Agent "Red-3" (Marek Tillan, theoretical physicist)
Location: Mav System, Secret Research Center
Time: 4 BBY, mid-year
Dr. Marek Tillan stood in front of the mirror in his apartment and looked at his reflection. The morning light of Mav filtered through the narrow windows of the residential block, casting sharp shadows on his gaunt face. Forty-two years old, a prestigious position as lead theoretical physicist at a secret research center on Mav, respect from colleagues, scientific achievements. And all of it could crumble at any moment.
His fingers trembled as he shaved with an old-fashioned razor – a habit inherited from his father. The metal cooled his skin, and each movement required concentration. In the reflection, he saw not a respected scientist, but a cornered man with bags under his eyes and a nervous tic in his left eyelid. The past few months had left their mark – constant tension showed in every wrinkle.
He ran his hand over his face, wiping away the cold sweat. Last night, he had nightmares again – not about the victims of the regime or the suffering of the galaxy, but about his secret getting out. About his colleagues finding out what he did in his free time in the brothels of Nar Shaddaa. In his dream, he saw their faces, full of disgust and contempt, heard whispers behind his back in the institute corridors.
Marek's apartment was typical for employees of his level – spacious, with a view of the research complex, furnished with standard Imperial furniture. Scientific awards and holograms from conferences stood on the shelves. Everything looked respectable and boring – the perfect disguise for a man with dark secrets.
Marek picked up a small communicator from the table – an ordinary-looking device, but with modified cryptographic protocols – and reread the last message from his handler: "Need any data on the superlaser project. Especially interested in energy focusing principles and power sources."
Every word of this message weighed on him like a stone. He knew what "any data" meant – the more information he passed on, the longer he could postpone the inevitable exposure. But every file transferred brought him closer to the edge of the abyss.
He hated this job. He hated the constant fear of exposure, hated the need to risk his career and his life. But he had no choice. The compromising material on him was ironclad – video recordings from Nar Shaddaa, where he was having fun with minors of various races in Hutt brothels.
Memories of these trips evoked a mixture of shame and painful arousal in him. He remembered the smell of cheap perfume and drugs, the muffled music in the red rooms, the faces with dead eyes. In those moments, he felt omnipotent, but then came self-loathing.
When the blackmailers first approached him, he tried to refuse. But then he was shown a fragment of the recording, and he understood – resistance was useless. If these frames got out, his career would end, his reputation would be destroyed, and he himself would end up in prison. Or worse.
Marek was not an idealist. He didn't care about the fate of the galaxy or the fight for freedom. He just wanted to maintain his position, his comfort, his secret. And if that meant passing secret data to unknown people – well, he was ready to do it.
The sound of the siren announcing the start of the workday cut through the morning silence. Marek looked at his chronometer – it was time to go. He put on his lab coat, checked the contents of his pockets – ordinary items plus a miniature data drive disguised as a stylus – and headed for the door.
The corridors of the residential block were empty at this early hour. His steps echoed loudly off the metal walls, creating a rhythmic echo. Automatic doors opened before him with a quiet hiss, sensors reading his biometric data and letting him pass.
The air outside was cool and damp—Maw's atmospheric processors worked perfectly, maintaining comfortable conditions for the researchers. The sky had a characteristic grayish hue, typical of planets with artificial atmospheres. In the distance, the silhouettes of other research complexes were visible, connected by covered walkways.
Today, he had the opportunity to access the project's central server. The system's chief administrator had gone on vacation, and his deputy had a habit of drinking in secret and losing his vigilance by lunchtime. Marek had planned this operation for weeks, studying the colleagues' daily routines and the security system's operation.
The research center on Maw was one of the Empire's most secret facilities. Officially, it was a "Fundamental Light Research Station." In reality, weapons were developed here.
The main building was impressive in its size—a gray behemoth of reinforced plastisteel rose several hundred meters. Countless windows reflected the morning light, creating the illusion of a giant crystal. Stormtroopers in white armor stood guard at the entrance, their figures appearing toy-like against the massive architecture.
Marek worked in the theoretical physics department, calculating energy flows. His task was to create mathematical models for focusing the energy of a laser beam. The work was fascinating from a scientific point of view, and he was little concerned with the moral aspects of the project. Science was a pure abstraction to him, far removed from real-world consequences.
He passed through several checkpoints, presenting his identification card. Scanners checked not only documents but also biometric data—fingerprints, retinal scans, voice samples. Each check took a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Marek.
The guards knew him by sight—Dr. Tillan, one of the project's leading specialists, a man with an impeccable reputation. No one could suspect him of treason. He was always polite but not overly sociable, always punctual but not intrusive. The ideal employee, not attracting undue attention.
"Good morning, Dr. Tillan," the security sergeant, a young man with a scar on his chin, greeted him. "You're in early today."
"Important calculations cannot wait," Marek replied with a strained smile. "The Empire needs our discoveries."
The elevator took him to the seventieth floor, where his department was located. The corridors were wide and well-lit, the walls adorned with portraits of the Emperor and imperial symbols. An atmosphere of importance and secrecy was felt everywhere—people spoke more quietly, moved faster, and avoided unnecessary contact.
His laboratory was a spacious room with panoramic windows overlooking the research complex. Holographic projectors created three-dimensional models of energy fields that slowly rotated in the air, demonstrating complex mathematical dependencies. The walls were covered with boards filled with formulas in his handwriting.
Marek turned on his workstation and immersed himself in calculations. Numbers and formulas calmed him—there was no room for moral dilemmas or emotional turmoil in mathematics. Only the laws of physics and logical constructions existed here.
But even while working, he couldn't forget the data storage device in his pocket. The device felt heavy, though it weighed only a few grams. Every few minutes, he instinctively checked if it was still there.
By lunchtime, he had finished his current calculations and went to the dining hall. It was a large room with high ceilings, where employees from various departments sat at long tables. Conversations were held in hushed tones, mostly about work—personal topics were not welcomed here.
There, he saw the deputy chief administrator—Cornelius Tyrenna, who had already had quite a bit to drink at lunch. Tyrenna was a middle-aged man with reddish hair and a good-natured face marred by a network of broken capillaries. His alcohol problems were an open secret, but management turned a blind eye—he was a good specialist and didn't cause serious trouble.
"Cornelius, how are things?" Marek asked, sitting down at his table by the window. Outside the glass, other complex buildings were visible, connected by sky bridges.
"Marek! Sit down. It's boring alone," Cornelius waved his hand, and Marek caught the smell of alcohol. "Order something. Today's menu has good nerf steak."
"Tough day?" Marek inquired cautiously, ordering a light salad. His stomach was clenched with nervous tension.
"Yeah. The boss is on vacation, and all his duties fell on me. Systems are glitching, servers are lagging." Cornelius took a sip from his glass and winced. "And these bureaucrats from the central office demand daily reports. As if I have nothing else to do."
"Maybe I can help with something?" Marek offered, trying to sound as natural as possible. "I'm pretty good with computer systems."
"No, thanks. Just need to update a few databases. Routine." Cornelius waved his hand and beckoned a waiter. "Another shot of Corellian whiskey."
Marek watched as his colleague slowly sank into an alcoholic haze and began to plan his actions. He needed to wait until Cornelius completely lost his vigilance, and then offer help with the systems.
The conversation at lunch concerned work matters—new projects, changes in department structure, rumors about a visit from high-ranking officials. Marek kept up the conversation, but his mind was occupied with the upcoming operation. Every minute dragged on like an hour.
Two hours later, he met Cornelius again in the corridor. The deputy administrator could barely stand, leaning against the wall and trying to maintain an appearance of sobriety. His face was flushed, his eyes were cloudy, and his movements were unsteady.
"Cornelius, how are you?" Marek asked, concerned. "Maybe you should rest?"
"Everything's fine," he mumbled, but he was swaying from side to side. "Just a little tired."
"Go rest," Marek advised. "And if you need anything urgent done with the systems, I can help. I have free time now."
"Thanks, you're a true friend," Cornelius patted him on the shoulder and shuffled off to his office, leaving a faint smell of alcohol behind.
Marek watched him go and felt his heart beat faster. The moment was approaching. He returned to his laboratory and tried to concentrate on his work, but the formulas swam before his eyes.
He waited for another hour, checking the time every few minutes. Finally, he made up his mind and headed for the server room. The corridors in the afternoon were less crowded—many employees were working in their labs or attending meetings.
The server room was located in the building's basement, in a high-security zone. Massive reinforced metal doors were guarded by automated systems and duty officers. The air here was cooler—powerful air conditioners maintained optimal temperature for the equipment.
Marek showed his identification card to the guard—a young lieutenant with tired eyes.
"Dr. Tillan?" the officer repeated, checking the list. "You are not on the visit schedule."
"Cornelius Tyrenna asked me to help with system problems," Marek explained, trying to speak confidently. "You can contact him and clarify."
The lieutenant dialed the internal communication number, but no one answered.
"Probably sleeping," he muttered. "Alright, come in. But not for long."
Marek's heart pounded with fear as he entered the server room. If he were caught, he would be shot as a traitor. But if he didn't complete the mission, the blackmailers would release the compromising material.
The server room was cool and quiet, except for the monotonous hum of fans and the soft beeping of indicators. Rows of server racks stretched to the ceiling, creating a labyrinth of metal and wires. Blinking LEDs created a bizarre play of light and shadow.
Marek found the main terminal—a massive console with many screens and keyboards—and logged into the system under his credentials. His fingers trembled as he entered the password. Every sound seemed deafening in the server room's silence.
He cautiously began to explore the network structure, searching for paths to secret archives. The security system was complex, but he found several vulnerabilities and exploited them. Years of work at the institute had taught him to bypass protective protocols.
Finally, he reached the superlaser project files and saw blueprints for a planetary-scale weapon. The drawings were so detailed that one could understand the device's operating principles. Marek involuntarily admired the elegance of the technical solution, forgetting for a moment its destructive purpose.
He inserted a portable data storage device into the terminal port and began copying data. But there were too many files, and he greedily copied everything—blueprints, calculations, correspondence, reports. Fear made him rush and take more than was safe.
The progress indicator crawled slowly upward: thirty percent, forty, fifty. Every second stretched into an eternity. Marek constantly glanced at the door, expecting someone to enter.
The monitoring system detected anomalous activity. Copying large volumes of secret data looked suspicious, and automatic algorithms sent a warning to security services. Red alarm indicators began to flash in the security control center.
Marek didn't notice the alarm signal—he was too absorbed in copying. The indicator showed eighty percent completion when stormtroopers burst into the server room. The sound of opening doors made him turn around.
"Hands up!" the security officer shouted, aiming a blaster at him. The white stormtrooper armor seemed blinding in the server room's light.
Marek froze, realizing it was all over. The data storage device was still sticking out of the terminal port, betraying his intentions. One of the stormtroopers fired a stunner, and he collapsed unconscious, his last thought being regret for his own greed.
Marek woke up tied to a chair in a small, windowless room. The walls were painted gray, the lighting cold and bright. His head throbbed from the stunner's effect, and his mouth was dry. He tried to move, but the restraints held him tight, digging into his wrists and ankles.
A woman in impeccable imperial uniform sat at a table opposite him. Her dark hair was neatly styled in a severe updo, and her cold brown eyes studied him with professional interest. Her posture conveyed the confidence of someone accustomed to power and control.
Beside her stood a middle-aged man in simple gray clothes, with a pleasant appearance and kind eyes. He looked like an ordinary employee, but something in his demeanor made one wary.
"Dr. Tillan," the woman said in a level voice, devoid of emotion. Each word sounded clear and distinct. "I am Deputy Director of the Imperial Security Bureau, Dedra Miro. And this is my colleague, Lieutenant Leys. He will help us make this conversation as productive as possible."
Dedra spoke calmly, almost monotonously, but there was hidden steel in her voice. She didn't raise her tone, didn't threaten—she simply stated facts. It was much scarier than shouts and threats.
Leys smiled as if he had met an old friend and walked over to a table against the wall. Various instruments were neatly laid out on it—scalpels, forceps, electrodes, some devices whose purpose Marek preferred not to guess. Everything was clean and polished to a shine.
"You see, Doctor," Dedra continued, flipping through pages on a tablet, "we have surveillance camera footage, system logs, your data storage device with secret files. Denial is useless. So let's get straight to the main question—who are you working for?"
Her manner of speech was businesslike and dispassionate, like a doctor discussing a diagnosis. Dedra showed no anger or contempt—only professional interest in the case.
"This is a misunderstanding," Marek began, his voice trembling. "I was just working on calculations..."
Dedra raised her hand, stopping him. The gesture was small but commanding:
"Leys, it seems the Doctor doesn't understand the seriousness of the situation. Could you explain it to him?"
"Of course," Leys replied cheerfully, sorting through the instruments like an expert choosing the right tool. "You know, Doctor, I prefer manual work. Torture droids don't feel the interrogated person's soul, they don't grasp the subtleties. And I am the best in my field. The Empire can be proud of me!"
He picked up a scalpel and twirled it in the light, admiring the play of reflections on the blade:
"Where shall we begin? Perhaps with something light. We'll remove some excess skin from your legs. They say it's very effective for concentrating attention."
"I'll tell you everything!" Marek shouted, struggling against the restraints. The leather straps dug into his wrists, leaving red marks.
"Don't rush, Doctor," Leys smiled, and his good-natured face took on a sinister expression. "We have plenty of time. And I enjoy unhurried, thorough work."
Dedra watched the proceedings with cold professionalism, making notes on her tablet from time to time. Her face remained impassive, like a scientist observing an experiment:
"Doctor, communication methods, information transfer techniques, meeting places—you know all this precisely. And we will find it out. The only question is how painful this process will be."
"Please, no!" Marek pleaded, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I was recruited! I didn't want to betray the Empire!"
Dedra leaned forward with interest, and a professional curiosity appeared in her eyes:
"Tell us more. How exactly did it happen?"
"Five years ago, when I was working at the Coruscant Institute..." Marek spoke hastily, hoping to postpone the torture. The words poured out in a torrent, mixed with sobs. "There was a man, Viktor Kane. We met in a bar, became friends. He helped me solve problems with blackmailers, and then..."
"Blackmailers?" Dedra interrupted, her voice becoming slightly more interested. "What kind of problems?"
Marek closed his eyes, realizing he had to tell everything. Shame burned him from within, stronger than any torture:
"I went to Nar Shaddaa on a business trip. There... there were special establishments. The girl said she was sixteen, but she was actually fourteen. I was photographed, recorded on video. They demanded a hundred thousand credits."
"And this Viktor Kane helped you solve the problem?" Dedra clarified, showing no emotion about what she heard.
"Yes! He had connections on Nar Shaddaa. The blackmailers disappeared, but then he asked me for help. At first, just lists of classified projects, then employee dossiers, then..."
"Gradually drawing you deeper," Dedra nodded, taking notes. "A classic scheme. What next?"
"He paid for my trips to Nar Shaddaa. Expensive hotels, entertainment... special entertainment. There were girls, drugs..." Marek trembled at the memory. "I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't stop. And then he admitted who he really was."
"And who is he?" Dedra asked coldly.
"He said he worked for people who wanted a better future for the galaxy. That the information I was passing would help understand how to make the galaxy better..."
Dedra nodded, continuing to write. Her professionalism was frightening—she treated human tragedies as statistical data:
"I see. Classic recruitment through compromising material and gradual involvement. What then? How was contact maintained after this Viktor disappeared?"
"He disappeared three years ago," Marek continued, slightly calmer now that he wasn't being tortured. "He said he was being transferred to another job. Since then, contact has only been through encrypted channels."
"What channels exactly?" Dedra leaned forward, her voice becoming more insistent. "Frequencies, codes, transmission methods?"
Marek hesitated, and Leys immediately reacted:
"Doctor, I see you're starting to hide something again," he said with the same friendly smile, carefully cutting the laces on Marek's shoe. "That's a very bad idea. You see, people under stress tend to say what they think the other person wants to hear. And we need accurate information. So, we'll start with a small demonstration."
"No, no!" Marek shouted, struggling against the restraints. "I'll tell you everything! The assignments come once a month through encrypted channels! I leave the information in caches at the Maw system's trading stations!"
"There you see," Leys said with satisfaction, not putting away his scalpel. "And you said you didn't know anything."
"Continue, Doctor," Dedra ordered coldly. "Tell us about the communication system in detail. And remember—if we realize you're hiding something, Leys will demonstrate his skills to the fullest."
"Star Crossroads Station, dock number seven, behind the ventilation grate in the technical compartment!" Marek blurted out. "Maw Trading Hub-2 Station, cargo terminal, container marked 'Spare Parts-Corelia-447'! There are also backup locations..."
For the next few hours, Marek told everything he knew about the communication system with his handlers, about information transfer methods, about other suspicious individuals in the scientific community. He gave access codes, transmission frequencies, the location of all the caches he knew.
Dedra meticulously recorded every word, asking clarifying questions from time to time. Her thoroughness was frightening—she missed no detail, left no question unanswered. Leys never used his instruments—the threat alone was enough.
"Excellent, Doctor," Dedra finally said, closing her tablet. "You have greatly helped the Empire. Thanks to your information, we will be able to inflict serious damage on the rebel network."
"And what will happen to me now?" Marek asked in a trembling voice.
"And what should happen to a traitor?" Dedra shrugged with the indifference of someone discussing the weather. "Trial, verdict, execution. Standard procedure."
"But I cooperated! I told you everything I knew!"
"And for that, you'll be shot quickly, not tortured," Leys smiled. "Isn't that reward enough?"
After Marek was led away, Dedra and Leys walked out of the interrogation room into the corridor. Dedra took off her jacket and hung it on her arm—the room was stuffy with tension. Her white shirt was impeccably ironed, not a single crease disturbing the strict lines.
The corridor was long and narrow, lit by cold fluorescent lamps. The sound of their footsteps echoed off the metal walls. Dedra walked at a measured pace, her heels tapping a rhythmic beat on the floor.
"Excellent work, Leys," she said, heading for the elevator. Her voice sounded calm and professional. "You play the maniac exceptionally well. This type broke down before you even touched him."
Leys laughed, adjusting the sleeves of his gray shirt:
"You know, Deputy Director, I recently watched an old holofilm about Jedi investigators from the Republic era. They showed how they 'interrogated' good citizens with their lightsabers and mind tricks." He shook his head with feigned horror. "Still impressed by their methods. Compared to those fanatics, I'm just an angel of mercy."
Dedra stopped at the elevator and pressed the call button. The mechanism responded with a soft hum:
"Jedi were masters of psychological pressure," she agreed. "It's good that we got rid of them. Although some of their techniques could certainly be adopted."
"Exactly!" Leys smiled wider. "The main thing is to make the subject believe you are capable of anything. Then imagination will do the rest of the work for you."
The elevator doors opened with a soft hiss, and they entered. The cabin was spacious, with walls finished in polished metal. Dedra pressed the button for her floor and looked at her reflection in the mirrored surface.
"Organize operations on the caches he indicated," she ordered, without turning her head. "And check all frequencies. Their failure could be our major success if we use it correctly."
"Orders have already been given," Leys replied. "We'll have results by morning."
The elevator ascended silently, the indicator showing the floors. Dedra thought about the upcoming work—she needed to prepare a report, analyze the information received, and plan further operations. Each failed agent was a link in a chain that could lead to larger targets.
Marek was taken to the death row cell—a small room with a narrow cot, a washbasin, and a barred window. The walls were painted gray, and a thin mat lay on the floor. The only light source was a bulb under the ceiling, protected by a metal grille.
He sat on the cot, staring at the wall. The trial was a formality—he was found guilty of treason and sentenced to execution. He listened to the verdict, thinking only that it would all be over soon.
The cell was cold and damp. Sounds from the corridor were muffled—guards' footsteps, the clanging of locks, distant voices. Time dragged slowly, each minute feeling like an hour.
In his last days, he did not contemplate higher matters or atonement for sins. He simply pitied himself and cursed the moment he agreed to Viktor Kane's first request. If he had refused then, perhaps his life would have turned out differently.
Food was brought three times a day—simple but edible. Marek ate mechanically, without tasting anything. The guards did not speak to him, only checked the cell and left.
The execution took place at dawn. Marek stood before the firing squad in the prison courtyard, surrounded by high walls. The morning air was cool, the sky gray. He thought that his life was ending due to his own weakness and depravity. No heroism, no nobility—just the pathetic end of a pathetic man.
The shots rang out simultaneously. Dr. Marek Tillan, theoretical physicist and unsuccessful spy, lay on the cold floor with several burnt holes in his head.
Dedra Miro stood by the panoramic window of her office, observing the bustle of the research complex below. The information obtained from Tillan was already being used by imperial counterintelligence. She personally supervised the operation to clean up the rebel network.
Her office was located on the top floor of the administrative building. The spacious room was furnished in a strict imperial style—dark furniture, portraits of the Emperor, symbols of power. Reports and data tablets lay in neat stacks on the desk.
Several agents had been arrested, caches discovered, communication channels intercepted. Every success brought her closer to her goal—the creation of a galaxy where order and law reigned supreme. She sincerely believed she was serving a righteous cause.
Dedra felt no pleasure in the suffering of her enemies. For her, it was simply a job—necessary, important, but devoid of emotional coloring. She saw herself as a surgeon, removing a cancerous tumor from the body of the galaxy.
The workday was coming to an end. Dedra gathered her documents, locked the safe, and headed for the exit. The corridors were quiet—most of the staff had already gone home.
Her personal transport was waiting at the entrance—an elegant black imperial speeder. The driver, an elderly man in uniform, respectfully opened the door.
"Home, ma'am?" he asked.
"To the spaceport," Dedra replied, settling into the back seat. "I have a flight to Coruscant."
The speeder smoothly pulled away, gliding silently along the complex's roads. Buildings of laboratories, residential blocks, and administrative buildings flashed by outside the windows. Everything looked orderly and functional—exactly as civilization should look.
Dedra thought about the work done. Tillan's failure was annoying, but inevitable—weak people always broke under pressure. It was important to extract maximum benefit from every enemy setback.
Mavos Spaceport was small but modern. Imperial shuttles and cargo ships stood on the landing platforms, surrounded by the bustle of technical personnel. Dedra passed through the VIP terminal, bypassing the usual security procedures.
Her personal shuttle was ready for departure. The pilot, a young lieutenant with neatly trimmed hair, reported readiness for departure.
"Course for Coruscant," Dedra ordered, walking into the passenger compartment.
The shuttle lifted into the air and headed for the stars. Through the windows, the surface of Mavo was visible—a gray planet with research complexes scattered across it. Soon, it disappeared into a hyperspace tunnel.
The flight to Coruscant took several hours. Dedra spent this time studying reports and planning further operations. Work was her life, her only source of satisfaction.
Coruscant greeted her with its usual chaos of lights and movement. The planet-city never slept—trillions of beings lived, worked, and died in its metallic depths. The shuttle landed on a government platform in the Imperial sector.
Dedra reached her apartment via a high-speed elevator. The dwelling was located on one of the upper levels of an elite district, offering a magnificent view of the city center.
The apartment was furnished with the same strict taste as her office. Minimal furniture, maximum functionality. Nothing superfluous, nothing personal—only necessary items.
Dedra went into the living room and opened a bottle of expensive Corellian wine—one of the few indulgences she allowed herself. She poured a glass and walked to the panoramic window.
Coruscant stretched to the horizon—an endless ocean of lights and movement. Airspeeders glided between skyscrapers, leaving glowing trails behind them. Somewhere out there, in this chaos, were the enemies of the Empire.
She thought about people like Tillan—weak, corrupt, ready to betray everything for their own comfort. They evoked not so much contempt as disappointment. How could one live without principles, without a higher purpose?
Dedra sincerely believed in the Empire's mission. The galaxy needed order, a strong hand capable of suppressing chaos and anarchy. The Jedi with their outdated dogmas, the corrupt senators of the Republic, the terrorist rebels—all of them were obstacles on the path to a better future.
She took a sip of wine, enjoying its rich flavor. Tomorrow, a new workday awaited her, new challenges, new enemies. But she was ready for it. The Empire needed people like her—loyal, uncompromising, ready to do anything for the common good.
A few days later. Nar Shaddaa.
Kel Nordaan received an encrypted message in his office on Nar Shaddaa and grimly studied its contents. The Duroc sat at a massive table in a windowless room, illuminated only by monitor screens. The news was catastrophic—Agent "Red-3" had not only failed but also revealed a significant portion of the network.
His long fingers quickly typed codes on the keyboard. He had to act fast—every minute of delay could cost the lives of agents in the field.
Kel activated a secure communication channel and sent emergency warnings to all connected agents. They needed to change codes, frequencies, and safe houses urgently. The failure of one had jeopardized the work of many brave people.
The Duroc leaned back in his chair, contemplating his next move. The network had suffered, but it was not completely destroyed. They needed to regroup, find new people, and restore lost positions.
The fight continued.