A/N: Thanks to Hoplite39, Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo, and Shadir for the lovely reviews. :) And thanks to everyone that has favortied, followed, and sent private messages. They all help to make this story awesome. This chapter came out very dark, so I hope it doesn't offend anyone. I almost moved it to an M rating again. But I'll let you all be the judge of that.
As always, special thanks to m4x70r for the use of the OC Nathon Tydon from "To No Avail." The story is awesome, so please go read it and enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.
It was, Gant thought as he dried his hands on a fragment of shirt, not a bad bit of work. Indeed, it was… cathartic in a way.
The Twi'lek rebel in question was still unconscious, his face dripping with magenta-hued blood. Not from any life-threatening damage dished out by his hand, Gant knew. No, the blood that currently dripped onto the plastic floor covering was mostly from well-placed and painful cuts to the upper face and the two lekku head tentacles that marked his race. It was one of the first techniques taught to him upon taking the post of interrogator. Head wounds bled like the mad, no matter the species, though never enough to cause exsanguination. Just enough to make someone think they were about to bleed to death.
As to the rebel's current state of consciousness? Well, that wasn't his doing. That blame rested squarely on the shoulders of his partner.
Nathon sat back on his heels, careful not to get his boots into the blood pooling on the plastic. In his hand was a stun wand, the tip still glowing faintly from liberal use on the rebel's flesh. Faint bitter burning still hung in the air, tiny round marks on the man's chest and cheeks from where Tydon had held the wand to the skin far longer than he should have. Not that Gant could blame him. If left to him, that rebel would have been hanging from his ankles, bleeding from more strategically placed cut marks.
And he would still be screaming. There would have been no escape in the blackness of unconsciousness.
It surprised him how much he missed his interrogator droids, or more to the point, the combination of drugs at his disposal to prevent little annoyances like the target blacking out from pain overload.
"How long will he be out?" Nathon asked when he could finally speak in a civil tone. Even then, it was dangerously quiet.
Gant shrugged. "It depends. Anywhere from between thirty minutes to two hours, standard."
Nathon shot a glare over his shoulder. "We may not have that time, Avery."
Again, all he could do was shrug. "I don't have access to my usual equipment, Nathon. If I had a life scanner, I could give you the time down to milliseconds. I'm doing the best with what I have. Just be grateful that the man was carrying that stun wand. Otherwise, I would have had to resort to methods that could have killed him."
There was no arguing with that, though he could see the need to in Nathon's eyes. The fact that he wasn't, that he was trusting Avery to be good at his job and know these things, were marks of a brilliant commander. Avery wasn't above taking notes even now. Especially now that he bore that rank. If he wanted to eventually get out of the interrogation business like he had confessed—in a roundabout way—to Renet, he was going to need skills like Tydon's.
Even if that meant he shared the other man's pure frustration. They were close to finding out just why the Rebels were interested in this planet, and possibly one step closer to clearing Renet's name. Maybe capturing Vrad Dodonna in the process. It wouldn't look too shabby on either of their service records to bag a prize like Dodonna at the end of all this.
But ultimately this was about Renet, and about the men he'd lost when Lord Vader had taken her…
"We got something at least," Gant said into the heavy silence.
"A farm," Tydon spat, rising to his feet and tossing the stun wand carelessly onto the nearby tabletop. "There are a million moisture farms on this dustball."
"It's still something," Avery insisted. "This is the reason that we interrogators don't like you brass-types hanging out when we do our work. These things are delicate, take time to cultivate the prisoner to give the answer you need. It doesn't happen with the wave of a hand."
At least, it wasn't supposed to work that way. He almost choked on that last word, the image of Lord Vader doing exactly that—waving his hand and nearly killing him, superseding reality for a minute. To gain an ounce of air, another second of precious life, he would have confessed to almost anything. And that wasn't necessarily due to the fact that his life was about to end horribly. It was more the fact that… that something… had seized the depths of his heart as surely as it had gripped his throat. Something so cold, so vile and invasive and unbelievably obscene…
Gant took a step backward quickly, as if physical distance could erase the emotional trauma of that moment.
Tydon didn't miss that momentary lapse of balance. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Avery managed out, throat inexplicably dry. Lying through his teeth. "Still not used to the climate. Probably dehydrated."
"Drink up, then. I doubt this man is going to live long enough to use his water rations."
Avery nodded, heading to the tiny refrigeration unit and the bottled water therein. He didn't hesitate as he reached for two bottles, lobbing one towards Nathon. They were in the rebel's hotel room, so the charge would go to the rebel's account. It seemed like perfect justification and payment for the time it was taking to extract information from him. Not to mention the time they'd spent skulking in alleys like gutter trash, following the man around town without being discovered.
Crouching in heat and dust and trash and filth. When he got back to the Peremptory, he was going to bribe half the ship if he had to in order to get enough water for a real bath. It might be the only thing to get the sand-stench from his pores.
Stars above, even the water tasted like sand. Faintly salty and mineral heavy. He amended his plans to asking medical for a full scan and perhaps a day soaking in bacta to repair what damage he was doing to his kidneys in drinking this swill.
"You given any more thought to this Naboo lake house?" He asked Tydon.
"Not anything productive," the other admitted, leaning back against the cheap plaster wall and closing his eyes. "I can't think of one reason that Dodonna would reference it. Naboo holds no strategic position, and its current ruler is certified as loyal. The populations of humans and gungans coexist peacefully enough, though the later chafe at their forced isolation under the seas. Other than that, the planet has no army of its own, no stake in any shipyards, and primarily produces art and music as its chief export."
Nathon glanced at Avery. "Other than serving as the birthworld of His Grace, the Emperor, no citizen of worth has ties to that planet."
"Do you think the house belonged to the Emperor at some point?"
"If it did, I would think His Majesty and Lord Vader would have had it moved somewhere safe. Or had it destroyed if they felt it contained anything dangerous."
Avery nodded, scowling. "I've thought of all that, too. I can't come up with a reason as to why people lost their lives and possibly their careers over a hand-drawn picture of the thing."
"That's why we need this Twi'lek to cooperate," Nathon replied, nudging the body with his boot. "And we need it quickly. I figure we have another five hours before someone will come looking for him. We, and any trace of our presence, need to be long gone before that happens."
"Right," Avery chugged the last of the water and tossed the bottle into the bag they brought for such things. "I can try something else to get him aware again. Let's go for the same routine as last time, with me in the lead. The focus will be the moisture farm, but follow me when I loop him through some odd questions. With luck, he'll confess before he knows he's doing it."
Nathon rose to his feet, tossing his empty bottle into the bag as well and picking up the stun wand.
Avery pursed his lips and extended a hand. "Let me have control of that this time. I know Renet means the world to you. The last thing we have time for is for him to confess to helping her into the rebellion. You may not be able to control yourself."
Nathon glared at the other man, but relinquished the wand.
"Thank you."
Avery settled the wand down on the table next to him. The table far on the other side of the room from Nathon. He selected a vial of dark purple liquid from the bag, holding it to the light.
"This is a minor essence of glitterstim spice," he explained. "I was able to distill it from the meager amount we took from your smuggler friend. Don't worry, we still have enough to support our cover as spice dealers. Once I combine it with a dash of this brandy, the vapors will be enough to bring the prisoner around. But I have to warn you, it's dangerous. The fermented items in the brandy will react negatively to the spice. It will run his neurons like a hyperdrive in overload, so we're only going to get a few minutes out of him before he dies."
Nathon felt a slight curling of his upper lip, watching the light sparkle against the iridescent violet fluid. "I'm not comfortable with giving Glitterstim to the prisoner. He's going to have limited telepathic ability while on that stuff. We don't need him skimming our thoughts and figuring out we're Imperial.
"That won't be an option," Gant shook his head. "There's no coming back from this. Anything he may learn from us will follow him to his grave."
Nathon pursed his lips slightly, glancing back at the Twi'lek. "I don't like it. Contrary to popular beliefe, I harbor no ill will to the other races in the galaxy. But I also don't see another option at this point. We're running out of time. So long as we get the information we need, we'll dump the body near the local garrison. Let them take the prize for capture of a rebel spy, dead or otherwise."
"Right. When I give the command, take a deep breath and hold it. You don't want to inhale any of this," Avery advised, dropping down on the plastic and lifting the male's head with one hand. "So we're clear, we're going after the farm information, yes?"
"That, and any other names of rebels in the area," Nathon added, kneeling down again next to the male. "It won't hurt to do some cleanup in the area while we're here. Dropping the names to the garrison anonymously, and following up when we get back to our ships."
"Agreed," Avery replied. "Get his shoulders, and watch out for those lekku. They can get pretty twitchy."
Nathon adjusted his stance, putting his hands on the Twi'lek's shoulders. "One of these days, you're going to have to tell me how someone with obvious skills in chemical engineering ended up working Interrogation on a Star Destroyer."
"Would you believe I do it for the sheer joy of sailing the stars?"
Nathon cocked an eyebrow. "Not for a minute."
"Then you'll have to give me time to come up with a rather convincing lie," Avery put in, positioning his thumb and forefinger around the top of the vial. "Ready?"
Nathon nodded. Both men held their breath as Avery gave the vial a sudden shake, then popped the stopper free. Purplish glittery vapors emanated from the vial, sailing up the Twi'lek's nose. Avery had a split second to stopper the tube before the prisoner's eyes flashed open, Nathon leaning hard on the bucking shoulders.
"Easy now, Tor'pag," Nathon said, putting all his weight onto his arms. "You didn't think we'd let you die that easily, now did you?"
"I know nothing more!"
"See, we don't believe that," Avery cut in, plastering a smile on his face that made nightmares seem warm and tender. "My friend, here, bet me good credits that you know a hell of a lot more than you've already told us. Now, we don't have a lot of time to mess around. I need to know everything you know about that moisture farm. Talk, or this is going to get much worse."
"I know nothing—"
Avery rose, taking his time to wander back to the tiny table that held his limited tools. As if on cue, Nathon jerked Tor'pag forward, sliding up behind him. One firm hand grabbed the man's chin, the other yanking back on the purplish lekku tentacles. Making certain that Tor'pag had an unobstructed view of the show.
"I don't believe you, Tor'pag," Avery continued, picking up both the slender knife and the stun wand and turning back to him. "And as long as you keep protesting your innocence, it's going to take a lot longer for me to believe anything you have to say. The longer that takes, the longer you are going to hurt. Keep in mind that we are on a time table, and I'm willing to multiply that pain by that short time. It's up to you, really."
Tor'pag's eyes widened, the pupils dilating as the glitterstim vapors hit home. Fear raced through him as the slight telepathic properties of the spice took hold of his mind. He could see just how far Gant was willing to go to get the information. Just as he could see the barely contained burning rage within Nathon that he was forced to go to these extremes at all, that his sister's life was on the line. And Gant watched it all play out over his face, every second of fear, every moment of certainty that Nathon would go to any lengths to protect his family.
Perhaps that, more than any fear that Gant could inspire physically, loosened the Twi'lek's tongue.
"The old Lars farmstead," Tor'pag nearly shrieked. "And the shack of someone named Old Ben! I can tell you where they are!"
"Why are these important to the rebellion, Tor'pag?"
"I don't know! I swear! The Lars' were an old farming family that held that land for generations. I don't know what else they had there, but it was burned to the ground by Imperial troops shortly before the Alderaan massacre. All that remains is a burnt-out husk."
"What about this 'Old Ben' person?"
"He vanished around the same time as the Lars' murder. Again, that's all I know!"
Avery picked up a data pad—Tor'pag's data pad—and called up a local map. "Show me."
Tor'pag did… and he told them several other names of rebellion sympathizers before the glitterstim destroyed what was left of his mental faculties.
His hand on her head brought her back to consciousness, the cold feeling of machinery in the mocking form of a comforting touch. Renet had had no idea when she'd drifted off, but judging from the numbness in her legs, it had to be for quite some time. Sitting in such a position, her body wedged between the wall of durasteel and the wall of her Dark Lord, it wouldn't have taken long for her circulation to cut off. What was a surprise was that she'd slept through it.
It was amazing what a person could endure when faced with pain on a daily basis.
"Did… did you find what you need, my Lord?"
"Yes. You have served me well."
Her eyes closed, tears threatening to slip their gates. "Then must I endure a reward?"
His rumbling took on a different characteristic, a slightly higher quality to it. Was it… was he laughing? No, that was the wrong word. He did not feel joy or humor, the emotions produced real laughter. This was… a dark chuckle. Amusement at her behavior, at her refusal to give him something in which to take away from her. And so he gave it anyway, filled her room with dresses and softness for her to stare at, to tempt her. So much so that she retreated into the cave beneath her bed, pressed to steel on all sides.
Steel as cold and hard as her reality.
"No," he said, and took a step backward.
She tumbled to her hands and knees, a tiny whimper escaping her pressed lips. Pins and needles radiated up her legs, her spine, as circulation was restored. "Th-thank you, my lord."
"You are dismissed, Renet. Return to your quarters until I have need for you again."
She climbed to her feet on unsteady legs, clinging to the viewport lip to keep her balance. "Why did you want to know about Avery?"
He did not answer, and so she turned to him… and lost her balance. Her hands reached out on reflex, caught his arm where it was behind his back, caught his cape in the other hand. She braced herself for the deluge of pain, to be flung from him with the Force as she had seen him do to officers that had failed him. At the very least, she readied herself for his fist in her thoughts, opened herself for the mental beating that would accompany displeasure.
The first four days of her imprisonment in his meditation room had been full of those lessons regarding disobedience.
But there was no pain, no further presence in her thoughts other than his usual pressure. "Why?" she dared ask again.
"He is useful to me," the Dark Lord answered at last. "He will do my searching for me, as will your brother."
"Searching for what, my lord?"
"For the same thing they want."
It clicked. It suddenly clicked. All those bookmarked chapters in her life that he reread and reread nearly daily.
"Family," she breathed, her voice nearly unheard in her own ears. "Fathers and sons… you have a family. And as long as you have me, they'll search to the ends of the galaxy to give you what you want."
His hand reappeared in her mind. I see that you do understand, at least in part. Now you will never speak of this again unless I give you permission. That is your reward and your punishment.
Fire inside her head, so much so that her eyes snapped shut. Fire scorching his commands into her brain, into her heart. Sealing his secrets to her, and sealing her to him. Skywalker… his son's name was Luke Skywalker. The knowledge was her reward, something that could never be taken from her, but that she was allowed to know.
Even if she didn't understand why.
"Th..thank you, m… my lord."
Her head came forward, resting on his arm. And she was aware that the bridge crew had gone silent, staring at the spectacle of the monster in black and the woman in white. Stark contrasts to the extreme, and yet she was allowed to do this, to touch him. It was her reward, after all, payment for walking through his fire. The revulsion she felt at such an act toyed with the slight morbid amusement of the moment. They all feared him, the crew of this massive ship. And rightly so. She feared him to her core, hated him with all her being… and served him as they served him.
Because there was no choice but to serve him.
Because he had the power to take even death away from them.
There was no escape. In that terror, that tormented horror, there was a thrill of power. They would fear her now, these men in uniform. Not because she possessed wealth or title or rank. Not because she was a power unto herself. But because she could do this, had figured out the secret. And until he grew tired of her, until she outlived her usefulness, she had this power that the others lacked.
His hand caressed her thoughts once more, approval ghosting across her mind. So she stayed where she was, clinging to her Dark Lord and the secrets that bound them.
If anything marked the absence of Lieutenant Commander Avery Gant from the Peremptory, it was the feeling that one got when stepping into the detentionary. Commander Luthar Friel paused as the lift doors opened, taking in the air of the place with a firm frown. Before this whole mess with Renet and Nathon had begun, walking into this particular section of the ship had felt like walking into any other. It was calm, orderly, with just the right amount of tension to show that Gant kept a tight reign over his team.
Now, under the eye of Lieutenant Commander Sephoran Kittinger, he could nearly reach out and touch the fear in the air.
Friel's frown deepened as he walked into the prisoner control station, noting the way the officers present from Ensign to Lieutenant fairly bristled with agitation, as if constantly looking over their shoulders for some nameless, formless terror. Almost every eye noticed his entrance, and more than a few filled with pleading or hope before taking on the flat stare all officers seemed to master before graduating the Academy.
And seated in Gant's chair was the source of all Friel's current annoyances. Sephoran Kittinger was immaculately groomed as was expected of his rank, his boots polished with perhaps a touch more shine than was necessary. His white-blonde hair was perfectly trimmed to military standards, and he wore sideburns as was the current style favored by the military Elite these days. Friel did not care for them, personally, seeing the fashion as a reminder of the mistakes of the men that had made them trendy. Admiral Conan Motti and General Cassio Tagge, to name a few. All dead now, killed when the Rebellion saw fit to destroy the Death Star.
He mourned their loss only for what it meant to the Empire as a whole. Nearly a quarter of the best and brightest minds in the Empire had died that day above Yavin. It was a blow the Emperor was still struggling to overcome. Yet he would not mourn the stupidity that lead to the rash decisions, the political backstabbing, and the utter incompetence that brought the death of so many.
Staring at those sideburns, at those who wore them, was like rubbing salt in the wounds.
Currently, Kittinger was engrossed in whatever displayed on his monitor, sharp green-gold eyes lasered onto the images. From the faint sounds of pain that made it to Friel's ears, clearly the man was engaged in observing a session with one of the prisoners. He glanced around the room, counting the personnel. His frown turned into a glower as he came up with the exact number of heads that should be on duty at this time of ship's day. Either Kittinger was approving some overtime, or he had sent in a droid to work over a prisoner without any human supervision.
That was something Gant had never done, at least not for a full session. The man had believed in the use of drugs and inducers only when necessary, going so far as to handle work with his own hands if it brought about results with the least amount of resistance. Gauging by the faint dark smile of enjoyment on Kittinger's face, he wasn't anything like Gant at all.
He nearly appeared to be enjoying the show, going so far as to sip at something from a mug from time to time.
"I do not know how things were run on the Executor," Friel said softly, dangerously. "However, here on the Peremptory, we do not enjoy a beverage while there is work to be done."
Petty, he knew, but at the moment it was the only thing he could call the man out on. No officer worth the title enjoyed being compared to a predecessor, and certainly none liked being told how to run their assignments. There was nothing in the regulations that required a human presence when employing a droid for this kind of work. Yet… something about it just didn't sit well with him. Just like the man, himself.
So when all the other officers within earshot jumped at those sharp words of rebuke, he smiled inwardly. He was displeased with this man, and he did not care that others knew it.
Apparently, neither did Kittinger.
To Friel's surprised annoyance, Kittinger took his time setting aside the mug and coding for a recording of the current interrogation. He further stood with a speed that could be perceived as just this side of disrespectful, his hands smoothing over his uniform before standing at full attention.
"Apologies, Commander Friel," he said, the smooth Core world accent nearly flavoring the words with a hint of amusement. "I will offer explanation if required."
The initial desire to tell Kittinger what he could do with his explanation and his suave Core-world voice was quelled by years of discipline and the weight of the uniform on his shoulders. His best friend held that lilt to his voice, as did Captain Kand. Yet neither one inspired so much as an ounce of anger in him just by speaking.
"Did I request an explanation, Lieutenant Commander?"
Kittinger's face paled slightly, as if surprised that his good name and breeding hadn't excused a minor lapse in protocol. "No, sir."
"When I require explanations, I ask. Such as now. Where are we with the prisoners transferred from the Executor?"
Kittinger relaxed ever so slightly. Seeing this topic as safe ground, most likely. "I am in the midst of interrogating Prisoner Ten, sir," he said, gesturing to the monitor. "She is a most fascinating study in both stubborn loyalty and wounded pride. As you can see here, I have used a droid to further undermine that pride. Treating her as of less importance than a male prisoner has resulted in fury. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that she joined this rabble of traitors simply because she was rejected from Imperial service."
Friel slowly counted to five before he allowed himself to speak. "This 'rabble of traitors' has succeeded in destroying a major battle station," he corrected. "Taking with it some of the better minds of the Empire. I would think they'd transcended from rabble to true rebels."
"I refuse to dignify their actions with a title, sir," Kittinger countered. "Words are power, as are titles. I would give them neither."
It was a logical conclusion, one that would have made sense if it came out of Gant's mouth, though Gant wasn't nearly as arrogant enough to believe that refusing to name a danger made it any less of a threat. A tinge of regret started to worm its way into Friel's heart. Sending Gant to assist Tydon on the mission may have been a larger mistake than he'd first thought. Still, if anyone was going to get to the heart of what that lake house business was all about, it was those two.
He just had to give them more time. Which meant he had to bite his tongue and deal with subpar replacements.
"And the others?"
Kittinger tapped another switch on the board, the display splitting to sixteen different images. Seven prisoners either sat, paced, or laid down on the floor of their cells. All twitching or trembling in reaction to the individual interrogation techniques applied to them at some point in their stay. Now, they were in what Gant had called the "interim stage." The period of time in which their bodies were allowed to heal, but their minds were free to remember just what had happened to them. Free, thanks to a specific chemical pumped into the air in their cells, that allowed their imaginations to heighten, to ponder just what was coming next or relive in exaggerated extreme what they'd undergone already.
To some, it was worse than the actual interrogation sessions.
Four prisoners were currently sleeping, allowed a reward for giving information. The woman Kittinger had mentioned was pressed to the wall by the hovering droid, two of its appendages holding her arms high above her head, her toes barely brushing the steel floor. A third probe, as slender as a hair, was buried deep into her chest where her heart rested. A tiny glittering quality to that probe indicated an electrical pulse being used.
No questions were being asked of her.
The other five cells were blank, empty. And that emptiness, along with the muted screams of the woman on the screen, reminded Friel just why he had been sent here in the first place.
"Stop the interrogation on Prisoner Ten," he ordered. "I want to speak with that prisoner, myself."
Kittinger eyed him warily, yet was smart enough to understand a direct order from a superior when he heard one. "Yes, sir."
He keyed a command into the console, and Friel watched as the droid withdrew its probes. The woman slumped to the floor, tiny convulsions shaking her form.
"What information has this prisoner divulged, Kittinger?"
"Nothing of interest, sir," the man replied, pulling up a report. "She mostly spat the usual rabbe—rebel heresies. The Emperor is evil, the Empire is corrupt… the usual. I have taken a special interest in breaking her, however. I've found that the most vocal of the prisoners, even if they lack any worthy information to contribute, often make the best examples. Breaking her and parading her before her less stubborn companions will further help to erode their wills."
"And after you have broken her, after she has served her purpose?"
Kittinger shrugged a shoulder. "She'll be executed like the rest. At least this way, she's served a purpose to the Empire. I find it ironically pleasing that these rebels think to cause so much damage to our Empire and in the end serve it with their deaths in ways that outshine any supposed harm they caused in their lifetimes."
"And this one, this rebel in particular," Kittinger said, leaning in to stare at the image of her trembling form. "She'll be most helpful, indeed. By the time I am finished with her, she'll believe she's served the Empire her entire life. Perhaps, if time permits, I'll even let her assist in the interrogation of her former compatriots. Imagine the horror when I reveal the truth to her right before her death."
Those officers on duty, Friel noted, had found reasons not to be in the monitoring section during this particular explanation. Those that could not leave it were buried hard into their work, going at reports and tasks with a fanaticism that screamed their unease with the conversation louder than any vocal expression ever could. Friel found his own hands balled into fists behind his back, held there with will stronger than the metal of binders. If he moved an inch, so much as batted an eye, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd strike Kittinger.
Not because he was violent by nature, though the events of the past two weeks would have belied that statement. But because he wasn't seeing this nameless rebel woman in the image on the screen. He was seeing Renet as she had been after Gant had finished with her that first time. He was imagining what horrors she was currently experiencing at the hands of men like Kittinger. If Kittinger was any indication of what sort of men Lord Vader chose to serve on the Executor, then Renet was in a hell unlike any he could imagine.
If she was even still alive.
It took everything in him to keep his face neutral, his color normal, and his voice steady. "You did not answer my question, Lieutenant Commander Kittinger," he said, tone going cool. "I did not ask for your opinion on what this prisoner has told you, I asked for facts."
Kittinger jerked, surprised not at the tone but that it was directed at him. Inwardly, Friel smiled, a sharp wolf-like smile. Sephoran Kittinger was about to learn that this wasn't the Executor. A Core name wasn't going to grant him special dispensation to protocol, nor save him from the consequences of his actions. And so help him, Friel intended there to be severe consequences one way or the other for the unnecessary cruelty he was witnessing. Starting with having this monster bounced off the Peremptory the moment Gant returned.
No, the moment that this mission for the Grand Admiral was completed.
"Sir," Kittinger began, standing at full attention. Finally understanding his explanations hadn't impressed his superior officer as planned. "The prisoner knew only of the abandoned rebel bases on Dantooine and Yavin. She spoke of names of known rebel leaders, the latest of which was Airen Cracken. She claims that she worked directly for him, though I believe that to be a lie. The woman does not possess the intelligence necessary to—"
"She worked for an Alliance Intelligence leader, one that was, and most likely still is, involved in infiltration of BlasTech's weapon and research departments. Lieutenant Commander Kittinger, have you or have you not familiarized yourself with the previous missions of the Peremptory?"
"I have, sir."
"Then you understand that two weeks ago this ship was involved in capturing a rebel convoy smuggling weapons out of the Inat Rangoon BlasTech facility. Weapons that were headed for the Otter Rim territories, possibly this one, itself."
"She claims to have worked for Cracken," Kittinger had the temerity to counter, going slightly red. "I doubt that claim. I believe her to be a ruse, sir. One of the others captured is the real agent for Cracken. When I break her, she'll help me uncover the true agent."
Friel felt his teeth grinding. The pieces of this puzzle were starting to fall into place. The Peremptory hadn't been snagged by Grand Admiral Thrawn on a whim, or simply because it happened to be the closest ship unassigned to a serious task at the moment. It was selected because it had a payload full of Blastech weaponry meant for this section of space. And now it sported an additional payload full of rebels that had, quite possibly, been sent here to intercept these weapons for a station of some kind.
Rebels that had more information than this idiot before him believed.
Stars, Renet! Just what in the burning heart of the galaxy were you involved with?!
"I will be the judge of what this rebel knows and does not know, Kittinger," he turned, waving a hand to the nearest stormtrooper on duty. "Until then, her handling will be my responsibility and mine alone. Are we clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Friel headed into the heart of the detentionary, hoping that his sudden interest into the treatment of this rebel woman was enough to scare some sense into the upstart Kittinger. The man had to realize that he was now being watched very carefully, and that might lead him to making better choices in his interrogation practices, leaving more alive than dead. Though judging from the way the hairs stood up on the back of his neck, Friel knew that wasn't the case. Kittinger was staring daggers at him, measuring his backside for a target as large as his ego.
Let him, Friel thought with dark amusement. If the man took so much as one step out of line, Friel would enjoy the duty of spacing the son of a bitch. He could float back to his precious Core world.