugged the flask and, looking out the porthole, said:
"And why are we going to the Academy?" His voice was starting to slur a little, thankfully not stuttering. Soon the calm would completely disappear, and at that time it would be desirable to be somewhere alone.
"These guys insist..."
Kailas flipped a switch on the panel, giving him a view.
According to the scanner readings, the transport was flying in a "box."
"Fighters," Varou muttered. "We can't get away."
"Bad timing," Rimon hiccuped, his left hand starting to beat out the rhythm of some very wild and energetic song. Rock didn't specify what he meant, leaving the flask in the chair, and himself dashing towards the nearest restroom. Not only was what he had for breakfast before the jump trying to get out – which now seemed like a very rash decision – but he was also starting to shake, and he was supposed to shake for at least a minute. And he preferred to have a breakdown in proud solitude.
After some time, Rimon managed to pull himself together and, on shaky legs, moved towards the cockpit. His head was buzzing, his thoughts were jumbled and didn't want to come together. Reaching his destination, he fell into the chair and, looking at Kailas with a hazy gaze, asked:
"What next?"
"We've arrived," he said, carefully landing the transport on the platform, around which stormtroopers were already lined up. Patrols buzzed overhead like angry wasps.
"Look, what a parade in our honor..."
"I see you're a little too calm," Rock said, gripping the armrest. He himself was not calm, constantly searching for his inner center of calm, but not finding it.
"Did you transmit the information?" The ship stopped in the middle of the platform. Kailas flicked a switch on the panel, and the ramp began to slowly descend.
Nodding in response, Rimon looked with interest at the greeters. It was unlikely he would be sent to Oovo; it would be Kessel, if anything. He wanted to jump up, run somewhere, shoot someone, do something, just not surrender so easily; he had the right to a last stand. And let Kailas understand his nod however he wanted. Grabbing the second armrest for good measure, Rimon squeezed it so hard his knuckles turned white.
"So who are you working for, Mr. Varou?" Rock said, almost gritting his teeth. He wanted to hit him, but again, he couldn't; after all, he had saved his life, he couldn't just lash out and hit his savior in the face, and for no reason. Or was there?
"I'm working as your pass to freedom," Varou glanced at him. "Remember: you didn't find a way to prove your innocence, you learned about terrorists by chance, you decided to infiltrate and foil their operation, even at the cost of your own life. And stick to that, even under torture. Although they shouldn't... Understand?"
"Understood," he was still shaking, but he remembered Varou's words. They seemed to be imprinted on his gray matter. It was logical. As if for a single straw, Rimon clung to that word: logical...
"Exit," came from behind the slightly opened door. "Leave your weapons in the cockpit, keep your hands in sight, don't make any sudden movements."
"We're coming out," Kailas immediately replied. "The rescued man is in shock, he needs a doctor. Please, don't shoot if he breaks down."
"Keep talking," a voice grumbled from behind the door, but without the same pressure as a few seconds earlier.
The pilot stood up, leaving his blaster and heavy assault knife in plain sight, and stepped towards the door first.
Rimon was nervous: he didn't want to surrender his weapons; he felt calmer with them. His hands were trembling. He wanted to ask Kailas to remove everything that could be considered a killing tool, but he was ashamed. For the last half minute, he had been ashamed of his state, as if it could have been somehow different, more acceptable. With trembling hands, he laid both blasters on the instrument panel. Then the vibro-knives lay there too, and finally Rimon's interface. He didn't want to part with these items, but he had no choice. Although no. There was a choice, but he wanted to live more than to have a choice.
Getting up from the chair, he walked on bent knees, avoiding the bulkhead, following Varou.
Several stormtroopers formed a ring around them, keeping them at gunpoint. Kailas showed his empty hands and walked where they led. There was tension in his gait, but he looked unperturbed. The walk under escort ended at the doors of some office. There was no sign that could tell what kind of room it was.
Rimon was led inside, Kailas was led further. The room contained a table, two chairs, and nothing else. Not counting the stormtrooper frozen by the door.
Rimon looked at the room's furnishings, then at the "snowman" encased in white armor, and then sat on the nearest chair and slumped. In his condition, it was the best solution.
He didn't have to wait long – a man in a military doctor's uniform entered, laid out a small first-aid kit case on the table. While he was fussing around Rimon with a med scanner, another one appeared – in a slightly crumpled uniform without insignia, he sat down at the table with an expression of habitual patience.
"Shocked, unstable," the doctor was drawing clear liquid from an ampoule into a syringe. "I must warn you..."
"I know," the man sitting at the table waved him off. "No one will put him through the ventilation turbine, unless, of course, your patient forces us to do so."
The doctor shook his head and, with a practiced movement, plunged the needle into the detained man's arm.
"It will take a few minutes for the drug to start working. I've given you a tranquilizer," he explained to Rimon. "It's in your best interest if you want to keep your sanity."
Rock wanted to grumble that he'd rather have been given more to drink, but he restrained himself. It was neither the time nor the place to show his arrogance and temper again. Nodding to the doctor, he remained seated, waiting for what the ISB officer would say. After all, it was most likely him. The Inquisition, according to his acquaintances, wore crimson uniforms, and they behaved somewhat differently, which meant it was the Imperial Security Bureau, no one else.
The doctor left, reminding his interlocutor once again about the need to observe proper treatment protocols. The man at the table followed him with his eyes, then turned his gaze to Rimon.
"Well, you've given us a lot of work, Mr. Rock... Tell us."
"Where should I start?" Rimon asked listlessly, looking through the unknown man. He wanted to see what was hidden beneath his facade, what he felt, but his thoughts were scattering.
"Not from the Big Bang," the investigator allowed. "Your service record is right in front of me," he nodded at the datapad on the table. "I want to hear how it really happened. Starting with your attack on the patrol."
"It wasn't me," Rimon replied, "the patrol was attacked by the bounty hunter Cad Bane, who also stole my ship. His shuttle is on Arkania, the data crystals from the navicomputer and the medical droid can probably be found in the Arkanian security service archives. But no one bothered to investigate, all the blame was put on me, and I was sent to Oovo."
He paused, gathering his strength; the tranquilizer was working, his thoughts had transformed from fast-moving harpies into peacefully swimming fish. Thinking became a little easier.
The investigator nodded, not expressing any opinion on what he heard, and made a note on the datapad.
"I see this version too," he raised his gaze to Rimon again. "What were you doing during this time? Where were you, who did you contact?"
"Hmm, for starters, I met the Veknoid Skye, who helped me escape," Rimon thought, he needed a smooth transition. "And then I mostly hid until I came across the terrorist group 'Punishers,' I thought the Empire's leadership might grant me amnesty if I carefully turned these guys in."
"Several tons of explosives – is that what you call careful?" the investigator asked in surprise. "The Academy could have been left as a crater, like after a meteorite impact. An interesting way to earn amnesty..."
He tapped his stylus on the table, looking thoughtfully at the detainee.
"Nevertheless, we received information about the impending terrorist attack, we received it on time, and precisely from you... Why did you jump out of the ship, Mr. Rock?"
"Because I didn't want to end up in a shot-down ship filled with explosives," Rock answered as calmly as he could. What else could he add? That he didn't send any message? Yeah, right, he'd run to report. However, his thoughts were well hidden by a mask of indifference, induced by the administered drug. "My comrade said he would pick me up if I jumped. I didn't see any other way to escape."
"Who told you the ship would be shot down?" the investigator clarified. Kailas's mention didn't interest him. "That decision was made only after we received information about the impending terrorist attack. The courier was expected; he would have been allowed through without interference."
"The effect of the drug," Rimon muttered, rubbing his temple, "it's hard to follow the thread of the narrative. The ship didn't necessarily have to be shot down; it was supposed to detonate over a deserted area, without casualties. In any case, I wanted to be out of it when it happened."
"You must trust whoever promises to pick you up very much to jump out of the ship without any safety equipment..." the investigator tapped his stylus again. "And you've known Kailas Varou for a very short time... In the time that has passed since your message arrived, we've had to do a lot of work. You chose a very strange way to get amnesty, Mr. Rock. But an effective one. The guilty will be punished. Before I return you to the doctor, I will have a proposal for you. Will you cooperate with the Security Service?"
"Do I have a choice?" Rimon sighed, looking at the Imperial. "I mean, what kind of cooperation are you offering?"
"There's always a choice," the investigator shrugged slightly. "We're not interested in your commercial dealings; rather, you might be interested in the prospects of the same commercial contracts with our people. We're not asking you to inform on your fellow craftsmen either. But, if you happen to meet someone like these terrorists..."
He paused.
"Such information could be very valuable, Mr. Rock."
"In that regard, I am willing to cooperate with you," Rimon nodded. And he wasn't lying. If he encountered organizations like the "Punishers" elsewhere, who wanted to restore justice like this, he would hand them over to the Imps without regret. The rebels and the Alliance were not part of the conversation.
"Very well," the stylus tapped one last time, pecked at the datapad screen a few times, and the investigator stood up.
"The Empire apologizes to you, Mr. Rock. Unscrupulous employees of the investigative bodies will be duly punished. Take Mr. Rock to the medical bay."
"Well, thanks for that," Rimon didn't say it aloud, only nodded his head, expressing his gratitude. Then he got up to go where he was told.
The contraband was taken to the infirmary, and then handed over to the care of the local medics, where, after harsh, almost draconian measures to restore his normal mental and physiological state, Rimon was released in all directions. All directions, strangely enough, led him to the same mysterious personality, Varou, whom he made it his primary task to figure out. Because he couldn't believe that everything could turn out so simply with the Empire without someone's intervention.
He had to find him.