Checking the controls, fine-tuning to the necessary, now simply vital sensitivity of the amplifier, running all systems, entering new data into the "brain"...
The final touch – "turbo" mode. This machine already had powerful thrusting "noses," but for greater efficiency or with suicidal tendencies of the pilot, there was a boost mode. Engine acceleration was achieved by increasing energy supply from the power cell and ended when the engine temperature reached a critical mass or at the pilot's will. A simple and effective way to gain an advantage. After using the boost, additional cooling systems were activated to cool the engine.
There was a braking system here too, which meant his friend wasn't going to race on it. This was pleasing.
Twelve hours after starting work, Rimon screwed in the last bolt and, wiping sweat from his forehead, stepped aside, enjoying the view of his work. No, the machine had hardly changed, but that "hardly" was noticeable only to an experienced racer or technician. Let the children do airbrushing, hang meaningless moldings, spoilers, and other trinkets that hide the true beauty of swoop bikes.
Power, speed, danger.
Before testing it, he needed to take a shower, and after...
Rimon made his first turn on a swoop bike at twelve, for which he was whipped and confined to home for a week. But that feeling of freedom and drive... It had filled his entire life. He made his first turn today on the main street of Coronet, after which he was carried over the river, on the bank of which he stopped.
How many years had passed? Seven? Or eight? The old, blackened log, as Rimon remembered it, was covered in moss, and a new sapling was growing in its middle. Of the table they had stolen from a farmer, only a rusting stake sticking out of the ground remained. It was quiet here, peaceful. He remembered why he loved this place. For the contrast.
When there were drunken parties, revelries, music all night, or strumming a guitar. He hadn't held a guitar in his hands for so long... More and more often, the grip of a blaster or the control yoke of a ship.... And in the morning, silence, birdsong, crystal-clear water, replenished by springs, invigorated the body; you could lie on the bank, lie there and not think. About anything. At all.
How he wished he could not think now...
Not about Annet, nor about Kailas, nor about the bootlicker who turned out to be an Inquisitor. About no one. How he wished he could stand before that lying teenager, grab him by the shoulders and, shaking him, shout in his face...
Stop! Think! What awaits you next?! Oooov?! Wounds, pain, and loss?! And what in return?!
But that boy wasn't here. There was only him, Rimon Rok, a smuggler. Without a ship, without goals, without a life. And how was he better than Kailas? By not loving? By not losing anything dear? Would he have broken? And did Kailas himself break?
So many questions, to which he simultaneously wanted to answer and did not want to hear.
And yet, he and Kailas were different.
Taking a bottle of brandy from under his jacket, he took a sip and, sitting on the grass, poured a little onto the sapling from the bottle.
"Immerse yourself in the spirit of Corellia, my friend," he said with a wry smile, and continued to drink. Today he would recall all the good things that had happened here, today he would get drunk, not even alone, but with this sapling. Hello, my little white one... Hello and goodbye...
Rimon returned late at night, with a satisfied smile and shining eyes. A call from an old pirate winked with an indicator on his comlink.
On Corellia, everything was ready. Ready enough that Rimon began to look for yachts on which he could relax in the company of kindred spirits, the darlings of fate. To choose one of those whose course best suited his needs...
Yachts going through wild worlds were usually accompanied by an escort. And this was fraught not so much with problems with fighter pilots, but with the probability that one of them would manage to send a distress signal. To find one that goes through relatively inhabited planets. To estimate possible courses, to take those that go from Coronet spaceport. To post a small message on a small forum.
Three hours later, he had the routes of three yachts. It remained to choose the one that looked most interesting. And again, route calculations, refueling, and then another post on the forum.
After a day of painstaking work, Rimon leaned back in his chair. The meeting coordinates had been sent to the pirates, and he had to make a few final preparations.
Money, except for ten thousand, "Kilan" with two spare power cells, all the parts for creating a lightsaber, and the Rainbow Stone had been transported by courier to one of the bank vaults on Nar Shaddaa, those that opened with a key, without unnecessary questions to the opener.
Much attention was paid to the stone, a special solution, a special case with ultraviolet lamps.
There was one more thing, but Rok wanted to do it in the morning.
The morning turned out to be sunny, which was pleasing. A little, but still pleasing. In Rok's hands were two things. A leather folder and a carved wooden box lying on the first, as if on a tray. With all this, he headed to the technician's office, who usually dealt with papers at that time.
Garrion was in place.
"Good morning," he greeted, not looking up from his deck.
His mood was rapidly receding into the desert distances. He wanted to turn around and run away: it happens when you are about to do something you are not sure about, but you understand the importance of this action very clearly and distinctly.
"Good," Rimon agreed. "I need to give you something."
Before sitting on the chair, he placed his burden in front of Garrion.
This time, the technician finally looked up and stared questioningly at Rimon.
"You look like you've brought your own will," he grumbled, glancing at the box.
"Will?" A crooked smile flickered for a moment. "I haven't made a will yet. First, open the folder."
Garrion reached for the folder, thoughtfully flipped through the documents it contained. An indescribable expression settled on the old technician's face.
"You pulled off your scam after all..." he closed the folder and squinted at Rimon. "I don't know whether to express admiration with gratitude, or just hit you in the forehead with a hydro-wrench?"
"Actually, there was no scam," Rimon smiled like a March cat, "I just matured enough to share my ship with the public. And, as it turned out, it's worth a lot of money. My most successful and legal deal. So I decided... to express my gratitude... for my childhood."
For several long seconds, Garr looked at his adopted son with a strange mixture of longing and pride.
"You've really changed a lot," he finally said. "And I don't know whether to be happy about it or not. Hutt, Anis and I have wanted you to settle down for a long time... And I'm happy, damn it! But, I must admit, it's unusual to see you like this."
"Those like me only settle down after a bullet to the head, or by becoming cripples..."
Rimon didn't believe in love.
"A lot is unusual for me too," Rimon pointed to the second box. Corellian oak, hand-carved, on the lid, occupying all possible space, was depicted a bird. Its wings, spread out in different directions, resembled tongues of flame, "I would like you to keep this."
Inside, on velvet fabric, lay, gleaming with their polished surface, Rok's bracers, his family heirloom.
Garrion looked into the box and carefully lowered the lid.
"I'll keep it," he nodded seriously. "Until you return."
"Just keep them," Rimon didn't know what conclusions Garrion had drawn and didn't intend to find out, "and if something irreparable happens, just look at the box and know that I won't abandon you."
The effort it took in the KIK building was nothing compared to what he exerted to smile and not let his voice break into a whisper or a scream.
"I decided to relax, to take a stroll with the local elite on a yacht," Rimon smiled, the smile was false, "departure in three hours."
Garrion didn't take his eyes off Rimon. In his old-man-bright eyes, deep understanding was reflected. Perhaps deeper than Rok would have liked.
"Good luck," the technician's smile was sincere, though sad. He felt something with that special intuition of the un-gifted, which some call wisdom. "Remember, you are always welcome here. Always."
"I always remember that," Rimon was extremely serious and sad at the same time, "always."
They parted in silence. Rimon said goodbye to Anis and Garrion, and took a rented speeder to the spaceport, from where, a couple of hours later, a luxurious yacht with an under-fueled tank departed.
***
Rimon deliberately lost track of time. The yacht could travel for almost four days without refueling after departing from Corellia, and three of those days he had to spend in the motley company of people. Some were serious and relaxed, others, even younger than him, led a dissolute life, having rich parents behind them. The smuggler, once again without a ship, simply drank on the first day, engaging in polite conversation, and on the second day, he met a charming journalist to whom he happily spun fabricated stories about how he was a great pilot, a marksman, and generally a respectable person. The girl nodded with a smile, but refused to go to his cabin for the night, just as she refused to believe Rimon.
Now, with a joyful smile, he walked with two glasses of sparkling wine towards the aforementioned lady.
The lounge gently swayed – the compensators had worked. Judging by the fact that the jolt wasn't completely eliminated, the yacht had just collided with something. Few of those present paid attention to it, only the security suddenly disappeared from the room.
"...well, you see, we are not forcing anyone," the velvety voice of the Zabrak rumbled from the comms unit speaker. "You have a wonderful choice. You can open the airlock for us, and then no one will be harmed. We will even exchange fuel for the contents of your passengers' pockets. They won't be impoverished, and we will receive compensation for our expenses."
"And if we don't open?" inquired the yacht captain.
"Then we'll have to fly our own way," even from his voice, one could feel the pirate shrugging. "But we have problems with the docking node, we have nothing to repair it with. Sometimes it seizes the entire airlock along with part of the hull, you understand? And if that happens, we'll just have to return in an hour or two and see what's interesting here. The deceased won't need all these wonderful things anymore, so why should good go to waste?"
"And you call that a choice?!"
"Well, of course... So what do you choose, Captain?"
The sound of a blaster shot is hard to confuse with anything else.
When the body of a stunned steward stretched out on the threshold and a massive figure with a heavy blaster appeared, it became obvious to Rimon: it had begun...
Rok smiled and downed his glass of wine in one gulp. After all, he had spent so much time boasting about how cool he was, why not demonstrate exactly how cool? At the same time, it would be an excellent lesson for anyone who wanted to play the hero. Handing the glass to the journalist, he whispered:
"Hide behind my back," after which he turned to the "visitor," assessing who he was and what his mood was.
Behind the armor was an old acquaintance of Rimon – Jethro. He was ready to shoot if necessary, but kept the blaster in stun mode.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the vocoder-distorted voice echoed through the lounge. "I ask everyone to remain calm. You don't want trouble, do you? Please, place all valuables, cash, and other items that you value less than your own life, on the table. And then slowly, calmly, without causing panic, disperse to your cabins. We will inspect them, and you can continue your journey."
The visor of the helmet slid over the hushed passengers, Jethro stopped at the journalist hiding behind Rimon's back. She had launched a miniature flying camera towards the ceiling and was now recording, hoping her trick wouldn't be noticed.
"However, I admit that not everyone will continue their journey..." the pirate drawled. "Come here, chick, leave your fat cat, it's more fun with us!"
Rimon stopped the girl with a touch, then looked point-blank at the pirate. His hand strongly urged him to reach for the blaster grip, which he didn't have.
"She's not going anywhere," he said, friendly but firm. The stake was simple: a pirate relying on his superiority wouldn't shoot an unarmed person immediately; he'd mock him first. And then he'd knock him out. Simple displeasure wasn't enough. He needed to "anger" him, he needed a reason to shoot. Trying to knock out Jethro – what a reason!
The pirate paid him no attention. The opinion of some rich man didn't interest him. The Force, however, conveyed a surge of amusement.
Jethro anticipated the entertainment. Which pirate would refuse to play for the audience?
"Come on, little one, don't make me wait."
The good-natured smile turned into a satisfied grin. Rimon moved his fingers almost imperceptibly, focusing on the pirate's blaster. A moment, and the weapon was on safety, and the next second Rok, appearing next to the pirate, twisted the blaster arm, prudently avoiding a position where the barrel would point at people, and threw the heavily armored Duro over his hip, using the opponent's own weight.
The pirate let him break away, crashing to the floor with a clang, but pulled the "sorcerer" down with him. Two more pirates emerged from the passage. One of the escorts took aim at the travelers, the second pinned Rimon to the floor.
"Armor him!" Jethro roared, getting up. "The leaky one! And to the airlock! I want to kick him myself!"
A restrained murmur arose among the vacationers, but no one rushed to confront an armed pirate for a stranger. The journalist dived under the table and hid there, hoping that in the heat of the fight, they would forget about her.
Jethro and his partner grabbed Rimon by the arms and yanked him to his feet, preparing to drag him to the airlock.
Struggling with all his might was pointless. But still, the instinct for self-preservation had not been canceled, and the Force gave it free rein. He struggled in vain from the tenacious grip of two pirates, trying to prolong his life. And Rimon cursed, cursed in a way that people do in mortal danger, but, so as not to offend the delicate ears of those present, he switched to Huttese. Jethro knew Huttese and could appreciate the flow of profanity, and he didn't need anything more.
Resisting the armored pirates for long would not have been possible even for a fighter better prepared than a smuggler. He was dragged out of the lounge in no time, Jethro managed to roar into the comlink to shoot anyone who started acting up, and they heard him. Judging by the surge of panic in the Force, the pirates should not have had any problems.
In the airlock, Rimon was shoved into an empty cargo container, successfully shielding him from the vigilant eye of the camera and simulating a fierce struggle with the armored suit. Empty and leaky. Jethro yanked the air filter tube. Now, when the armor was shed, air would whistle through the breach, and this would be visible on the cameras.
Rimon, who tried to position himself as comfortably as possible in the container, had to do one more thing, without which he could get into trouble. To convince himself that he was no longer Rimon Rok, that the smuggler, who had rapidly risen recently, had just as rapidly fallen, without managing to put his hands up. That Rimon Rok's life had ended, faded. And he was now no one. And until a new surname and name appeared on the ID card sent by the now deceased pilot, he was for everyone – and for himself too – Nemo.
No one.
Under the false bottom that hid Rimon, the precious trinkets collected from the yacht began to clatter. The journalist was considered not valuable enough, or they were simply too lazy to pull her out from under the table. The pirates joked cheerfully, discussing the loot and "shooting at Bithuan rabbits." Only Jethro and his partner knew that the spacesuit was empty. And, of course, the captain.
Jethro appeared in the hold after the ship left the robbed yacht and jumped into hyperspace. He knocked softly with his knuckles, warning of his arrival, and opened the container.
"We should count and make an inventory," he said. "Will you help?"
"Why not help," Rimon stretched slowly. After all, lying in one position doesn't lead to anything good. He tried not to think about how it looked. He didn't consider it necessary to resort to the Force for such a trifle. "Maybe I'll intercept something interesting."
"Then take this," Jethro threw him a work jumpsuit. "And don't show your face too much. I'll take you to the cabin, you'll disembark with a... chastity belt."
The pirate chuckled, pleased with his joke.
"Sort by type. Trinkets to trinkets, gadgets to gadgets..."
"Wolves separately, sheep separately," the guy nodded, "was the spacesuit shot?"
"Personally!" Jethro confirmed. "The guys say that chick fainted. You know how to make an impression. We'll have to look for an obituary later. I bet you a drink – even a Gamorrean will shed a tear."
"Well, that's great," the Force looked slyly at Jethro. The girl hadn't touched him, nor had his own obituary. Rimon Rok had died, and he was no longer him. "And now, is there any drink?"
"The bar was cleaned out completely," the Duro winked and tossed him a flat silver flask. "Drink... to peace in the Force."
"Let's drink to the guy who left too soon, he was strong in spirit, but weak in the head," a finger movement resembling a ritual gesture, "why do the best leave so early?!"
Then he took a sip from the flask.
"My name is Nemo, by the way," he smiled. He tactfully did not continue the conversation about the Force.
There was good brandy in the flask.
"Nice to meet you," Jethro pulled a velcro strip with an ugly scar from his pocket. "Stick it on your forehead or cheek – and no one will be able to look at you for more than a couple of seconds."
"Thank you," Nemo put the tape in his pocket, starting to sort through the items, "any surprises?"
"You didn't say they were peddling spice on board," the Duro complained, "we had to take on the duties of the police and confiscate the illegal cargo."
"I love good surprises," Nemo smiled, picking up someone's necklace. A green stone, shimmering in a gold setting, was real and worth as much as a good racing bike, "How much do you think this is in credits?"
"Not enough to compensate for the moral damage caused to us," the pirate grinned cheerfully. "But enough to have a good time at the casino. Do you want to keep it for yourself?"
"No," he shook his head, picking up a chronometer. The item was of good quality, but clearly not unique. Taking off his own watch, he threw it into the common pile, then put on the found one. "But before I steal anything from you, it would be good to ask permission to use some scary guy with a hyperdrive."
"So that it's not a pity to destroy it if you're unlucky?" Jethro clarified. "We'll find one, I think. How soon do you need it?"
"The sooner the better," someone's datapad was placed in the common pile with regret, "the number of questions from the crew is directly proportional to the time I've spent here. Hutt's gut!"
Rimon picked up a ring with a stone.
"Are they really that big?"
"They can be bigger," the Duro shrugged expressively. "If you take off your pants along with the trinket, it turns out that the bigger the stone, the smaller the penis. When there's nothing else to take, they rely on show-off.
"Show-off doesn't lead to good," a smirk, a throw of the ring into the pile, "I'm telling you this from personal experience. And I prefer a good blaster to a large stone. Because a stone doesn't help answer the most popular question in our circles."
"Are you going to pay someone your last bill?" Jethro squinted, quickly noting something on his deck. "Do you need help?"
"Jethro," Nemo smiled, "all of Rimon's bills are paid. All my bills... are just opening. And what I want to do... You'll be bored."
"Are you going to transport quarrelsome old ladies?" the pirate grinned. "I won't interfere, your secrets are your secrets. The main thing is not to get into trouble..."
"Well, why charge ahead of the gunships," it seemed his things were finished, "you know yourself, in our business, everything depends heavily on Lady Luck."
"It depends on that," the Duro tapped his temple expressively and returned to the pile of loot. "Without it, no matter how much of a Corellian you are – you won't achieve anything. Let's go, I'll take you to your lair, then I'll talk to the captain about where it's most convenient to dump you. And so you don't get bored..."
He threw Nemo an infochip and winked.
"A recording of a barbaric act. These pirates have really gone too far..."
The infochip disappeared into his pocket almost immediately, Nemo had to put on a stealth generator to go to his assigned corner. The belt turned out to be in Jethro's hip bag. A lightweight model with a weak generator, but it should be enough to get to the cabin.
Taking the belt, he immediately put it over his own belt, clicked the clasps, gave Jethro a showy signal to lead him, and pressed a button, disappearing into thin air.
Once in the cabin, Nemo deactivated his belt, but didn't take it off. The item would come in handy. In the Duro's cabin, something was going on... For example, a luxurious armchair, clearly not bought, coexisted with oil stains on the upholstery and a blaster neatly disassembled on a sheet in front of it. The only thing missing was a bra hanging on a huge holovisor covering the entire bulkhead. The weapons cabinet, which occupied another bulkhead, was something to be proud of. There was also something completely forbidden, and more common – it seemed Jethro collected weapons. Or just dragged everything that caught his eye. In the refrigerator, there was ale and something vaguely resembling chips, which was immediately borrowed without further thought. Inserting the infochip into a deck found under the bed – Nemo had previously formatted his own and, having stuffed it with a bunch of pornographic videos, left it in the common pile – he began to view the information. Although something suggested that it would be Rimon Rok's death.
His intuition did not fail him. First, a flicker appeared in the camera's field of view, then an open airlock appeared, from which the air was pumped out. Two in armor held a third, skillfully creating the impression that they were not letting him break free. Finally, the punctured spacesuit was pushed out of the airlock, and it flew, spreading its arms. The immobility of the fake could have ruined their plan, but then the ship's turrets struck the defenseless target. A flash, a burst – and a slowly melting cloud where the spacesuit had just been.
After watching, I had mixed feelings. He DIDN'T NEED to watch it, and yet he really wanted to. To see you die... He wasn't going to make a tragedy out of it and think that a piece of him had died in that spacesuit. No. He remained alive, but he buried his name and cut off all ties with anyone who wanted to find him. But Nemo shouldn't have known how another person died. Although meeting the Inquisition was unlikely, he never considered being too careful to be a waste of time.
As a last resort, Nemo decided to scour the infodisk more thoroughly for other surprises, but after wasting minutes aimlessly, he abandoned the task and, turning on the holoprojector and the game console lying nearby, launched the first game he found. It was perfect with ale and crackers.
Only the sound needed to be muffled so as not to attract attention.
The pirate didn't show up for a long time. It took at least two hours before the door slid aside, letting in the owner of the cabin.
"Were you bored?" the duros asked, unloading a bulky package onto the table. To do this, he had to throw a dejarik board made of precious wood, some kind of puzzle, and a piece of stone, which looked like an ordinary cobblestone, onto the floor.
At that time, Nemo was humming a song, using the pirate's latrine for its intended purpose. Sticking his head out, he waved and returned to his business. However, after half a minute, he came out, adjusting his clothes as he went.
"You have wonderful ale," he announced, "but the brandy is crap."
After that, he took the half-empty bottle, took a deep sip, and finally looked questioningly at Jethro:
"Was it that hard to share the loot?"
The duros waved his hand and shook out several packages of self-heating meals from the bag.
"These tourists won't eat it all anyway. Help yourself..."
He pulled out a steak for himself, squeezed the package, and started the heating.
"There was nothing to share, everything goes into the common fund, and then by lot. You won't believe it - there's more thrill from such a lottery than if you were allowed to put your paws into the spoils up to your shoulder."
"I don't believe it," the counter agreed, enthusiastically choosing his food, "my lottery is simple. Everything for me. What I earn is all mine. Did you talk to the valiant captain about the ship?"
"Of course, I talked to him," Jethro sprawled in his chair, with his legs propped up on the bulkhead. Something clinked menacingly under his feet. "If it's a money matter, the captain wants a percentage. If you just need to go on business, no problem. But the ship must be returned intact."
"What percentage?" Nemo smiled, eagerly starting on the steak, "I need a ship to fly to Nar Shaddaa. Without witnesses."
He wasn't going to talk about the expedition, which hadn't even properly begun. Not because he didn't trust Jethro, but because there were too many unknown factors in all of this to offer a share. He didn't like dividing the skin of an unkilled krayt dragon.
"It depends on how much money it is," the duros shrugged. "He won't bother for trifles, a favor for a favor sometime later, over the course of eternity. But if it's a serious matter... then it will have to be discussed and agreed upon."
"There's no business yet," he wasn't going to give in, "there's a grand idea, and I'm not its author. I can't offer anything. And no percentage either. But..."
Rimon looked with excitement at the weapon collection and, after taking a sip and finishing the meat he had put in his mouth, continued:
"If, for example, you go with me to Nar Shaddaa, then there, in the process, we can decide what kind of help and what percentage to give you."
"You said something about no witnesses?" Jethro reminded him.
"What kind of witness are you..." Nemo waved his hand, "you're an interested party, besides, you already know everything, and no one will pay attention to your departure. I just thought. Neither I nor those I'm working with have connections on Nar Shaddaa. That is, I have a lot of them, but it's stupid to use them. So I thought that with your help, everything would be a little faster and easier."