Rok slept poorly. He had nightmares, if exhausting dreams, the meaning of which the best psychoanalyst at the Imperial Center couldn't decipher, could be called nightmares. But he woke up surprisingly refreshed – after the comlink signaled an incoming message. An unexpected and pleasant trifle – the Empire compensated him for the moral damage from the unfair conviction. Additionally. After changing, he did his morning exercises, and after a shower, in a new white shirt, he returned to the cockpit and dialed a number given to him by an old friend.
The connection was established, but no image appeared – only a tense voice was heard:
"Yes?"
The conversation was short but productive. It freed Rimon from his main headache – the paintings were ready to be taken. For a much smaller sum than they were worth, but risk was always a very expensive thing. And it wasn't the counter who was going to risk it.
So, he had to pay.
Now that he had time, now that his life had returned to its proper course... his own... He could stop, step back, and, looking around, draw a few conclusions for himself.
For the three million he would get after selling the paintings, he could buy any life he wanted. Any life he wished for, but he didn't want any other life. But now, after he had been caught, he could confidently say that all the threads leading to Corellia, to "TechMaster," needed to be cut anew. And for that, Rimon Rok, the Black Eye, had to vanish into oblivion. He had to die.
The plan was slowly forming in his head. There were people and non-people of all sorts in the galaxy who owed Rimon. Who owed what – some favor, money, advice – and now he could use one of his old acquaintances. But a little later.
The plan was ready and raised no objections in his head. But it's not enough to die. You also have to be able to be reborn. Like a phoenix from the ashes. He needed a new ship, a new name, a new ID. And that required a more meticulous approach than just a temporary false facade. He needed a new life, a new biography, he needed to start all over again.
And the scariest thing was that he had to get rid of the ship he had just acquired. It was now too conspicuous and well-known. It was too dangerous to continue flying it. But... There was also a small and very elegant plan of action here, which would help him get official profits, thanks to which he would disappear.
But first, he had to finish everything he had started. Everything that wouldn't put Harrion and Anis at risk. He had to sell the paintings, say goodbye to Annette, meet with Kailas... Although the latter might wait. Or maybe not...
In any case, he needed some materials now. And since he had money again, he could buy some equipment for general development. He needed to go on another shopping raid.
Buying spare parts always turned into a long and exhausting march through stores, assessing what was available, what was needed, and how much it cost. However, at least now he didn't have to visit other planets, as had happened when it came to the ship.
Rok postponed the first item on the list until the very end. Only when he had bought absolutely everything he could from other technicians did he head to "TechMaster."
First, he needed to buy a few memory modules for the droids, and Gar had them. Second... He needed to talk to him. Try to hint at what was going to happen. He wasn't going to show his state, ask for advice, let alone ask for help.
Harrion was found in one of the workshops, tinkering with a disassembled swooping engine in front of him. Rimon stood at the entrance, letting his teacher finish his work. He had no doubt that the Corellian had noticed him. And that meant the owner of the room was too busy working to be distracted by any external factors.
A couple of minutes later, Gar swore softly and put down his tool.
"It just won't fit, damn it..." he grumbled, wiping his hands. "Good to see you, Rimon."
"I'm glad to see you too," the counter said with good-natured undertones.
Rimon wasn't being disingenuous. He was genuinely glad to see the old man.
"I can help," this time there was confidence in his voice.
"No need, I'll finish it later," Harrion waved him off. "Let's go inside, Anis has pies..."
"I don't have much time," Rimon spread his hands apologetically, "the meeting is in thirty-six hours, thirty-three of which need to be spent flying."
Rimon himself approached the disassembled unit, examining the work front.
"I'll be just fifteen minutes, no need to upset Anis," he felt very sad now, and something squeezed noticeably below his heart, but it had to be this way. "Do you still have any processors from the assistant droids?"
A barely visible nut was preventing the installation of the necessary part.
"We do," Gar nodded. "Planning something again?"
"Not exactly," Rimon, rolling up his sleeves, began to study the fastening details. There are always grooves; if the nut protruded, it either needed to be replaced or... A barely noticeable groove needed to be found for it. "After everything that happened... I've become too well-known... Outside of a certain circle of people. And that's bad for business, bad for those I know. And there are two options. Either drop everything, or Rimon Rok must disappear. And I can't drop everything. I don't want to."
"I understand," the Corellian sighed. "I don't approve, but I understand."
The nut, it seemed, just needed to be replaced: a slight defect prevented it from being fully tightened.
"I'll be fine," confidence slipped into his voice again, "no matter what the news says."
Unscrew the nut, put it back in place, attach the part, start full assembly... his hands performed the actions automatically, with almost no conscious effort.
"And the processors... I want an automated repair system that will also keep me in shape. I decided to modify a couple of droids, equip them with light blasters, a shutdown sensor upon impact, and let them entertain me. The hardest part is finding the necessary processors; they've become quite rare, it turns out."
"You do love to do strange things," the old technician shook his head. "But the idea is beautiful. I'll find a couple, but more – alas. Come on, you'll help – I'll be digging there until evening myself..."
"Let's go," Rimon quickly stood up, putting the part aside. "By the way, how do you feel about becoming a shareholder in the Corellian Engineering Corporation?"
"What, what?" Harrion stopped and stared at Rok in bewilderment.
"It's just a legal idea I have to earn a lot of money without bothering anyone," Rok smiled. "So I'm thinking about how to spend this pile of money carefully, so that it's not shameful and not a pity."
"In our time, 'a lot of money,' 'legally,' and 'carefully spend' are completely incompatible things," Gar grumbled in response. "A pile of money that suddenly appears is guaranteed to attract attention, and it's good if it's only the tax service."
"You won't believe it, but if I've calculated everything correctly, then the tax service and everyone else will only be in place. And the attention to me... That will be wonderful."
"Strange to hear that from you," the technician chuckled and still walked towards the warehouse. "Will you tell me what you've planned, or as usual?"
"I can't, and I'd be glad to, but it's better if you don't know anything," Rimon shrugged again, apologizing.
Harrion sighed understandingly.
"I am worried about Annette, though..." the counter dropped as if in passing.
"I think you're worrying for nothing," Gar reached into one of the boxes and pointed to the next one without looking. "Annette could always stand up for herself."
"One can always encounter something that one cannot cope with solely on one's own," Rok replied very calmly, approaching the box and examining it with the Force. He knew what he was looking for, and finding it this way was much easier than sifting through the parts. "A person's capabilities are limited."
"She won't be lost," Gar assured him. "Oh, here's one..."
There was nothing like it in the box. However, Harrion was already pulling the second module out from under other parts.
"You know your junk better," Rimon said sarcastically. "In any case, keep an eye on her, okay?"
He said the last part with obvious sadness, something squeezed in his chest again.
"I'll keep an eye on her," the technician smiled warmly. "Here are your processors."
"Thank you," Rimon didn't ask about the price and insult Gar by doing so. "I'll stop by again. In about five or six days. Then I'll try Anis's pies, but for now... I wasn't here. We'll see each other soon."
After that, Rimon left just as quietly, disappearing into the crowd. Now nothing prevented him from going to meet the intermediary.
The shimmering blue of hyperspace had long ceased to distract Rimon from the instruments and other daily routines. Now it also didn't distract him from extremely interesting reading: a scholarly tome on psychology. What he planned, while on Corellia, relied heavily on his ability to pull off the deal, which meant he needed to immerse himself in some aspects of human, and not only human, psychology. He needed to weigh all the pros and cons, and even if the cons outweighed them... He still had to try.
The reading was fascinating. Rimon had noticed many factors, but had never thought they were so common. Perhaps, at some point, a talented psychologist had died within him, or perhaps it was good that he had died.
Rimon put the book aside, his gaze flashed across the instruments almost lightning-fast, he adjusted the course and glanced at the transparent transplastic.
Had he lost something in his eternal pursuit of profit that he should regret?
No. Otherwise, why was he going to do what he was going to do? Wasn't it to prove that he loved someone, that someone was dear to him? Wasn't it for this that he was going to cause them pain? To protect them...
He would have liked a lighter fate, a simple life... He wanted it. Very much. But it wasn't up to him to decide what awaited him. But it was up to him to decide how to meet it. He ran through his entire plan in his head again. Everything seemed simple and logical.
The opportunity to carry out this plan arose thanks to a small successful scam by Rok, conducted about four years ago. The Imperials had then severely cracked down on piracy, and as a result, one of the leaders of a fairly strong group had almost completely cut off their oxygen. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that their base of operations was located on an abandoned military base from the Clone Wars era. And in fact, by revealing himself, he could lose everything. Both goods and life. If not shot down by the Imperials, then quartered by grateful pirates.
Rimon agreed.
Two and a half tons of food concentrate were delivered. Exactly on time. The way Rimon knew how. For this, the pirate leader, a Zabrak, treated him for almost three weeks. During which, by the way, Rok spent almost a third of his payment. It was precisely thanks to his acquaintance and warm relationship with this rather dark and cold type that Rimon intended to leave this world.
Orus Quint was a controversial figure. Firstly, apart from his crew, which numbered almost three dozen cutthroats, no one knew about the leader. Most matters were handled by his immediate entourage. Secondly, Orus disliked senseless violence. He acted aggressively, harshly, brazenly, but not bloodthirstily. After almost fifteen years of activity, he had earned a reputation so significant that most ships, upon seeing his crew, surrendered everything themselves and without a fight. Because the pirates loved to fight and, what made the defenders' situation even more difficult, they knew how to.
And Orus also loved justified risk, just as he loved those who took that risk. Those who could risk everything, he... didn't exactly love – rather admired, but tried not to show it. Rimon's first mate, a Duros and, incidentally, Orus's best pilot, told him all this.
A nostalgic smile touched Rok's face, he put aside the deck and, moving a portable repulsorlift table closer, plunged into the Force.
Working in the Force was easier. Even more so: after he assembled one droid, he felt rested, as if he hadn't been doing meticulous work, but lounging in a hammock somewhere in a private botanical garden.
An hour and a half later, both droids were ready and hovered behind the pilot in standby mode. All that remained was to write the program. He already had a repair program adapted to all the ship's modifications, but it needed to be refined. To polish it to the point where the secondary function of the droids worked and did not affect their primary task. And for this, it was necessary to prohibit the interruption of certain operations, the quality of which depends on the continuity of work, to designate "red" zones of the ship, where shooting would be absolutely forbidden, as well as hiding in them. Concurrently, limit blaster fire to ten percent. And allow opening fire on all targets located on the ship and not having permission to do so. After that, Rimon sat down at the navicom and began to run the program in working mode, catching bugs. Customer, contractor, programmer, technician, and tester all in one – what is that? Correct, a lone smuggler with limited credits.
There was still about half an hour left before the meeting with the intermediary when Rimon finished all the work and emerged at the edge of the indicated system, not far from the asteroid belt. Caution in a three-million deal wouldn't hurt. Turning off all secondary systems, he launched the sensors to search for the yacht. In general, there was no need for anyone to know if he was here or not; he didn't register the ship at the nearest radio net relay, or rather, he didn't let the ship do it.
Only in holofilms do such operations look exciting and beautiful. Anxious music plays, sharp shadows emphasize the features of faces, on which anxiety and suspicion are written in large letters, sensitive instruments scan the space... The instruments, of course, tried their best. In other respects, everything was very simple, fast, and mundane. Docking, a grav-lift with containers passes through the airlock, credits change owners... Undocking – and two short bursts indicate that the ships have jumped.
Flying takes longer than working.
The journey back would have been quite boring if not for one "but." The "but" was both pleasant and dangerous, like everything connected with his pirate acquaintances.
Pulling the number from the depths of his memory, Rimon dialed a sequence of characters.
One of Quint's requirements was not to contact him directly, only through an assistant. Rok preferred to do it through his first mate, the Duros Jethro. The pilot was closer to him, even if he was a military pilot. After double-checking the security of his channel and ensuring the safety of the connection, he pressed the call button.
"And you don't cough," Jethro replied in a lazy voice. Judging by his tone, he was warming his belly somewhere on a beach, in the company of sultry Twi'leks. "Haven't heard from you in a while, the boss was thinking of drinking to it."
"You should have drunk," Rimon grinned, "it would have been another reason now. Is he far?"
"Well, depending on how you look at it..." the pilot replied thoughtfully. "On the one hand, he told everyone to pass on that he's in a neighboring galaxy, on the other hand – there's still no reason not to drink... Alright, I'm connecting you, but if anything happens – you forced me, using my helpless position."
"Yeah, I'm a master at using others' positions," Rimon grinned, waiting for a response.
Quint made him wait. A full fifteen seconds. But the old Zabrak's voice, when he answered, was quite friendly. As much as possible for a native of Iridonia.
"What's this, haven't heard from you in a while, son?" the pirate inquired.
"Getting into the Imperial top chart of criminals doesn't exactly encourage me to show myself everywhere," Rimon smiled. "I have a rather interesting offer. I'll leak information about the yacht's route with a couple of dozen fat cats, and you, during its capture, will publicly atomize one overly brazen person."
Judging by the sound that reached him, Quint was surprised. Very surprised.
"Uhh... Son, if you've finally matured enough to join us, it's not necessary..."
"Nah," Rimon shook his head negatively. "The pirate path isn't for me, I prefer to be a freelance pilot. But I really need someone to be publicly killed. On my terms. Your guys are best suited for this. And in payment, I offer the wallets of those who will be on the yacht."
"What a good boy," Orus chuckled. "Those whose wallets will be surprised... It's not like you to have someone put a rotten fruit on your horns, and you decide to deal with it through someone else's hands. But if you need it so badly – we'll do it. It's been a while since we've held the hornless by their soft bellies..."
"I'm still capable of driving those who crossed me into the grave," he grinned. "It's all about the identity of the one who needs to be killed. You know him. His name is Rimon Rok."
There was a pause. On the other end of the holocanal, they were clearly contemplating the meaning of life.
"It's unlikely you decided to end your life in such an exotic way," the Zabrak finally decided. "Will I be right, son, if I assume that you've again put someone wrong on your horns, and now you need to disappear? Maybe it's easier to finish off the other side?"
"I haven't crossed anyone," Rimon paused slightly. "Yet. But after I revealed myself, Rimon Rok must leave the arena. I'm not chasing the glory of the galaxy's first scoundrel. I decided to do it in style."
"Well, as you say, you're the client, we're the orchestra," the pirate chuckled. "Will you provide the details and specifics now, or?"
"The plan is simple," Rimon quickly ran through everything in his head. "You attack the yacht, I try to resist, I get captured, and as a lesson to others, they put me in a spacesuit into the vacuum and shoot me with the onboard weapons. Naturally, the spacesuit will be empty. The rest as it unfolds."
"Well, I'll provide you with a reason to fight," judging by the tone, Orus liked the idea. "You'll drop Jethro where you're to be shot."
"Naturally," Rimon grinned. "Then, see you soon. It will be a reason to remember me."
A satisfied chuckle was heard. It was followed by a disconnection signal.
The rest of the journey to Corellia passed in silence, studying the same book.
It turned out to be a surprisingly interesting occupation...
Rimon preferred to return to Corellia openly, especially now that it was necessary. The same customs officer conducted the inspection, this time without bias, found the same blasters in the same safe, and then the ship set course directly for "TechMaster," to which he had previously sent a message about his arrival.
Rimon was expected. Harrion sat on the porch with a small part and an impressive tail of wires sticking out of it. Seeing the "Eye" descending, he slowly ambled towards the hangar.
Rimon landed in his usual spot, and then, with a satisfied expression, stepped out of the ship with a brisk gait, down the still-lowering ramp. So far, everything was going as well as possible.
"Judging by your satisfied mug, you've pulled off another scam," the mechanic grumbled good-naturedly.
"Not a scam," Rimon smiled, "a deal. An extremely successful deal."
"In any case, I'm happy for you," a heavy hand landed on the counter's shoulder. "Come on, you promised my old lady something..."
"I remember," Rimon smiled a little wider. "I actually want to stay for a week. To give my poor body a break."
"What am I hearing!" Harrion laughed. "Let me see, is that really you, or your clone?... Stay, of course."
"You know, I wouldn't mind a couple of clones," Rimon chuckled. The idea of a clone instead of him would have been even preferable, but it would have taken much more time and money than he could afford. "But they charged me such a price... They said the universe couldn't handle another such individual. What's the latest news from you?"
"And they were right," the mechanic grinned broadly. "Everything is calm here. I asked about Annette, they say she went on a business trip, so you were worrying for nothing."
"Well, when she returns, give her my regards," for some reason, Rimon was sure that the business trip would last longer than a week. Rubbing his hands, he asked with the intonation of a satisfied feline what Anis would be delighting hungry men with today – and rushed towards the inviting smell.
The time spent at "TechMaster" was strikingly different from the last two times. Carefreeness, peace. Rest. As if he had returned to his usual groove and soon the "Eye" would once again carry his ass towards new adventures. But he knew that wouldn't be the case.
The first thing he did before going to sleep was take off his ancestral bracers – his father's inheritance – and put them in his nightstand. He no longer needed them. They were expensive, but he saw no point in wearing them almost constantly. He saw no point in holding onto anger, suffering, or grief. He would die soon. And the one who would come after him… would be different, similar to him, but still different.
If he spent the first half of the day wandering aimlessly, the second half was dedicated to the ship and helping Garrion in the workshop. There wasn't much work, but there was work. He wasn't assembling a lightsaber or thinking about modifying a blaster; he simply took on and did all the work he could manage.
Overhauling the swoop's power plant – sure, figuring out the voltage drop issue in the speeder – consider it done.
If he had been born into this family… Who knows? Perhaps there would be no Rimon Rok now, but a Darion Lov, the best technician in the world, who would never have plunged into this captivatingly dangerous space romance…
But he was. For now. And there was a time he would recall in the "last seconds of his life."
Remember and smile.