Ten years and thirty-one days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year and thirty-one days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months and sixteen days since the arrival).
Over the years of his service, Captain Shteben had been involved in no small number of scrapes.
Once, he had spent two days in the sewers of an ecumenopolis, tracking down those who wanted to profit from the smuggling of Imperial property.
And then he had to engage in a fight in that abode of stench and decay.
And to this day, he was sure that his olfactory receptors could no longer be surprised by anything.
Oh, how wrong he was.
The cell reeked as if someone had eaten a long-dead rancor that had deigned to begin the process of decomposition in all its delights.
But in reality, nothing of the sort—just one overly fat, overly dirty, and overly smelly Hutt who, despite his former position, was shitting himself.
And if it had been dictated by some objective reasons—Grappa the Hutt did it deliberately, mocking the counterintelligence officer.
"Well," Shteben looked at the enormous pile of excrement, almost the size of Grappa himself, towering in the center of the cell, "at least now I know where all this comes from. As for the aroma, do you like wallowing in such filth yourself?"
The Hutt, located in the far corner of the cell, once a prison storeroom and the only suitable one for holding a prisoner of such girth, merely favored the counterintelligence officer with a contemptuous glance.
"You know how your game of silence ends, Grappa," Shteben sighed, unbuttoning his tunic and taking out a mask-respirator from the inner pocket, along with protective goggles. "First, you stage these kinds of demarches, although last time with the vomit all over the floor was much more inventive, then the interrogation droids come in and do their dirty work." At the mention of the latter, the Hutt barely noticeably shuddered with his entire body. "It takes very little time, and you start talking, spilling like a Jedi under interrogation in the Inquisitorius. So why go through the same path every time?"
Grappa rumbled something in his native language.
"Mr. Grappa says that this is how he expresses his contempt for you humans, demonstrating that, like any respectable Hutt, he doesn't give a damn about human laws," translated the silver C-3PO-series droid standing nearby. "He is showing you his unbreakable spirit and readiness for torture."
"You couldn't control your salivation last time after meeting the interrogation droid, you disgusting worm," Shteben smirked, sitting down on the folding chair he had brought, "and now you've decided to play the unconquered one? If my command decides to publicize even a part of what you've already blabbed, so many bounty hunters will come after your carcass—sent by your own kin and former partners—that you'll demand political asylum from the Dominion."
The Hutt growled again in his bass voice.
"Mr. Grappa declares that he has powerful allies and patrons who will come to his rescue as soon as they learn he is in captivity. And then your sufferings will be endless."
"The key point is 'if they learn,'" Shteben emphasized logically. Sighing, the man asked:
"You clearly don't want to tell me voluntarily about your mentioned comrades, right? Neither about Tyber Zann, nor about whose orders you cloned Baroness D'Asta, nor where the original is now?"
The Hutt spat vigorously at Shteben, but he dodged the insulting moisture, the volume of which would have been enough to drown in.
"That was crude," Shteben stated.
"Mr. Grappa says that even his spit is more valuable than your life, Agent Shteben," the translator droid reported. "His friends will come for him, and retribution awaits you all."
"We've heard all this before," the counterintelligence officer assured, heading for the cell exit.
When the metal bulkhead slid aside, he looked at the Hutt, who had long ago begun to wag his tongue tirelessly but continued to play the innocent Alderaanian caught in an arsenal with a homemade explosive device.
"Are you sure you don't want to say anything before I leave?" Shteben inquired.
Grappa barked a response in Huttese.
"Mr. Grappa is detailing the executions to which he will subject you once he is free," the translator droid reported.
"Well," Shteben sighed, opening the door. "It's nice when you get under someone's skin that deeply. Come on in, lads, it's your time. But, Grappa, I knew you'd say that. Today, you'll have some special company of metal balls."
The Counterintelligence operative stepped aside, letting half a dozen Imperial interrogation droids, bought on the black market about a month ago, into the former storeroom one by one.
The Hutt spoke again, but now his voice dripped with fear.
Evidently, his skin, pierced with needles and repeatedly sliced with the finest scalpels, remembered what it was like to be in the manipulators of that type of droid.
And today, there were exactly five more of them than usual.
Meaning the pain threshold would be reached six times faster.
"Mr. Grappa apologizes for his words and says he wouldn't mind conversing with you one-on-one…"
"Certainly," Shteben assured him. "As soon as the 'balls' are done, we'll talk."
Locking the door, he ordered the stormtrooper guards to call him in six hours.
In that time, the interrogation droids would finish all the dirty work, and he could tally and cross-reference some early records.
There was also a great need to check a number of other sources to form an overall picture of events.
The case of Grappa the Hutt and his henchmen, tied to cooperation with the Zann Consortium and the cloning of Baroness D'Asta, stank to high heaven and required maximum attention to detail.
***
The armored doors of the tactical compartment of the Crimson Dawn parted to the sides.
"…a coordinated strike will bring them to their knees," General Ventress continued reporting her vision of the situation, pointing to the enemy markers on the holographic panel.
"If I may interrupt," Shohashi said, pulling away from the holographic terminal and, leaning on his cane, tilting his head to peer over the shoulder of the Dathomirian woman standing opposite him.
"Counter-Admiral Shohashi, sir!" came a familiar voice, energetic but still tinged with weakness. "Captain Brandei reporting for duty!"
"What a good boy," Ventress shook her short snow-white hair, turning toward the entrant. "You can bark even louder. It won't hurt operational planning at all."
"Stand down, General Ventress," Shohashi commanded, seeing Brandei wince at such a "warm" reception.
Circling the holoterminal, he approached his comrade, who, as if parodying his superior, leaned on a cane.
A simple metal one, the kind usually issued in hospitals to recovering patients with musculoskeletal issues.
"Glad to see you, Captain Brandei," Erik said, not hiding his restrained joy, shaking the hand of the Judicator's commander.
"Likewise, sir," the officer assured.
Glancing sidelong at the Dathomirian witch, who stood leaning her rear against the edge of the holoprojector, looking at both men with a sour expression, arms crossed over her chest, he barely noticeably nodded.
"Glad to see you too, ma'am."
Ventress mimed something like a figurative salute, then turned to the hologram, pretending that what was happening between the two colleagues and friends didn't interest her at all.
"The hospital didn't report that you'd come out of the coma," Shohashi noted cautiously.
"You'd be surprised how much effort it took me to keep that secret," Brandei chuckled. "Two days in a bacta tank, cognitive and physical tests just to get the discharge papers. And here I am, on the first available ship to the flagship. Decided to surprise you."
"It worked," Shohashi agreed. "A lot has happened in your absence."
"Yeah, I heard," Brandei nodded. "Thrawn died and came back…"
"You weren't supposed to know that," Shohashi narrowed his eyes. "That information was delivered personally."
"And it was," Brandei agreed. "To Stormaer. We left the Central Military Hospital on Ciutric IV together."
The finest military medical facility, where the best of the best Dominion medical specialists worked, provided centralized treatment, recovery, and rehabilitation for all Armed Forces personnel of the Dominion.
Erik mentally recalled if the commander of the Abyssal Fury had been at that briefing.
Yes, he had.
Fourth row, seventh seat.
"I didn't know Stormaer was also under treatment."
"He wasn't," Brandei stated. "He said the Dominion's military medical service had requisitioned his MC80 Home One, which he captured during the Battle of Sluis Van. The ship was badly damaged; fleet headquarters deemed restoring it as a combat unit too expensive. But the military medics hustled and got that Mon Calamari monstrosity turned into a hospital ship. Stormaer personally delivered it to Ciutric IV—they'll refit the star cruiser right at the orbital repair yard. We crossed paths with the captain at the hospital, where he was visiting some of his specialists who weren't so lucky as to avoid injury. Well, he gave me a lift to fleet headquarters. Good thing all my clearances were already restored, and I was reinstated to my previous position."
"Glad for you," Erik clapped his comrade on the shoulder.
Brandei winced, squeezed his eyes shut, and drew in air with a hiss, reflexively covering his shoulder with his healthy hand.
"How did they discharge you if you have pain reflexes?" Erik wondered.
"The skin healed, bones mended, organs patched—even the eyes were saved," Brandei smiled. "The hypersensitivity of the nerve endings will pass with time. A couple of weeks, maybe a month. Doesn't affect work, just have to avoid banging into doorframes, bumping into bulkheads, leaning against them, and all that…"
"Sir, if I may," Ventress said, "we were discussing the upcoming operation."
"The operation is still in development," Shohashi reminded. "It can wait a couple of minutes. And do all the nerves react like that?" he clarified with Brandei.
"About one in ten," the latter tried to put on a brave face. "But it's fine. Just let me get back to work, and you'll see I'll be on my feet in no time. Been lying on that hospital bed too long. Got a bit rusty…"
With these words, he handed Shohashi a flimsi sheet from the military medical service, with all the data confirming that Captain Brandei was fully healthy.
And no notes about "one in ten."
Erik quickly calculated how many nerve endings there were in the human body.
It came out to… a lot.
"This won't do," the counter-admiral declared. "With all due respect, but a star destroyer commander experiencing constant pain is not what we need on a combat cruise. We both know how many guys with symptoms like that or similar have gotten hooked on spice to dull the pain. I can't accept your discharge papers."
Most likely, Brandei had somehow negotiated with the doctors, probably even deceiving them, to get out of the hospital ward as soon as possible.
Hoping that Shohashi, understanding his friend's urge to "get back in the game," would turn a blind eye to the obvious.
The Judicator's commander was walking the edge again.
Just like back then, with his obsession with medicine.
This was starting to become a pattern.
"No," Shohashi replied categorically. "I can't accept this document. Captain, you're clearly not well."
"Erik," Brandei hissed through clenched teeth. "Stop it. I nearly went mad when I heard the Judicator almost died during the Taanab campaign."
"No more than a massive proton torpedo strike on the solar ionization reactor," Erik stated. "The damage wasn't critical."
"There wouldn't have been any if I'd been on the bridge," Brandei declared. "The XO did great, saved the ship. But he's not ready to command starships solo yet. Stormaer already told me about the manpower shortage in the regular forces. Sign this Hutt-spit paper! Don't let me rot on a hospital bed! I lost my edge and nearly went stir-crazy in there! Erik!"
"This isn't up for discussion," Shohashi said categorically. "I can't take that risk. What if a pain syndrome hits you in the middle of battle? Or shock from pain overload while you're in the command chair? The crews on star destroyers are diluted with recruits from the Defense Forces. They're not the rancors we fought shoulder-to-shoulder with anymore. If something happens to you—they'll panic and lose the ship."
"It'll be fine!" Brandei assured, biting his lip from the obvious pain. "Erik, please, one last time…"
"No, Captain, I can't…"
Despite all the joy that his friend and comrade had survived, Erik still (and always) put rules first.
And proportionality of threats.
A ship commander going down in the middle of a battle in front of the entire watch—that was a demoralizing factor that could turn into outright disaster.
"How many times does it have to be said!" he heard the irritated voice of General Ventress.
Turning his head to annihilate the intemperate Dathomirian witch with a glare, Erik involuntarily recoiled from the white-haired woman whose hands were enveloped in green flame.
"General, what…?" was all he managed to utter before both of Ventress's hands clamped onto the head of the terrified Brandei with a swing.
And in the next instant, a wall of green-white flame enveloped them both, reeking literally of deathly cold.
"Guards!" Shohashi bellowed.
But the BX droids and quartet of MagnaGuards were already there.
Their vibroblades and electrostaffs prepared to strike the witch when suddenly it all ended.
Ventress, no longer the source of the repelling flame, removed her hands from the head of the terrified—and possibly even a bit grayer—Brandei, who was shaking like a dry leaf in the wind and staring at a single point ahead.
"What did you do to him, General?" Shohashi demanded, mentally cursing the moment he had agreed to trust this witch even a little. He should have kept those damned ysalamiri with him at all times! "What happened to him?"
"He pissed himself," Ventress snorted, slapping the very shoulder hard. "Tough officer. Usually, it's a myocardial infarction."
Repeating Shohashi's action.
But instead of a grimace of pain, Brandei merely flinched and dropped the metal cane from his hands.
"Don't come near me, witch!" he took two steps back, pointing a finger at Ventress. "W-what did you do to me?"
"Interrupted your whiny bullshit," Ventress looked indifferently at the droids surrounding her. "Tired of seeing you undermine the counter-admiral's moral foundations. If it were up to me, I'd have booted you out of the squadron with a demotion to cabin boy long ago."
"How?!" Shohashi demanded. "What did you do to his nerves?"
"Accelerated his body's regeneration," Ventress explained, scrutinizing the Brandei standing before her, who was hiding behind a MagnaGuard. "And restored the missing piece of his fibula that was making him limp, though he didn't say."
"Jedi tricks," the Judicator's commander muttered, patting himself down. "Erik… It's true, no pain."
Another slap landed on the lower torso of the star destroyer commander.
"And… where's my gut?" the Judicator's captain clarified.
"Burned as fuel for accelerating the regeneration processes," Ventress said. "I'm not Mother Talzin, to conjure from nothing. Be glad you're even alive. Last time I tried this, my partner keeled over from a heart attack."
"Will Brandei live?" Shohashi asked cautiously.
"If he doesn't plan to shoot himself with a blaster or hit a proton torpedo detonator, then yeah, why not?" Ventress shrugged. "If that's all, Counter-Admiral, maybe recall your tin lapdogs before I think you keep droids here so I can warm up right in this compartment instead of the training one. And dare I remind you, we were discussing the operation until you decided to stage a holodrama in two acts here."
"Guards—stand down," Shohashi said.
When the droids returned to their previous positions and Ventress resumed her bored examination of the holomap, unambiguously hinting that she expected the squadron commander to join, Brandei, stuffing his hands into the slash pockets of his uniform trousers to keep them from dropping to the deck, approached the silently watching witch—and simultaneously utterly stunned—Shohashi.
"You know, I'll drop by later."
"Uh-huh," was all Erik could manage, still trying to digest everything said and seen.
"And the general's not bad-looking," Brandei tried to joke with a nervous chuckle. "With the hair, you could even say cute."
"Brandei," Erik shook his head, breaking the stream of images and associations.
"Yes, Counter-Admiral?"
"Dry up like a vroshti tree in Tatooine's Dune Sea with your hints," Shohashi growled, glancing at General Ventress impatiently drumming her nails on the holoprojector panel.
"Of course, of course," Brandei grinned. "I'm off, pants flying. Thank her for me, okay? Or else I'm starting to get scared of her. Good thing the pants are wet; the second embarrassment isn't visible. And you're pure beskar, didn't even flinch. Watch out, soon she'll be batting her eyelashes at you. I know that type of woman…"
"Brandei," Shohashi addressed his comrade and subordinate again.
"Yes, Counter-Admiral?"
"Get off my bridge before I call security."
"With pleasure, sir," Brandei instantly lost his feigned bravado under the gaze of Ventress looking his way and bolted for the tactical compartment exit almost at a run.
Exhaling to calm his now pounding heart, Erik returned to the holoterminal.
"Let's continue, General Ventress," he said, trying not to look at the crookedly smiling Dathomirian, who fixed him with an appraising and clearly interested gaze.
***
Someone knocked on the wooden door of the small, strictly functional office.
A considerable rarity in times when metal is used instead of wood, and control panels instead of doorknobs.
"Chief, permission to enter?" Captain Shteben's head appeared in the cracked-open door.
Colonel Astarian, tearing himself away from reading another report on his deck's screen and closing the viewed document, waved a hand, beckoning the subordinate.
The operative crossed the small space separating the entrance door from the several plain chairs standing against the wall to the right of the Dominion Counterintelligence chief's desk and took a seat closer to the office's owner.
"Report," Astarian ordered.
"Done," Shteben replied. "Grappa cracked. And his henchmen, nabbed on Genon, too."
Good news, if so.
"Tell me. In detail and thoroughly."
"Well, the overall picture is this," Shteben began. "About five years ago, Grappa ran his operations from his palace on Genon, sticking exclusively to racketeering and profiting from illegal business. All standard, nothing outstanding. He'd throw subordinates who let him down into a cage with a monster and watch them die. Hired various smugglers, bounty hunters, and pirates. One such group under him was Sol Mon's pirate crew, which hijacked ships, stole valuables and riches across the galaxy for Grappa. No witnesses left, ships fenced on the black market with swapped aggregate numbers and identification data…"
"Is this prelude connected to the case we're investigating?" Astarian clarified with his subordinate.
"Directly, sir," the latter confirmed. "During one such raid, Sol Mon's group ran into a Black Sun representative. As you can imagine, the weight classes didn't match. But instead of grinding Grappa to dust, Black Sun made contact and continued operations, using the captured rep as a liaison. From that point, about three or four years ago, Grappa became part of Black Sun."
"Which—is just a front for the remnants of the Zann Consortium, destroyed at the time," Astarian voiced the known.
"That's the interesting part," Shteben smiled. "Grappa worked strictly along Black Sun lines. He didn't know it was a front. But from his stories, that liaison, Makus Kaynif, was actively negotiating business with Sol Mon's group. doubly curious that Sol Mon's name and ship identifiers popped up on Maramere—right during the Zann Consortium's heyday."
"Indeed," Astarian narrowed his eyes. "From which we can conclude that Sol Mon himself worked in the past either for Black Sun or the Zann Consortium."
"I'm inclined to believe the latter," Shteben said. "Referring to data from our colleagues on the Ghost Isle on Maramere, we have records of extensive stygium mining on the planet—no more than ten years ago. Before that time, Sol Mon didn't show up on Maramere."
"So he acted in the interests of the same bosses as Kaynif on Maramere, mining or delivering stygium," Astarian drummed his fingers on the desk. "Add to that: shortly after Zann's escape from Kessel and the creation of the Consortium, the latter started getting ships with superior cloaking."
"Imperial Intelligence assumed it was stygium," Captain Shteben agreed. "But someone mid-level in the Ubiqtorate didn't pass the report up, stating it couldn't be, since stygium is scarce in the galaxy, and its cost would make a single ship with such cloaking as expensive as a star super-destroyer."
"No need to be a Jedi to figure it out—the Zann Consortium found a hookup with those who should've wiped them out in the cradle," Astarian grimaced.
"The deeper we dig, the more we learn how deeply the Consortium infiltrated the Empire," Shteben agreed. "Wouldn't be surprised if ISB operatives were on their payroll too."
"Well, good," Astarian stated. "We found what half the Empire's military was interested in—where the Zann Consortium got the resources for a working cloaking system. How does Grappa tie in?"
"Grappa's story is a more recent adventure," Shteben noted. "I'd guess the Zann Consortium didn't send their man to Sol Mon for nothing—they wanted to recruit Grappa from the start."
"And what interested them in a simple gangster?" the colonel wondered.
"Turns out Grappa has a hookup with the Zanibar," Shteben explained.
"Bantha poodoo," Astarian cursed. "That's all we needed."
The Zanibar were tall, skinny sentient humanoids with gray-blue skin and three-fingered hands. They were bald, with long skull-like faces and small black eyes.
It wasn't exactly known where they came from, but scientists assumed their planet was somewhere in the northern galaxy, reachable only by those who knew the precise hyperspace route.
No, there were other scientists who claimed the Zanibar homeworld was long known to galactic peoples and had been visited repeatedly, including by humans and more ancient races, but by now the way there was forgotten, and the Zanibar themselves weren't thrilled about bringing outsiders home.
Allegedly, it contradicted their religious rites, worldview, and other philosophical mumbo-jumbo only an idiot would believe.
And those so dim-witted as to go to the Zanibar homeworld.
The thing was, unlike the pontificating scholars, Imperial intelligence services had already encountered Zanibar.
And had an idea of who they were and how disgusting those creatures were.
Something on the level of the infamous Thyferrans who popped up in the galaxy five years ago.
With the exception that the Thyferrans, dirty scum, pirates, and thugs though they were, the Zanibar, though not outwardly similar, had an "advantage" over the Thyferrans.
They ate their prisoners.
Before the Clone Wars, the Zanibar cannibals were involved in an incident in the Corporate Sector, where their ability and willingness to gut sentients for food and religious rites came to light for the galaxy.
Of course, the Old Republic swept it under the rug, ordering the Zanibar back home.
And conveniently forgetting about them.
But the Zanibar didn't forget the galaxy.
The ISB hunted Zanibar who'd become bounty hunters and assassins across the galaxy.
There was an informal order—not to take them alive.
Under torture, they stayed mum anyway, even if you cut them to ribbons.
They didn't carry compromising data on their homeworld's location.
Left no traces.
The scum knew that one slip-up, and star destroyers would fly to their homeworld, turning the entire surface into molten slag.
"I thought about the same, sir," Shteben admitted. "Grappa collaborated with the Zanibar, handing over his enemies to them."
"And in return?"
"They worked for him as bounty hunters."
"Fair enough," Astarian agreed. "Black Sun decided to bolster its ranks with Zanibar?"
"Grappa didn't ask questions," Shteben shook his head. "A few months ago, Black Sun ordered him to hand over control of the Zanibar to them. He meekly agreed."
"When was that?" Astarian frowned.
"Pretty much right after we struck the Consortium at Shola, Salucemai, Hypori…"
The colonel closed his eyes, sighing in resignation.
So, right after the grand admiral attacked the Zann Consortium's planets, the latter began pulling all available forces into a single fist.
Scrupling at nothing, even carnivorous scum.
Odd that the Mandalorians weren't involved yet.
"Is that all Grappa's role in this?" the Dominion's chief counterintelligence officer clarified.
"Just the tip of the iceberg," Shteben warned. "Grappa organized the baroness cloning operation on Black Sun's behalf. He supplied the thugs with the chemicals needed to knock her out, after which the woman was cloned on Genon."
"What facility was used?" Astarian asked, interested.
"Grappa doesn't know. The cloning process was overseen by Makus Kaynif. He procured the device. He also extracted it from that cave where our scouts nabbed Grappa's maintenance crew. Where the original baroness and equipment are now, Grappa doesn't know, but assumes with Black Sun… in the Corporate Sector."
"Safe to assume the baroness was needed for Grappa so the Zann Consortium could know Imperial encroachments in advance," Astarian surmised.
"That makes sense, given that under the New Republic, Coruscant lacked the military forces for total control of its territories, like under the Empire. The Pentastar Alignment hadn't shown its nose beyond its borders until recently, and only Orinda stirred up trouble. From an intelligence standpoint, Zann correctly pegged his man in the Imperial Ruling Council. A clone controlled by the Hutt, who's actually a small-time racketeer, thinks he's working for Black Sun, whose boss is the Zann Consortium."
"Remove any link—the baroness clone, Grappa, Makus Kaynif, or the nominal Black Sun head, Asib—and tracing the true leadership becomes impossible," Astarian concluded. "A rather dangerous setup, I must say."
"I suspect that's why Sol Mon was with Grappa—he's a backup intel source in Grappa's gang, essentially his right hand. Since Hutts are known for their suspicion, few would think Sol knows anything," Shteben reasoned. "Sir, honestly, from the data our intel pulled from Grappa's palace terminals, it seems Sol Mon wasn't just robbing random rich starships. Those ships belonged to Imperial and Republic bigwigs with ties to ruling circles."
Astarian pondered.
Something serious was brewing.
Very serious.
"So, we have one thread of leverage on Orinda," the colonel concluded. "Since controlling the Imperial Ruling Council was so crucial to Zann, and given how easily he created a prominent sentient's clone, aren't Sol Mon's raids not just robbery, but capturing genetic material and originals' knowledge for cloning?"
Shteben was silent for a moment, mulling over his boss's words.
"To abduct, clone, and return Baroness D'Asta where she was taken, Grappa and Black Sun had little time. So they used something that allows cloning sentients quickly and without memory integration issues."
"We know the clone Fina D'Asta dealt with the Hutts, passing Imperial intel in exchange for funding her activities. Now she's out of control, and naturally, right in her sector, an anti-government uprising pops up. With Hutt tails sticking out. Ever heard of GeNod program clones acting against their masters' programming?"
"Never," Astarian shook his head. "They're hard-programmed for obedience. No glitches observed."
"Then we can assume Fina D'Asta's clone wasn't made with GeNod."
"It's just a hypothesis for now," Astarian objected.
"Yes, a working theory," the operative agreed. "But we don't have others yet. I think we need to unravel this web of intrigue further. If we can nab Sol Mon, we might learn a bit more."
"Sol Mon, for all his involvement, might be just another pawn in this game," Astarian stated. "Yes, he undoubtedly knows more than Grappa himself, but Makus Kaynif surely has far more enticing info than those two. We need to know where he got the cloning cylinders, who did the cloning, where the equipment is now, and if there's more."
The captain nodded silently.
The grueling work of the Dominion's cloning labs was known to counterintelligence like no other.
The clone factory was the Dominion's ultimate secret, preserved by any means.
It allowed significantly boosting fleet and army-stormtrooper combat readiness without resorting to Imperial-style conscription: everyone of age to the draft board.
But if two tens of thousands of Spaarti cloning cylinders once sufficed to crew a slowly growing fleet, now…
There were so many ships, fighters, armored vehicles that in some categories the ratio reached a hundred machines per crew.
And that was a big problem.
Which even the program transferring Defense Force veterans, given priority contract rights with the regular fleet, couldn't cover.
The flow of Imperials with combat experience fit for front-line service dropped after news of Grand Admiral Thrawn's death spread across the galaxy.
Yes, inside the metropole it was known (to whom it concerned) that it wasn't true, but that only boosted volunteers among the populace eager to join the regular fleet or stormtroopers right away.
Without experience, without needed knowledge and practice, such fighters would screw up so much in their first battle that cleanup would take ages.
Unfortunately, even redirecting them to the Defense Forces, freeing trained cadres for the regular army, didn't play a big role in fleshing out the fleet and army.
All experienced specialists and officers fit for service under the grand admiral in combat had long been transferred to the regular fleet.
The Ciutric Hegemony fleet, the metropole's core, had twice renewed its personnel—the first practically in full, already in the regular army, the second—four-fifths.
Increasing recruits didn't ensure contractor numbers—the current Defense Force staff lacked the experience and service record to stand in line with the main Dominion forces.
So the cloning cylinders churned out clones of serving specialists nonstop.
Today, by schedule, the second batch of clones should've started checking knowledge loaded via imprinter machines. If lucky, they'd help recommission and return the star destroyer Death's Head to service.
And the few remaining from the second batch would transfer to one of the captured Sluis Van "ones"—now named Commander Darren, after the star destroyer Captain Rensen's commander, killed in that battle.
Incidentally, word was that names like Captain Rensen, Resolute, and Lunar Shadow (the destroyers the Dominion lost in last year's campaign finale) would return to the fleet and be assigned to captured destroyers.
Because, again—there were too many.
So access to even a couple-three new cloning cylinders would be a significant contribution to the Dominion's cause.
If only the specialists would sort out those junk incubator knockoffs from Mustafar.
Seemed like cloning cylinders, seemed assembled, and thus functional, but somehow… off.
Well, what's "normal" for those clueless about cloning, relying only on leftover Imperial research papers?
Intel was supposedly hunting needed specialists galaxy-wide, but nothing new emerged in the Dominion's special services on that front.
"I'll discuss the interagency op with the brass," Astarian said. "For now, keep working Grappa—I want to know everything he knows. More than sure the gangster has decent connections in the underworld. Especially since the Hutts until recently had their own interests in several Dominion worlds' inhabitants. Grappa surely knows something about which Hutts hired thousands of fighters from underdeveloped worlds a year ago as cheap cannon fodder."
Shteben nodded slowly.
His thoughtful gaze indicated he was running scenarios in his head, cross-referencing with existing info.
"It can't be that we stumbled into upcoming underworld showdowns over a droid factory on Hypori?" he asked. "The Zann Consortium's recruiting thugs every way possible. Hutts are grabbing 'meat.' Zann's building ships, no doubt Hutts are too…"
"Yes, but the Zann Consortium controls the Corporate Sector, with its motley but solid fleet," Astarian reminded. "The Hutts are in a similar spot. Only they've got Hoersch-Kessel right next door and connections galaxy-wide. I very much doubt that if those two orgs—the Hutts and Zann Consortium—clash on the battlefield, the winners will be ones we can keep talking to."
"Not to mention the high chance they're working together…"
"Yes, to our great regret, that'd be a catastrophe," Astarian sobered.
The Hutts and Zann Consortium didn't touch each other while Jabba the Hutt lived, having made peace with Tyber Zann.
And they warred solely due to those two's mutual hatred.
And if Tyber Zann truly stood behind reviving his Consortium, who knows what fine strings of the Hutt soul he plucked.
After all, he was shipping goods to Hutt Space.
Whether he was using them blindly, as fleet thought, or paying the Hutts resources for support, remained to be seen.
By Dominion Intelligence.
Counterintelligence could only do its job and watch so nothing outlandish happened inside the young state.
And it boiled in nearly every sector—over the last thirty days, counterintelligence handled over ten rebellious separatist groups in the metropole and a dozen on peripheral worlds, mostly Chasin.
And all, to a one, controlled and funded from abroad.
Imperial Remnant, New Republic, Corporate Sector, even Tapani nobles—everyone tried to stick their hand in divvying up the Dominion Grand Admiral Thrawn built.
And this was just the beginning.
Maybe some would back off, realizing they failed the first try and testing the Dominion's structure for strength was folly, but the stubborn ones would keep at it.
And counterintelligence's task was to ensure they failed.
Now and in the future.
"Be that as it may, we keep working," the Dominion's chief counterintelligence officer declared.
"As always, sir," Captain Shteben echoed, heading for the exit with the office owner's permission.
Much work ahead.
Astarian, meanwhile, began tallying interim results for the upcoming report to Grand Admiral Thrawn.
***
Captain Anilex, leader of the Dominion-aligned Cavil Corsairs group, stood at the decorative railing for several minutes, observing the distribution of delivered reinforcements for his organization on the parade ground.
After that, he returned to the small table on the mansard and sank into the wicker chair opposite me.
Taking a mug of caf, he took several sips.
Then he couldn't hold back and asked directly:
"Sir, you do realize a good chunk of them will desert to the enemy or shoot their own to bug out at the first chance?"
"That's why I delivered the Kessel freedmen straight to the Cavil Corsairs," my explanation somewhat surprised the captain. "Your fighters are the only unit where all the destructive sentiments of former prisoners will surface long before they hit the front."
"Betting that a semi-legal group of ex-pirates and corsairs will be the place where they loosen up and start 'testing the waters'?" Anilex clarified.
"Exactly, Captain," I confirmed. "Lately, despite the abundance of conflicts galaxy-wide, some forces decided they could shake, break, and carve up the Dominion somehow. The Dominion Security Service, our counterintelligence, outplayed our foes. And gleaned quite valuable intel to help us strike back at certain ill-wishers. While they're busy with new problems, we'll finish prepping for a full-scale strike with all our might. But until then, no one should know we're the ones acting against them. As you understand, for that I need fighters with no direct ties to the Dominion. And the choice fell on you, since your org trains recruits to stormtrooper standards."
"Which you so kindly shared with us," Anilex reminded.
Not fully, of course.
Only what beats the nonsense and brings to heel.
Long drills and drilling combat actions to automatism.
Sending these sentients to Captain Irv or Tiberos would be stupid and pointless.
Anilex was the only one of the three auxiliary unit leaders with not just space forces but infantry too.
And that's exactly what I'd need in the near future.
Those not directly tied to the Dominion, not flying under the home flag, and linked to the D'Astan sector, of which Axxila—where I currently was—was part.
"Either way, by the time you finish with these cowards and traitors, we'll know who can blend into your org and who should've stayed on Kessel," I continued. "I've already told them your org's general rules, but I think it won't hurt to remind them once more. And so on until they memorize them as clearly as combat skills."
"My sergeants will start training next morning," the Cavil Corsairs commander assured. "Medics will get them on their feet today, and tomorrow we'll assign to units. But I must warn you—can't make fighters out of them quick."
"Excellent," I approved. "Better spend more time on prep and training they neglected before than litter battlefields with thousands of corpses. Back to what I said. I'll need some of your units to fan flames under my enemies' asses."
"So we have a mission, sir?" Captain Anilex clarified, squinting slyly like an interested businessman.
"Spot on," I nodded. "Rouse your fighters, Captain. The Cavil Corsairs are off to war. We'll start with the D'Astan sector, since you're neighbors. The baroness's forces have been seriously pissing me off lately with their lack of victories on the battlefield."