Part Three (conclusion)

"Captain on the bridge!"

Markas entered the command deck to the familiar challenge of the Chief of the Watch and to the wailing of klaxons, still busy fastening the top clasps of his uniform jacket. His First Officer dutifully rose from his chair when he saw his superior approaching, then snapped to attention and delivered a sharp salute.

"Status, Mister Bjarnesson?"

"We have successfully returned to realspace as per navigational calculations, sir. We are travelling at sixty percent sublight, currently crossing solar orbit of Seleuthis Four. Course projection puts us," he checked his wrist chrono, "fifty-three minutes short of our destination. Combat fighter patrol has been launched, no hostile activity. All systems nominal."

"Then why do I hear an alarm?" Captain Markas demanded sharply. Being done buttoning and smoothing his uniform, he sat back in his command chair. "I have the bridge!"

"Aye, Sir!" Bjarnesson confirmed the takeover of command, then spoke up for the crew to hear. "Captain has the bridge!"

He paused, turning to answer Markas' question. "We have a security breach in the hangar bay, sir. Secondary tractor beam and suspensor field controls are offline. A fire-team is moving in to investigate. They should arrive... ." His voice trailed off as he pressed his combead to his ear, suddenly listening. "Right now, sir. Weapons discharge in the hangar bay. Our fire-team has engaged."

"The hangar bay? Who should..." Oh, no! Markas found his own question suddenly answered when a terrible suspicion surfaced in his mind. Frakk! "The princess!"

“Apparently so, sir! Looks like our oh-so-noble passengers have finally shown their true face."

"Counter-boarding procedures, Mister Bjarnesson!"

"Have already been initiated, sir," his First Officer replied, thus confirming once more the confidence that Markas placed in him. "Lieutenant Kaskalon reports all Trooper details at full battle readiness, heavy weapons are being deployed as we speak."

"Well done, Thor." Captain Markas lowered his voice so that no one would overhear the familiar address, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Tell them not to bother with prisoners. And silence some of those damned klaxons!"

Tense moments passed, stretching into minutes as the howling sirens gradually fell silent. While reports of fierce small-arms exchange in the fighter bay trickled in, the waiting became more and more unbearable to Markas, edging about in his chair. Yet, when the klaxons started again, it made him almost jump. They suddenly carried a note of urgency that was deeply unsettling, that made his hairs stand on end. Intuition honed by decades of service aboard Imperial Navy ships immediately told him something was deeply wrong.

"Report!" he barked, looking up to see sheer disbelief mirrored on Bjarnesson's face.

"Unauthorized launch alert..." the massive officer replied, once again listening intently to the radio chatter coming through his combead.

“Show me that!”

The picture on the viewscreen changed just in time to show the princess' yacht bursting through the crackling, overloading containment field of the fighter bay in an unbelievably daring, full-throttle maneuver, dragging with it into space a trail of flame, freezing oxygen and pieces of debris - some of which were still desperately flailing their arms and legs, Markas noticed with clenched teeth and mounting rage. There were muttered exclamations and oaths from several men in the crew pit, before Bjarnesson's roared order swiftly silenced them.

“Set a pursuit course, flank speed ahead!” Captain Markas had risen from his chair, giving his commands loud enough for everyone to hear. “Sound general alert, all hands to battle stations. Interception orders for the combat fighter patrol. Readiness call for all gunnery crews. I want the hides of those Rebel bastards to nail on my state room wall!” The chorus of “Aye-Sir”s that greeted his words almost made the floor plating beneath his feet vibrate with resonance.

Blaring sirens almost drowned out by the thundering of countless boots in the decks and corridors, the ship lurched with the acceleration as the powerful main drives kicked in, leaping forward like a predatory beast going for the throat of its prey. The screen changed to a tactical status display again, showing the two closest planets, their moons and the countless merchant vessels constantly clouding the inner system traffic routes, the vicinity of the orbital docking rings, the shipyards and the starliner facilities. Watching the multi-colored streams of sensor echoes somehow reminded Markas of tropical fish clustering around a coral reef. And something about the vectorial course projection of the fleeing yacht told him... .

“They're trying to loose us amidst the cargo traffic, sir.” Bjarnesson had recognized it, too.

“Oh no, they won't, Thor! Comms, give me a broadband priority transmission on all regular civilian channels. And patch me through to Seleuthis traffic control!”

He waited for the few seconds that his order took to be obeyed, then spoke up, knowing that his voice would be heard on each and every ship within range.

“Attention all civilian traffic, this is Captain Dren Markas of the Imperial Strike Cruiser Gun Crate. Be advised we are in pursuit of a ship carrying Rebels and traitors against the Empire. I say again, this is an Imperial Navy fleet operation. Every vessel or installation attempting to obstruct this operation or supporting enemies of Imperial law will be regarded as hostile. Use of ship-to-ship ordnance is authorized!”

It worked, as he had expected it to. There were several seconds of confusion as traffic controllers frantically cancelled docking procedures, rerouted larger ships and screamed in vain at the pilots of several dozen small crafts who were just as frantically attempting out-of-hand evasive maneuvers. The swarms of tropical fishes on the screen exploded apart in a kaleidoscopic starburst as the biggest, meanest fish in the pond rapidly approached, giving the doomed yacht a wide berth - leaving it a lonesome and obvious target for the two TIE Interceptors of the combat fighter patrol which had finally closed the range and now bore down on their target like a pair of oddly-shaped carnivore fishes. Quad laser cannons flashed and roared, showering the fleeing ship with a rapid-fire fusillade of luminescent green darts. The triumphant hunting cries and excited chatter of the TIE pilots carried over the bridge speakers.

Yet, whoever was piloting the yacht, he was proving himself once more to be excellently skilled and daring, dodging the majority of the incoming fire and giving even the nimble TIEs a hard time trying to keep up with him. At several times, he used the massive hulls of giant, lumbering cargo ships and tankers as cover, hugging the superstructure and forcing the fighters to keep their distance or risk collisions in the entangled maze of engines, antenna arrays, pipes and steel girders.

But even so, the outcome of the deadly race was foreseeable, the Rebels having nowhere to run to and nowhere to hide. With its hyperdrive still in disrepair - and Markas certainly knew it to be so - the small ship did not stand a chance to escape the ever closing TIEs for much longer. Remembering vividly the sight of his crewmen dying a slow, agonizing death in the vacuum of space, Markas felt nothing but a grim satisfaction at the prospect.

Allowing himself to be completely absorbed in the moment like a falconer watching his prize bird, the voice of a sensor officer caught him by surprise when it suddenly cut in, alarmed. “Contact! Capital ship size hyperjump signature detected, bearing One-Three-Five Decimal Eight, distance zero point five light seconds!”

That close? “On screen! Identification!”

The picture on the screen flashed and changed once more to show the unmistakable, squid-shaped lines of a massive, elongated Mon Calamari battlecruiser. Markas swore viciously.

“Looks like our Rebel friends have upped the stakes a little!” Somehow, Bjarnesson made it sound like the enemy warship, hanging motionlessly in space as if challenging its Imperial counterpart to dare and make the first move, was but a minor distraction, not one of the mightiest classes of capital ships the Rebels were able to field and a more than worthy opponent to his own Strike Cruiser.

And surely, the yacht had already changed course, heading now directly for the protection offered by the cruiser's guns and shields, the TIEs still in hot pursuit. It was fight or flight now, Markas knew, a decision of bare seconds.

“Helm, come about on course One-Three-Five. Maximum power to the front shields!"

Think! he mentally admonished himself, trying hard to remember everything the tutors at the Imperial Navy Academy had drummed into his mind about the Mon Calamari, their ships and fleet tactics. Meanwhile, the Crate was heading straight for its opponent, charging head-down like a mad bull, a speeding arrowhead aimed right at the enemy's heart.

Refitted passenger liner, he remembered from some of the old lessons. Her broadside batteries pretty much match our own frontal turbos in terms of range and firepower. She has the sturdier hull structure, but our additional ion cannons give me an advantage. Let's see... . Those MonCals can carry troops... . Irrelevant unless it comes to a boarding action. But the fighters... what was it... ? Two squadrons? Three? That's what I need, scores of those damned X- and B-Wings chewing my ship in half. He could still picture the havoc that the combined hitting power of several TIE squadrons had wreaked upon the Rebel carrier group.

And those Calamari are nothing if not sticklers for plans. They crave linear strategy and order. Weak point there, if I do the unexpected, I might just catch him pants down. Glaring at the unmoving ship on the screen, he tried to picture the enemy captain on his bridge, in his own command chair. Trying to play a game of chicken on me, are you now, fish eyes?! We'll see who's going to stare down who!

"Launch, launch, launch!" He had barely finished the thought when the voice of the sensor officer called out again, ringing across the bridge with badly concealed nervousness. "I have a valid launch signature from the enemy cruiser, multiple X-Wing class attack crafts inbound. I say again, valid launch, valid fighter threat!"

"Fighter Warning Red!" Knowing the drill, Bjarnesson anticipated his Captain's orders without a second of delay. "All close-in turrets, heads up for incoming torpedoes!" The massive turbolasers, designed to punch holes through capital ships' shields and hulls at range, nevertheless did not stand a chance of hitting as small and fast-moving a target as a fighter unless by pure luck. Smaller, rapid-fire laser cannons in rotating turrets all across the hull were the defense weapon of choice for cruisers and battleships against fighters and their payload of deadly proton torpedoes.

"Recall combat fighter patrol!" The two Interceptors would have no prayer against a full ship's complement of fighters. Several seconds passed, then he saw his fighters bank sharply and veer away. Being faster than the approaching X-Wings, they even had a chance of escaping their pursuers - but there was no way they could escape the sudden volley of torpedoes, lightning-fast, blue-flashing missiles that crossed the distance in the wink of an eye and reduced the TIEs and their pilots to rapidly expanding clouds of burning gas in mid-turn. Shouts of alarm over the comms were cut short abruptly, to be replaced by fizzling static. Watching his pilots getting so casually murdered, Markas balled his fists in helpless frustration as the Rebel fighters sped towards the yacht and took up a protective escort-pattern formation around the ship.

"Weapons Control!" he called out. "Commence indiscriminate suppression fire, all forward turbolasers. Fire at will! Fire for effect!"

There were a few heads raised in surprise, but his crew was too well-trained to question his orders. Seconds later, the massive frontal batteries lit up and stayed lit. Their thunderous voices shook the deck.

"Captain... ." It was Bjarnesson who voiced his doubts, albeit in a low voice so no one else would hear. "May I suggest we hold back our fire until we are within maximum range? At this distance, the sensors will not be able to obtain a proper target lock."

Which meant they wouldn't hit the broad side of a barn. But that had never been Markas' intention. "We know that, Thor, but those Rebel bastards don't, and the MonCals fear everything they don't understand. At the very least, it will give them something to think about. They will have to lower their shields to pick up the yacht and their fighter escort. If we put enough pressure on them, they might break and run and leave their Rebel friends behind."

It proved to be working even as an understanding smile stole itself to his First Officer's lips. Moments later the first impacts began to explode against the Mon Calamari Cruiser's shields. Only a few at first, then, with the rapidly closing range, more and more as the gunnery crews in the bridge pit below began finding their true marks. Hammered by the Imperial ship's brutal firepower, the Rebel cruiser rocked repeatedly.

Soon, Markas thought, they would even be close enough for the ion cannons, and then would he show those Rebel bastards the true meaning of punishment. The fleeing yacht and its fighter escort had yet to reach safety.

"Energy spike! Target is powering up main drives. Now turning over the Starboard bow."

Mistake there, he realized as soon as he heard the last words of the report. He should have turned to port, run past us and return fire with his broadside batteries. Lost your nerves, fish eyes? It was the first time he witnessed a MonCalamari Captain commit a tactical error of such magnitude.

Unless... . He froze momentarily as an alarming thought crossed his mind. Unless he is luring us... . Drawing fire... . Buying time for... .

"Captain!" The shout from his sensor crew confirmed his worst fears a heartbeat later. "Multiple attack craft targeting emissions detected directly astern. Multiple lock-on! Incoming vampires!" Vampires, the dreaded code phrase for enemy anti-ship torps.

"Emergency power to rear shields! Brace for impact!" It was all he had the time for. Only by desperately clinging on to his chair's armrests did he avoid the disgrace of being thrown down flat as the floor rocked violently beneath him. Bjarnesson, less lucky, was sent flying halfway across the bridge along with several other crewmen, landing with bone-crunching force. Warning klaxons started screaming once more as red damage lights winked and flashed on all status displays, speaking of shield failure, hull breaches, coolant leaks and severed power connections. Cursing and swearing the fiercest of revenge to each and every Rebel in the galaxy, Markas watched numerous Y-Wing bomber crafts speed across the hull of his cruiser from stern to bow, waggling their ugly skeletal wings to avoid the sporadic defence fire before they escaped to hyperspace on their own power.

Damn Y-Wings are hyperjump capable... . Microjumped into our rear, then hid among the traffic, shields and sensors powered down so we wouldn't detect them, biding their time. The classical ambush! Too late did he realize how much he had underestimated the skill and cunning of the enemy bomber crews.

"Damage report! All fire control teams to stations! Medics to the bridge!" Barking out the orders, he rightened himself up in his chair. His ship was still in fighting condition, though serious engine power and maneuverability had been lost to the torpedo strike. They were still moving, but drifting slowly off course, and at the current rate, they would not recover in time to catch up with the enemy ship, he realized, grinding his teeth. Next to him, Bjarnesson made it to his feet, unsteady, one hand clutching a bleeding cut over his right eye.

Just in time to see the cruiser pick up the yacht and accelerate to jump speed.

* * *

"And this is precisely what happened?"

"Yes, Grand Admiral."

Markas was standing at an uneasy parade ground rest in Thrawn's darkened personal state room aboard the Chimaera, arms folded behind his back, facing the backside of the Admiral's high chair. He had dreaded this personal audience ever since he had sent ahead his detailed report of the escape, the battle and the subsequent defeat. The defeat he was responsible for. For the past hour now, he had been questioned by the Admiral, going over seemingly irrelevant details again and again. And ever since he had entered the room, Thrawn had not bothered to turn round his seat and face him, his cold, unemotional voice echoing from the semi-darkness illuminated only by status lights from several control panels and the softly humming, unlit hologram projectors.

Now, suddenly, the chair swivelled around, so sudden in fact it made Markas almost jump back a step. Immediately, he found himself looking up into a pair of glowing red eyes narrowed almost to slits, eyes, he realized, that were visible even though the rest of the blue-skinned face was still cloaked in shadows.

"Now, Captain, your conclusion?"

"Intelligence was the key in this affair, in my opinion, or rather our lack of it. The Rebels had resources and support at their disposal of a scale we were not aware of, and they were remarkably able to conceal their true identity from us. As it is, Sir, I stand responsible for letting them escape."

"I agree with you... ."

This is it, Markas thought, feeling the icy breath of fear in the back of his neck. This is where it gets truly unpleasant.

"... in everything but your last sentence."

"Sir... ?" Had he misheard?

"You heard me right." At these words, the two holoprojectors next to Thrawn's seat kicked in, producing columns of stark white light that chased away the nesting shadows and reflected blindingly off the Admiral's uniform. Markas blinked.

"I have received and read the report you filed. I have also received the holopicts of the two Rebels you were carrying aboard your ship. The Imperial Security Bureau, albeit a little late, has positively identified the male person as being Lando Calrissian, former Baron-Administrator of Bespin Cloud City, retired General of the Rebel Alliance, personal friend of the self-proclaimed Jedi Skywalker and a close associate of former Senator Mon Mothma."

Markas winced as he digested this particular piece of information. Calrissian! If only I had known earlier! What wouldn't I have given to get my hands around his throat!

"About the woman, we are not so sure," Thrawn continued, "but we believe her to be Risha Dodonna, grand-niece of General Jan Dodonna of the Rebel Alliance. Apparently she has borrowed her cover story from a long-year university dorm-mate, the real Princess Del Verwellesson."

Dodonna! Another name that struck him as familiar.

"You recognize these names, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Calrissian is the man who wrestled Skywalker from Darth Vader's grip at Bespin. He is also one of the pilots personally responsible for destroying the second Death Star at Endor and one of the commanders who engineered the demise of the Imperial fleet in that selfsame battle. He is a most resourceful man. No, Captain, I do not blame you for his escape. In fact, this was precisely the outcome I expected. Everything has gone according to my plan."

Once more, Markas felt like he couldn't believe his ears. Plan? What the frakk is he talking about?!

"You expected us to fail?!" The words came out sharper and louder than he had intended, and he immediately regretted his lack of self-control in front of the Admiral.

"Not an entertaining thought, is it, Captain?" Was there a hint of a smile around those thin blue lips? "And not one I would want any of my officers to entertain. But no, you have done all I could have expected of you under the given circumstances. Rather, I expected Calrissian to come up with something unforeseeable. Just as he did. And I needed you to act your part genuinely enough for him not to suspect a trap."

Trap? Is that blue freak just telling me he played me and my crew for bait? Anger welled up in Markas, and he fought to keep it below the surface of his carefully controlled facial expression. "I... I do not think I understand, Sir."

"Let's call it a triple-win situation, Captain." Yes, definitely a smile. "You see, if your... passengers had truly been what they had claimed to be, then we would have the advantage of improved political relations with the Del Verwellesson Cartel, just as you said yourself. If they had proved to be Rebels, as they have, and their attempted escape had failed, then we would have had two suspects for interrogation in our hands, or, at worst, two more dead Rebels. As it is, we have still gained highly valuable intelligence from their escape."

"Intelligence, Sir?" Markas hated the feeling of being lectured like a Cadet before one of his old Academy tutors.

"But of course, Captain. For example, we now know that the Del Vervellesson Cartel is actively doing business with the Rebel Alliance, or at least that they harbour supporters and sympathizers for the Rebel cause. After all, they relayed the message that Calrissian transmitted from your ship to their Rebel friends, a message that surely contained encrypted information concerning their situation. So, now we have a reason to conduct an official enquiry against the Royal House of Calabria Prime and put the planet under Imperial control."

"I see... ." Slowly, realization dawned on Markas. Realization on the scale of dimensions the Admiral was thinking in.

"Furthermore, the Mon Calamari Cruiser you encountered has been identified as the Qu'Anath'Sul, flagship of the notorious Rebel 56th Fleet that we had lost all traces of after the skirmish at Sikkhard. Now we know that there must be an Alliance fleet supply point in the vicinity of the Seleuthis System and that the 56th Fleet is operating from there, probably hoping to mount raids against Imperial cargo traffic. As we speak, our battlegroup is preparing for an all-out strike against this supply point once it is precisely located."

Markas nodded. He had seen the unmistakable signs of massive fleet movements on his shuttle flight.

"So, Captain, if you would care to exact a measure of, say, payback, against the very Rebels that caused you so much discomfort, ask for your ship to be assigned to Cruiser Squadron Omega. Rest assured it will be approved of. Consider it a reward for your loyal and faithful service during this episode."

This time, Markas could not prevent a satisfied grin from crossing his face as he threw up a sharp salute. "Understood, Sir! One more question, Sir, if I may."

"Speak your mind, Captain."

"How did you know?"

"Corsacanius, Captain Markas! 'On the Nature of commerce in times of war'. Did you read it?"

"No, Sir, begging your pardon. Not yet."

"Well, do so. It's all there. In war, there comes a time for each and every merchant when he has to decide with which side to do business. So far, the houses of Calabria Prime have not yet made any public agreements with the Empire. Now we know the reason."

"Because they are earlobe deep in bed with the Rebels."

Frakk it, old Red Eyes may have played me, but he played those Rebels, too, good and proper!

"Precisely so. And now we will make them see the error of their ways."

And with that, the Admiral turned his chair around once more, and Markas knew he was dismissed.

On his shuttle, underway back to his ship, he looked out of the viewports of the passenger compartment and marvelled at the sight of a dozen Star Destroyers slowly and majestically rallying and maneuvering into formation. Yes, he thought, as he waited for a comms connection to be established, soon.

"Sir?" Bjarnesson's voice, static-laden, finally crackled over the link.

"New orders, Thor. Call Flag Captain Pellaeon and have us assigned to Cruiser Squadron Omega, by order of the Grand Admiral himself. And get the repair teams to double their efforts. We're going back to Seleuthis soon to pay a few old bills. Expect me back aboard in about... " he checked his timepiece, " seventeen minutes."

"Understood, Sir. Detailed readiness reports to follow. Where will you be found?"

"In my state room. Looking for stuff about a fellow named Corsacanius."

* * *

It took three days for Marik to be released from the sick bay where he had been hospitalised for concussion. By then, the pain in his head had subsided. The pain in his heart had not.

He was still fighting the ghosts of the past few days, struggling with memories and contradicting feelings. A part of him still loved the girl he had held in his arms that one magical evening. Another part deeply hated the Rebel and traitor she truly was.

It was not until he had returned to his cabin and set about shedding his three-day old uniform that he found the disc in one of the pockets, the disc she must have placed there that very night. Hope warring with mistrust, he slid it into his datapad. It contained only a single file.

A picture of her, complete with those magical blue eyes and her beautiful smile. It made him almost drop the pad, contradicting feelings returning with a vengeance. It was underwritten:

Marik! Now that you read this, you will know who and what I really am, and I regret the course of actions I was forced to take. I also regret the circumstances under which we met. Please believe me when I say I truly love you and that this is no part of the masquerade I needed to protect myself.

I will be there to meet you at your home during your shore leave, just as I promised. Surely you are aware that by sharing this information I place my life into your hands. I know you are hurt, but please don't waste this only chance that we have. Remember, it took love, chance and a galaxy at war to bring us together. Let not one desperate lie be all that it takes to bring us apart.

I love you

Risha

He blinked, read and re-read the words, then ripped the disc from the pad in a fit of disbelieving rage. On his way to the waste processor, he stopped, wavering, uncertain.

The disc was still there, in his hand, and with it the message it carried, a message far beyond words, daring him to make a decision.

And he did.