Ten years, two months, and eleven days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, second month, and eleven days after the Great ReSynchronization.
(Eight months and thirty-one days since arrival.)
This diner was the only decent one in Fulan City—the largest settlement near the site where the facility once known as the Sparti Creation once stood.
It was usually quiet here, even cozy.
The prices almost matched the quality of the goods, and the staff weren't nosy even with rare visitors—quite unusual for a backwater where anyone with credits and a hope of starting a new life fled as fast as they could.
Once, the Sparti Creation had been an economic miracle, providing steady income to the entire Parla sector, where the planet Cartao was located.
But after the complex was destroyed, things took a sharp turn for the worse.
As often happens, only those with nowhere else to go remained on the planet.
The youth preferred to flee, raised on their parents' stories that life on this world would never get better.
But today the diner was packed to the rafters.
It seemed representatives of every species and people in the galaxy had decided to visit the place. And they belonged to nearly every social stratum, starting just below average.
"Popular spot," the remark was directed at Reynar from Vex, who had settled beside her partner.
Beside—in the sense of practically pressed up against him.
"Harvest sale day today, remember?" Obscuro explained, popping a small piece of stewed meat into his mouth. "Sentients made some credits from the buyers and are letting themselves relax a bit. I don't see anything wrong with that."
"So we came here for nothing, huh?" Vex clarified, keeping her hands under the table. "Crowd."
"Don't worry," the Guardian reassured her. "I'm not sensing any threat from them. Better tell me what you found out."
Vex scanned the bustle.
"You feed a girl first, then ask questions, yeah? 'Whoever pays for the girl gets to dance with her.'"
"That even sounds disgusting," the man shook his head, pulling his hood lower over his face. "Your order will be here in a couple minutes."
Vex glanced sideways at her employer.
"The fact that you ordered for me in advance is sweet. But you do remember I don't eat anything with flour, right? If you forgot, you're in for big trouble," she warned. "Very big trouble. And actually, you're supposed to support me and skip all those calories too."
Her gaze locked onto the medium-sized meat pie sitting in the center of the table, only half gone.
"The second half is mine too," Obscuro smirked. "After all, I deserve a treat. And I need more calories than you do."
Vex demonstratively turned away, crossing her arms over her chest.
Her mood improved a little when she spotted the waiter droid hurrying toward her with a tray that smelled incredibly appetizing despite the domed lid.
But the moment the droid set the plate in front of her and lifted the lid, her mood plummeted again.
"Fine," she muttered reluctantly, stirring the salad leaves and estimating how long it would take to get a new order, given the crowd practically tearing the waiter droid and both cooks apart. "There's nothing wrong with flour. Especially when there's meat in it…"
"Oh, Vex. Here we go again!" Reynar teased, stroking her arm. "'Principles that aren't so principled when your stomach's growling.' It's stopped being funny."
"Exactly," the Twi'lek muttered, spearing the largest piece of meat from his plate with her fork. "The Force says we should share."
"Nothing of the sort," the former Inquisitor grimaced. "You don't even channel it to claim that."
"I'm assuming the Jedi lived by that principle…"
"And I'm no Jedi," Reynar deftly snatched back the best part of his meal but diplomatically split it into two roughly equal pieces, giving his girlfriend the larger one. "But I won't let you go hungry, fine."
"Just try it," Vex bared her even teeth. "You'll find out what happens when the ship's refresher gets a boiling-water geyser."
"You're evil," Reynar sighed.
"I prefer 'Not-Nice,'" the Twi'lek corrected, putting the gifted meat to its intended use.
"Should I start calling you 'Not-Nicey'?" the former Inquisitor asked, watching with a chuckle as the girl tucked into the meat pie.
"Vewy funny," she mumbled through a full mouth. "Good day, though. By the way, our guest is two hours away."
"Chew first," Obscuro advised, glancing in the direction his partner indicated.
A few minutes later, a middle-aged man sat down at their table, his face hidden by a cloak hood.
But to those sitting opposite, his fine features were visible.
A plain face, refined lines.
The kind people call "good breeding."
"No less than thirty-five, no more than forty-five," Reynar estimated the visitor's age.
Dressed in understated but clearly not cheap clothing.
Clear gaze, straight back, strong hands that obviously hadn't seen much heavy labor.
And heavy labor on Cartao was the foundation of survival and prosperity.
Whoever this man was, he was clearly above the simple workers who toiled in the fields from dawn to dusk, growing crops bought for pennies by fly-by-night traders.
"Good day," his polite tone confirmed what Reynar had already noted.
"And good health to you," Reynar wiped his lips with his sleeve, playing the part of a rough but shrewd trader. "I'm Bill Wo…"
"No names," the man requested. "Your partner said you're interested in extremely rare goods."
Reynar glanced at Vex, who was diligently working her jaws on the meat pie.
The girl shrugged—What do you want from me? I found someone who can at least tell us something; now it's your move.
"That's right," he nodded to the interlocutor. "I'm interested in valuable and rare tech samples. Preferably unique ones. I buy big and resell. Heard your planet has a complex that can retool for producing anything in just a day."
The man's face twitched.
"You're clearly from far away," he said.
"That's right," Reynar nodded. "How'd you guess?"
"Your ship's extremely worn," the visitor explained. "And you're asking about something that hasn't existed for nearly thirty years."
"Is that so?" Reynar feigned surprise. "What happened?"
"Jedi," the man hissed through his teeth. "They and their cursed Clone Wars came to Cartao and destroyed the Sparti Creation. The Jedi crashed their ship into the complex and wiped it out. The catastrophe razed all the production halls to the ground and killed most of the local workers. Without one or the other, restoring the Sparti Creation is impossible. So if you were hoping to place an order here, you've come all this way for nothing."
"Sorry to hear that," Reynar sighed. "I had big plans for that facility. Strange there's nothing about your tragedy in the HoloNet, honored one."
"Those Jedi took everything from me," the visitor said with the same venom. "I idolized them when I was younger. But after seeing how aggressive and callous they were, after their 'peacekeeping' robbed my family of income and took my father from me, I hate them with all my heart. I'm truly sorry you came all this way. But your efforts are in vain. No facility. No workers. You've probably noticed we're barely scraping by here…"
"Yeah, it's pretty bleak," Obscuro agreed. "But… maybe something's left? Every factory has warehouses where they stash products before shipping. Or were those destroyed too? You didn't come here just to repeat what you could've told my partner. I'm ready to pay big credits for any leftover industrial units or items that, purely by accident, went unaccounted for."
With his last words, he placed his palm on the center of the table, and when he lifted it, a stack of high-denomination coins remained.
Ten thousand credits in Hutt currency, which circulated more widely on neutral worlds than the Empire's temporary credits, Republic credits, Dominion money, or any other currency.
"A respectable and well-mannered person always pays for goods received, in any form."
The man grinned, reached for the money… and found Reynar had intercepted his hand.
"For goods received," the former Inquisitor repeated with emphasis; with his other hand he slid the coins aside. "Now," Obscuro released his fingers, "let's hear your story."
The interlocutor leaned in conspiratorially.
"Understand, what I'm about to tell you isn't for spreading around," he said quietly, looking Reynar straight in the eyes. "No one but me knows about this. Especially not the people of Cartao."
"Sure!" the Guardian said in a tone that made it clear he wasn't gullible. "How could it be otherwise?"
The man quickly glanced around and leaned even closer.
"It concerns the Binali family," he said mysteriously. "They ran the planet and controlled the Sparti Creation. Besides the facility, as you correctly noted, there were several warehouses—called branches. Finished products were moved there before sale or direct delivery to customers."
"And how is the Binali family connected to some branches?" Reynar asked, cautiously probing the man with the Force.
His intentions were unclear.
As if he were studying them.
That was suspicious.
"Just think about it," the man smirked. "An aristocrat runs a factory that can produce any goods and retool overnight for a completely different product line. Yet the planet never had an army or fleet. And no one ever tried to seize control of the enterprise. Why do you think that is?"
Reynar shrugged.
"Lord Binali had good connections with those who could protect him?"
"Something like that," the man snorted. "As I learned after my father's death, he knew how to make deals that benefited him. One of those deals helped him keep control of the Sparti Creation."
"Still don't get it…"
"There were three fully built branches and a fourth under construction," the interlocutor explained patiently. "Lord Binali shipped part of the goods using the branches so unaccounted-for equipment would 'get lost.' Then he passed it to those who, one way or another, solved his ownership problems. Considering only Lord Binali managed normal relations with the species that built the Sparti Creation, replacing him would've been foolish. Profit flows, the manager honors agreements—everyone's happy."
"Pretty simple but effective scheme," Vex noted, having already finished the pie remnants.
Reynar appreciated the girl's speed—he'd taken over half an hour to eat half a pie.
She'd managed it three times faster.
"So there's unique equipment left in the warehouses, produced by the Sparti Creation?" Obscuro showed his interest.
"Yes," the interlocutor agreed. "And plenty. Most of it was taken long ago by Black Sun operatives, but there's still profit to be made."
The mention of the criminal syndicate was alarming.
"So Binali was under Prince Xizor?" he asked.
"Xizor rose to power much later," the interlocutor readily explained. "The organization was run by completely different sentients back then. I guess they had some crisis, because by the end of the Clone Wars they seemed to forget about Cartao and never showed up again."
Reynar even knew which crisis.
But he wasn't rushing to show off his knowledge.
"And what exactly is in the warehouses?" he continued playing his role. "How much?"
"Not as much as we'd like," the man smirked. "Selling these goods let us live comfortably for years. But for a good price I'm ready to open the way to the warehouses and show you the full inventory. I assure you, it's worth seeing."
"I believe you," Reynar nodded, signaling with his eyes that the man could take his reward. "But tell me—what's there?"
"Agricultural machines, equipment for swampy terrain, mining gear," the man said casually. "And several hundred items the Old Republic came to Cartao for. We hid them from everyone and even lost track for a while. But when we started clearing the old tunnels a few months ago, we dug them up. Turns out Black Sun didn't take everything the Republic was after. I think you understand—this is extremely rare equipment worth big credits. Very big credits, frankly."
"Interesting why you haven't sold them yourself," Reynar thought, though another idea was spinning in his head.
The picture was coming together.
Lord Binali owned a unique factory that could build anything a client wanted.
He had deals with Black Sun—they provided protection and security, and in return he gave them part of the unaccounted-for but produced goods.
Given how unique and high-performance Sparti Creation machinery was, no wonder the criminals chose that method of collecting "tribute."
If they'd just taken credits from Binali, it would've been too simple and inefficient.
But unique, high-quality products… those could fetch insane prices on the black market.
In that case, Black Sun's profit from working with Binali skyrocketed.
Not to mention they didn't even need to show force or keep combat units on the planet.
A subtle hint that the world was under their protection was enough—problems solved themselves.
But there was a nuance that changed, and clarified, everything.
The Old Republic came to Cartao for one purpose—to produce Sparti cloning cylinders.
According to this man, Black Sun got part of that technology too.
That could explain why the Zann Consortium now had Sparti cloning cylinders actively operating on Smarck.
Plus, the interlocutor claimed they'd found another batch in abandoned tunnels.
Of course, assuming Reynar understood correctly.
This needed personal verification.
"I think before deciding if we need some rare tech that might not even sell, we should see it first," the Guardian said.
"Any time convenient for you," the man beamed. "I assure you, you won't be disappointed. Times are troubled, so if you or your clients want your own army, you'll snap this up with both hands."
"Well, let's take a look," Reynar caught a ripple in the Force and realized the most interesting part of his mission had begun.
"Please follow me," the man said courteously, rising from the table.
***
The holographic comm crackled with static as the connection was established.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn," Darth Maul addressed me in a thoughtful, deep bass, giving a slight half-bow. "Your assignment is complete."
Good news.
"Details," I demanded.
"We located and extracted the older boy from the Imperial Space cadet academy on Orinda," the Zabrak reported. "Had to knock him out to get him off the grounds without issues."
"And the younger?" I asked.
"Aurra Sing kidnapped him from the Orinda cadet school," the former instructor of Mara Jade said. "The boy is sedated and will soon be delivered to Dominion territory. We split up to avoid attention."
"A logical move," I assessed. "Deliver the children to my residence on Ciutric IV and hand them to the Jensaarai defenders."
Before handing the offspring to Zyix K'Zzt, we must ensure they pose no threat.
Considering that the children of a man officially considered dead but still an enemy of the Empire were placed in military institutions by that very Empire, it's highly suspicious if their young minds weren't brainwashed.
Reuniting the family while there's a risk that ideological adherents of the New Order might stab my only cloning specialist in the back or slit his throat would be reckless, to say the least.
Let the defenders examine them first for "hidden danger."
Of course, it's unlikely anyone cloned the children to plant "loaded weapons" with Zyix K'Zzt.
But there's an unbreakable rule for crossing Dominion borders—they all go through a meeting with the Jensaarai one way or another.
That's already helped us uncover enemy agents, saboteurs, plain ill-wishers, and hidden foes.
Not to mention that thanks to the Jensaarai and the Force we learned about the Zann Consortium's programmed clones.
Reasonable caution has never failed.
As my old classmate Glory used to say: "Just because you sense trouble but can't see its cause doesn't mean a brick isn't flying straight at your head from the dorm roof."
No need to look far for examples of when healthy paranoia in this galaxy solved a lot of problems.
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," the Zabrak hissed, making it clear he was seething with displeasure.
"Clearly you have something to say to me, Darth Maul," I said.
"Yes," his lips twisted into a hard smile. "I'd like to return to hunting Palpatine's servants. I'm sure he still has a few Force-sensitive sentients who could fall to my blade."
"No doubt the Emperor has Force-sensitive servants," I agreed.
Denying it would be foolish.
At least a couple of Dark Side Elite members are still alive.
Intelligence in key worlds is trying to locate them, but so far no traces.
Luring them out with "bait" by spreading rumors of Luke Skywalker on one planet or another, as we did last year, won't work—everything points to Vader's son being on Byss.
And if history still holds even a little to what I know and remember, Luke Skywalker's fall to the Dark Side has begun.
Given this family's predisposition for close contact with the Force, there's no need to guess who would win if Maul and Skywalker met.
I still need Maul—instructors for lightsaber combat aren't exactly plentiful.
Reynar Obscuro, Mara Jade, Asajj Ventress, Bre'ano Umakk, the Jensaarai they trained, and Ahsoka Tano all have some skill, but none match Maul.
"You will resume the hunt, Darth Maul," I promised. "As soon as intelligence locates these sentients. Not before."
Through the static came the Zabrak's irritated growl.
"Pay more attention to training your apprentice," I advised. "As I recall, you said Streen has unique abilities with elemental forces."
"That's true," Maul grimaced. "And he's not suited for the role of Shadow Guardian. Too soft. Too much compassion. Jedi philosophy is closer to him than Sith. He's no warrior—the Force interests him more than lightsaber combat. I'm certain he's not ready and never will be to follow orders and make exceptional decisions. His place is in defense, not attack, Grand Admiral. I was wrong to train him. He should be transferred to the Jensaarai Order."
"And risk leaking information about Shadow Guardian activities?" I clarified.
The Zabrak twitched the corner of his mouth.
"No, Darth Maul, your proposal is rejected," I declared. "As is its premise—getting rid of a burden to focus on hunting Dark Side Elite adepts. I agreed to spare your life for one purpose—to oppose Palpatine."
"That's true," the Zabrak bared his teeth. "I can kill him."
"I'd take your word for it, but I suspect that's not the case," I countered, which the Zabrak didn't like. "Darth Sidious is one of the best swordsmen and Dark Side adepts I know of. Defeating him with lightsabers alone will be impossible. That's why I allowed you to train Streen. If I understood correctly, Streen could be the very addition that helps you defeat Darth Sidious. You're a lightsaber combat specialist. With the holocron and other records from Ossus and Dantooine, you can prepare Streen so Palpatine's Force attacks don't gain the upper hand."
"Subtle Force matters aren't what a warrior needs."
"As you rightly noted—and as a specialist, I trust your opinion—Streen is no warrior," I reminded. "You have knowledge, you have time—prepare him for battle. For victory in that battle."
The emphasis clearly angered the Zabrak.
Well, that's his right.
It's enough that he didn't argue.
"I understand you, Grand Admiral," the man said.
Or more accurately "half-man," given the cybernetic lower body?
"That's all, Darth Maul," I said, shutting down the holoterminal.
I think, despite being a powerful lightsaber fighter—possibly the strongest alive—he realizes deep down that Palpatine's power isn't just in effective swordplay.
His mastery of the Force is an order of magnitude higher than any living Sith or Dark Side adherent.
Approaching his elimination without an alliance with the Skywalkers or Marek can only follow the rules of big-game hunting.
You need beaters to weaken the beast before the final, lethal shot.
That's why I try to protect and improve my Jensaarai and Guardians.
I fear the former will have to be the beaters, and the latter the "shooters" who finish the target.
We have no other options.
There aren't many experienced Jedi or Sith on the Dominion side capable of fighting someone who can bury a nineteen-kilometer super star destroyer in the middle of Coruscant without anyone noticing.
That's why I place great hopes on Ahsoka Tano's training under the ghost of Darth Vectivus.
According to the spy droid's data, the Togruta is still on the asteroid and hasn't left for a moment.
I definitely won't interfere with her learning the Dark Side, because I understand that neither Jedi nor Sith training happens in a few months or days.
There's a counter-example.
The galaxy already has an undertrained Jedi who learned the hard way "on the job."
What came of it, how many of his students fell to the Dark Side and became galactic-scale threats, is no secret to those familiar with this galaxy's Expanded Universe history.
I don't claim omniscience, but what I do know is enough to understand the situation.
Palpatine doesn't just send some of his minions "to slaughter" for no reason.
He doesn't just intend to wear them out and rid himself of traitors—he's also focusing on breaking Skywalker's will and training him.
I fear the reborn Darth Sidious's debut is delayed because he's putting maximum effort into purging his ranks of traitors and training Skywalker.
In that case, there's no guarantee Vader's son will return to the Light Side and help destroy Darth Sidious.
It could happen that he breaks and replaces his late father as the Emperor's right hand.
Consequently, I must plan for that scenario too.
Risk more and more.
Unfortunately, you can't win star wars relying solely on military might.
At least not when your enemies have people who can drop star destroyers on planets or happen to be Darth Vader's descendants.
I need aces.
And I hope I'll have them soon.
Otherwise, the galaxy will brew such a mess that the events I know will seem like child's play compared to what I've stirred up.
But there's no other way—fight fire with fire.
Well, that moment of philosophizing is over.
Time to get to work.
For example, remind one brilliant slicer that we're actually expecting results from him.
***
On their unnamed interlocutor's landspeeder, they covered several kilometers toward a massive structure.
It looked like a ruined warehouse that had survived fires and an obvious roof collapse from something heavy.
"Doesn't look impressive," Reynar admitted.
"Don't judge by appearances," the interlocutor smirked. "We keep the best stuff in the tunnels. In the past they were built so as not to disturb the Sparti Creation workers—they had a strange obsession with keeping the grass around the production complex untouched."
"No walking on the grass?" Vex asked in surprise, sitting in the back seat of the speeder.
"Those were the rules," the driver explained. "It wasn't our place to break them."
"Well, of course," Vex agreed.
"And how come neither the Republic, nor the CIS, nor the Empire ever came here to sort out the Sparti Creation remnants?" Reynar asked. "The tech was unique, but we live in an age of the impossible—it could clearly be restored and used as desired."
"That's the problem—it can't," the interlocutor explained. "Only a small part of the population that built the complex understood how it all worked. And even then, more intuitively. The destruction happened, as I said, with most workers dead. No one left who could restore or operate a restored facility, even if such a miracle occurred."
"Well, fine for the Republic," Reynar said. "But the Empire was obsessed with extravagant projects they could throw huge credits at. Hard to believe they just left it alone…"
"Ha, you bet!" the man said, pulling the speeder up to the leaning central gates. "They came, of course. Studied the Sparti Creation ruins. Collected what was left of the cargo on-site when the Jedi ship crashed," he grew serious again. "Took everything they could. Then abandoned and forgot us. We had to survive on our own."
"Touching story," Reynar thought. "I think I shouldn't show him how little I care."
"But you managed to keep some of what was produced," he shifted the conversation.
"We had to work hard for it," the man said with a note of pride. "At first, when the battle ended and the Sparti Creation was destroyed, we thought the goods were gone too. Then we learned one branch warehouse still had the last batch of Republic cargo. They shipped it out before we figured out what was what. But later we checked what remained. That's how we found Father's reserves. By the way, we've arrived."
He said the last words as their transport stopped.
A few minutes to climb out of the speeder and pass through a small door beside the gates.
"They've been broken for ages," their guide explained. "Of course, if you buy from us, we'll dismantle them and help load everything onto your ship. But I think it's easier to bring your Lambda right to the warehouse—the roof collapsed long ago."
And indeed—the sky was visible through the ceiling.
Reynar's trained eye noted signs of a fire inside, matching the exterior marks.
Clearly why the roof had caved in.
But it hadn't happened after he and his partner arrived on Cartao.
Despite the breeze blowing through, there wasn't a speck of construction debris inside.
So the fire aftermath had been cleaned up long ago.
"This way," their guide waved toward an imposing door in a small utility room at the far wall.
The gate size made it clear this passage was meant for transporting large items.
Near the utility room were a pair of guards who, at the sight of their boss, began pretending to be busy, only confirming they were doing anything but their job.
Behind the utility gates was an equally wide corridor dug underground, sloping gently downward.
"The Sparti Creation workers dug it," the guide explained. "To make delivering finished products to storage easier."
That much was obvious.
Especially since it had already been mentioned.
Reynar sensed no hostility from the guards or the man himself.
But something still bothered him.
Judging by Vex keeping quiet, it bothered her too.
Numerous low-power lamps glowed under the tunnel vaults, providing just enough light to see the path.
"Lining the tunnel with permacrete is expensive," Vex unexpectedly broke her silence.
"That's not permacrete," the man said. "When the workers dug the tunnels, they processed the soil into a material stronger than any known construction mix. Unfortunately, it can only be produced by passing it through cransocs—the ones who built this. But nearly all died in the catastrophe, so these swirls and hooks," he pointed to barely visible patterns on the wall, "are all that remain from that era. We studied the material, but synthesizing it is impossible—there are compounds we can't even create artificially."
"A great loss," Reynar said. "With that construction material, demand would be insane."
"Yes, but we have what we have," the man spread his hands. "This way."
He pointed to one of the barely noticeable arched decorations stretching from floor to ceiling.
But its width was nearly half the corridor's, and its height no less than five meters.
On closer inspection, it turned out to be a hidden door that slid aside as their guide approached.
Thus they entered a vast chamber no smaller than the surface warehouse.
Lighting was slightly better here, so Obscuro could make out dozens of rows of non-standard transport containers, each nearly as tall as the arch they'd passed through.
"And what's inside?" Reynar asked.
"Open one," the guide suggested, approaching the nearest crate. "I prefer letting the client see for themselves what they're buying. First-impression effect."
And also easy to gauge from the side whether the client understands what's being shown or is a complete novice.
Obscuro opened the locks on one container face without trouble and slid aside the thin but sturdy metal front plate.
Looking at the four-meter transparisteel cylinder wrapped top and bottom in a web of instruments and wires, he demonstratively scratched his head and glanced at their guide.
"And why did the Republic need these incubators? Breeding animals for meat?"
The man smiled—and in the dim light his smile looked more like a villain's grin.
"You can tell you've never seen anything like it," he said, approaching the container. "This is one of eight hundred Sparti cloning cylinders produced to Old Republic blueprints. The next-generation cloning cylinders were what the Old Republic wanted to manufacture on Cartao. They gave our workers blueprints and specs, we retooled the equipment, and production began. There were three generations total. The first—built entirely to Republic blueprints. The second—with minor technical tweaks by our specialists. The third… unfortunately, I don't know what was changed, as the third generation was on Sparti Creation grounds when the facility was destroyed."
"You said the Republic managed to ship some batch," Vex reminded.
"That's true," the man nodded. "Several thousand cylinders of the first and second generations were on the grounds—first and second batches. The Republic decided to take only the third, so these were stored here. In total, about twenty thousand units of first- and second-generation cloning cylinders were produced. Same for the third. Most of the first were destroyed, and the second—Palpatine's then-assistant, Kinman Doriana, secretly shipped off-world."
Forty thousand Sparti cloning cylinders total!
But only about half survived.
All third-generation, if this man was telling the truth, were now at Grand Admiral Thrawn's disposal after passing through Doriana, Palpatine, and the Empire.
But what about the first twenty thousand?
Reynar voiced that question.
"As I said—most were destroyed," the man reminded. "After the Sparti Creation was destroyed, the Republic sent scientists and soldiers who shipped out everything they could. The Empire did the same. But thanks to collapsed tunnels, they found nothing. We dug them up. And now we can profit nicely. Here," he gestured at the rows of containers, "eight hundred cloning cylinders. Unlike Kaminoan tech, these cylinders—per Old Republic specs—can produce a clone in not ten years like the Kaminoans, but just one year. One year—and you can have an entire army to conquer some remote world. In my view—quite valuable equipment."
"I agree," Reynar thought quickly. "I recall you said Black Sun worked with Lord Binali. And got part of the production. Did they get these too?"
When assigning them this mission, the Grand Admiral had said seven thousand two hundred such cloning cylinders were found on Smarck.
Another twenty thousand had long been in Dominion hands.
An extra eight hundred incubators wouldn't hurt.
Twenty-eight thousand Sparti cloning cylinders—more than twenty-seven thousand two hundred.
A valuable haul.
Yes, they'd have to pay, but still.
"Of course," the man replied. "Seven thousand two hundred from the first batch. Lord Binali hid them in underground storage as soon as Doriana learned the tech could be improved. And he wanted the best of the best."
"More likely he was just stalling," Reynar thought, familiar with the situation Doriana's minion had pulled here.
Kinman Doriana was officially sent to set up cloning cylinder production.
In reality he served Darth Sidious's interests, not the Republic's.
So he did everything to ensure Separatists attacked the planet, providing official cloning cylinder supplies in the Republic's interest.
He probably thought he could take all the cylinders Binali hid.
But Binali apparently outplayed the Supreme Chancellor's assistant.
And saved the goods for his patrons.
Which they later collected.
Interesting why these eight hundred weren't evacuated.
"And how much do you want for them?"
"One hundred thousand each," the man said.
"Credits?" Vex asked.
"Peggats," the man smiled at her. "Governments using credit chits as currency change like gloves lately. But peggats have circulated the galaxy for thousands of years and are accepted everywhere."
Hard to argue with that truth.
"Eighty million peggats is a big sum," Vex said. "In credits—that's the price of a good star cruiser or a used destroyer."
"So what? The goods are worth it," the man said.
Reynar sensed the man was puzzled and wary.
He radiated notes of hostility.
"No doubt," Obscuro said. "But first we need to verify the equipment works. And gather the full sum—big money. I assume you want cash, right?"
"We'll need transport to ship all this too," Vex continued. "That costs credits as well."
"Not to mention specialists to operate the equipment," Reynar kept driving the price down. "Plenty of issues… Seventy thousand each."
"One hundred," the man smiled. "And not a wupiupi less."
Wupiupi—a small coin worth a fraction of a peggat.
A direct hint no haggling.
Reynar could buy the whole batch outright, but he knew traders and adventurers didn't do business that way.
"Eighty."
"One hundred," their new acquaintance stood firm.
"Then inspection is on your dime."
The Force screamed a warning as doors hissed shut behind the man and the warehouse sealed.
"Looks like we'll have to find our own way out," Vex said, eyes locked on the silently laughing man.
"I think," a voice came from the darkness of the equipment rows, "you won't need that."
Reynar and Vex reacted instantly, ready for combat.
The Twi'lek grabbed her blasters; Reynar held off on the lightsaber.
No time to reveal his Force ability.
Because the woman now walking through the darkness toward them had literally appeared from thin air.
The former Inquisitor could've sensed her earlier—but couldn't.
He felt no living beings nearby except the two the man could see—his guide who'd led them into the trap, and Vex.
Hiding from the Force is hard, but possible.
Thrawn used ysalamiri for that.
But that trick wouldn't work on someone who'd once felt the Force-null bubble those lizards create.
Optical camouflage—expensive but useless against Force-users.
You can hide from sensors, eyes, scanners—but not the Force.
It always reveals where a sentient is.
But there was another way.
The nastiest of all.
"Such indecisive agents," the Zabrak woman sneered, stepping into view for Reynar, who still couldn't sense her in the Force. "Spent so much time on the planet and only now walked into the trap. Well done, Lord Binali."
"And I thought someone said this man was dead," Vex hissed, glancing at the human.
The young man laughed.
"My father died," he explained. "I am Korf Binali. Son of the man the Jedi, Republic, Palpatine, and Empire used for their own ends. And today, thanks to my patrons in Black Sun, I finally avenge my father! Die, Imperial agents!"
Explaining anything to this sentient was pointless.
The woman hiding in the warehouse was clearly an elite Black Sun operative if she planned to fight two alone.
More precisely—the Zann Consortium.
More precisely still—she was an extremely dangerous opponent if Reynar's guess was right.
And no time for sentiment—whether they worked for the Empire or the Dominion.
If they weren't killed…
With a hiss and crimson glow, a spinning red lightning bolt streaked overhead.
With its characteristic sound it sliced into the upper half of Korf Binali's body, severing his head.
The mutilated corpse crumpled to the smooth, sturdy floor.
The head, mouth twisted in a silent scream, eyes full of shock, horror, and rage, rolled to their feet.
"Annoying little thing," the Zabrak woman said with a vengeful smirk, catching her weapon by hand. "The pawn played his role—agents arrived. Now—let's have some fun."
With a characteristic hiss, another short lightsaber appeared in her hands.
Now she wielded twin weapons that dispelled Reynar's last doubts.
The Zabrak was Force-sensitive.
And she worked for the Zann Consortium.
"Surrender," she said. "You can't beat me anyway. I trained under the best masters. Fought the very spawn of the Abyss—and survived. Your resistance will be nothing more than amusing but brief play. And I have very different plans for tonight."
Vex fired at the Zabrak, but she easily parried the blaster bolts, deflecting them into an open container.
Two white-blue charges passed through the transparent cylinder shell, leaving molten holes.
"Kriffing hell!" the Twi'lek swore, looking for a better firing position.
"Filthy worms," the Zabrak bared her teeth, shedding her familiarity. "I'm ordered to take the agents alive. But no one said you need all your arms and legs."
"You're wrong," Reynar sighed, revealing the lightsaber hilt that leaped into his hand. "I say—we're against."
With a hiss and crackle, a crimson blade flared in the half-darkness, one that had felled many Jedi.
Roaring with rage, the wielder of twin short lightsabers charged, filling the underground vault with a furious cry.
***
"…And I'm telling you it's a pointless waste of time," Pent said, giving his double a reproachful look.
Though technically he was the double of Ghent.
"I don't think there's a better alternative," the one-of-a-kind (in his boyish simplicity) original shook his head. "We've tried everything technically possible."
"So you decided pinging could solve the problem?" Pent asked skeptically.
"From the alternatives, we're left asking for a million scout droids and sending them across the galaxy hoping they find the target," Ghent said sheepishly, turning away.
"You're ignoring several points with that suggestion!" Pent grimaced like a child.
"We've got an incoming call," the original said.
"First, for that we'd have to send a signal galaxy-wide and wait to see if…" Pent fell silent as the meaning of the last phrase hit him. "Interesting. Who needs us now?"
"Got a lot of options?" Ghent shivered.
"Not really," Pent mirrored his movement. "No, logically he's right. We've blown every deadline. So…"
From the holoterminal came a persistent incoming transmission chime accompanied by energetic blinking of the call indicator.
Just so even the densest would get it.
"Blinking like it's angry," Ghent admitted.
"I'd be angry too in its place," Pent sided with the caller. "What do we do?"
"We could not answer," Ghent blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Like we're not here."
"Yeah, out for a walk," Pent said sarcastically. "Need I remind you there are guards outside the door? If we don't answer, they'll come in. Possibly through the wall."
"Pity the server," Ghent glanced at the room's walls lined with tech. "Better answer…"
Without a word, Pent approached the comm unit and after brief hesitation activated it.
For several seconds the projector showed only static.
Then broken lines and noise vanished—the smart equipment auto-adjusted to line distortions and compensated.
"Mister Ghent, Mister Pent," a blue-skinned sentient with crimson eyes addressed them in an unusual greeting.
No, the eyes were the same color as the rest of the hologram, but for some reason Ghent imagined they blazed so brightly a supernova would seem a small flash by comparison.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn," Pent said with a forced smile. "We're so glad to see you. How are you? How's your health?"
"The Eye of Palpatine," the Dominion ruler didn't fall for the stall. "I need a report."
The clone and original exchanged glances, then hung their heads guiltily.
"No progress," Thrawn correctly interpreted.
"Sir, we've worked through over a hundred theories on finding that chunk of rock, but they've all stayed theories," Pent admitted. "We're at a dead end. I'm afraid finding this ship is simply impossible with what we have."
"So, having nearly full specs on the ship, its creation principles, armament, equipment markings, the galaxy's best slicer and his clone declare themselves powerless?" the Grand Admiral clarified.
For some reason it felt like icy cold pierced to the bone despite no change in tone.
"That's how it is," Ghent said quietly. "It's like looking for a bolt in an asteroid field orbit."
"Well, actually there is an idea," Ghent said enthusiastically.
"Oh, idiot," Pent grimaced.
"I'm listening," Thrawn said, as if not noticing their banter. He fixed his gaze on the original as the idea's initiator and shamelessly bored into him. "Do you have something to say, Mister Ghent?"
"Sir, it's a crazy idea," Pent hurried to warn.
"Your opinion will be noted," Thrawn assured. "Mister Ghent. No need to make me repeat the same question twice."
The slicer flinched.
"Basically, there's one way," he licked dry lips. "We know a lot about the equipment installed on the Eye of Palpatine. Including unique comms identifiers it uses to communicate…"
"I know what comms equipment is for, Mister Ghent," Thrawn assured. "Continue."
"So, there's a theory that by connecting to HoloNet servers we could ping those systems," terrified Ghent blurted.
Thrawn was silent several seconds.
"Explain."
"Pinging is, among other things, a way to locate between computers," Pent explained. "From one computer a data packet is sent to a unique identifier. Knowing the identifier we can be sure the data reaches it. But as the packet travels the HoloNet, we learn which repeaters it passed through, what beam width the comms installations had…"
"In other words we'd know in which sector the Eye of Palpatine is and in what direction from the repeater to look for it," Ghent continued. "From timing delays and packet transmission drops we'd also know how long transmission took from repeater to the Eye's comms unit. Knowing the final repeater's wireless channel specs and getting the delay, we could calculate distance from repeater to receiver. Then send a command and board."
"Interesting proposal," Thrawn said. "Mister Pent, any objections?"
"Of course," the clone snorted. "First, understand the equipment on that rock is unique. And comms frequencies too. If someone's still monitoring use of all that, our ping will be detected. No need to be a genius to reverse-ping and trace the signal source."
"And trace the final target," Thrawn added.
"Yes," Pent nodded. "That way we not only give ourselves away but help someone find the cursed dreadnought."
"That your only objection?" the Grand Admiral asked.
"No, of course not," Pent said. "Suppose we successfully mask the signal source—hard but possible. The problem is we'd need to send either a single test signal—and it would wander repeaters until it finds the addressee. Or mass-send packets to all repeaters at once."
"The Empire never tried that?"
"They did, of course," Pent agreed. "And got nothing. They used mass-launch of search programs. Because sending a 'wandering packet' wastes huge time. But the equipment never responded anyway. That could mean two issues. First—mechanical damage to the dreadnought's comms. Signal just doesn't reach. Second—and equally likely—the ship's computer swallows search packets and doesn't send replies."
"In other words the sought response won't be found," Grand Admiral Thrawn said.
"Exactly, sir," Ghent answered quietly.
"But as I said—for the most optimal pinging we'd need access to the greatest computing power. No single state has that—only at HoloNet headquarters. But naturally they won't let us into their systems. Because we won't let them check the packet contents. At minimum they'd refuse out of fear we'd launch a virus attack. The Empire probably sent a couple destroyers to the planet…"
"Other ideas?" Thrawn asked.
"No," Pent shook his head.
"We could send millions of scout droids across the galaxy," Ghent cautiously suggested. "Would be pricey, of course…"
"Of course," Thrawn agreed. "Irrational to search for a ship whose cost is less than the resources spent looking."
"I've heard you. Mister Ghent—pack your things," it sounded almost like a death sentence.
The original looked anxiously at his double.
"Mister Pent—you stay and keep working on finding the Eye of Palpatine," Thrawn summarized. "Mister Ghent—a ship is already prepared for you."
"I understand, I've failed you," Zakarisz hung his head. "Can I at least choose which black hole you send me to?"
"Undoubtedly you have the right to choose your death," Thrawn agreed, further depressing the slicers. "But we'll discuss that later. You have another assignment."
"Really?" Ghent nearly jumped. "Wow! What do I do?"
"Nothing complicated," the Grand Admiral replied. "You'll just fly a ship into the center of a minefield."
The last thing Zakarisz heard before fainting was a suspicious drawn-out hissing gurgle from his own clone.