New fic - "Star Wars: "Per Exasperatio Ad Astra - Ch. 15"
Chapter 15: In which wardrobes continue to be significant
Finally left alone by D9, with the promise of return within an hour with the next meal (they had more than one a day! As a normal thing!), and not having anything else to do, Rey took inventory of her pile of new possessions ("Your medical results indicate that you have been through significant physical and mental stress in the near past, ma’am. You are also 4.36 kilogrammes underweight and suffering from minor micronutrient deficiencies. I will shortly be sending a recommended diet and exercise programme for your consideration. In the meantime it would be advisable for you to rest for a while, and perhaps meditate. General Organa has asked me to inform you that she is currently in consultations, but would like to speak to you at your convenience afterwards.")
She had: three sets each of sandstone-coloured, thermoregulatory, easy-care body gloves, breathable, water-proof, graphite-coloured over-tunics (all rated to keep her either warm or cool as circumstances required within a 80-degree centigrade temperature range), quartzite-coloured dehumidifying, deodorising and anti-blister socks, and gloves, ditto; a thin, waterproof, also-thermoregulatory slate-coloured overcoat; a pair of pumice-coloured boots and a matching utility belt; another pair of iron oxide-coloured soft slippers and a floppy, broad-brimmed hat in the same colour, allegedly proof against both rain and ultraviolet radiation; maintenance kits for her footwear and clothes, a medical and sanitation kit, a multi-tool-kit that could probably handle repairs to anything less complex than an entire Star Destroyer, a self-sanitising water-bottle, high-grade goggles, and a tufa-coloured knapsack to carry it all in.
After a moment it occurred to her that in the green and flowery environs of the Nimbus City gardens, clearly visible outside the long windows of her rooms, she was going to stand out like a walking rockery. It took a surprisingly long while after that before she realised, among the plethora of new stuff, what she no longer had: a datapad. Or a weapon. The pieces of Luke Skywalker’s/Darth Vader’s old lightsaber were back on the Millenn…Stellar Envoy, together with the Jedi books from Achh-To. She hoped that Chewbacca would keep a very close eye on the repairs.
For all her new equipment, it did not include anything for her to defend herself or access the outside universe (though the tool-kit was a marvel of flexibility and could be used to assemble all manner of defensive items; and she suddenly knew how to do that, too, in a systematic, organised way; as if she had been taught).
She had no … money either. Rey had never dealt with money, either as a concept or as a reality. With few exceptions, Jakku operated on barter, and she had worked for food and the necessities of survival. But she was no longer on Jakku. This place very obviously did not run on barter, or if it did, it was not of a kind that Rey felt equipped to negotiate. And since not too many hours ago, as well as a formidable amount of formal engineering knowledge, her mind now also contained and understood, very clearly, the idea of money: its role in the wider universe generally, and its relevance to her specifically. Working for money makes you an employee, that understanding told her. Working for food makes you a slave.
And, then, looking at the pile of lovely things that had been given to her without her having to ask, the next thought came (and that might well have been hers alone, born out of the harsh truths of Jakku): What do they expect from you in return for all of this?
On her feet without a conscious decision, alert and suddenly afraid, and thinking furiously behind her new mental walls, in a room (a cage?) that she knew was being monitored in ways she could not have imagined yesterday, the inner voice (voices?) said, finally, Be still. Be silent. Let them reveal themselves by the choices that they offer you.
. . . . .
Elsewhere in the Presidential Suite (which was not so much a suite, in the commonly understood sense of the term, as a small, self-contained palace), Her Royal Highness Princess-and-General Leia Organa of the Resistance, Queen-in-abeyance of New Alderaan, Lady of All Alderaanians, Supreme Governor of Birren, Senator emerita of the Empire and the New Republic, Heiress of Vader, Daughter of Darkness, etc etc etc, had had her medical checks, full spa treatments and wardrobe renewal like everyone else, and was now drinking Corellian whisky with Baron Administrator Lando Calrissian, and her closest surviving aides.
Threepio and Artoo were there but, obviously, did not require potable refreshment (they had had full check-ups as well, and brand new chassis and processing upgrades were being fabricated for them both).
Commander Larma D’Acy, in Coruscanti-style civvies, held a long glass full of virulently purple, fermented Warlenttan ringberry juice. With every sip she took a bite from the traditional accompaniment, a piece of pungent ringberry root carved in the shape of a Hutt, neatly impaled on a stick. All genuine, not synthesised.
Poe Dameron was present but drinking tea, which was guaranteed to deny him the merciful oblivion he knew he did not deserve.
The room was elegantly appointed, with comfortable chairs and convenient tables; to the unwary eye it was merely a handsome sitting-room just off Leia’s bedroom, with a nice little private verandah looking out over a nice little private garden. It was small by the standards of the Presidential Suite but its security and communications underpinnings were massive. A galactic war could be run from this room, if need be.
“You wanted to know,” Lando was saying, “The last time that we met, where the First Order was getting its funding.”
Leia contemplated her drink. “I know that a good third of the Senate was in their pocket. Destroying Hosnian lost the First Order those resources, so I assume they felt able to survive the hit to their finances. And I assume it was also a convenient way to free themselves from their debts.”
Lando’s curled lip echoed her bitter amusement. “True enough. But those were political resources, and political debts, not financial ones. It’s been a long time since the First Order needed cash from the Core, whatever the Senators and the corporates thought. Look.”
He tapped the arm of his chair and a holoprojection materialised obediently in front of them, as solid and clear as if it were real. On one wall, an elegant design of stylised vegetation from several different Outer Rim worlds turned into a view-screen showing the same information for the others. Leia leaned forward in her chair, as graphs, charts and numbers rose up before her, spelling out exactly the doom of the New Republic, and where it was coming from.
“It’s been happening for nearly ten years, now,” Lando said. “The Outer Rim is huge, so I missed a lot of it for a while. Have you been following the progress of the Outer Rim Free Trade Association negotiations?”
Leia blinked. “Only through the news. It seemed a good thing. Better trade connections among Outer Rim worlds, more chance of economic growth and local development, quicker transmission of information and technology, less dependence on the Core…”
Lando nodded, his normally cheerful face…less so. “It is. Not so popular among the entrenched planetary elites, mind you, cartelisation in the Outer Rim is a lot worse than it is in the Core. But systems have been signing on, at least to the main provisions. It’s up to 2,487,251 signatories and an 83% ratification rate as of yesterday, and ORFTA mutual rights and obligations start running for the member systems as soon as they ratify. Trade among member systems, and growth in member-system economies, has been rising on average in double digits year on year for the last seven years, and shows no sign of stopping.”
Leia waited. Lando was incapable of not being theatrical, even when discussing galactic trade policy. Interestingly enough, he had managed to keep it under tight wraps in his corporate persona. The Baron Administrator of Cloud City in person was flamboyant and loud in both dress and demeanour. The Calrissian Corporation was startling uninteresting to the casual (or even the journalistic) eye.
More charts appeared.
D’Acy set down her ringberry juice, and pointed with her half-eaten Hutt-on-a-stick. “How is it happening and where? New Republic economic agencies track…tracked hyperlane traffic too, there hasn’t been the kind of increase you’d expect with growth at that rate. And I don’t recall seeing any reports about an economic boom in the Outer Rim.”
“Give the Commander a prize!” Lando pointed his thumbs at her in a parody of congratulations.
“We were all watching the known hyperlanes. What we have now, all over the Outer Rim, and rapidly spreading into the Mid-Rim and the Western Regions…” he paused for dramatic emphasis, “is a whole new network of previously unknown hyperspace routes. New routes that don’t fall within any of the existing galactic or sectoral trade agreements with the Core. New routes that link systems and sectors and whole pfassking regions of the Galaxy directly with each other. New routes that entirely bypass both the main hyperlanes and the Core. That, gentle-beings, is where the growth is coming from.”
Poe marshalled his thoughts. The tea was supposed to be a stimulant, but all it was doing was driving his mind in ever smaller, tighter circles. He forced himself out of himself, away from the deadly spiral. “And this…connects to the First Order? How?”
“If I may interrupt, gentlebeings,” Threepio said primly (he was not planning to forgive Poe any time soon) , “My basic preliminary analysis, based only on the data that His Excellency the Baron Administrator has shared with us here, indicates that the First Order’s ability to destroy five planets at once, through hyperspace and from half-way across the Galaxy, taken together with the relatively sudden appearance of widespread and hitherto unknown hyperspace connections within the Outer Rim, has an approximate causation probability of 78.943222633%.”
“Thank you, Threepio,” Leia said gently. “I tend to agree.” She looked at Lando. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
He gestured at the holos floating before them, product of a close-range secure system; solid and stable and utterly unlike the faintly transparent, flickering Holonet images that were usually all that could be obtained this far from the Core.
“Our analysis shows a direct relationship between a positive attitude to the ORFTA, and a system’s degree of integration with the United Trans-Rim Holonet Communication Democratisation Consortium comms network. This provides intra- and inter-system holocomms service at a price and technological level that the Core couldn’t match even if the existing service agreements with Core providers allowed it. We use it here on Bespin too, because all our Outer Rim customers do. United Trans-Rim can send images of this quality across Galactic distances, without discernible degradation, on terms that even the poorest system can afford.”
Leia sat back in her chair. “Ah.” She was seeing it now.
“UTR is ostensibly a joint venture of private, public and government-owned companies from high-income Outer Rim worlds. We poked a bit deeper, of course, and it took a bit of doing, but not as much as it should have. They aren’t even bothering to hide the links. Basically, all of the UTR member entities have close ties to, or are outright fronts for, the First Order.”
The door chimed. Executive Director Deenine requesting entry, Your Highness, it said politely. Leia raised a questioning eyebrow at Lando.
“My number two here, the chief administrator of Nimbus City,” he said. “Lobot has enough to do running Cloud City. If Deenine can’t be trusted we’re all dead anyway.”
Leia’s lip twitched, but she said “Entry approved.”
Executive Director Deenine was a tall, silver protocol droid, with a human woman’s silky voice and a high-level Coruscanti accent. Or…not. The flexibility of her joints and the silent smoothness of her movement, not to mention the tell-tale weapon-ports concealed by ostensibly ornamental detailing, indicated quite another provenance for both chassis and programming.
“Baron, Your Highness, Master Threepio, Master Artoo.” She bowed to each of them at precisely the correct angle prescribed by the etiquette manuals of the Old Republic (lacking military rank, Threepio and Artoo had been logged into Nimbus City’s formal records as, respectively, Chief of Protocol and Chief of Data Security of a royal household).
“Baron, as instructed, Mistress Rey has been fully accommodated. I am now monitoring her status, and you may interview her at any time.”
. . . . .
Grand Admiral Daala was preparing for bed when her door chimed.
Her Honour, the Knight Dani Ren, requesting entrance, it said.
Daala sighed, shrugged on her new dressing-gown (dark green velvet trimmed with black and white pylat feathers; while there was plenty of decent shopping in th,e Outer Rim if you knew where to look, being back in civilisation with thirty years of back pay to spend was nice, too) over her pyjamas, tied the belt firmly, and allowed entry.
The Ren was in full armour, masked and armed. Business, then. She did not normally trouble the Grand Admiral during the latter’s sleep shift, but then things hadn’t been terribly normal in the last couple of days.
To Daala’s surprise, the Ren saluted, a civilian’s half-salute. That was new.
“Hello, Ren. Since when do you salute me?”
The Knights were not technically part of the Military Arm of the First Order, and answered only to Snoke and, presumably, their Master. Up to now, the most Daala had ever had from the Ren in the way of acknowledgment was a polite nod and a civil verbal greeting.
“Grand Admiral, good evening. I’m sorry to disturb you.” She didn’t answer Daala’s question. Daala made a mental note to have Pellaeon investigate.
“Not at all, I assume it’s important. Caf?” Her service droid kept a flask permanently on the go; alcohol was always good, but not always appropriate for a work meeting.
“Yes, please. Is it all right if I…” one black-gloved hand rose and tapped the side of the black mask.
Daala fished in the pocket of the dressing-gown, found her nose filters and slipped them into her nostrils.
“Go ahead.”
The Ren undid her helm and slipped it off, transforming herself from a tall, menacing, black-masked warrior into a tall, young, pink-skinned, red-haired Zeltron (with, as the older Imperials had discovered to their cost, the usual Zeltron tendency towards good cheer, hard drinking and occasional bouts of extreme violence). Released from confinement, her pheromones were eye-wateringly strong, even with the filters. Daala managed to croak, “Ventilation, up 30 percent.”
“Sorry,” the Ren said. “It’s been a…stressful day.”
There was no denying that. Daala waved her to a chair. Her service droid brought a tall insulated cup of steaming black caf. The Ren sat, sipped, and said without preamble,
“My Master has successfully taken control of …Snoke’s personal databases. He’s about to meet the senior officers of the Capital Fleet. You shouldn't go to bed just yet.”
Ah. Daala called for caf as well, instead of her usual evening shift whiskey and soda, and sent a note to Pellaeon. Then she excused herself, scooped up her blaster, and went into her bedroom to change back into her uniform (the one with the armourweave tunic).
. . . . .
The delay was of course Hux’s own fault. He had called in a biohazard emergency, and the Order had responded obediently and correctly according to established procedure. He had absolutely no one but himself to blame for the fact that he was pacing up and down in the gloom of Snoke’s quarters (or wardrobe, or private zoo, or whatever Snoke might have conceived it as being) surrounded by busy hazmat and security droids, and (hopefully) defunct alien monstrosities, waiting for his turn to go through emergency decontamination.
Tiekte had been sent out first, as the least likely to foment a coup in the absence of the others, at least for the next hour or so. Logically, Ren should have been next, his coup having already succeeded, but he had sent Garmuth instead; Hux himself would go next (Garmuth should have the sense not to play silly buggers, but just in case his suborned droid was already primed to shoot him the moment it - or rather AK49 controlling it - detected any funny business).
The Supreme Leader had emerged from the library circle and was now sitting on the floor, leaning back against the outer ring of databanks with his long legs stretched comfortably in front of him. He had pulled a length of now-black-and-inert alien fabric down from the ceiling and was running it through his fingers, completely ignoring the quiet bustle of droids dismantling and removing Snoke’s fixtures and fittings for decontamination and study.
“Snoke’s…attendants will want to be rid of their robes; tell whoever has them in custody to give them some new clothes. And incinerate the robes, as a gesture of goodwill. They’ll know.”
Hux paused in mid-pace. “Rear-Admiral Telatten has them in a med-bay on Harbinger …what? Why?”
The Supreme Leader stroked the curtain-thing gently; the cilia at the edge twined around his fingers like affectionate little tentacles. Hux hoped that he was imagining that it shivered and shifted across Ren’s lap in response to his caress, uncomfortably like Millicent wanting attention. “These things are Sithspawn. Or were, originally. Semi-sentient and Force-sensitive. I think Snoke made some modifications, but they still respond to commands in Sith, if delivered with enough, hmm, conviction.”
The thought of sentient, hostile uniforms was peculiarly repulsive, even for an altogether repulsive situation.
Ren eyed the fabric, now as limp and relaxed under his hands as Millicent after a good chin-scratch. “He derived them from Siqsakŭskut, at least according to his records. ‘Dream-demons’, a kind of Sithspawn, historically used by the Sith to control their slave class. While his attendants wore them, they were totally under Snoke's control in both thoughts and actions; they would not have been able to distinguish between sleep or waking, or between his thoughts and their own.”
Sentient, hostile, mind-controlling uniforms. Unspeakably repulsive.
On the other hand… the Emperor had made a point of destroying all knowledge of Force-related technology, not wanting anything that might be turned against him. For the First Order to suddenly have a whole roomful of Force-based equipment (so to speak) to study…the scientist and engineer in Hux could not forebear a twitch of excitement. He wondered what the …siksa-things ate, apart from, presumably, intruders into Snoke’s quarters, who surely must have been infrequent, if not non-existent; after brief consideration he instructed AK-49 to ask Catering about Snoke’s meal orders, and Internal Affairs about disposal protocols for the remains of level 1 ( serious offences warranting the death penalty) disciplinary offenders.
“Ambient microwave energy will keep them going, for now. They’ve been…re-set to neutral, you might say,” Ren said. “Not just dormant. But yes, feel free to study them.” His faint half-smile was distinctly unsettling in the dim light.
“Try to be nice about it; you might find a use for them. I think I'll keep this one, though. I could use a new cape after all. You could have one too.”
Before Hux could really express his opinion of that horrifying idea, he was interrupted by a notification from AK49 that Colonel Garmuth had completed decon and it was Hux’s turn. Also, that StratCom and the Quartermaster’s Office had just jointly sent the Supreme Leader and the Grand Marshal-designate (copied to PSO/SL Captain Keltor) a dozen new uniform designs each, for their consideration, views, and soonest approval, Grand Marshal, sir, if you don’t mind. Recalled to sanity, he managed a decorous and unexceptionable,“Perhaps we could discuss the new uniforms after the SOM, Supreme Leader,” before dismissing himself; Ren was busy communing with his new pet cape, and merely waved an indifferent hand.
Hux took a quick look at the designs as he headed for the decontamination chamber that was now the new exit of Snoke’s quarters. All perfectly acceptable, and to his relief, not a hint of purple anywhere.
. . . . .
Finally left alone by D9, with the promise of return within an hour with the next meal (they had more than one a day! As a normal thing!), and not having anything else to do, Rey took inventory of her pile of new possessions ("Your medical results indicate that you have been through significant physical and mental stress in the near past, ma’am. You are also 4.36 kilogrammes underweight and suffering from minor micronutrient deficiencies. I will shortly be sending a recommended diet and exercise programme for your consideration. In the meantime it would be advisable for you to rest for a while, and perhaps meditate. General Organa has asked me to inform you that she is currently in consultations, but would like to speak to you at your convenience afterwards.")
She had: three sets each of sandstone-coloured, thermoregulatory, easy-care body gloves, breathable, water-proof, graphite-coloured over-tunics (all rated to keep her either warm or cool as circumstances required within a 80-degree centigrade temperature range), quartzite-coloured dehumidifying, deodorising and anti-blister socks, and gloves, ditto; a thin, waterproof, also-thermoregulatory slate-coloured overcoat; a pair of pumice-coloured boots and a matching utility belt; another pair of iron oxide-coloured soft slippers and a floppy, broad-brimmed hat in the same colour, allegedly proof against both rain and ultraviolet radiation; maintenance kits for her footwear and clothes, a medical and sanitation kit, a multi-tool-kit that could probably handle repairs to anything less complex than an entire Star Destroyer, a self-sanitising water-bottle, high-grade goggles, and a tufa-coloured knapsack to carry it all in.
After a moment it occurred to her that in the green and flowery environs of the Nimbus City gardens, clearly visible outside the long windows of her rooms, she was going to stand out like a walking rockery. It took a surprisingly long while after that before she realised, among the plethora of new stuff, what she no longer had: a datapad. Or a weapon. The pieces of Luke Skywalker’s/Darth Vader’s old lightsaber were back on the Millenn…Stellar Envoy, together with the Jedi books from Achh-To. She hoped that Chewbacca would keep a very close eye on the repairs.
For all her new equipment, it did not include anything for her to defend herself or access the outside universe (though the tool-kit was a marvel of flexibility and could be used to assemble all manner of defensive items; and she suddenly knew how to do that, too, in a systematic, organised way; as if she had been taught).
She had no … money either. Rey had never dealt with money, either as a concept or as a reality. With few exceptions, Jakku operated on barter, and she had worked for food and the necessities of survival. But she was no longer on Jakku. This place very obviously did not run on barter, or if it did, it was not of a kind that Rey felt equipped to negotiate. And since not too many hours ago, as well as a formidable amount of formal engineering knowledge, her mind now also contained and understood, very clearly, the idea of money: its role in the wider universe generally, and its relevance to her specifically. Working for money makes you an employee, that understanding told her. Working for food makes you a slave.
And, then, looking at the pile of lovely things that had been given to her without her having to ask, the next thought came (and that might well have been hers alone, born out of the harsh truths of Jakku): What do they expect from you in return for all of this?
On her feet without a conscious decision, alert and suddenly afraid, and thinking furiously behind her new mental walls, in a room (a cage?) that she knew was being monitored in ways she could not have imagined yesterday, the inner voice (voices?) said, finally, Be still. Be silent. Let them reveal themselves by the choices that they offer you.
. . . . .
Elsewhere in the Presidential Suite (which was not so much a suite, in the commonly understood sense of the term, as a small, self-contained palace), Her Royal Highness Princess-and-General Leia Organa of the Resistance, Queen-in-abeyance of New Alderaan, Lady of All Alderaanians, Supreme Governor of Birren, Senator emerita of the Empire and the New Republic, Heiress of Vader, Daughter of Darkness, etc etc etc, had had her medical checks, full spa treatments and wardrobe renewal like everyone else, and was now drinking Corellian whisky with Baron Administrator Lando Calrissian, and her closest surviving aides.
Threepio and Artoo were there but, obviously, did not require potable refreshment (they had had full check-ups as well, and brand new chassis and processing upgrades were being fabricated for them both).
Commander Larma D’Acy, in Coruscanti-style civvies, held a long glass full of virulently purple, fermented Warlenttan ringberry juice. With every sip she took a bite from the traditional accompaniment, a piece of pungent ringberry root carved in the shape of a Hutt, neatly impaled on a stick. All genuine, not synthesised.
Poe Dameron was present but drinking tea, which was guaranteed to deny him the merciful oblivion he knew he did not deserve.
The room was elegantly appointed, with comfortable chairs and convenient tables; to the unwary eye it was merely a handsome sitting-room just off Leia’s bedroom, with a nice little private verandah looking out over a nice little private garden. It was small by the standards of the Presidential Suite but its security and communications underpinnings were massive. A galactic war could be run from this room, if need be.
“You wanted to know,” Lando was saying, “The last time that we met, where the First Order was getting its funding.”
Leia contemplated her drink. “I know that a good third of the Senate was in their pocket. Destroying Hosnian lost the First Order those resources, so I assume they felt able to survive the hit to their finances. And I assume it was also a convenient way to free themselves from their debts.”
Lando’s curled lip echoed her bitter amusement. “True enough. But those were political resources, and political debts, not financial ones. It’s been a long time since the First Order needed cash from the Core, whatever the Senators and the corporates thought. Look.”
He tapped the arm of his chair and a holoprojection materialised obediently in front of them, as solid and clear as if it were real. On one wall, an elegant design of stylised vegetation from several different Outer Rim worlds turned into a view-screen showing the same information for the others. Leia leaned forward in her chair, as graphs, charts and numbers rose up before her, spelling out exactly the doom of the New Republic, and where it was coming from.
“It’s been happening for nearly ten years, now,” Lando said. “The Outer Rim is huge, so I missed a lot of it for a while. Have you been following the progress of the Outer Rim Free Trade Association negotiations?”
Leia blinked. “Only through the news. It seemed a good thing. Better trade connections among Outer Rim worlds, more chance of economic growth and local development, quicker transmission of information and technology, less dependence on the Core…”
Lando nodded, his normally cheerful face…less so. “It is. Not so popular among the entrenched planetary elites, mind you, cartelisation in the Outer Rim is a lot worse than it is in the Core. But systems have been signing on, at least to the main provisions. It’s up to 2,487,251 signatories and an 83% ratification rate as of yesterday, and ORFTA mutual rights and obligations start running for the member systems as soon as they ratify. Trade among member systems, and growth in member-system economies, has been rising on average in double digits year on year for the last seven years, and shows no sign of stopping.”
Leia waited. Lando was incapable of not being theatrical, even when discussing galactic trade policy. Interestingly enough, he had managed to keep it under tight wraps in his corporate persona. The Baron Administrator of Cloud City in person was flamboyant and loud in both dress and demeanour. The Calrissian Corporation was startling uninteresting to the casual (or even the journalistic) eye.
More charts appeared.
D’Acy set down her ringberry juice, and pointed with her half-eaten Hutt-on-a-stick. “How is it happening and where? New Republic economic agencies track…tracked hyperlane traffic too, there hasn’t been the kind of increase you’d expect with growth at that rate. And I don’t recall seeing any reports about an economic boom in the Outer Rim.”
“Give the Commander a prize!” Lando pointed his thumbs at her in a parody of congratulations.
“We were all watching the known hyperlanes. What we have now, all over the Outer Rim, and rapidly spreading into the Mid-Rim and the Western Regions…” he paused for dramatic emphasis, “is a whole new network of previously unknown hyperspace routes. New routes that don’t fall within any of the existing galactic or sectoral trade agreements with the Core. New routes that link systems and sectors and whole pfassking regions of the Galaxy directly with each other. New routes that entirely bypass both the main hyperlanes and the Core. That, gentle-beings, is where the growth is coming from.”
Poe marshalled his thoughts. The tea was supposed to be a stimulant, but all it was doing was driving his mind in ever smaller, tighter circles. He forced himself out of himself, away from the deadly spiral. “And this…connects to the First Order? How?”
“If I may interrupt, gentlebeings,” Threepio said primly (he was not planning to forgive Poe any time soon) , “My basic preliminary analysis, based only on the data that His Excellency the Baron Administrator has shared with us here, indicates that the First Order’s ability to destroy five planets at once, through hyperspace and from half-way across the Galaxy, taken together with the relatively sudden appearance of widespread and hitherto unknown hyperspace connections within the Outer Rim, has an approximate causation probability of 78.943222633%.”
“Thank you, Threepio,” Leia said gently. “I tend to agree.” She looked at Lando. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
He gestured at the holos floating before them, product of a close-range secure system; solid and stable and utterly unlike the faintly transparent, flickering Holonet images that were usually all that could be obtained this far from the Core.
“Our analysis shows a direct relationship between a positive attitude to the ORFTA, and a system’s degree of integration with the United Trans-Rim Holonet Communication Democratisation Consortium comms network. This provides intra- and inter-system holocomms service at a price and technological level that the Core couldn’t match even if the existing service agreements with Core providers allowed it. We use it here on Bespin too, because all our Outer Rim customers do. United Trans-Rim can send images of this quality across Galactic distances, without discernible degradation, on terms that even the poorest system can afford.”
Leia sat back in her chair. “Ah.” She was seeing it now.
“UTR is ostensibly a joint venture of private, public and government-owned companies from high-income Outer Rim worlds. We poked a bit deeper, of course, and it took a bit of doing, but not as much as it should have. They aren’t even bothering to hide the links. Basically, all of the UTR member entities have close ties to, or are outright fronts for, the First Order.”
The door chimed. Executive Director Deenine requesting entry, Your Highness, it said politely. Leia raised a questioning eyebrow at Lando.
“My number two here, the chief administrator of Nimbus City,” he said. “Lobot has enough to do running Cloud City. If Deenine can’t be trusted we’re all dead anyway.”
Leia’s lip twitched, but she said “Entry approved.”
Executive Director Deenine was a tall, silver protocol droid, with a human woman’s silky voice and a high-level Coruscanti accent. Or…not. The flexibility of her joints and the silent smoothness of her movement, not to mention the tell-tale weapon-ports concealed by ostensibly ornamental detailing, indicated quite another provenance for both chassis and programming.
“Baron, Your Highness, Master Threepio, Master Artoo.” She bowed to each of them at precisely the correct angle prescribed by the etiquette manuals of the Old Republic (lacking military rank, Threepio and Artoo had been logged into Nimbus City’s formal records as, respectively, Chief of Protocol and Chief of Data Security of a royal household).
“Baron, as instructed, Mistress Rey has been fully accommodated. I am now monitoring her status, and you may interview her at any time.”
. . . . .
Grand Admiral Daala was preparing for bed when her door chimed.
Her Honour, the Knight Dani Ren, requesting entrance, it said.
Daala sighed, shrugged on her new dressing-gown (dark green velvet trimmed with black and white pylat feathers; while there was plenty of decent shopping in th,e Outer Rim if you knew where to look, being back in civilisation with thirty years of back pay to spend was nice, too) over her pyjamas, tied the belt firmly, and allowed entry.
The Ren was in full armour, masked and armed. Business, then. She did not normally trouble the Grand Admiral during the latter’s sleep shift, but then things hadn’t been terribly normal in the last couple of days.
To Daala’s surprise, the Ren saluted, a civilian’s half-salute. That was new.
“Hello, Ren. Since when do you salute me?”
The Knights were not technically part of the Military Arm of the First Order, and answered only to Snoke and, presumably, their Master. Up to now, the most Daala had ever had from the Ren in the way of acknowledgment was a polite nod and a civil verbal greeting.
“Grand Admiral, good evening. I’m sorry to disturb you.” She didn’t answer Daala’s question. Daala made a mental note to have Pellaeon investigate.
“Not at all, I assume it’s important. Caf?” Her service droid kept a flask permanently on the go; alcohol was always good, but not always appropriate for a work meeting.
“Yes, please. Is it all right if I…” one black-gloved hand rose and tapped the side of the black mask.
Daala fished in the pocket of the dressing-gown, found her nose filters and slipped them into her nostrils.
“Go ahead.”
The Ren undid her helm and slipped it off, transforming herself from a tall, menacing, black-masked warrior into a tall, young, pink-skinned, red-haired Zeltron (with, as the older Imperials had discovered to their cost, the usual Zeltron tendency towards good cheer, hard drinking and occasional bouts of extreme violence). Released from confinement, her pheromones were eye-wateringly strong, even with the filters. Daala managed to croak, “Ventilation, up 30 percent.”
“Sorry,” the Ren said. “It’s been a…stressful day.”
There was no denying that. Daala waved her to a chair. Her service droid brought a tall insulated cup of steaming black caf. The Ren sat, sipped, and said without preamble,
“My Master has successfully taken control of …Snoke’s personal databases. He’s about to meet the senior officers of the Capital Fleet. You shouldn't go to bed just yet.”
Ah. Daala called for caf as well, instead of her usual evening shift whiskey and soda, and sent a note to Pellaeon. Then she excused herself, scooped up her blaster, and went into her bedroom to change back into her uniform (the one with the armourweave tunic).
. . . . .
The delay was of course Hux’s own fault. He had called in a biohazard emergency, and the Order had responded obediently and correctly according to established procedure. He had absolutely no one but himself to blame for the fact that he was pacing up and down in the gloom of Snoke’s quarters (or wardrobe, or private zoo, or whatever Snoke might have conceived it as being) surrounded by busy hazmat and security droids, and (hopefully) defunct alien monstrosities, waiting for his turn to go through emergency decontamination.
Tiekte had been sent out first, as the least likely to foment a coup in the absence of the others, at least for the next hour or so. Logically, Ren should have been next, his coup having already succeeded, but he had sent Garmuth instead; Hux himself would go next (Garmuth should have the sense not to play silly buggers, but just in case his suborned droid was already primed to shoot him the moment it - or rather AK49 controlling it - detected any funny business).
The Supreme Leader had emerged from the library circle and was now sitting on the floor, leaning back against the outer ring of databanks with his long legs stretched comfortably in front of him. He had pulled a length of now-black-and-inert alien fabric down from the ceiling and was running it through his fingers, completely ignoring the quiet bustle of droids dismantling and removing Snoke’s fixtures and fittings for decontamination and study.
“Snoke’s…attendants will want to be rid of their robes; tell whoever has them in custody to give them some new clothes. And incinerate the robes, as a gesture of goodwill. They’ll know.”
Hux paused in mid-pace. “Rear-Admiral Telatten has them in a med-bay on Harbinger …what? Why?”
The Supreme Leader stroked the curtain-thing gently; the cilia at the edge twined around his fingers like affectionate little tentacles. Hux hoped that he was imagining that it shivered and shifted across Ren’s lap in response to his caress, uncomfortably like Millicent wanting attention. “These things are Sithspawn. Or were, originally. Semi-sentient and Force-sensitive. I think Snoke made some modifications, but they still respond to commands in Sith, if delivered with enough, hmm, conviction.”
The thought of sentient, hostile uniforms was peculiarly repulsive, even for an altogether repulsive situation.
Ren eyed the fabric, now as limp and relaxed under his hands as Millicent after a good chin-scratch. “He derived them from Siqsakŭskut, at least according to his records. ‘Dream-demons’, a kind of Sithspawn, historically used by the Sith to control their slave class. While his attendants wore them, they were totally under Snoke's control in both thoughts and actions; they would not have been able to distinguish between sleep or waking, or between his thoughts and their own.”
Sentient, hostile, mind-controlling uniforms. Unspeakably repulsive.
On the other hand… the Emperor had made a point of destroying all knowledge of Force-related technology, not wanting anything that might be turned against him. For the First Order to suddenly have a whole roomful of Force-based equipment (so to speak) to study…the scientist and engineer in Hux could not forebear a twitch of excitement. He wondered what the …siksa-things ate, apart from, presumably, intruders into Snoke’s quarters, who surely must have been infrequent, if not non-existent; after brief consideration he instructed AK-49 to ask Catering about Snoke’s meal orders, and Internal Affairs about disposal protocols for the remains of level 1 ( serious offences warranting the death penalty) disciplinary offenders.
“Ambient microwave energy will keep them going, for now. They’ve been…re-set to neutral, you might say,” Ren said. “Not just dormant. But yes, feel free to study them.” His faint half-smile was distinctly unsettling in the dim light.
“Try to be nice about it; you might find a use for them. I think I'll keep this one, though. I could use a new cape after all. You could have one too.”
Before Hux could really express his opinion of that horrifying idea, he was interrupted by a notification from AK49 that Colonel Garmuth had completed decon and it was Hux’s turn. Also, that StratCom and the Quartermaster’s Office had just jointly sent the Supreme Leader and the Grand Marshal-designate (copied to PSO/SL Captain Keltor) a dozen new uniform designs each, for their consideration, views, and soonest approval, Grand Marshal, sir, if you don’t mind. Recalled to sanity, he managed a decorous and unexceptionable,“Perhaps we could discuss the new uniforms after the SOM, Supreme Leader,” before dismissing himself; Ren was busy communing with his new pet cape, and merely waved an indifferent hand.
Hux took a quick look at the designs as he headed for the decontamination chamber that was now the new exit of Snoke’s quarters. All perfectly acceptable, and to his relief, not a hint of purple anywhere.
. . . . .