Rick peeked into the cockpit and examined the personalities present there with a keen gaze.
The individuals, consisting of Larius, Les, and Bus, gazed dreamily into the hypercorridor and reacted sluggishly to the captain's appearance.
"If you stare at hyperspace for too long, hyperspace starts staring back at you," the captain said preachingly. "Les, come on, help me in the cargo hold."
"Well, at least not 'get out of here' straight into hyperspace," Rayno chuckled, climbing out of the oversized chair. "Do you think hyperspace will see anything new?"
"There have been cases where the pilot's body returned from hyperspace, along with the ship, but his mind remained there," the counter pointed towards the pattern spreading across the blister, "hyperspace took it. And it didn't return it." This is a prelude to a legend.
"Maybe there was just nothing to return?" Larius suggested.
"Don't say that, I heard they were all seasoned pilots," the guy shook his head, "and you can't do anything in this business without a head."
"So, are we going or are we doing philosophy?" Les clarified. "If the latter, then it's more comfortable sitting."
"I wish I could do philosophy," the captain sighed and, beckoning Les to follow him, headed for the cargo hold.
On the way, Les was silent for a change and didn't try to be sarcastic. In the cargo hold, they were met by silence.
"Aren't we going to overexert ourselves?" Rayno asked with interest, looking at two overturned containers.
"Don't worry, we'll carry them only in parts," meanwhile, Rick was examining the attackers' bodies for surprises and their physical condition. The raiders were sleeping soundly under medication and had no intention of waking up. Taking hold of one of the containers, he beckoned Les to him: "Come on, help."
Rayno glanced confusedly through his hair, but grabbed the edge of the container.
"Still contraband, captain?"
"What contraband, I beg you," Rick began to move the container, "just a couple of dinko on board."
"Three," Les corrected instantly, as soon as the gap between the containers became about a hand's width.
"That's not so important," Rick moved the containers aside and began to examine the bodies and their equipment, "they are stowaways, so technically they are not on board."
All three were humans. Unremarkable clothing that didn't restrict movement, comfortable shoes with soft soles... They had no weapons, identification marks, or documents.
"Alright, they wanted to get inside the ship, we can't refuse them; let's take them to the elevator," the interrogation needed to be conducted in a quiet and calm environment; there were a couple of places on the upper deck where this could be done.
"No problem..." Les bent down, grabbed the upper body by the shoulder straps and dragged it. The prisoner's boots tapped against the seams of the covering.
A couple of minutes later, all three were in the elevator and transported to the upper deck. On the way, Rick ran into the workshop and snatched a few flexible ties from there. On the upper deck, Les was sent for chairs, while the captain dragged two bodies to a currently empty separate cargo compartment, and the third to the escape pods, where Les was supposed to bring the chairs.
Rayno dragged two light chairs from the passenger lounge, placed them seat-to-seat at some distance, and glanced curiously through his bangs.
"Is this enough?"
"Here," the counter handed a bunch of ties to his subordinate, "take the second chair, find a third, and go tie up the remaining couple; they're behind the large hatches. And guard them while I deal with this one."
Les depicted a complex mixture of understanding and regret on his mobile face.
"And why do they need chairs? They can be immobilized lying down..."
"Psychological pressure," Rick explained, seating his prisoner and beginning to establish a reliable connection between the body and the chair, "when you wake up, the first thing you do is try to move. It's unpleasant when your hands and feet are tied, but it's much more unpleasant when you're tied to something."
"Then I'll blindfold them too," Les grabbed a chair, ties, and disappeared.
The thought was correct, however, the captain himself simply turned off the light, plunging the compartment into darkness. For a trained gifted person, the presence of lighting was not a mandatory factor. Standing behind the prisoner, he touched the base of his neck with his index finger and began to bring him to consciousness, controlling the process.
Sher's drugs were of high quality - the sleep released the prisoner no less reluctantly than quicksand. The person remained on the verge of waking, but full consciousness could not be spoken of.
For Rick, this was enough. Moreover, such a state was optimal. Immersing himself in the Force, he instilled in the unknown's consciousness that he was safe, that those around him were his own, and that he could trust them.
Rick was met with a surprise. For this person, there were no "own" people. There were those with whom he worked, but relaxing in their presence would clearly be extremely imprudent... He did not develop trust towards the captain next to him.
An interesting three-word question was spinning in Rick's head, but he wasn't going to back down, going a little further. There must be at least something in this person's life worthy of trust, because over his lifetime, he must have met at least someone...
He had to deal with a person who had not known the word "trust" for a very long time. A mercenary who was paid for his work, and paid in advance, because he received payment from those with whom there could be no trust. Give an inch - and you'll be deceived.
It was easier to negotiate with him. Mutually. Although... if he was a man of honor when it came to the letter of the contract... Then negotiation would be impossible. The contract went deeper. Youth, childhood. There had to be at least someone worthy of trust in his life.
Riku was unlucky again. A ward of an orphanage for abandoned children, this man had never known what it meant to believe in someone since childhood. Might makes right, and he who strikes first – that had always been his principle.
The man sitting before him was the epitome of a mercenary: trusting no one, attached to no one, acting on prepayment. Someone had clearly paid well to get him aboard his ship. There were other options, Riku liked the one where he didn't have to break the mercenary's will. A man with such a degree of distrust could easily believe that his employer hadn't just abandoned him, but betrayed him. Especially considering how the mercenaries had been captured. And now he had two options: either perish, or reveal everything he knew about his mission and employer. Focusing, the guy began to create the necessary situation in the mercenary's mind.
The mercenary clung to the certainty of his employer's betrayal. Anxious feelings emanated from him, which immediately disappeared. This man wasn't going to be nervous. He was going to act.
He struggled against the effects of the sleeping drug, but the mercenary slowly began to shake off the drowsiness.
It was unpleasant, but that was all. Rick began to create an illusion for the mercenary, as he had done on the Smugglers' Moon. That he had overcome the sleep and woken up, that he was still tied up, in the same inconspicuous room, but before him was not blackness, but a table with a man in an Imperial officer's uniform and with an unremarkable face.
The mercenary shook his head, clearing the remnants of sleep, and stared at the vision.
"What the Hutt..." it escaped him. His voice was hoarse.
The man sitting before the mercenary grunted, picked up a datapad from the table, glanced at it, and then looked back at the prisoner.
"So, we have two paths, the quick and the sure one," his voice was dry and completely devoid of emotion, the easiest kind to maintain, the kind they use in cheap action movies, "Mr...?"
"Give me something to drink," the mercenary asked. "My tongue is sticking... It's hard to talk."
"First, you will answer all our questions," the illusion remained unmoved. "What is your name?"
The mercenary shrugged almost imperceptibly – if not, then not. He'd have to tear his throat. He'd be more surprised if they actually gave him water – Imperial security didn't engage in charity...
"Kit Haslow," he replied, after a slight cough. "Thirty-four standard years. Place of birth unknown, ward of an orphanage on Serenno."
"Good," the illusion gave no indication that the interrogator was satisfied. "Now I want to hear under what circumstances you ended up on the freighter 'Gale'?"
"I knew it was a rotten deal..." the captive swallowed with difficulty. "They don't pay that much just to get on board and open the entrance for a group... If I had known it was your ship, I would never have signed up. It's too costly for me to ruin relations with such a company."
"Who is the client?" the question was asked immediately and directly, even though Rick had guessed the answer.
"Some Sarlacc from Corellia," the mercenary replied. "I'm not the senior, I don't know all the details. He really messed up with his overseer, from what I heard, and went all in. He spared no expense on the courier to catch the 'Gale' here... Well, on Bakran. And the senior said, if we don't catch them, we'll have to chase them."
"What group was the senior in?"
Corellia. So they were after the xenobotanist, good thing it wasn't a tail from Nar Shaddaa.
"He went with half the group to take the woman," the mercenary swallowed again. "The client demanded proof that she was dealt with."
So, with a very high probability, she was flattened against the bumper of a car... Although, given his luck, he might have been taken alive by Jenaro, and then the security officer would owe him.
"Model and call sign of the courier?" this time the "Imperial" paused.
"BR-23," the mercenary answered. "'Blink'."
Some old ship, otherwise the guy would have had clearer memories of the vessel, can study it a bit later.
"How did you find Bakran?"
"There was a request for several planets from the client," the mercenary's voice became increasingly hoarse, but he didn't ask for water anymore. "We were looking for a ship that picked up a capsule with a woman."
"Alright, Haslow," the illusion nodded, "thank you for your cooperation."
Rick concentrated, weakened the influence on the mercenary's mind, and sent him back to sleep.
For a few seconds, he resisted the suggestion, but eventually gave in and slumped in his chair.
Taking a deep breath, the captain sat on the floor and began to breathe deeply. Manipulations of this kind in the Force allow one to obtain the necessary information. But, damn it, how hard it is to concentrate and maintain the illusion at the proper level. He simply wouldn't have the strength to process two more prisoners. He might not even manage one. Getting to his feet, he checked once more if the mercenary was securely tied and went to look for Les in the direction he had sent him, this time without using the Force.
Everything was neat and quiet there. The mercenaries were asleep, tied to chairs – skillfully enough, Rayno sat on the floor between them and juggled small coins.
"Good motor skills," Rick smiled, "ever considered a career as a thief?"
"No, it's boring," Les caught the coins in his palm and put them in his pocket. "Did they say anything interesting?"
"No," the captain shook his head, "all the interesting stuff stayed on Bakran."
"Should I leave or help?" Rayno tilted his head, his purple eyes flashing between strands of hair. "You look kind of tired."
Rick shook his head.
"I doubt I'll get any new information from them that would be extremely important to me. Go get Sher, the doctor, we need to make sure they don't wake up in the next couple of hours."
Les stood up, took one of the prisoners by the hair, and tilted his head slightly to the side, showing Rick a red dot on his neck – the mark of an injection. He did the same to the second one.
"They won't wake up. This was done very recently, the blood has barely had time to clot. Drugs of this kind act for several hours at a minimum."
"I'm worried about the one I was talking to," Rick said calmly, "he'll sleep for a while longer, but I can't guarantee a few hours."
"Resistance like mine?" Les chuckled. "Alright, I'll go..."
He headed for the exit.
Rick didn't answer, explaining how it happened would be too illogical. Sitting down against the wall, he tucked his legs under him and, encompassing all three in the Force, sat and waited. In this state of observation, the Force was not depleted.
"Well, a cook is a cook," Day chuckled to herself and decided to change into more comfortable clothes. More precisely, her loose-fitting shirt with wide sleeves for a t-shirt. Then, diving back into her bag, she took out another item of clothing. A headscarf. A white triangle with a red pattern. All that remained of her connection to her mother's clan.
Putting the headscarf in her pants pocket, and shoving her comlink and headphones in there too, the woman headed for the galley.
As she walked, she thought about the captain's joke, that preparing a normal lunch for a crowd in an hour was unrealistic, except perhaps for the simplest. Spaghetti with meat, for example. But... the little pedant forgot to say how many people the food was for. "Poor boy," she suddenly thought, "so young, and already a captain, and his past doesn't seem the happiest. Well, we'll live and see."
Once in the galley, she understood why the captain had mentioned an hour. In the corner stood an auto-cooker with three containers, for soup, the main course, and what is called "kompot" in her homeland. Even better, the auto-cooker came with a grill, which was not superfluous, considering that some in this strange community didn't like water. Tying the headscarf around her head and putting in her earbuds, Day turned on the music and began to take stock of the supplies.
Looking into various cupboards, she was filled with gratitude to Vaymi, who was responsible for the household, because the supplies had everything she needed: dactyl for Shai, poultry and other meat, potatoes, space carrots, love apples, globe artichokes, spicy roots, spices, sweet and hot peppers. In short, everything that could be useful for the red soup, which all Corellian girls are taught to cook.
In the drawer with kitchen utensils, the woman found a vegetable peeler and immersed herself in preparation.
For the main course, the former xenobotanist decided to make grilled vegetables and meat, as it was also quick and not difficult at all, and she found a meat tenderizer.
Bus remained. If Day understood him correctly, kushibane eat them raw, so for him – a fruit salad, and there were plenty of fruits.
And for dessert – a striped biscuit. Sweet, tasty, and quick.
By the end of the hour, the galley smelled amazing.
The biscuit was resting under a towel, the grill with meat and vegetables was covered with a special lid that keeps the food warm. All that remained was to call the crew.
Day took out her earbuds and dialed the only number she knew – Sher's.
"Sher, sorry if anything, but my lunch is ready, and I don't know what to do next."
"Oh, they made you cook?" she heard in response. "You need to go to the dining room... I'll be there soon."
"They didn't make me, I volunteered. And I can't carry all this to the dining room by myself. Well, captain, damn it, you're as kind as the Emperor, how many hands do you think I have? Men, that's all."
Day chuckled and began to prepare the food for transport to the dining room. And she wanted to hit the captain with a ladle more and more.
...Cold, always cold, as soon as you let go of his hand... From the very beginning, by the wall, when she put the blaster in his palm and went to get her speeder. In the ship's bustle, this feeling dissolved and lost its sharpness. And from what corner of her subconscious did this strange feeling, that she was afraid of losing him, of him who had already been lost and miraculously found? This hadn't happened before!
Sighing, she cut across the middle deck, slowing her pace before the galley, but still passed it, forcing herself to reach Mr. Karvo's cabin. Assessing his condition and learning about the captain's plans to drop Mukh on Nexus Ortay, Sher worriedly rubbed the bridge of her nose. Rick, in her opinion, was rushing. But this issue should only be discussed with Rick himself, not with Mr. Karvo. Sher quickly closed the tablet page, from which green eyes stared piercingly, and left, wishing the Toydarian good health. What else can a doctor wish?