Ten years, first month, and fifth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, first month, and fifth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months and twenty-fifth day since the arrival).
The Tsinimals were described as "graceful and intolerant."
In the past, about a hundred and forty years ago, this race of aliens had captured the planet of the Langhesi, leading to a mass exodus of the local inhabitants from their homeworld.
The natives, known throughout the galaxy as unparalleled masters of biotechnology, had become so rare that there were practically no mentions of them anywhere.
As if they had all but vanished from sight.
Well, except for that elder who was now sitting to Mara's right, his eyes bulging and afraid to move.
But, unlike the ruler of the Tsinimals present here as well, he conducted himself in such a way as not to provoke anyone by some sinful mishap.
And as for the ruler of the conquerors, whose "gods reject biotechnology," but for some strange reason condone slavery and piracy, he didn't seem particularly "graceful" either.
Sweat poured down the Tsinimal's face in streams, and fear was frozen in his eyes.
He didn't seem "intolerant" either.
Look how quickly he shut up.
Although... what other options did he have, with a purple lightsaber blade hovering mere centimeters from his face.
In the past, Mara Jade had seen such reactions often.
Too often.
But those had been Imperial officials, not representatives of other species.
And all of them had been sentenced by the Emperor himself.
And now...
"Esteemed Hand," the ruler of the Tsinimals said slowly, carefully choosing his words, "could you please stop demonstrating this obvious and lethally dangerous technological curiosity to me."
"Certainly, Ruler," she said sternly. "Right after you sign the document condemning the activities of the Tsinimal slavers and pirates."
"Perhaps it would be easier for him to do so if you stepped off his desk, Esteemed Hand," the Langhesi representative said barely audibly.
Mara shifted her gaze downward.
For a moment, she admired her slender legs, clad in the fabric of her battle jumpsuit that smoothly transitioned into light but sturdy boots.
Under which lay the ruler's working documents, pinned down by her weight.
Including the draft decree she had just mentioned.
Well, no need to mince words—she was standing right on that decree, brazenly stamping the text with her boot sole.
Awkward.
"Have you reviewed the text of the decree, Ruler?" she asked.
"Y-yes," the Tsinimal jiggled his fat chin.
Yes, "graceful."
Like a sarlacc, only smaller.
"I see no reason not to sign the document," Mara pressed on, without even shifting.
"Your actions humiliate our authority!" the Tsinimal squeezed out, squeezing his eyes shut against the acrid sweat dripping from his bushy brows. "We joined the Dominion with love and joy! And now your war machines and soldiers are on our streets, our military base is under occupation, and your ship is in orbit! We haven't done anything! Yes, our ancestors expelled the Langhesi from the planet, but many years have passed! We've moved away from that policy! We no longer engage in slave trading. And we don't pirate! You're mistaken!"
Mara sighed. Profuse sweating in such situations was par for the course. Passionate justifications and rationalizations—straight out of the script.
"You haven't listened to what I told you," she said. "The Dominion could turn a blind eye to the disappearance of one transport starship a month and a half ago, deeming it crashed. We could even ignore the loss of three more such ships at the beginning of last month. But your pirates captured an entire convoy of labor droids and construction materials."
"What do I have to do with these raids?" the ruler exclaimed in a voice half demanding, half ingratiating. He had evidently decided that the delay indicated her reluctance to kill him. "I've devoted all my efforts to atoning for my ancestors' sins. My people have lived in peace for thirty years now. Yes, poor, but in peace. We've left our past in the past! I swear to you by our gods that we've sought out the Langhesi more than once to apologize and ask them to return to their native planet. But the government knows nothing of any pirates! If they're acting in our people's name, I'm not involved! It's some mistake, I assure you!"
Mara knew he was stalling.
But that suited her fine.
The Hand needed grounds to place the planet under full Dominion control.
And what was happening now was in her interests.
"It's not a mistake, Ruler," she cut him off. "It's about the beacons embedded in our transport ships and their cargoes, which your dim-witted underlings failed to find. And safely delivered all the loot to the planet. Shall I specify where? To the northern plateau, into the caves where the pirates' base is located. Who in the past were your own military. It just so happened that I was in a good mood yesterday, so after tracking your raider, we captured prisoners instead of blasting it with turbolasers. And the pirate prisoners told us plenty. Which fully matched what our counterintelligence had gathered on you. The only thing you can do in the current situation is condemn the actions of the pirates and slavers, and declare the southern continent the exclusive territory of the Langhesi people, who were expelled from their native planet by your ancestors. I promise that by signing these documents, you'll receive mitigating circumstances at trial."
"May I at least see confirmation of your authority," the Tsinimal pleaded.
He hadn't just agreed for nothing.
The pieces on the board were already in place.
Time to start the game.
So, time for a bit of arrogance, bitchiness, and haughtiness to make the provocation succeed.
"My documents and seal are right under your nose," the redheaded vixen replied unflinchingly. "I provided the code cylinder with my credentials to you, your guard, and the entire government. And Grand Moff Ferrus confirmed them. I think the Star Destroyer in orbit and the regiment of stormtroopers from the 501st Guard Legion bearing the name 'Thrawn's Fist' should have convinced you of the legitimacy of the papers handed to you."
"V-very well," the Tsinimal muttered. "I-I'll just get my writing implements and..."
His hand reached for the stationery set.
Mara wasn't watching him with her eyes.
She relied on the Force.
So she reacted instantly when, instead of the fountain pen, the ruler of the Tsinimals grabbed a flimsi cutter and tried to plunge it into her leg.
Moreover, she could clearly sense the ruler's fighters standing behind the false door.
That's why she executed a backward somersault, not without pleasure crushing the ruler's jaw and shattering his teeth with a kick.
The massive desk, carved from a single block of marble, had a T-shape.
And Mara easily took up a similar position on the long part of the table, parrying the first shot aimed at her face from the attacker.
Right as the armed guard burst from the hidden door behind the ruler's back.
She sensed the Langhesi representative collapse under the table immediately, shielding himself from the fire.
He wasn't wounded, but frightened.
"You really shouldn't have done that," Mara sighed, seeing the Tsinimal fighters aim a heavy repeating rifle at her.
She had no intention of fighting a rapid-fire weapon.
She was far more interested in how, under the cover of several guards, the ruler of the Tsinimals intended to escape.
So she simply seized the fearsome close-range weapon with the Force, wrenched it from the opponent's hands—breaking his fingers in the process—and hurled her lightsaber, slicing both the repeater gunner and the three remaining fighters into two equal halves.
In the same instant her weapon returned to her hand, the door to the reception area was breached, and stormtroopers appeared on the threshold, led by an officer.
Efficient—they had taken only five seconds from the moment of the attack on her.
And the door was sturdy. It only looked wooden; in reality, it was metal.
"The ruler of the Tsinimals attacked me," Mara explained to the officer. "He is to be held accountable. Announce to the locals that due to the traitorous actions of his government, the Langhesi system is passing under direct Dominion control. Declare curfew. Order all local military to remain in barracks and surrender their weapons. Disobedience—death. Ensure the safety of the Langhesi delegation. And report to the Chimaera that we're establishing a planetary blockade until resistance to lawful authority is eliminated."
"Yes, ma'am," the officer said, spotting the hidden door. "Shall I send commandos after the ruler?"
Yes.
Right after she let him get away?
"This is my mission," Mara declared. "Carry out your orders."
"Yes, ma'am," the officer saluted.
He left two stormtroopers in the office, then began issuing orders over his comlink, coordinating the steel-clad fighters' actions.
Mara, meanwhile, jumped down from the table and helped the trembling-with-fear Langhesi representative rise from the floor.
After brushing off the humanoid, she gave him an encouraging smile.
"Everything will be fine," she stated. "We'll return your planet to you."
"I beg you—no unnecessary casualties," the Langhesi nearly sobbed. "We don't want genocide."
"No one wants that," Mara sighed. "But the Tsinimals have been making 'kind eyes' at us for too long while sending pirate raids on our convoys. Those who don't take up arms will live."
"May their gods have mercy on them," the Langhesi sighed.
Mara, satisfied that everything was under control here, slipped into the hidden passage, extending the Force ahead to find her target and avoid possible traps.
She couldn't afford to let Thrawn down.
Again.
She liked being the Hand.
She had seen that Shadow Guard.
It made her shiver.
No, she definitely didn't want demotion to their ranks.
She hadn't toiled so long, like the damned, with all the mentors Thrawn assigned her, for that.
No more slip-ups.
Only victories.
***
The conference room on the Chimaera was unusually empty today.
Besides me and Colonel Tierce, who habitually combined the roles of adjutant and bodyguard, no other Dominion citizens were in this compartment.
Instead, across from me sat a representative of the humanoid Langhesi species.
The Dynast, if I understood his position correctly, was currently the highest-ranking political leader of those exiled from their home planet, which now lay under the belly of the Star Destroyer.
If one abstracted from the red hair, four-fingered hands, and lack of lips, nose, and ear lobes—he was quite human-like.
"The negotiations are dragging on," the Langhesi said worriedly.
"Diplomacy is not a quick matter, Dynast," I said meaningfully. "I assure you, everything will proceed exactly as we discussed. Your people will return to their home planet."
"Those who haven't completely lost themselves in the galaxy," the sentient across from me said bitterly.
"As soon as the opportunity arises, the Dominion will begin searching for your people's diasporas," I assured him. "First, we'll settle matters with the Tsinimals, then begin repatriating your compatriots."
"Thank you," the humanoid said embarrassedly.
"For what?" I asked in genuine surprise.
"You're at least trying to return our home to us," the Dynast explained. "No one else has been so kind to us since the migration began."
"I'm grateful for your flattering assessment of my efforts," I said. "But I must remind you that the entire planet of Langhesi won't belong to your people. The largest continent, inhabited by the Tsinimals, will remain theirs. Your people will be given the second, smaller one. Perhaps it's worth consulting the catalog of habitable and unoccupied worlds in the Dominion again to avoid any possible future troubles?"
"We lived on that continent that will become our home again," the Langhesi smiled (probably a smile). "Your scouts showed me holographic recordings of our cities... Of what's left of them, of course. It's painful to see those ruins, but in time we'll restore everything. For our descendants. I'm grateful for the offer of an entire new world, but it's excessive. Our population on Langhesi never exceeded a few million even in the best of times. And now it doesn't even reach a few thousand. Perhaps others will be found, but that's speculation. Our scientific mind advises against it. That's why we don't want to occupy an entire planet—it's irrational. And to huddle somewhere else... Why not on the homeworld, then?"
There was a certain logic to it, no doubt.
Yes, it differed somewhat from what I was used to, but one shouldn't forget that I was dealing not with humans.
The Langhesi, like the Kella people who had vanished from the galaxy, and the extragalactic conquerors, the Yuuzhan Vong, could shape and imbue life with new forms.
They worked with biotechnology, and despite the calamity that befell them nearly a hundred and forty years ago—their homeworld conquered, the race enslaved by the Tsinimals, who considered their technologies a sin against their gods—they continued their science.
Because of that conquest, the Langhesi began a mass migration across the galaxy.
They specialized in producing unique pets for the wealthy of the Galactic Republic.
And the Galactic Empire.
When our scouts found the few Langhesi diasporas on some worlds of the Galaxy (through back-channels of orders for valuable pets), it took effort to arrange a personal meeting between us.
And nearly another month to convince them to collaborate on projects where we had virtually no specialists.
This included studying Ithorian pollen, which, as I knew from my known future, degraded Yuuzhan Vong technology.
This included studying the aliens' technologies discovered on Bimmiel and Lorrd.
And ultimately, work with cloning cylinders.
Specialists in this field weren't just needed—they were essential.
Because currently, clone production was handled by simple technicians following instructions left over from the Empire's time.
One could use a rifle for single shots without knowing its workings or understanding the switches and mounts.
But a weapon is far more effective in the hands of a specialist who knows how to set it to burst fire, not single shots; understands how to mount the sight properly; and if he even attaches an underbarrel grenade launcher with optics and shows how to use it without shooting oneself—that's success.
But there was something else I needed from the Langhesi.
"The Dominion will provide all possible assistance in restoring your cities," I promised. "I hope you haven't forgotten the condition of our unspoken agreement, Dynast?"
"For my people, it will be an honor, Grand Admiral," he declared. "To study alien biotechnology and develop countermeasures against it... The latter is new to us, but we'll manage."
"And with the cloning cylinders?" I clarified.
"I've reviewed the data your adjutant provided me," the Langhesi stated. "Spaarti technology is, of course, new to us. But not complex. We can maintain those cylinders."
"And recreate them?" I inquired.
"Any biotechnology can be created," the Langhesi declared. "With mechanisms, it's more difficult. Especially those produced on Spaarti Creations. But we'll work in that direction, no doubt. As for the others..."
He meant the trophies from the X1 base.
Cloning cylinders unlike anything we'd seen before.
No specifics, only guesses.
"Your specialists correctly grasped the underlying principle," the Langhesi said. "It is indeed ancient Arkania cloning technology. Some of my subordinates dealt with similar cloning cylinders during the Clone Wars."
"Your people worked for the Republic?" I asked in surprise.
"No," the Dynast cut me off. "Some of our diasporas worked for Salucami, hired by Count Dooku."
So that's what it was...
During the Clone Wars, Darth Tyranus, aka Count Dooku, leader of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, experimented with cloning warriors who could stand against the Jedi.
Morgukai warriors from the Nikto species were to become excellent fighters and Jedi killers.
But the Republic buried that project, flooding the underground lab with lava.
When we recaptured Salucami from the Zann Consortium, we surveyed those tunnels hoping to find the cloning lab.
Unfortunately, nothing came of it.
The Republic, for once, did everything to leave no chance of recovery.
And I'm still interested in just how many cloning cylinders were destroyed.
"So what can you say about these cloning cylinders?" I inquired.
"It's very old technology," the Dynast stated. "At its core—Arkanian cylinders. But we've found many spontaneous modifications. From Spaarti cylinders, from Kaminoan facilities. It seems they were damaged in the past, and without spare parts, they were repaired with analogs. Unfortunately, this affected the quality of the produced clones. They're short-lived, psychologically unstable, aggressive. I can say the inventor managed to shorten clone production time, but I don't yet know by how much exactly."
"Less than a year?" I clarified.
"A month, or thereabouts," the Langhesi explained. "We need to study this technology more to understand it. However, allow me to give you some advice. If you need clones that won't go mad at any moment—don't use this technology. Otherwise, you'll get physically whole duplicates with underdeveloped internal organs, nervous system and brain problems. Such duplicates are dangerous and unpredictable."
My mind flashed to the Wookiee clones my fighters had battled during the operation against X1.
Chilling.
"Thank you for the advice, Dynast," I said.
"You're welcome, Grand Admiral," he replied.
Well, an expert's opinion is always good, of course.
But as they say in native medicine?
Two doctors—two opinions?
We need more specialists to tell us what the stormtroopers gave their lives for—dangerous trash, or if there's still a chance to restore these "contraptions" to some acceptable state.
***
Interesting why the craftiest scoundrels set up their secret lairs and escape routes underground?
Probably for the same reason vornskr burrow deeper.
But they can't escape righteous retribution.
Mara sensed an ambush waiting ahead.
One guard popped out of cover and fired at her.
But missed.
Mara swiftly swung her lightsaber, and the energy blade, igniting in the pitch darkness with a characteristic hiss, shielded her and deflected both bolts into the wall.
Two more joined the first shooter immediately.
The hapless marksmen kept firing.
Mara deflected all the shots with her saber, directing them into each attacker's chest.
For good measure, the girl waited until the guards lay still and lifeless on the floor.
Then she strode quickly into the shelter, gripping the saber with both hands in a defensive stance.
Just in time: in a final desperate lunge, the ruler of the Tsinimals dashed up the ramp of a luxurious yacht, firing at her with his blaster on the run.
No need to strain—he missed.
With a Force-enhanced leap, the girl landed on the ramp.
The same way, she seized the opponent and hurled him from the ship.
The Tsinimal cursed, covering her in every obscenity he knew, trying to crawl farther from her and the burning gun.
The girl overtook him in an instant.
Mara held the blade tip at the traitor's throat for a long second, his hand frozen a centimeter from his spare weapon, his face pale and twisted in helpless rage.
"For the record," Mara said in an even tone, "the innocent never run or try to kill a duly authorized Dominion representative."
A grimace of fury appeared on the Tsinimal's face.
Only now did she notice the vocal choker around his neck, transmitting speech through a vocoder directly from his vocal cords.
How nice that she had deprived him of the ability to speak.
"You won't win," he croaked hoarsely. "You can kill me—a hundred like me—but your Dominion will still fall. Just as your vaunted Grand Admiral couldn't avoid death. If not at the hands of the New Republic or someone else, then the Dominion will be torn apart by those who helped us restore our glorious heritage." The Tsinimal glared at her furiously. "And where will you be then, you little arrogant agent? Your power will end, your patrons will die, as Thrawn died. And you have no friends anyway." Seeing no immediate threat, the ruler rose and extended an open palm to her. "I can help you. I'll be your friend. Spare my life... leave me in place, send a false report to your Grand Moff, and when everything around you starts crumbling, you'll find safe haven here... I know how to value such talents."
"And what about the Langhesi?" Mara gave him one last chance.
"You've given me a good idea," the Tsinimal's eyes lit with greedy fire. "I wasn't lying when I said I searched for them. Lately, quite a few connoisseurs of biotechnology have appeared in the galaxy, interested in the Langhesi's works. Lure them home, capture them—I'll prepare our passive society, rejecting past glories, in a year or two—and we'll get rich off it! I'll share with you—this is mountains of money! More money than all those inheriting from Thrawn will ever have. They're about to tear each other's throats out. Strong leader gone—and the dogs will try to grab their bone. With your help, we can get properly rich! All you need to do is say everything's fine here—and you'll have a whole palace!"
Mara merely flicked her wrist slightly, and the blade plunged into the Tsinimal's shoulder, making him scream in pain.
With a light motion, she slashed through the choker with the vocoder, without nicking the traitor's throat.
The girl deactivated the weapon, then couldn't resist kicking the prisoner in the head, toppling him to the floor.
"Now off the record," she said, leaning in so the stormtroopers rushing into the open hatch of the secret hangar wouldn't hear. "The Grand Admiral is alive. He never died. But you spawn of rancor belch bought into it with such enthusiasm that I can't keep up catching you. You're not the first or the last," she stared into the ruler's eyes widening in horror, "to decide to play your filthy game to someone else's tune. Don't worry, I'll relay your offer to the Grand Admiral personally. I'm sure he'll be interested in who instilled such confidence in your future. But they didn't tell you what that future bottom would be like."
The girl lingered a moment longer, eyes fixed on the terrified ruler of the Tsinimals.
501st stormtroopers ran up to her.
"The residence is secured, ma'am," the sergeant reported. "Only the pirates in their lair and the ruler's personal guard, plus a few of his advisors, resisted. All captured and arrested. The population is bewildered but hasn't attempted armed resistance. Grand Moff Ferrus has already made an official address. Public unrest has been avoided so far. What are your orders?"
"Take him to the Chimaera," Mara said quietly, eyes still on the frightened Tsinimal, to whom it was dawning just how badly he had miscalculated with "restoring the heritage." "Guard everything here until counterintelligence operatives arrive. They'll handle the rest."
"Yes, ma'am."
Deactivating her saber, she spotted the skimmer that had brought the stormtroopers to the hangar hatch.
"I'll borrow it," she told the sergeant, who didn't even try to object.
Then, turning her back on yet another case of attempts to dismantle the state, the girl left the secret hangar.
***
Along her entire path, Mara encountered about fifteen sentients.
Including the guards of her Flame and the stormtroopers securing the Langhesi spaceport.
The Hand boarded her starship, sealed the hatch, then sent the ship into orbit, transmitting her identification signals via directed beam to the duty officer.
She didn't fancy being shot down by her own side.
She lingered in the cockpit long enough to enjoy the view of the beautiful Chimaera, whose guns, fighters, and escort corvettes were enforcing the blockade while transports with 501st Legion troops poured down to the surface like from a cornucopia.
They had to properly restore order on the planet, whose government someone had persistently nudged toward unnatural actions.
Despite the Tsinimals, as correctly noted, having moved away from their past.
Having conquered the planet Langhesi, they had indeed driven the native population into a galaxy-wide migration, where they got lost.
But the Empire, as Jade knew, had in its time wiped out nearly all Tsinimal pirates, forcing the rest into a peaceful policy.
Evidently, with the Empire's collapse, revanchists came to power, who made a cunning move—allying with the Dominion to avoid trouble.
And at the first opportunity, decided to act out fully.
Only the first cargo ship had been piloted.
The pilots were a pity, of course, but nothing to be done.
The rest of the ships captured by the Tsinimal pirates were controlled by droids.
That's how they traced the entire network of local pirates' underground bases scattered across the sector.
At present, the Red Star flotilla was conducting the purge, while Grand Admiral Thrawn, with his Hand's help, put an end to the affair.
The population would be informed of everything happening behind their backs.
Several Langhesi diasporas across the galaxy had been found and accepted the invitation to return home, on condition of guarantees of peace and safety for the forced settlers.
One wanted to believe that the remaining Tsinimals truly rejected their past and had no intention of harming the local population.
In any case, as Mara understood, a Dominion administrative apparatus would arrive here shortly.
And with it, a military unit would be garrisoned in the system to maintain order as long as necessary.
Mara was already in her cabin at the computer, drafting her report, when the ship's computer informed her that automatic landing had been completed.
The Chimaera's tractor beam operators had set her starship down on the now-empty deck of the main hangar.
Stretching her neck, the girl headed to the entry hatch, unlocked it, and went to the wardroom, where she began brewing caf.
But she just couldn't find the sweetener.
"Is the Hand of our lord Thrawn alone?" With that question, a limb covered in dark gray fur entered her field of view. And in the dexterous paws was the sought-after sweetener.
"Rukh, I have two questions," Mara said resolutely. "Were you hiding on my ship while I carried out the mission?"
"Ask your second question, Hand of our lord," Rukh said with a chuckle as she snatched the jar of sweetener from his fingers.
"You little rascal," she said without malice. "Missing Pellaeon and your tambree games?"
"The captain was a good player," Rukh mewled. "But I want a rematch."
"I can't wait to see the vice admiral's guards kicking you across his entire flagship," Mara grinned, turning to the countertop with two steaming caf mugs. "Fine, suppose so. Good day, Grand Admiral."
"Hello, Mara," Thrawn nodded slightly in thanks as she handed him a mug of caf. "As I heard, you handled the mission."
"Mission accomplished," Mara reported, catching out of the corner of her eye that Rukh, clearly on purpose, had pulled fruit chews from her cabinet.
Then, as usual, he clambered into the shadows, where he evidently began devouring the sweets.
She was starting to understand Vice Admiral Pellaeon.
With whom she had a very long and heartfelt "heart-to-heart" after it became known that Thrawn had died at Sluis Van.
Seeing that broken man who seemed to try to pull himself together but was nursing the soul-wound of loss, Jade couldn't just toss her red mane and walk off into the sunset.
She had promised to serve the Dominion.
And she continued her service.
And how fervently she had wanted to meet the Grand Admiral when he came online.
He was lucky he wasn't Force-sensitive and didn't know how she wanted to sink her long nails into his neck...
But the girl still hadn't decided what she'd do next—strangle the one who so coldly toyed with human fates, or burst into tears realizing he was alive after all.
Because no matter how much she assured herself it was just a job, the Force said otherwise.
She had grown attached to the sentients.
Just as Pellaeon had to Thrawn.
As she had clung with all her claws to Karrde and his crew.
Well, not quite.
Here it was much deeper.
One could say that Thrawn, Pellaeon, even this rascal Rukh (and the cookies too?! Damn you, choke on them! She shelled out three hundred credits for those! Alderaanian delicacy! A gourmet treat!)—were something like family.
A very strange family, of course, that wouldn't pass a single DNA test in case of inheritance division, but...
"Rukh reported that you handled it splendidly," Thrawn continued.
"So you were watching after all," Mara narrowed her emerald eyes, glancing at the corner of the wardroom where the Noghri was munching cookies.
"I'd say 'keeping an eye on,'" Thrawn stated. "As with all Shadow Guards. You're too valuable to leave one-on-one with the enemy just like that."
"So they've demoted me to those butchers?" Mara drummed her nails on the countertop.
"The caf is excellent," Thrawn said unexpectedly.
"From Garki," the girl explained.
"We'll need to arrange procurement," Thrawn said as if nothing had happened, taking another sip. "So?"
Mara sighed.
"As expected, the Tsinimals didn't start pirating on their own initiative. No, of course their government had the idea to relive old times, but from the ruler's words, I understood they have some patrons. During our last meeting, he spoke so confidently about the Dominion's collapse, saying his patron-allies would contribute, that I wondered if it's the Zann Consortium."
"An interesting hypothesis," Thrawn agreed. "And what is it based on?"
Despite the Grand Admiral's face remaining an impassive mask, it immediately seemed to Mara that the Chiss was smiling restrainedly but approvingly.
As if she had just voiced what aligned with his own thoughts.
"The logic is simple," the redheaded vixen replied. "Zann hates you. You took one of his factories, blew up another. Thoroughly mauled his fleet. Besides, as I recall, the Emperor said it was you who uncovered Zann's arms trading scheme at the Imperial Military Academy. And then, shortly before Endor, lured his fleet into a trap. So, I think he could definitely make efforts to destroy your legacy. Moreover, the methods—acting from within, relying on radicals ready to go against authority—are quite in his style. But that immediately raises several problems."
"And what are they?" Thrawn clarified.
"We need to find out from the Tsinimals when and how Zann's envoy arrived. If after the border closure announcement, then our defenses aren't as effective as we'd like. If before, then counterintelligence slipped up, and an enemy contact or saboteur penetrated our territory."
"Or," Thrawn continued, "perhaps the criminal Tsinimals had prior contact with the Zann Consortium and have a dedicated communication system unknown to us, not routing through the known HoloNet relays."
"A burst transmitter?" Mara clarified.
"Precisely," Thrawn agreed. "Or something else, unknown to us. Tyber Zann, if it's his handiwork, stole many Imperial and Rebel Alliance secrets in the past. Seizing the Eclipse gave him access to the Emperor's secrets, and who knows what that one might have hidden from the public in his personal vaults. Moreover, counterintelligence interrogated one of Tyber's pawns, who revealed that Zann established his residence at the site of the Imperial Palace in the Corporate Sector. We shouldn't rule out various innovations and his own vault there."
"I'd bet that's exactly it," Mara pursed her lips. "Palpatine had a habit of embedding his secrets during construction, not after. When it's the same contracting organization—it's quite easy to pull off. After escaping Coruscant from Isard, I once tried to infiltrate the palace construction site in the Corporate Sector, but found it abandoned. The workers and equipment up and vanished overnight to parts unknown."
"Very reminiscent of what happened to Kuat's top engineers after the Zann Consortium's attack on the Eclipse," Thrawn said thoughtfully, taking another sip.
"So, a new mission for me?" Mara inquired.
"As always," Thrawn replied without delay. "But later. For now—rest and prepare. It won't be an easy one."
How intriguing...