Tersik
Immediately after returning from Yavin
The "Wanderer" gently touched the landing platform, its repulsorlifts kicking up a cloud of dust that slowly settled in the still air. Alex shut down the ship's systems, feeling the fatigue that had accumulated over the past few days.
He descended the ramp, expecting to see the usual scene – a duty technician, perhaps someone from the administrative staff. But Verena was standing at the foot of the ramp.
Her blue skin seemed paler than usual in the light of the local star, and her lekku were tense. Her eyes studied him intently, as if trying to find visible damage.
She silently approached him, and he saw that her hands were trembling slightly. This was so unlike the usually collected and self-controlled Verena.
"What happened?" he asked, feeling his own anxiety begin to grow.
"What happened there?" a mixture of relief and reproach sounded in her voice. "Alex, I... I felt it. For the last two days, I could barely sleep."
Alex frowned, trying to understand what she was talking about.
"Felt what?"
Verena took a step closer, her eyes never leaving his face.
"Danger. Death. It was so close..." her voice trembled. "I woke up in the middle of the night with the feeling that I was losing you. That you were somewhere far away, on the verge of death. I felt death, Alex. Your death. It was so close I could almost touch it."
Alex sighed, realizing that simple assurances wouldn't suffice. He glanced back at the empty landing pad – it was good that Verena had ensured privacy.
"There was... a difficult situation," he began cautiously. "It was a bit more dangerous than I thought when I left. In the system I flew to, there was an... incident. A large-scale one. An Imperial fleet blocked hyperspace routes, activated hyperspace jammers. And there was also a huge station that was supposed to destroy Yavin. But it all worked out."
Verena's eyes widened.
She looked at him for several long seconds, and he saw emotions flicker across her face – anger, relief, anger again, and finally, weary acceptance.
"Let's go home," Verena finally said. "You look exhausted. You need rest."
***
Tersik
Two weeks later
He sat in his office, studying endless streams of data on a holographic display. Numbers, charts, logistical routes – all of it formed a complex picture of the supply network he had been building for the past year and a half. Outside the administrative center of the colony, the local sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold, but Alex barely noticed it.
The office door opened without a knock – a privilege of a few trusted individuals.
"I have a report on the latest shipments," said a middle-aged man with neatly trimmed graying hair and the tired eyes of an experienced logistician as he entered.
Marvo Cyro was one of those people Alex valued for his professionalism.
"I'm listening, Marvo," Alex leaned back in his chair, gesturing for him to continue.
Cyro activated his datapad, and a holographic projection with columns of numbers appeared in the air between them.
"The last shipment left three days ago. Twenty tons of concentrated food, fifteen tons of broad-spectrum medications, forty crates of engine parts. All delivered to the transshipment point in the Arkanis sector without incident."
"Excellent," Alex nodded. "The next shipment?"
"Ready for dispatch the day after tomorrow. But, Alex..." Marvo hesitated, and a note of caution entered his voice. "The volumes are growing every month. In the last quarter, we sent almost forty percent more than in the previous one. The colony is developing, the population is increasing. Soon we will need these resources ourselves for internal needs."
Alex looked closely at his logistician. Marvo was right from a pure economic standpoint, but he didn't see the full picture. He couldn't see it.
"Marvo," Alex stood up and walked to the window, looking at the colony's construction blocks, "these resources are going to a cause that is necessary for all of us. Trust me."
"I don't doubt your judgment, sir," Cyro replied quickly. "I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the trends."
"I am aware," Alex turned to him. "And I appreciate your vigilance. Keep up the good work. Shipments have priority."
When Marvo left, Alex returned to his chair and plunged into thought. His gaze once again fell on the holographic map of the galaxy, where the points of the supply routes flickered. Each line, each point – it was a contribution to a future that was still being formed.
"The Empire is too strong," he thought, watching the pulsating markers of the Imperial sectors. "The Rebel Alliance is held together by enthusiasm and luck. Yavin showed that luck can smile, but relying solely on it is suicide."
Memories of the Battle of Yavin surfaced in his mind with frightening clarity. He remembered feeling probabilities – thin threads of possibilities intertwining into a complex pattern. He remembered how everything hung by a thread.
"Next time might not be so lucky," Alex thought grimly. "While there's time, we need to strengthen the Alliance. Every blaster, ship, every ton of food, every spare part could be the very thing that changes the outcome of the next battle."
He ran his hand over the holographic projection, and the map changed to a detailed schematic of the logistical network. Shipments had been regular for a year. Upon his return from Yavin, he decided to double them. The routes were optimized, the intermediaries reliable, the traces carefully masked.
Alex glanced at the chronometer – time for the next meeting.
***
The secure communication room was located in the basement level of the administrative building. Alex passed through three levels of biometric identification before a massive door hissed open before him. The room was small, its walls covered with shielding panels blocking any attempts at eavesdropping or scanning. In the center was a state-of-the-art holographic projector – one of the few luxuries Alex allowed himself in this spartan room. Soon, Kleya entered.
Kleya Marki looked as she always did – collected, tough, ready for any eventuality. She was about thirty-five, but the cold gaze of her dark eyes added years to her appearance.
"Alex," she greeted without ceremony.
"Routine report," Alex replied, sitting down in a chair in front of the projector. "How are things?"
Kleya activated her datapad, and a hologram with a diagram of dozens of points scattered across the galaxy appeared next to it.
"Our contact in the ISB has advanced. He's now an analyst in the internal security department on Coruscant. Low level, but access to databases has expanded."
"Good. Let him act cautiously. The ISB does not forgive mistakes."
"He knows," Kleya's voice held cold confidence. "Luthen taught me to choose people who understand the price of risk. And I've also learned from his mistakes."
At the mention of Luthen Rael, the room seemed to grow colder. Alex knew that for Kleya, this topic was still painful. Luthen had died a year ago, and his death had been a catalyst for many events, including Kleya's joining Alex's network.
"And what about the Alliance?" Alex asked, changing the subject.
Kleya switched the projection, and the diagram changed, showing another set of points.
"Three observers among the technical staff at the new base in the Hoth sector. They report on moods, plans, fleet movements. Nothing critical, but useful information."
"The analyst in Alliance intelligence continues his work. He doesn't know he's working for us – he thinks he's just sharing information with an 'independent benefactor'."
"And is the agent close to fleet command?" Alex leaned forward.
"Captain Reyna Soren. She commands the CR90 corvette 'Liberation'. Good reputation, trust of the command. She reports on strategic plans, movements of large formations."
Alex rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Kleya, do you understand why we need this?"
"Of course," she smirked without a hint of humor. "Now we are allies of the Alliance. But the galaxy is changing faster than most people can realize. When the Empire falls – and I believe it will fall, sooner or later – someone will take its place. And you want to know who the Alliance will become after victory."
"Exactly," Alex agreed. "Luthen believed in people. Sometimes it was justified, and sometimes it wasn't. I believe in control."
"Luthen was a good man," Kleya said quietly, and for the first time, emotion appeared in her voice. "He taught me a lot, but the main lesson I learned after his death. Everything changes."
"We'll see," Alex continued. "I'm not going to blindly believe that victory over the Empire will automatically bring freedom and justice. Power corrupts. Always. And those who are on our side today may become our opponents tomorrow."
Kleya nodded, her scar on her temple paling in the bluish light of the hologram.
"What should I do next?"
"Continue observation," Alex ordered. "I need a profile of every member of the resistance. Idealists are dangerous, but cynics hiding behind ideals are doubly dangerous. I want to know who I can deal with."
"Understood. Anything else?"
"Take care of yourself, Kleya. You are too valuable to risk unnecessarily."
She smirked, and for a moment, something akin to warmth flashed in her eyes.
"Don't worry about me, Alex. I learned to survive long before I met Luthen. Contact in two weeks?"
"We'll see. I have business on Coruscant. Unfortunately, this is one of those cases where I have to go in person. It's too sensitive a matter. Your agents might be needed to organize cover." Alex confirmed.
Kleya said goodbye and left, leaving him alone with his thoughts in the silence of the secure room.
He had a potentially dangerous trip to Coruscant ahead of him, and he needed to plan for contingencies if something went wrong.
***
The technical laboratory was located in a separate complex on the outskirts of the settlement. It was one of the first buildings Alex had constructed, and he had invested significant resources in it. The laboratory was equipped with the most modern equipment that could be obtained without attracting undue attention.
Alex entered the main hall, where a group of engineers were hunched over a holographic projection of a ship. Marek Torin stood at the center of the group.
"Alex!" Marek exclaimed, noticing his entrance. "Just in time. We've almost finished the calibration."
Alex moved closer, studying the holographic model. It was the "Wanderer," his personal YT-1300, but with additional systems glowing green in the projection.
"Show me," Alex asked.
Marek zoomed in, focusing on the ship's navigation system.
"Look. A standard navicomputer calculates a hyperspace route using hyperspace link data. Without this data, the jump becomes incredibly dangerous – you could crash into a star, a planet, or simply get lost in hyperspace."
"I know, Marek. I have a degree in Space Engineering," Alex dryly remarked.
"Of course, of course," the engineer smiled. "But here's what we've done. We've created a database of pre-calculated routes. Short jumps, no more than ten light-hours, to the system's edge. These routes don't require hyperspace data because the distance is minimal, and all obstacles are already mapped."
Alex frowned, remembering Yavin. The Battle of Yavin. Hyperspace jamming. The inability to calculate a safe jump. The feeling of being trapped, in a cage with no way out. If he had had this thing then, would he have survived?
"Continue," he ordered Marek.
"At the system's edge, the jammers are ineffective," the engineer continued. "Their range is limited. Once you exit that radius, you can make a full jump anywhere. The system automatically activates upon detecting hyperspace jamming. The ship makes a short jump to a predetermined point at the system's edge, and from there, you are free."
Alex studied the schematic, his engineering mind quickly assessing all the nuances and potential problems.
"Risks?"
"Tests showed high overloads upon entering and exiting hyperspace," Marek answered honestly. "Less time for course correction if something goes wrong. But we've run simulations. The probability of success is ninety-seven percent, provided the database is regularly updated."
"Three percent is a lot when you can die," Alex noted.
"Three percent is better than one hundred percent if you're stuck in a system with active jammers," Marek countered. "Besides, the system provides several backup exit points. If the main route is blocked, the ship automatically chooses an alternative. With that in mind, the system is safe."
Alex nodded, making his decision.
"We'll conduct field tests. Today, on the 'Wanderer.' We'll simulate jamming in orbit around Telos IV and check how the system works in real conditions."
Marek beamed. "I was hoping you'd say that. Everything is ready. Give me an hour for a final check, and we can fly."
An hour later, the 'Wanderer' entered orbit around Telos IV. IG-88 sat in the pilot's seat, his manipulators resting on the control panel. Alex and Marek monitored through the observation systems.
"Activating jamming simulator," the engineer announced, pressing a few buttons on his device.
The 'Wanderer's' navicomputer immediately blared a warning. Red indicators flashed on the screens, reporting loss of connection with the hyperspace network.
"System detected jamming," Marek commented. "Emergency protocol activation in ten seconds—Activating jump!"
The space around the ship flickered, and it disappeared. The jump lasted only a few seconds. When the 'Wanderer' emerged from hyperspace, its cameras showed the star Surt in the distance—a small, bright dot against the starfield.
"Jump executed successfully," Marek reported, checking the data. "The ship is at the system's edge, exit point 'Alpha-1.' Distance from the planet—ten light-hours."
Alex checked the navigation data. "Excellent work, Marek," he praised the engineer.
They spent the next hour testing various scenarios. The system worked flawlessly, bringing the ship to a safe point at the system's edge each time.
When the tests concluded and the 'Wanderer' docked again at Telos IV's spaceport, Alex felt satisfied. It was a small victory, but an important one. Now he always had a backup exit.
"Install this system on all colony ships," he ordered Marek. "Start with the transports, then move on to personal vessels. I want every ship assigned to Telos IV to have this capability."
"It will be done," Marek nodded. "Although it will take time. We currently have twenty-three ships of various classes."
"We have time for now," Alex replied, though deep down he wasn't sure. "And record the Coruscant Prime system calculations on the 'Wanderer's' navicomputer."
Coruscant. Two weeks later.
Coruscant greeted Alex with the familiar chaos of billions of lights, but after the events on Yavin, there was an anxiety in this chaos. The Empire was squeezing the galaxy in an iron grip, and even in the capital, the tension of wartime was palpable. Stormtrooper patrols on the streets had become commonplace, and Imperial starfighters zipped through the sky from time to time. He had to forgo droid escorts. They could be detected. The security regime on Coruscant was paranoid.
Heavy, leaden clouds covered the sky above the city-planet, through which the cold rays of the sun struggled to break. A fine rain drizzled, leaving iridescent streaks on the steel surfaces of the buildings. Everything around seemed to be painted in shades of gray metal.
Giant holographic screens on the facades of skyscrapers broadcast an endless stream of Imperial propaganda. "Order through strength," "Unity through discipline," "Security through control"—slogans alternated. Between propaganda clips, reports from the fronts flickered—another "victory over rebel terrorists," "liberation" of new systems, solemn parades of the Imperial fleet.
Alex walked along one of the middle platforms, his appearance drastically altered with a holographic camouflage device of Valorian design. Instead of his usual appearance, an elderly scrap dealer from Corellia now moved through the capital's streets—a wrinkled face, gray hair, a stooped gait. The documents, made by his people, were, as always, impeccable.
Feeling hungry, he turned into a small cafe called "Galactic Crossroads," located on the corner of one of the passages between the towers. The establishment was typical for the middle level—not too expensive, but not outright cheap either. An ideal place to blend into the crowd of ordinary Coruscantians.
Alex ordered coffee and a synthetic meat sandwich, settling at a table by the panoramic window. From here, a mesmerizing view of the endless passages between skyscrapers opened up—metal arteries through which constant streams of sentient beings flowed. Humans, Twi'leks, Rodians, Duros—all of them hurried about their business, dissolving into the gray mass of urban bustle.
On the opposite tower, a hundred meters from the cafe, a giant advertising screen displayed another propaganda spot. Happy faces of Imperial citizens, modern factories, prosperous colonies. "Today is better than yesterday! Tomorrow is better than today! The Empire is our bright future!" read the inscription in gold letters against the backdrop of a waving Imperial flag.
Patriotic songs, played on all radio stations, poured from the cafe's speakers:
The Empire is our strength,
The Empire is united!
With Order and discipline—
We will build a new world!
Glory to the eternal Empire,
Glory to the Emperor!
From edge to edge of the galaxy
We are building a new world!
Order is the foundation of peace,
Unity is the foundation of strength!
The galaxy has become wider,
But at its center—our idol!
To the unprepared ear, it sounded unusual, but Alex knew that Coruscantians perceived it differently than he did. When you repeat propaganda many times, the mind involuntarily begins to perceive it as normal and even find a deeper meaning. And the words are good: unity, strength, order, discipline... He needed to come up with something like that for Telos IV.
At the next table, three middle-aged men sat, sipping ale and engaged in lively conversation. Alex involuntarily listened to their conversation.
"I'm telling you, Dims, we've never lived so well," said a plump man with a receding hairline. "Remember what was happening here twenty years ago? Wars, terror attacks, separatists... And now—complete order!"
"Exactly!" nodded his interlocutor, a lean man in his forties with a neat beard. "I work at an Imperial factory, and we're fulfilling the plan by one hundred and twenty percent every month thanks to the installation of new equipment! Salaries are growing, social guarantees are in place. We couldn't even dream of such things under the Republic."
"And remember those endless debates in the Senate?" "They could discuss one law for years, and with no result. And now—the Emperor speaks, and everything works like clockwork."
"Yes," Cort agreed. "Finally, there's a leader who doesn't talk but does. Look how the fleet is developing, how the economy is growing. And security... When was the last terrorist attack on Coruscant? Three years ago?"
"No. I think it was a year ago at the central hospital. There are still plenty of remnants. " Dims clarified, taking a sip of ale. "And even then, Imperial Intelligence quickly identified all the conspirators. Not like under the old regime—the Jedi almost killed the Chancellor right in his office!"
Alex couldn't help but smile, listening to this conversation. Dims seemed like a sincere, honest man—one of those on whom any society rests. Hardworking, patriotic. And if you live on Coruscant, get a stable salary at an Imperial enterprise, and don't ask too many questions, then Palpatine truly looks like an ideal ruler.
Professor Vell's story about the "Chancellor's Chair" had been bothering him for several weeks. A device for hidden influence on consciousness, built directly into the furniture—it was too interesting to ignore. If such technology truly existed and was used, it needed to be studied.
Alex finished his coffee and pondered, looking at the endless streams of traffic outside the window. Coruscant is a giant organism, completely dependent on constant resource supplies from outside. Food, water, air, energy—all of it came from other planets. Trillions of sentient beings lived under the constant risk of starvation if anything went wrong with logistics.
And sooner or later, it was bound to happen. If not because of this war, then because of the next one. What would happen to this city-planet if a blockade lasted even half a year? Riots, famine, collapse of the entire life support system... It's even surprising that the planet hasn't died out a thousand years ago.
Okay, he was thinking about the wrong things. Alex wiped his mouth with a napkin and got up from the table. Time to move on.
Leaving the cafe, he headed along a familiar route through the middle-level shopping galleries. His path led through the district where the shop "Galactic Antiquities," owned by Luthen Rael, once stood.
In place of his shop, a women's lingerie store called "Your Secret Style" now proudly stood. Bright signs, holographic women in lace sets, intrusive advertising for "goods for true ladies of the Empire." Alex couldn't help but appreciate the irony of the situation—in a place from which many cunning intrigues were spun, now underwear was being sold.
The search took three days. Alex's agents on Coruscant were a little surprised by the request. "Furniture search"—it was an unusual request, but they were used to not asking questions and simply carried out operational measures quickly. The trail led to industrial warehouses in one of the lower levels of the capital.
"The reconstruction began a month after the Clone Wars ended," one of the agents reported via encrypted communication. "All equipment from the imperial box was dismantled and sent to state warehouse number 1272-B. It's guarded by SIB, but not too seriously—they probably think old furniture isn't of much value."
Alex chuckled. If only they knew...
Renting a regular city speeder, he headed towards the industrial districts of the lower levels. The transport glided smoothly between the support columns of giant buildings, bypassing endless interchanges and transport hubs. The lower he descended, the gloomier the atmosphere became—there was almost no natural light here, and the air smelled of chemical reagents.
The warehouse was located in an industrial sector where it was easy to get lost among countless hangars and storage complexes. The security system turned out to be exactly as the agent described—formal. A few surveillance cameras, periodic patrols, basic alarms.
Alex parked the speeder a few blocks from his target and walked to the warehouse, activating full camouflage. On the way, his assistants hacked the surveillance systems, and the image was projected directly into his eye. Now he watched the guards—two bored SIB sergeants who spent more time playing sabacc than actually observing their assigned object. One of them even managed to fall asleep right at his post.
Incompetence is a common disease of all societies, Alex mused. But it only worked to his advantage. That's why he preferred to use droids for important tasks—a good piece of advice he once received from a smuggler friend, Jack Tolcho.
Waiting until deep night, Alex activated the camouflage field and approached the warehouse. A small device connected to the security system created false signals, convincing the system that everything was in order. The locks yielded to the electronic lockpick in seconds.
Inside the warehouse, it was dimly lit, with only occasional emergency lamps. Rows of shelves stretched into the hangar's depths, filled with all sorts of property from government buildings. Alex turned on his portable scanner and began a methodical search.
The chairs from Palpatine's opera box were in the far corner of the warehouse. The stern chairs made of neuro-leather and gray metal with some electronic devices in the armrests looked out of place among the industrial junk. But Alex was not interested in their aesthetic value.
He took out a specialized scanner and began examining the chairs. The first chair—clean. The second—also. But the third...
"Got it," Alex whispered, looking at the instrument readings.
The sensors and emitters hidden in the upholstery of the chair were almost imperceptible—the work of the highest class. But the software... Alex connected his analyzer to the found interfaces, and his eyes widened in surprise.
The code was familiar. Too familiar.
It was his work. His and Professor Vell's group from KTI. The very project on studying neurointerfaces that they had been developing years ago. But significantly modified and improved.
Alex quickly checked the other chairs. Some had similar devices, but with different settings and configurations. A whole system of hidden influence, disguised as ordinary furniture.
Connecting a portable data storage device, he began copying the device logs. What he saw was very interesting.
Hundreds of entries. Names he recognized—senators, industrialists, warlords. And all of them were subjected to hidden influence during their visits to the opera and confidential conversations with Palpatine.
The programs were different, but the goal was the same—forming loyalty to Chancellor Palpatine. Introducing ideas about the need to expand his powers, about threats to the Republic requiring extraordinary measures. A subtle, artful work of reprogramming consciousness.
But one entry stood out among the others.
"Subject: Anakin Skywalker. Status: Jedi. Protocol: Special."
Alex strained his memory. A familiar name. Some general during the Clone Wars. Names that once seemed important now seemed meaningless. What was the point of their heroism if they lost? He opened the file and delved into the data.
Anakin Skywalker was not processed once, but systematically, over several years. But the programs were completely different from those of the other victims. Instead of simple loyalty implantation—a complex, multi-level influence system with activation words.
But the most ironic thing was something else. The visualization system.
Alex discovered records of holographic projections that were created directly on the opera stage during the influence sessions. Palpatine could observe in real-time how the consciousness of his victims changed. Force fields and holograms showed the process of "brainwashing" as a kind of theatrical performance.
The Chancellor literally enjoyed the spectacle of destroying other people's personalities.
The last entries for Anakin were dated shortly before the Jedi were destroyed.
Alex finished copying and meticulously covered his tracks. The camouflage field once again hid him from the surveillance cameras, and the electronic systems received the command to "forget" about the night visitor.
Emerging from the warehouse, he headed to his ship, parked by his assistants in one of the numerous lower-level docks. Thoughts swirled in his head about what he had discovered.
The scale of Palpatine's operation exceeded anything he could have imagined. Years of systematic influence on key figures of the Republic. Subtle, almost imperceptible reprogramming of consciousness.
He was already approaching his ship. The invisibility generator reliably hid him from surveillance cameras, and his head was filled with thoughts about what he had discovered.
The industrial district at this time of night seemed almost lifeless. Sparse lanterns illuminated deserted alleys between warehouse complexes, casting long shadows from support beams and ventilation pipes. Somewhere in the distance, transport highways hummed, but relative silence reigned here.
Alex had almost reached his destination and had already deactivated the invisibility mode when three white figures appeared from around the corner of the building. Stormtroopers moved with a measured patrol step, their helmets turning from side to side, scanning the surrounding area.
"Citizen," the senior sergeant called out to him, raising his hand. "Stop for a document check."
Alex swore mentally but maintained his composure outwardly. The holographic masker continued to work, transforming him into an elderly Corellian merchant. He obediently stopped and took out his documents.
"Here, officer," he said in the old man's trembling voice.
The stormtrooper took the documents and carefully examined them through his helmet's visor. His colleagues took up flanking positions—standard procedure when checking suspicious individuals.
"Dein Orrell, scrap dealer," the sergeant read. "Where are you headed?"
"I came to Coruscant to buy parts for my business, and now I'm just returning to my ship," Alex replied, trying to speak with a Corellian accent. "I wanted to take a walk through the capital before leaving."
"At three in the morning?" the stormtrooper's voice carried a note of suspicion. "Where exactly were you?"
"Just walking around, exploring the area," Alex realized the conversation was taking an unpleasant turn. "Tomorrow I plan to return during the day, when everything is open."
The sergeant handed the documents to one of his subordinates and activated the communicator on his wrist.
"Base, this is patrol seven-seven. Check citizen Dein Orrell, Corellian, merchant. Transmitting document number."
Alex cursed inwardly. They had reported the name of his cover identity. The documents were perfect, but a deep check could reveal discrepancies.
"Citizen Orrell," the sergeant turned to him, "We have Plan 'Vigilance.' Please come with us to the station. You know what time it is."
"But officer, I haven't violated anything..."
"Standard procedure," the stormtrooper replied sternly. "Do not resist."
Alex understood—this would not end well. Biometric scanning, detailed identity check, possibly even interrogation.
He nodded slowly, pretending to be about to go with the patrol. But at that moment, a special concealed military blaster shot out of his sleeve into his palm.
The first shot hit the sergeant in the chest. The stormtrooper flew backward, his armor smoking from the energy charge. The second and third shots followed almost simultaneously—Alex spun around and hit the other patrols before they could react.
The silence of the industrial district was broken only by the sounds of falling bodies and the hissing of damaged life support systems in the stormtroopers' armor.
He didn't want them dead, but if he had to choose between them and himself, he would choose himself.
Alex quickly activated the invisibility generator. His figure dissolved into the air, leaving only a faint shimmer at the edge of the visible spectrum. He needed to leave the planet immediately.
He almost ran to the ship, dodging the few passersby. The communicator beeped quietly—an encrypted signal from his agents.
"Boss, we've detected Imperial activity in your area," a worried voice said. "Need help?"
"No," Alex replied curtly, not slowing down. "Stay away."
"Understood. Good luck."
The dock appeared ahead. Alex quickly passed through the security system, meaning the alarm hadn't been raised yet. His ship was waiting on pad number seven.
Boarding, he immediately began launching the systems. The engines hummed, preparing for takeoff, the navigation computer calculating the route to the hyperspace corridor.
As the ship gained altitude, Alex reflected on what had happened. The fact that stormtroopers ran into him seemed like a coincidence, but in reality, it was systematic work. Patrols, surveillance, regular document checks—all of it formed an effective control network. He felt a little sorry for them, ordinary servicemen, but this was far from the first such decision in his life.
The Empire had advanced significantly compared to what it was a few years ago. Back then, one could wander around Coruscant for hours without encountering a single patrol. Now, every step was tracked, every suspicious movement recorded.
The 'Wanderer,' with a false transponder, broke out of Coruscant's atmosphere and set course for the jump point. Alex had already begun to relax when the navigation computer issued an alarm.
"Attention," the system's mechanical voice sounded. "Priority signal received from Coruscant Traffic Control. Navigation system lockout activated. Engines are switching to standby mode."
Alex smirked, watching as his upgraded navicomputer calmly ignored the Imperial commands. Years of work on defensive protocols had not been in vain—the system simply filtered out external control signals.
"Lockout rejected," the computer reported. "Continuing movement to the jump point."
But Alex understood—he had no time for a standard hyperspace jump calculation. The stormtroopers' bodies had surely been discovered by now, and the lack of response to the lockout signal only confirmed the suspicions of the Imperial services.
"Activate the backup navicomputer," he ordered. "Emergency evacuation protocol."
The second navigation unit, hidden deep within the ship, instantly came to life. A system for jumps within a star system, which was considered extremely dangerous and usually forbidden by standard safety protocols.
"The calculation of the hyperspace jump is complete," reported the backup computer. "Coordinates: outer boundary of the Coruscant system, sector 15-G. Ready for jump in ten seconds."
Alex leaned back into the specialized anti-gravity chair. Short hyperspace jumps were much harsher than interstellar flights. The peak G-force could reach a dozen Gs.
"Jump!"
Reality warped, stars turned into streaks of light, and after a few agonizing seconds, the "Wanderer" materialized on the outskirts of the Coruscant system, amidst asteroid fields and mining stations abandoned millennia ago.
The comms immediately exploded with messages:
"Unidentified vessel! Last warning!"
"Surrender, or be destroyed!"
"All fleet units! Pursue and detain the ship... last coordinates..."
Red dots flickered on the tactical display—Imperial interceptors and patrol ships were turning towards him.
"Main navicomputer, status of interstellar jump calculation?" Alex asked, watching the approaching ships.
"Calculation is seventy percent complete. Time until readiness—six minutes thirty seconds."
Not good enough. They would be waiting for him on the standard hyperspace route. But he had a plan for such an occasion.
"Load coordinates for the Kelada system," he ordered. "Route through hyperspace relay station Omega-108487."
"Attention," warned the navicomputer. "The selected route requires a prolonged hyperspace jump lasting one standard week. It is recommended to use standard corridors."
"Security protocol canceled," Alex cut in. "Execute."
His ship was no ordinary vessel. Years of upgrades had turned the "Wanderer" into a unique machine, capable of what standard ships could not, externally resembling a standard YT-1300. Reinforced hyperdrive, additional generators, improved life support system—all this allowed for ultra-long jumps without intermediate stops.
"Calculation complete," the computer reported. "Ready for jump."
On the screen, the red dots were rapidly approaching. The first Imperial fighters were already within firing range.
"Jump!" Alex gave the voice command.
The ship plunged into hyperspace again, this time for a long time. Kelada was on the opposite side of the galaxy, and the route passed through one of those hyperspace relay stations he had hacked years ago.
Even if the Imperial analysts calculated his destination coordinates—and they would surely try—the pursuit would face an unpleasant surprise. Station "Omega-108487" was programmed to create false hyperspace corridors that would lead pursuers into unstable regions of space.
Alex leaned back in his chair, watching the swirls of pseudo-motion outside the viewports. Seven days until arrival in the Kelada system, where he could finally break free from the pursuit.
But most importantly—he had the data on the mind control system. Now, long work awaited him to analyze it. This would allow him to better navigate the political landscape.
The Empire had shown its effectiveness. But Alex was ready for such a turn of events.
Although... he frowned, replaying the events of the last hour in his mind. The patrol had stumbled upon him precisely in the area where the warehouse was located. Coincidence? Or was a mistake made somewhere?
The cloaking field was working perfectly, the documents were impeccable, his behavior—natural. What could have attracted the attention of Imperial services? He had neutralized the surveillance cameras, covered his electronic tracks...
Or perhaps the problem wasn't with the technical means? Alex tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the armrest of his chair. Too many coincidences for mere chance.
An hour ago. Imperial Palace, Coruscant.
The Emperor stood by the panoramic window of his study, immersed in the Force. The lights of night Coruscant twinkled below, but his attention was focused not on the material world.
The Force flowed around him in invisible currents, and in these currents, he felt the slightest changes in probabilities. Years of studying the Force had taught him to read signs inaccessible to ordinary mortals. The failure on Yavin was a serious miscalculation. He tried to glimpse the uncounted factor, but couldn't find the right thread among trillions.
And now something was wrong.
In one of the industrial sectors of the lower levels, the Force lines trembled as if someone had thrown a stone into calm water. Distortions of probability, barely noticeable fluctuations in the fabric of reality—all this spoke of the presence of something... or someone important.
The Emperor squinted, delving deeper into his trance. The visions were unclear, blurry. A shadow in a cloaking field, quick movements, a flash of violence. And something else—a sense of loss, as if someone had taken what belonged to him.
"Mas Amedda," he called softly.
The study door opened silently, and a tall Chagrian entered—the Emperor's loyal assistant.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"I feel disturbances in the Force," Palpatine said slowly, not turning from the window. "Industrial sector 1270-B, lower levels. Deploy additional patrols there. Immediately. Where are the Inquisitors?"
"Yes, sir," Mas Amedda activated his communicator. "Central Command? Emperor's order. Increase patrols in sector 1270-B, lower levels. Priority—maximum. Inquisitors to the same sector!"
Palpatine nodded, continuing to peer into the night. This was something important.
"Notify Lord Vader... Let him take control."