Alas, I couldn't just go to the nearest shop right away. Derick required my intervention, Trik provided a report on buying and selling, and then there were the builders... Since the company was Corellian, Derick didn't play small and put me directly in touch with the firm's director.
I don't know how much time passed; I simply dropped out of life, rushing from one task to another, but as soon as I managed to create a window, I immediately went to CEC. My acquisition was a brand new cruiser of the "CIM5+" type. That is: Consular-class cruiser (Charger c70 retrofit), fifth modification, with additional equipment denoted by the plus sign. The CIM was a branch from the main line of Consular-class cruisers. Jedi, regular diplomats, and the Judicial Department were basically half-based on them. The machine was proven and, like any Corellian ship, consisted of interchangeable segments. Unlike its relative, the CIM had four engines instead of three, carried less armament, and it was positioned differently. A pair of side turrets located right on top of the airlock sockets and one turret under the cockpit—that was all the armament. Further, the ship has a large autonomy, a reinforced antenna on the roof, and improved shields in case it flies into impassable thickets. The hull is covered with a special alloy to reduce the negative effects of any environment it might find itself in.
At my request (and extra payment), a pair of missile launchers and three sockets for dropping bombs were put on the machine, right in the tail, between the twin engines. Whoever gets behind it will definitely have a hard time.
That's where the changes ended. I didn't touch the trio of astromechs or the cabins; everything about the ship more than suited me. The machine even somewhat reminded me of the old, classic ships on which I once navigated the Tython system.
I particularly liked that although it's a cruiser and up to thirty people can fly on it—the machine can be piloted solo. And nothing even had to be added; everything is in the stock configuration! If we talk about the recommended crew, it's nine sentients. A captain, a first pilot, then two more co-pilots, a navigator, a communications officer, and three technicians.
The only thing was, I was slightly pinched by the cost, as the ship set me back three and a half million. On the other hand, it's worth it because the vessel is elementally faster than the YG-4210, stronger, and carries more serious armament. And, unlike the YG-4210, you can actually fight on it; the CIM initially has such a calculation, unlike the YG-4210 which, actually, was created as a civilian explorer.
After the ship, I finally bought myself a secretary. But an unusual one. A droid assistant in the form of a Z01 probe droid model. It's a small reconnaissance disk with one large red eye and an abundance of manipulators in the manner of squid tentacles. The built-in repulsor allowed the model to fly briskly, and various tentacles—to interact with the environment in various ways, including connecting to devices or sawing something somewhere. At my whim, the model was modified. The processor was improved and a vocoder was built in, additional software for an astromech, protocol droid, and pilot was installed. And this little rascal is very smart on his own.
For understanding—droids are divided into five classes by intelligence. Fifth—cleaners and all those who don't need many brains. Fourth—droids with skills in the field of security and possessing military functions. For example—B1. Third—social droids used in educational, informational, and diplomatic purposes, for example—protocol droids. Droids of the second category are droids used in technical fields. They include astromechs, reconnaissance droids, and pilot droids.
And the first class—that's a separate category of machines altogether, because these tin cans are capable of creative thinking. Scientists, physicists, engineers, medics, assassin droids; they have many spheres for work. But making one, making it correctly—you have to try hard. Because such machines will either shoot you in the back, or run away, or start asserting their rights, or even, with the quote "what a crap world," go and commit suicide. And the latter sincerely hope that next time they'll be lucky and become happy little vacuum cleaners. Right...
I chose my scout precisely because of its size and brains. It has a second class by default, and it can be carried everywhere. And if anything, it can repair things, and pilot the ship... A versatile toy it turned out to be, though it cost seventy thousand. For comparison—the advanced R2-A1 astromech, which started a new series of astromechs, costs about thirty thousand.
Cramming a good memory into this little guy—not a simple task when there's almost no space in him as it is. I'm silent about standard protocol droids being mostly slow and clumsy. I won't dwell on "politeness protocols" which sometimes interfere more. And I also want to put a shocker and a dart-shooter with poisonous projectiles on my little guy, you know, just in case, so no one tries to steal my self-propelled diary. A self-destruct system in scouts is standard, so I can be at peace about secrets.
"I'll call you—Zer... No, Zerronis will be offended. Alright, you'll be Zero," holding out my hand, I let the droid, briskly moving its legs, crawl up to my shoulder. Some kind of wrong droid, either an octopus or a spider, hard to tell.
"Accepted. Identifier recorded," the droid barked in a fairly pleasant, albeit mechanical, voice.
"Sync with the tablet. Copy all records."
"Accepted," the droid obediently connected to the device and in a fraction of a second copied absolutely all the information I had downloaded and the notes I had made.
Pity I can't pet the beauty; a droid is a droid. And yet its big brothers are freely used by the Techno Union and the Trade Federation. Z-ones are recognized as underpowered and weak, which is why they didn't gain popularity, and a pity. The little rascal can crawl through oh-ho-ho where.
Finished with that, I return to the Mandalorians. Pleased the guys with the news about the new ship and that I'm packing my things and moving to my own vessel.
"Listen, maybe we should all move?" Dis asked.
"What for? I don't think you'll be interested in running around with me to business meetings."
"What about security?"
"For me?!"
"Well, yes. You're the General Director! An ordinary alien who doesn't possess sorcery. If anything—the Sorcerer is in our squad, after all."
"Ah yes... Right. Forgot. Yes, that's a bit of a problem..."
"And you also haven't provided the material on ensuring security within the company," Warren reminded me, as if in passing.
"I'll buy it for you; found several good programs," I waved it off. "Ideally, you should have been dropped on Tatooine already."
"Why's that? There's nothing there yet, essentially."
"Orders have already been formed, construction has begun. The number of scurrying smugglers bothers me, and there's no one else to ensure security besides us. Especially since the combat droids haven't been ordered yet... Where's the estimate, Fedya?" I loomed over Warren.
"I'm drafting it... I don't want to have stupid dummies on staff."
"Never mind the droids; the staff needs to be expanded with regular live security too! And you should be concerned with hiring already," turning around, I started pacing around the table again.
"Who to hire?"
"I should be asking you that!" I went at him a second time. "Have you even hired any security to protect the construction sites?"
"No..."
"I'm going to strangle you right now..." I promised hoarsely.
"I'll do everything, everything will be done!" Warren assured me, raising his hands.
"Brother, don't worry. I'll write you letters," Dis chuckled.
"Don't celebrate; you'll be my deputy."
"Hey!"
"Hush!" I interrupted the dispute. "Warren, have you already thought about space defense?" stopping, I looked at the Mandalorian.
"Honestly? Haven't even given it a thought."
"No, I'm definitely going to strangle you. You're a crap security chief. What if slavers fly in, what are we going to do?"
"I said from the start it was a bad idea. If on the ground I can still come up with something, don't even mention space."
"Tch. Does anyone know where to get a sufficiently competent person to control space?"
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Who do I have to work with," I rubbed the bridge of my nose wearily.
"Now, now, we are professionals!"
"Highly specialized ones, though."
"I've realized that already!"
Spinning an unignited saber in my right hand playfully, I mulled over the thought. You can't entrust this to just anyone; you need a trusted person, and there are none knowledgeable in the area besides me. I at least have some idea of how to intercept smugglers; they were around in my time too.
"Alright, let's proceed as follows. Warren, you oversee both space and land, everything in general, and report to me personally. So be it, I'll take on the directorial duties since there's no one to dump them on yet. Further, get yourself a couple of assistants. One responsible for land, the second for space."
"Bad idea..."
"Just oversee!" I stamped. "Orders will come directly from me. Zero, give me a map of the Tatoo system and duplicate my marks."
"Accepted."
The droid jumped from my shoulder to the table and used the projector built in next to the optical sensor, demonstrating the system.
"Alright then. Here and here we have the hyperroute points. It is necessary to drop reconnaissance probes in their area," I traced a circle with my finger, and the droid obediently added a marker, "expensive ones aren't needed; the task is simple—detect and determine who. Next point, we need to scatter the same probes around Tatooine so that no bastard can approach the planet unnoticed."
"Alright to approach, but how are we going to drive them away?"
"Buy a six-pack of Corellian corvettes. Model CR80, it's a modification specifically created for interception and subsequent battle with small craft. I'm fresh from the factory, so I'll even tell you the exact price—three million two hundred thousand apiece. But as for the fighters for them... Honestly, I'm in doubt here."
"About what exactly?"
"We need more than one squadron. We won't be able to take them by quantity; we need quality. And quality costs money. I see no point in giving good machines to crap pilots, and good pilots don't come cheap. Plus maintenance... Everywhere you turn, there's a problem."
"What about droids then?"
"There's another problem with drones. The ones on the market are mostly trash, so we need to order development. And that takes money and time."
"Well, first of all, you're wrong; we have good pilots too," Warren objected. "Our people regularly chase pirates in the outskirts. Yes, there aren't many, but they exist. And second, we have a wonderful, simply magnificent specimen of an unmanned aerial vehicle!"
"M?"
"The Basilisk!"
"Hm... A good option."
"I remind you it's prohibited by Republic laws," Kaut interjected.
"Doesn't matter; Tatooine isn't part of the Republic."
"If we have a mosquito fleet of Basilisks, all our people will flock to Shade anyway," Dis chuckled.
"We don't have the capacity to produce them," Nerra shook her head.
"MandalMotors does."
"They won't go for it."
"It's not about whether they'll go for it or not," I returned attention to myself. "Persuading the manufacturers isn't a problem. We simply can't afford it."
"Really?"
"Developing a new machine costs VERY much. Even a simple fighter."
"How much?"
"Depends on the order. At best, I'd have to pool all my money, and only for the development. And even then, it might not be enough."
"Oh..."
"So we'll buy ready-made fighters and put Corellian pilots in them immediately. I think six squadrons of eight machines for shift duty will be enough. Further, we place the main defense station right here. It will also be a mandatory transit station for absolutely all ships passing through the planet."
"What if someone decides to fly around?"
I looked at Tron.
"Got it. Question withdrawn."
"Here and here..." I continued to make notes, but was suddenly interrupted by a communicator ring. "What now... Zero, take the call."
"Accepted."
The droid obediently intercepted the signal.
"You are being called from an insurance company," the little guy reported, focusing his sensor on me.
"Insurers? Why would that be... Well, connect," surprised by such a turn, I looked at the image that appeared.
"Hello. Shade Aero, is that correct?" a young man about eighteen years old clarified.
"Yes."
"I'm from the Serganis company, Sierin Felork. We provide insurance services. You have registered several insurance contracts with us."
"Yes, yes, I remember, I did," I recalled the dispute with the builders. Those bastards put all the insurance on us and, if anything, we'd have to pay them compensation for ships and personnel. Note: check ALL companies Derick chooses, and preferably—hand this over to Trik; the Squib is better at knowing what, from whom, and at what prices to acquire. "Did something happen?"
"Yes, we wanted to discuss compensation for the cargo seized from you."
"Seized?!" I was dumbfounded. Who? When? Where?! The other Mandalorians also looked surprised.
"The transport vessel you rented to transport medical supplies was seized by Mandalorian mercenaries. A demand for ransom for the hostages and the ship has been received from them. Actually, I'm calling to discuss that the insurance does not cover the amount requested by the pirates. Are you prepared to contribute additional funds, or do we close the contract under point 3.1.1?"
"So... Could you stay on the line for a second?"
"Certainly."
"Zero..." the droid understood me correctly and temporarily blocked the connection. "Warren, WHAT THE HELL?!"
"I'm in shock myself..." the Mandalorian was hoarse under my gaze.
"What kind of crap is this??? Why is my first rented ship being hijacked, and by Mandalorians at that? And why am I hearing about this from insurers???"
"Shade, honestly, I have no idea. This... Let's clarify the details? What Mandalorians, what clan, what are they demanding?"
"Zero, connect."
"Accepted."
A second, and the image of the human lights up before us again.
"Sierin, tell me please, what are the kidnappers demanding?"
"Twenty thousand for each crew member of the ship, and another fifty for the captain. They're asking a million for the ship. Naturally, without the cargo."
"Ahem... Good appetites. Tell me, do you know who's asking for the ransom?"
"Mandalorians," he shrugged.
"Do you have a picture?"
"Yes. Here," the man forwarded the image and Zero immediately supplemented the hologram with the received picture.
"Vizsla..." Nerra whispered. "That's their armor," she looked at me.
"Alright then. Drag the negotiations out as long as possible. I'll deal with this problem myself."
"Really? That's very good. We will try to do everything in our power, but I remind you once more, if you aren't going to pay extra, we will terminate the contract. All the best."
The insurer disconnected, and I looked at Warren.
"Call your people."
"Already doing it."
During a short conversation with the head of Clan Stick, it turned out that they themselves were not aware of the events. At least, the expression on his face said exactly that, and either a good actor is dying here, or I'm not understanding something.
Naturally, after the first reaction came disbelief, but the provided image proved the truth. Then we had to calm the man down, as he was about to take a bigger gun right now, a couple of fighters, and pay a visit of courtesy to his Mandalorian brothers.
In the end, we agreed that until our arrival the clan would not take any action, and we would deal with it all together and on the spot.
Before departure, I quickly found a couple of pilots and a technician for the CIM. The people were glad at first, for naturally: simple work, ferrying some big shot—just steer and watch that everything works, but no. The Mandalorian reputation, it is such, it goes faster than its masters. So the new employees hadn't even boarded the ship yet, only entered the dock, and they already tried to turn around and run. I had to catch them and explain that no, they weren't mistaken, and the Mandalorians are on our side.
So, we flew to Concord Dawn on my CIM, leaving the other ships in the docks. Later we'll have to ferry them to Tatooine, let them be in case someone needs to fly somewhere urgently.
While we were getting to the planet, Warren's father contacted us. The Mandalorian looked puzzled and nervous.
"Well, what happened now?" I sighed, sensing another mess. The Force sat beside me and stroked the fur of the polar fox that had visited us.
"Clan Vizsla has handed over the medicines."
"What?" my eyebrows went up.
"Clan Vizsla handed over the medicines," Raiden repeated.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Alright..." rubbing the bridge of my nose, "tell me."
"We didn't hide the fact of buying a large batch of medicines from you and for what money they were officially bought. But our agreement remained between us, Shade."
"And?"
"And Clan Vizsla decided to intervene. In their words: 'we are weak idiots and cowards who buy from cursed middlemen at triple the price when you should just take.' Actually, they took."
"And they're still demanding money on top."
"Yes."
"Oh..."
This "oh" sounded from several sides at once. Dis, standing against the wall, slowly slid down it to the floor. Nerra hit her head against the table, and Warren hid his face in his palms. Kaut laughed nervously, and Zerronis froze over the disassembled blaster in front of him with an expression of: "Idiots..."
"And what's the situation?"
"Relatively crap. We've already made agreements with clans and hospitals for the supply of drugs. Failure to perform will affect... It has already affected our reputation.
"Can I have the whole picture?"
"Due to a difference in views, we didn't get along with Clan Vizsla. Now they found out we spent big money and are going to send fighters, and now the reputation... I had to exert effort to keep our people from an armed clash, and this heated the ground under us even more. Supposedly we are cowards and even unable to defend our own opinion. Но this is a pure provocation. If we strike Vizsla, we'll play into their hands, help unleash a conflict. And if we don't, then the clan might as well be disbanded, because it's just an open disgrace. Vizsla has long wanted to heat up relations, and here they have a reason. I'm in serious thought..."
"Calm down, Raiden. It's not all bad."
"Really?"
"There's another interested party here in my person. I could act on your behalf. Even if everything ends in shooting, there will be no claims against you. Although, I admit, I wouldn't want that. Civil war is the last thing we need right now."
"Yes... I hope you can solve this problem," he looked at me seriously.
"Don't worry, Raiden. Everything will be fine."
***
Upon arrival on Concord Dawn, I left the ship not as the head of a company, but as a Black Mandalorian. And we landed the ship not in the spaceport, but directly in the clan district, right on the training ground.
Naturally, from such insolence, the ship was surrounded in a moment and we left the ship under the muzzles of blasters.
"Where is Khan Vizsla?" I asked the Mandalorians loudly.
"You've got some nerve, invading the territory of another clan like this," the nearest Mandalorian exclaimed. Approaching him, I grabbed his arm with a sharp movement, pulled him toward me, and hit his helmet with mine.
"The answer should be to the point," I stamped, throwing the weapon aside. "I ask once more, where is Khan Vizsla?"
"And who is asking me?" a middle-aged man appeared from the passage, in Mandalorian armor, accompanied by a younger man. I recognized the second one almost immediately; it was Tor Vizsla.
"Those whose path you crossed. You accused Clan Stick of cowardice and weakness. You meddled where you shouldn't have. We are here to return what is ours and explain your error, naturally by peaceful means. But if necessary, we'll hammer it into your head with an iron boot."
The atmosphere heated to the limit. Everyone was ready to open fire. The Black Mandalorians, bristling with weapons, looked at their opponents, who in turn held us at gunpoint. Although we had agreed that if anything, I'd apply a couple of sorcerous tricks, the people were nonetheless very nervous.
Zero, meanwhile, sat connected to the ship and at any moment prepared to re-aim the heavy guns.
"What do you choose? We are fine with both variants."
"You're fools if you thought we wouldn't have the nerve to shoot you here."
"Then shoot," I spread my arms.
But no one decided to pull the trigger. The Force pressure paralyzed the people with fear, not even letting them breathe freely.
"I thought so. Come, Warren. Let's talk with our brothers."
Separating from the squad, we went straight to Khan, while the others began to slowly lower their weapons.
But here I felt something was wrong. An invisible worm gnawed at me, and now, I finally understood. Hiding in the Force, someone was watching us. And hiding very well, which made it impossible to determine the affiliation of the Force-user. Lingering, I looked in the direction of the Force-user who had interested me, as he immediately began to withdraw. Strange... Who could that be, and what the hell was he doing here?!
"Shade?"
"Nothing. Let's go."
With a small delay, we entered the house, where we sat comfortably in the living room. Unlike Raiden's house, these people loved and valued luxury. From the abundance of trophies, it seemed my eyes would start to glaze over. All the shelves, walls—trophies were everywhere. Heads, some crafts, weapons, and all from different times. It felt like the owners had been collecting this collection for generations and there was simply nowhere else to put it.
"So?"
"Release the hostages, the ship, give them compensation, and apologize to Clan Stick," I delivered the demand right away, leaning back.
"What?"
"I don't repeat myself."
"Listen, wise guy. You're on my land, in my house," Tor began, but his father stopped him.
"Shade Aero, if I'm not mistaken?"
"Correct."
"Hm..."
Judging by the man's emotions, he hadn't just heard of me, but quite specifically knew who had showed up to him and, consequently, my connection to the Force. At least, that's how I can interpret his fears, anger, and contempt. I am despised, hated, but feared because they understand who they are dealing with.
"And you, Warren Stick?"
"Yes."
"I expected your clan to come to me..."
"Well, it did come. Along with me."
"Yes... This is a bit unexpected. I understand correctly that Clan Stick has decided to strengthen relations with the TNC company?"
"You could say that. Clan Stick and I have entered into mutually beneficial cooperation, and it is extremely unprofitable for me for you to create problems for them. Moreover, it is unprofitable for you too, for in that case there will be no shipments from our side, and the medicines the ship was carrying were intended for you too. The hospitals are common, after all."
"Hm... Maybe."
"No 'maybe'."
"Shade, you are too overconfident. Even for a Force-user. Moreover, you are not a Mandalorian to wear our armor and certainly—you have no right to speak. You are a private person, nothing more, and our internal affairs, we will solve independently."
"That's unlikely," I leaned forward, stopping Warren's exclamation with a gesture. "I may not be a Mandalorian, but your squabbles affect my interests."
"You don't even know our code!"
"I respect Mando'ade only with those who don't wipe their feet on it," I stamped. "Remember, Khan. Who I negotiate with is the business of specific clans. Not yours. And if you meddle, we will talk quite differently."
"Think you have enough strength?"
"That's easy to check."
We sat, looking into each other's eyes. The man wasn't a trained Force-user and resisted well, but talent against mastery is nothing.
"Alright... We will release the crew and the ship," the Mandalorian gave in.
"And issue compensation. Say, like, that you made a mistake and took the wrong ones, as they say: 'Nothing personal, just business'."
"F-fine."
"And another thing. Clan Stick. You touched their honor and damaged their reputation. And that's not good... The situation needs to be rectified."
"And what in return?"
Instead of an answer, the man first frowned, adjusting his collar, and then began to suffocate.
"Father?! Why you..." Tor didn't finish. Grabbing his neck, he fell to his knees, trying to scream. The sensitivity of the nerve endings intensified, the people experienced simply incredible discomfort on the verge of pain, and yet they couldn't make a sound.
"Kh...kh-kh-kh..."
Releasing the grip abruptly, I looked at the coughing old man.
"On every corner you shout about the right of the strong. That the one with the blaster is right. Congratulations, the blaster is mine now. And, although I usually give a right of choice, for you I'll make an exception."
Leaning on the armrest, Khan breathed heavily and angrily scanned me with a look.
"Khan, tell me. Why do you need this?"
"Kh... why what?"
"Why do you need war? Why are you heating up relations? This question has bothered me for a long time."
Clearing his throat, Vizsla replied:
"In order to return what was lost. Mandalorians have stopped being themselves; they've turned into cowards and pacifists. The clans are no better..."
"Cowards? No. Pacifists? Maybe. But that's a forced measure you were forced into. War is not the way out; it will only finish your people off."
"What do you know?!"
"I know enough to warn you. Not as Shade Aero. As a partner of Clan Stick. Either leave it, or get out. Mandalore does not need war."
"Mandalore will die without it too. Our culture will die."
"You are mistaken," rising, I looked at the master of the clan. "And right now it is you who are killing your own homeworld," and, changing the subject, I added: "I still haven't heard the main thing. The apology to Clan Stick."
"There will be..."
"Excellent. On that, I'll leave you. And don't stand in the way anymore; otherwise, next time the negotiations will be aggressive. This is the first and last warning."
Turning around, I was the first to leave the door. Warren, meanwhile, took Khan Vizsla's helmet from the table.
"And what for?" I asked over the internal comms.
"A trophy for the clan. As long as the helmet is with us, Vizsla and Khan personally will be in debt. A kind of symbol."
"I see. Eh... Pity."
"What about?"
"You said Vizsla was a very strong clan, and their ideas could be useful to us. But I don't like the stirrings around them, Worr. And I like the Vizsla even less. Their ambitions speak in them, not a desire to help Mandalore."
"You think so?"
"Yes."
***
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