Holt's uniform was stained with his blood. So was the floor, the table, even the walls. His hair—once black, but having since begun to fade from age—was matted with sweat and fell messily upon his brow. His nose and several ribs were broken and his jaw had been fractured, although he did not yet know this. The pain, at least, was over. It had been an inconcievable pain that did not occur in nature, but was, rather, synthesized in a laboratory and administered intravenously. Holt had withstood it all, and told them nothing.

It had not been easy, but he'd reminded himself that the most important thing to resisting interrogation was to remain singularly focused on one thing (that is, one thing other than the pain). Thus, he counted the number of times that he was asked, "Where is the Magnum?" He counted the number of times he'd been punched or kicked, and when he lost count he started counting again. He counted the number of times he was injected with a new substance, and tried to guess what they were from the effects (he correctly identified xebonica, skirtopanol and titroxinate, which were never meant to be combined even for the purposes of torture).

Throughout the torture (which lasted perhaps thirteen or fourteen hours, if Holt had surmised rightly) he'd not said a word. In truth, he'd spoken little over the last nine years, let alone the last few hours. In the New Republic's custody—which was, in retrospect, considerably more pleasant—he'd spoken only to himself, reciting literature or poetry from memory, or reading aloud passages of the memoir he'd written and refined over those years. When he was finally released, he'd said only two words to the Imperial officer who'd come to retrieve him and who was, shockingly, not Human but rather a Duros or, worse, possibly a Neimoidian.

"The war?" he had asked, wondering how his release had been possible and already having deduced the worst. Then they'd told him about the peace treaty and the prisoner exchange, and he fell once again into silence. He had no more to say to his new captors than he'd said to his old ones. The Imperials had been polite at first, but soon lost patience and resorted to more dramatic means of questioning. Holt had escaped Scylla only to be devoured by Charybdis.

One might wonder why the Remnant, which had over two hundred Star Destroyers already, should be so concerned with the whereabouts of one. But to Holt, the Magnum was all that mattered now; it was apparently the only thing that had remained the same—that had remained uncorrupted—over all his years in prison. The Empire itself was now suspect. Disra was dead. Harrsk was dead. Teradoc was dead. Daala was dead. Pellaeon (who, as far as Holt was concerned, had done more to lose the Battle of Endor than the Rebellion had done to win it) was now in command. Now that Pellaeon had "made peace," Holt would never again take orders from this man. The Magnum, now, was the only way to prosecute the war that he'd promised himself for the last nine years that he would prosecute. This was why he'd hidden the ship in the first place.

Perhaps the Remnant understood this, and was why his interrogation was so vigorous. But it was Holt's conviction that sustained him throughout the ordeal. Now, as he sat numb in his chair under the flourescent lights of a small room with duracrete walls, he still maintained his poise and his posture, and his head was held high (bloodied though it was). He would leave this room or he would not, but he would not divulge the Magnum.

Apparently, however, he would leave the room. He was told, eventually, to ready himself to go; the Hutts were going to collect him and, it was promised, they would dispose of him in a manner far worse than the Empire possibly could. Within the hour, he was bound with stun cuffs and standing, once again, outdoors on a landing pad waiting to be retrieved, and flanked on either side by a stormtrooper and also the same Duros/Neimoidian officer (who was now decidedly less polite than he'd been before). Holt made a note of them, where they were standing, and where their weapons were as they waited for the ship. If an opportunity to escape presented itself, he was going to take it.

Captain Gordon Holt
Star Destroyer Magnum