Serenno…
How much is in that word.
And yet it seems like nothing so supernatural.
A planet in the D'Astan sector that is easily found in the astronavigational reference in quadrant P-5.
It is easily reached via such hyperspace routes as the Hydian Way and the Celanon Spur.
This place could be called a paradise thanks to its mild climate.
Tropical forests, purest and spacious oceans, savannas intersected by picturesque mountains…
Beautiful cities arranged in exquisite styles.
No narrow streets, no back alleys for you.
A world where there seem to be no problems.
Perhaps for this reason—the mildness of living conditions—the local Great Houses, the aristocracy, considered themselves entitled to do what they wished and what their own means allowed them.
They have paid for their treachery more than once, but history teaches them absolutely nothing.
About a thousand years ago, the then Supreme Chancellor of the Old Republic was nearly shot on Serenno.
During the Clone Wars, the Great Houses supported Count Dooku and the Separatists. However, after the Clone Wars, Palpatine sent Darth Vader to Serenno to exact the Galactic Empire's retribution on the six ruling Houses that had defected to the Separatist side during the war.
During the so-called Purge of Serenno, five counts—except for the new Count Dooku, who was in exile during the Clone Wars—were offered a choice: to be killed by their eldest sons or to be killed by the Sith Lord and his soldiers.
"The representative of House Borgin killed his father first, followed by the rest…"
Hedge Spahr removed the helmet from his head, setting it aside.
The same place where he set aside the datapad he had been studying for some time before.
"Interesting history this crummy place has," he said, looking at the high domed ceiling of the Great Assembly Chamber.
Great Assembly Chamber (planet Serenno).
It was here that the members of the Great Houses of Serenno—the six primary noble families—met to discuss matters of planetary importance.
Members of minor aristocratic houses also participated in the parliament's work, although they performed a purely advisory role.
Again, if one believes the history written by the local residents.
Spahr could boast only of what he had studied shortly before the deployment of his fighters to the planet.
Namely, that Serenno is a rather dirty place.
Rotten, to be more precise.
Even after the defeat of the Confederacy of Independent Systems and the formal end of the Clone Wars nearly thirty years ago, local aristocrats (secretly, of course) continued to support Separatists who disagreed with the defeat in the conflict.
During the local Imperial campaign to purge sectors of Confederate revanchists, Separatist forces that fled Muunilinst and Mygeeto to the Suitrike sector were funded by Serenno, while Serennian mercenaries helped break the Imperial siege of Binkvaros and aided the Separatists' evacuation.
After the Battle of Endor, the warlord Zsinj established a base on Serenno and used the planet as the capital of his empire.
Now it is the capital of anti-government forces that are being slowly strangled.
One by one.
"Not a bit early to sit down for a rest, Spahr?"
The voice was sharp, agitated, and familiar.
The commander of the Mandalorian unit turned his head toward the source of the sound.
Captain Anilex, commanding the "Cavil's Corsairs" mercenaries, was moving toward him from the very entrance to the Chamber.
He quite deftly stepped over the bodies of fallen fighters littering the space inside the domed room of the Great Assembly Chamber, as if dancing in the middle of death parties.
"Do you have something to say to me, Anilex?" Hedge inquired, rising from the chair and returning the helmet to his head.
"Banta poodoo, yes!"—the enraged captain did not mince words.—"What the Hutt happened?! Why didn't your Mandalorians immediately suppress the anti-space defense guns? My forces suffered losses!"
"Oh really," Spahr huffed, casting a glance through the stained-glass window, pierced in dozens of places by blaster shots.
A storm was gathering in the distance. Each flash of lightning illuminating the sky momentarily highlighted the silhouette of grandiose buildings on the horizon.
The cities of Serenno rose over a dreary horizon turned into a mass grave over several days of fighting.
Thousands of "Cavil's Corsairs" soldiers and nearly a hundred Mandalorians gave their lives to capture the Great Assembly Chamber.
Times more enemy soldiers and mercenaries died to prevent them from doing so.
Naturally, they lost.
"I lost all ships in orbit!" Anilex roared in his face, approaching closely and grabbing his breastplate. "My fleet is broken!"
Smiling, Spahr struck his ally's face, forcing him to retreat several steps back.
Tripping over a corpse, the captain flopped onto his backside.
"Your face is broken too," the Mandalorian commented, extending a hand. "And ninety-seven of my elite guys are dead too. And your 'former Imperials' don't really know how to fight at all, because of which we had to do their work ourselves. And take control of the planetary turbolasers, and cover the Great Assembly Chamber. And you tripped over the body of one of my good comrades. I grew up in the same settlement with him, as well as with each of those who died today, yesterday, the day before, a week ago, and from the very moment we began fighting on the Dominion's side. I knew each of them. And now I am—alive. And they are—dead. They are—almost like family to me. And your mercenaries… Well I doubt you knew even one of them by name. So, stop throwing a tantrum and let's go without the whining? This battle was hard for everyone—both your and my forces. But we captured a bridgehead on the surface. It will be a bit simpler further on. So we'll write it all off to nerves, shake hands, and think how to deal with the remaining opponents. Deal?"
Anilex, looking at the extended hand, shifted his gaze to the corpses surrounding him.
After which he grabbed the armored gauntlet and with a jerk was on his feet, wiping blood from his face.
"Deal," he said.
"Well then excellent," Hedge huffed.
He himself had long since come down from the adrenaline of battle.
Mandalorians do not perceive losses in battle as emotionally as Anilex.
To die in battle with a weapon in hand—is the highest honor a Mandalorian man can be worthy of.
Pity that all other soldiers don't understand that.
Anilex could probably understand.
And he isn't so much worried about dead mercenaries as the ships of his organization turned into scrap metal.
Mercenaries can be easily recruited again and in plenty—they are expendable material.
"Cavil's Corsairs" fight for money.
Mandalorians—by calling.
For the sake of their new Homeland, the Dominion, which gave them the opportunity to prove themselves.
To restore the glory of their ancestors.
Anilex simply isn't used to losing so many people in one battle.
No matter, war will teach.
"Now my nose is broken too," the Auxilian threw out without malice, touching the indicated part of the body.
Judging by the tone—the irritation from losses is gradually fading away.
Well and good.
"Better than a spine," Hedge commented, nodding toward the datapad. "Did you know the local aristocratic sons here killed their papas by Darth Vader's order? During the Purge of Serenno."
"I know some kind of meat grinder happened here, but without details," Anilex admitted.
"Well it turned out that patricides have been gathering here for the last almost thirty years," Hedge huffed, gesturing around the space of the Great Assembly Chamber. "And most of the Great Families of Serenno ended right here too. We killed quite a few little people in colorful armor. I think tomorrow morning half the local aristocratic families will learn they are left without heads."
"Who exactly?" Anilex asked.
"How should I know?" Hedge shrugged. "My business is to kill, not identify corpses. Let Pellaeon and his servants deal with that."
"He's securing orbit," Anilex said. "Preparing a landing of my guys to the surface."
"If they fight the same as those you sent to help us, there'll be much more corpses," Spahr complained.
"All my cadres were dragged off to operations in other sectors anyway," Anilex snapped back without malice. "Had to throw former Imperials brought from Kessel into battle. Not Hutt knows what, but scraped all reserves of those at least familiar with a weapon."
"I thought you had ten million standing under blaster rifles," Spahr noted.
"If only," Anilex grimaced. "It would be so if Thrawn hadn't allowed free migration between sectors. Many from Axila's lower levels realized that besides becoming thugs, they could quietly engage in farming or train as technicians, pilots, take loans and buy freighters, become carriers… The population outflow is significant. It's understandable—if there's a chance not to take a blaster in hand, why not take this chance for a 'normal life'."
"But why?" Hedge wondered. "War is men's business. At least among Mandalorians it is."
"We are—not Mandalorians," Anilex reminded.
Both commanders fell silent.
"The death of even a few aristocrats, rebel supporters—is already a big victory," Anilex said. "The rest will soon realize the jokes are over and start thinking about how to save their lives."
Spahr snorted.
"If what Pellaeon said—is true, then like Hutt they'll go surrender," he voiced his thoughts. "They're like some kind of fanatics. Brainwashed clones commanding their own armies. They'll pull back to their territories, castles, cities, entrench themselves there. And we'll have to take each of them by attrition, storm them."
"No, the capture of the Great Assembly Chamber means a lot to them," the mercenary commander said confidently. "This place—is the symbol of the local aristocracy's power. And when power and its symbols—are in the enemy's hands, when there is no way out, a minute of understanding comes. And thoughts of the future. I think some of the aristocratic families will surrender after all. Or at least part of their forces. If they want to live, of course."
He placed a hand encouragingly on the Mandalorian's shoulder.
"This is an important victory for all of us," he said. "I understand how deeply you take such large losses among your own. Unlike us, you don't have that many soldiers in reserve. But I believe your storming of the Great Assembly Chamber has broken the rebellion leadership's back. So soon we'll be able to enrich ourselves properly through bonuses. I think it's worth, perhaps, celebrating the capture of the bridgehead. Already tomorrow locals will be running to us on bended knees to surrender and tell how best to conquer them."
Ah no.
Unpleasant to admit, but Spahr was still mistaken about people.
Anilex measures a military campaign by completely different criteria than the Mandalorian leader.
That is the difference between them and simple mercenaries.
Hence the contempt for those kinsmen who went into bounty hunting or similar organizations.
Mandalorians fight primarily for glory, for the protection of their home—looting riches comes as the second item on the list.
For mercenaries, glory is by no means in first place.
He shook off the mercenary's hand and headed for the exit.
"Celebrate if you want," he threw over his shoulder while leaving. "We will be licking our wounds and preparing for the next battles. Mark my words: the real war for possession of Serenno has only just begun."
***
"…Do you even realize what you've done?!"
"Full holds of vacuum to me! Tell me it's not true?!"
"Where was your head when you made this decision?!"
As one political officer used to say: "Rather than fight and suffer, better just to wait."
And now the full beauty of this wise moral is unfolding before me.
It related directly to relationships between a man and a woman.
The political officer, having had a drink, sometimes slipped into philosophy.
And we, young conscripts at the time, most of whom hadn't had time before conscription service to dip into the world beyond platonic love, were presented with a chance to become listeners to his strictly pragmatic life position.
The political officer by his years had incomparably more experience communicating with the opposite sex.
And clearly knew what he was talking about.
Not to believe a political officer in the army in my time—was not just a sin.
It was a synonym for aimlessly lived years of service.
Because a political officer teaches not only to love the Motherland and in simple language conveys both to yesterday's schoolboy, to a shepherd, and to a student kicked out of institute who is the Motherland's enemy and why.
A political officer—is a treasury of knowledge.
An unquestioned authority.
And on some questions—also the truth of the last instance.
Therefore, when a political officer tells you that: "Men are from Mars, and women—from Venus," you shouldn't ask questions about how one and the other reached Earth when your motherland's space technologies, the most powerful power in the world, hadn't yet reached such a level as ensuring mass migration of civilizations.
You just believe it.
Because if you don't just listen to the political officer, but HEAR him, then through the prism of words you can discern echoes of personal experience.
By the end of conscription service I, for example, perfectly understood that the political officer had been in love twice in his life.
Once in school, and this love he carried through his army service, studies at the institute.
It shattered against the first weeks of wandering through garrisons that began immediately after completing specialized education, a hastily arranged wedding, and upon completion of the very first mission.
Marking the beginning of life in conditions that the class's first beauty, daughter of a regional-scale intellectual, considered basic.
It was then the political officer realized he loved not the one he saw before him every day.
But the one he imagined, dreamed of, and idolized.
Unfortunately reality and representations—are completely different things.
Which the young lieutenant learned when the newly-made spouse left their cramped room in the officers' dormitory during his time on duty by call of service.
The second chosen one was already a lady experienced in matters of relations with men.
And along with her the young officer learned what mercantilism cloaked as supposed "love" is.
Here everything turned out more prosaic.
As quietly as they met, so they parted.
But to each of these women the political officer was grateful for the life experience he gained.
To us young and uneducated it seemed the old officer was just complaining and grumbling at a life that didn't turn out for him.
Insight began to come later—when letters from home began to arrive, written by girlish hands and in calligraphic handwriting.
After reading such tidings from home nothing needed to be said or asked.
Everything was written on the face.
"Didn't wait."
First, after the soldiers, the political officer noticed this.
And for each he found the right word.
Strangely enough, to none of us did he say that "Broads are fools, bitches" and "She'll still regret letting such a guy go."
The political officer spoke with soul, poignantly, taking each Motherland defender's pain as his own.
Most importantly, sitting there, with him, with ruffled feelings, you understood the man was speaking from the heart, not in official phrases you don't believe in.
Likely for many it was this officer who became that very trigger that brought us into the Armed Forces.
I well remembered his advice when, smearing snot and tears, I told my story.
How I carried the briefcase in school, how I took her to the circus and the cinema, how we sat at one desk, how I bought her a bus ticket with my last money and myself walked halfway across the city at night and got a thrashing for my "wanderings."
Told a lot.
And in response heard that very phrase which is now turning in my thoughts… "The times of knights are gone and noble maidens have long since not been noble, and sometimes no longer maidens."
Noble acts will not be valued.
Stepping over oneself and one's principles—will necessarily be perceived as weakness and a led position.
A girl should not be liked for looks or beauty of figure—it is only a shell that will change with age.
A girl should be perceived by the heart as more than a friend, less than an ideal.
Just as they judge us by deeds and not just by words, so we must understand what they really are.
The one who is with you when you are in trouble—is the right choice.
The one who will support in a difficult minute—is the right choice.
The one who descends on you with criticism and leaves when you are in trouble—that was the wrong choice.
"—…Just how many brains do you need to have to pull such a thing?!"
"—I knew you were an idiot through and through, but that much?!"
Listening to all this, I was silent.
The voices were frankly making not even the ears, but the brain itself ache.
But stopping is too early yet.
The required condition is necessary.
And, strangely enough, listening to all this, I came to the conclusion that psychology, at least human, is universal for both worlds.
Both the one in which I lived and the one in which I live.
But despite these wild shouts, I must note that…
I'm doing fine.
I made my choice correctly.
Not in favor of beauty, position, or momentary benefit.
But in favor of women who are close in spirit.
I won't say my behavior is correct.
And there is not even an excuse.
And all this: "Well there were no promises," is just a weakling's position who'd like to shift responsibility for what was done from himself.
"—Oh, what a nonentity you are, eh?! What did I even find in you?!"
"—I've had many idiots in my life, but you hold the first place among them! Does the crown not pinch?!"
Must realize that clarity will still have to be brought.
Honestly, openly, looking eye to eye.
Innuendos, excuses, justifications—it's all not right.
Two facts exist, two women…
And a single position.
Which clearly goes beyond the bounds of propriety.
"—What are you silent for, nonentity?! Who am I addressing?!"
Curious.
Can there really be something on the compartment floor interesting enough to look at for a good half hour?
However, shouldn't cherish hope.
This is concentration of attention to detach from what is happening around.
"—I gave you all of myself, all my tenderness, care, attention! I… I loved you, you son of a bitch! And you… You got mixed up with her?! With all of this?!"
I don't imagine what the presumed conversation will turn into, but the fact remains.
One—ice.
Another—flame.
And between them there is something in common.
Not just the man they serve.
Independent character.
Possessiveness.
Desire for dominance, leadership, self-assertion.
Both are capable of an ACT.
Each—within her strength and competence.
Comparing them with each other—is wrong.
This is not a market and not a choice among goods of the tastiest but unprepossessing because of its flaws, for the sake of lowering the price.
Each is good in her own way and that cannot be taken from them.
"—A question was asked of you! What are you silent for?!"
"—Nothing to say, yeah?! No, only such an idiot with an atrophied brain could do such a thing!"
But not to add either.
As not to solve this problem now.
Clarity not to be brought.
Because any decision made by two of the three—automatically infringes the position of someone involved in the situation.
Involved by my fault.
Why by mine?
Because, as it turned out, the weak link in this chain—is exactly me.
Restraint in both cases was lacking exactly in me.
Likely because the psychotype of both—is exactly the one that attracts me.
And should realize what happened—is directly my fault, if it can be called that.
"—Silent? Oh, I so hope you've swallowed your tongue and choked already. I just can't see from here."
"—Better bite your tongue with which you spoke all these beautiful words to me, poured into my ears your pronouncements about how right you are, that duty is above all and other nonsense! Better you had died then, and I wouldn't have had to spend my time trying to understand and accept you, damned liar and traitor!"
"—Give me the opportunity—I'll personally unscrew his head and shove it up his ass! He doesn't think with what's on his shoulders anyway! Stupid eopie!"
"—What are you sitting for, as if you've taken water into your mouth?! Nothing to say?!"
"—Well let him be silent, the nonentity! I have no more intention of even seeing him near me anyway!"
"—As do I! What you did—is trampled all the opinion of you that I had formed! With which I fell in love to unconsciousness! Better you had died!"
Decided.
When the time comes—the conversation will be not eye-to-eye, but with both.
At once.
So each hears what I'll be saying to the other.
That will be fair.
That will be right.
At least in my old-fashioned manner.
But the situation should be clarified.
If only I knew how to start such a conversation…
Hm…
Silence.
Unusual.
Has the stream of filth, from which ears curl into a tube, stopped by itself?
Run out of steam completely or preparing for the next round?
I looked at the ship's chronometer.
Two hours and fifteen minutes.
Exactly that long the psychological attack lasted, capable of destroying confidence and masculinity in any representative of the stronger sex.
Despite the fact that I only discerned some part, busy with my thoughts, even what I heard is extremely unpleasant.
Many times unpleasant it becomes when you hear humiliations and being ground into dirt from those who are dear to you.
And it becomes an absolute knockout exactly that you are being mixed with dirt for what you did out of the best intentions.
Of course—in your understanding.
"Security,"—I addressed the stormtroopers, not taking my eyes off the man lying across from me, whose whitened face was swollen from tears.—"Switch off communication with adjacent cells."
As soon as silence reigned, the man lying before me, with a tremble removed his hands from his ears, looking at me as at a savior.
"Well, Captain Horn,"—I threw one leg over the other.—"I see you are ready for a talk now. I will repeat my question. But this time only you will be hearing it, and not Mrs. Terrik and your father-in-law. Think to hedge—I will ask questions again so that they also hear them too. Is that clear?"
The humiliated, broken, and crushed Corran Horn nodded his head vigorously.
Naturally demonstrating his agreement to collaborate.
"Excellent,"—I allowed myself a smile.—"Repeating the first question. What assignment did you receive from the head of the criminal organization controlling the New Republic government and known as a part split from the 'Zann Consortium,' the 'Silri Syndicate' in exchange for the cloaked ship?"
Swallowing the lump in his throat, with a tremble in his voice Corran Horn began to speak.
***
When you have already crossed the path of a quite specific sentient, the style of communication with him should change too… Considering all that in the past connected me and Captain Horn, in particular—manipulating his relatives for a subsequent series of operational combinations like destroying the idealized image of the elite squadron under Wedge Antilles's command, demonstrating to Skywalker a solution to problems in the form of killing "absolute evil" and some others like destroying his father-in-law's activities, his grandfather's death, obtaining Jedi knowledge and other things—conducting a conversation with a sullen, clearly improved in his mastery of the Force and lightsaber Horn, conducting a conversation had to begin with a psychological breaking of the interogee.
Therefore, the idea with the moral destruction of his self-confidence, collaboration with Silri for the sake of saving his wife and father-in-law, found its realization.
Nothing is more painful than the reproach of those for whose sake you crossed the line you swore not to cross.
No, I suspected even before the first battle for Kessel that Horn would turn to criminals for help.
But thought it would be someone from among his father-in-law's remaining allies or partners.
At a pinch, Karrde.
But Silri…
Well, it seems he deserved what he heard.
"How did you contact the 'Silri Syndicate'?"
"Marg Sonat came out to me," Horn answered quickly, eyeing fearfully the walls of his cell behind which his relatives were. "Said he knows of my desertion from 'Rogue Squadron.' Of the disappearance of relatives. Of the fact that they are with you. Offered help. Said I would need to help him and his comrades get rid of Moruth Doole on Kessel, recruiting his gang. And with the help of this gang—get rid of Dominion ships."
"Go on."
"Then I was to contact him and report the assignment was fulfilled. The rest was not known to me."
"What else?"
"Marg assumed a probability of failure in destroying the Dominion forces. Then I was to cloak the ship and stay in the system, observing the ships."
"Goal?"
"Sonat was interested in the ships' travels near black holes or along unknown routes in the system."
In other words, the guess that Silri didn't just mention money laundering in the Empire, the late Grand Moff Tarkin, Outer Rim criminals, and the absence of her desire to capture Kessel as the self-aim of the attack on the system, is already gaining not just the contours of an axiom.
Horn's words about travels near black holes or along unknown routes from the system—is direct proof that Silri at least knows of Tarkin's activity in the field of creating a secret research laboratory.
"Were you told why the interest is conditioned by exactly these criteria?" I inquired.
"No,"—Horn swallowed, eyeing the wall to the right.
Blows were sounding in it: Booster Terrik had really gone into a rage and sought to get to his unwise son-in-law.
"Did you ask about the reason for such interest in Kessel?"
"No. I wanted to destroy the Dominionites and save the family."
How interesting the priorities are arranged.
First—destroy, punish, kill.
And then save the family which had been in captivity for several months.
An exemplary husband and son-in-law, it must be said.
And note that Horn's transition to the Dark Side, it seems, has not just begun.
It has fully bloomed.
"With whom did you meet besides Marg Sonat?"
"With no one else."
"Were you promised a meeting with anyone capable of teaching you Force techniques?"
"Yes."
"With whom?"
"With Silri herself."
"Do you know who she is?"
"Yes. 'Rogue Squadron' participated in operations against the 'Zann Consortium.' I knew she was in the past—one of Zann's henchmen."
"Lovely, just lovely."
"Where did the meeting take place?"
"On Nar Shaddaa. I flew there in search of Booster's contacts."
"Searching for help?"
"Yes, among his accomplices."
"Found any?"
"No."
"Reason?"
"Almost all either died at Rugosa, or subsequently in different parts of the galaxy. Some went to Karrde."
"Why didn't you turn to the Claw for help?"
A shadow ran across Horn's face.
"Evidently the question should be repeated in your spouse's presence,"—I raised a hand to attract the stormtrooper-guard's attention.
"Karrde paid her signs of attention in the past," Corran babbled. "I was jealous of her for him before the wedding."
"And after it?"
"Too!"
"Why didn't you turn to him for help?"
"Didn't want her to see a helper in him," Corran shuddered.
Well, egocentrism on the face.
Substitution of the very fact of rescue from captivity for the figure of who exactly will rescue the spouse and father-in-law from imprisonment.
Corran Horn has broken.
This is no longer a selfless hero.
This is an egoist, with personal benefit exceeding the situation.
"Why did the 'Syndicate' allow a possibility of the operation's failure to destroy Dominion forces at Kessel?"
"I wasn't told."
"Did you ask?"
"No."
In other words the thirst for personal revenge drowned out for him the CorSec operative's intuition.
And even Jedi intuition.
Unbelievable but a fact.
Of all people, I expected this from Horn last.
"Does anyone have copies of your decryptions of your grandfather's work?"
Corran Horn didn't waste time while he was "undercover."
He was decrypting and studying his grandfather's Jedi knowledge, which his other, "adoptive grandfather," had encrypted in the plant genecode.
"No."
"Why didn't you pass these data to the New Republic, Skywalker, or the Solo family?"
"I don't trust any of them."
Curious.
I would even say disgustingly "wonderful."
Of course all his words should be checked.
I don't particularly believe Horn broke so easily.
Yes, he may have been shocked that I didn't die as was said on the "HoloNet."
Yes, he may have experienced spiritual stirrings from the accusations, insults, and humiliations that poured onto his head from relatives and sentients close to him.
But that he turned into a harmless "rabbit" who submissively gives up information…
No, I don't believe that.
However it's quite easy to check.
"Why were you meeting with Marg Sonat and not Bossk?"
Horn's eyes began to dart, his face twitched effortlessly, the slant of his shoulders changed, his posture straightened.
"I didn't know he collaborates with the 'Silri Syndicate'."
"And I didn't say that. You gave yourself away, Captain Horn."
The calmness with which I stated the insincerity of the former "CorSec" operative, former "Rogue Squadron" pilot, former hero of the Rebellion and the New Republic, made him shudder.
The gaze changed—from distracted to embittered.
Focused.
Lips compressed, hands tensed, fingers clenched into fists of powerless rage and spite.
A grimace of disgust distorted his face.
"Didn't think I'd be so easy to crack," he said with contempt, stretching his neck. "You're good, Grand Admiral Thrawn. Ever think of becoming an Imperial Interrogator? It would suit you."
Maybe I am good.
Or maybe it's all that during my service I encountered no small number of officers who provided "not quite correct" data and afterward dodged in every way… "I didn't 'crack' you, Captain Horn,"—the calm remark made him narrow his eyes and look at me with suspicion.—"You consciously reacted to the name of Bossk, your father's killer, to observe my reaction. While I check you, you check me."
Horn's lips, as well as the features of an overall noble face, settled into a contemptuous moue.
"And I kept wondering how you could mess up so and die at Skywalker's hands," he threw out. "Turns out I wasn't wrong. Set someone up in your place, calculating everything beforehand? As always—a step ahead of the opponent?"
Rather several steps.
Even ahead of you, "CorSec."
But you absolutely don't need to know that.
"And now what?"—Horn stretched with a satisfied grunt, finally demonstrating his complete disregard for what is happening beyond his cell walls.—"Going to send someone to me again who'll weave a tale about how it's all the 'evil New Republic' decided to catch me and while at it steal Jedi secrets?"
Well that was expected.
A hardened sleuth like Horn couldn't fall for a simple trick like the one Mara Jade applied on Corellia.
"Silent," he smirked. "And I felt your hand-held parody of a Jedi in the Force immediately as soon as she was nearby. You know, it's hard to forget one who killed a person dear to you… And connecting the puzzle pieces wasn't so hard. Who else knew about the Jedi inheritance? Besides you—no one. And the little actress in your redhead—is so-so."
It's just she wasn't trying to seduce you and wasn't acting in earnest.
"Well, I suppose denying the obvious makes no sense," I spread my hands, calmly beholding the man.
"Well and you weren't going to,"—Horn huffed.—"Just waited until I said it to your face. And I somehow didn't doubt we would meet. This 'Captain Tschel' of yours acted too elegantly at Kessel. And you calculated me on a cloaked ship quite quickly too. And so deftly… Used a half-Jedi to find a Jedi… An elegant solution. Right in the style of the Imperial punitive machine."
Pity not psychiatry.
Looks like I overestimated Horn.
Instead of becoming a rational threat to the New Republic, as a rationalist-Jedi against the goodie-softie Skywalker, he turned into a kind of tyrant reveling in his power.
"Well,"—Horn continued with a satisfied smile.—"And what will you do now, Grand Admiral? After I learned you are alive. After revealing your trick with suppressing the force with the help of these little brown lizards,"—he poked toward the cage located across from his cell.—"I even understood exactly how ships were disappearing from the 'Corellian Engineering Corporation' shipyards—you used Niles Ferrier. Only somehow you repeated his trick dozens of times… Which reminded me of one historical event. Thirty years ago for the Republic, and then for the Empire, a whole army of identical sentients was created. Clones. Who knew everything the originals did… Own up, Grand Admiral,"—he smirked.—"Where is your clone factory? How many did you manage to churn out? And why do you shake so over your cloning secret and not so thoroughly clean battlefields after yourself? If you look well, you can always find one or two identical faces in the vacuum…"
And this—is exactly what I respected Horn for in all the Expanded Universe works.
Smart, cunning, quick-witted.
But not in this case.
"Well then,"—I depicted a smile on my face.—"And you said you didn't communicate with anyone from the 'Silri Syndicate' besides Sonat. Lying doesn't suit you, Captain Horn. And Corellian luck won't help you either. In any case—with me."
The smile vanished from Horn's face.
"What…?"—he frowned.—"How?!"
"The more a Force-sensitive sentient learns of it, the more he considers himself above others," I said. "And the more he is arrogant, contemptuous of those around him. Especially those who profess the so-called 'Dark Side.' That's what they get burned on. When self-confidence comes to the detriment of logical thinking. A desire to demonstrate one's might and superiority tramples rationality and advance thinking."
Horn was silent, brooding.
"You discovered nothing independently," I concluded. "Silri did it for you. She, unlike you, had time to poke around battlefields after us. Then, when the galaxy's expansion and the stellar wind hadn't pulled the debris and corpses missed by our rescuers far away. After Corellia you didn't even have the possibility to investigate battlefields behind us as such—you are wanted everywhere. Therefore only she could have told you about clones. Actually, having seen our clones, she planned the operation to destroy the cloning cylinders, organizing a trap on Cartao. And you'd hardly have had time to fall so deeply into Darkness independently. After all, restraint, the legacy of the Halcyons and Horns, didn't allow you to break off the chain. You were helped, turned into a Dark Jedi. Whether it was Silri herself and her Dathomiri magic, Palpatine's agents—Namman Cha and Khairisa depicting her subordinates, or some other subjects of the same ilk from her circle—the essence of it is not important. You are—only a pale shadow of your former self. A man who stepped over his principles…"
Horn snorted.
"As if I'm the only one," he said, pretending to be interested in something on his cell's ceiling. "Everyone slips sooner or later. Even Jedi. Look, Skywalker's papa slaughtered a whole Order. And the son, nothing, hero of the Rebellion. Although himself now lying at Palpatine's feet…"
Well that is quite interesting.
"Observed personally?" I inquired.
"Silri demonstrated," Horn admitted reluctantly. "She knows how to do a lot. Not for nothing she was feared and respected even on Dathomir. But the fact that you survived—she couldn't see that. Probably,"—he looked at the ysalamiri cage,—"because of these things. What do they do with the Force?"
"You have no need for that information," I said calmly, calling a stormtrooper.
The 501st Legion fighter approached wordlessly and handed me a small remote control.
"What, decided to execute me?" Horn smirked.
"No," I admitted. "You will be in captivity until I find a suitable solution for you. Perhaps my scientists will take you apart into DNA threads—your genetic mutation allowing the absorption of any types of energy is too interesting. Perhaps it will be best to clone you, endowing you with necessary memories and train you as a counter-intelligence officer. Naturally, brainwashing you properly and writing absolute loyalty to the Dominion into them. Potentially a Jedi-sleuth of you could be not a bad one. And a pilot, as they say, not bad. Of course, not Luke Skywalker…"
Horn jerked as if struck.
"This Horn, overall, is a not-bad pilot, but not Luke Skywalker"… Exactly so Wedge Antilles characterized Corran Horn when the latter was only training to become a "Rogue Squadron" pilot.
Judging by Horn's words, the comparison with Skywalker bothered and bothers him.
And the phrase that Luke too didn't withstand the temptations of the Dark Side of the Force even amuses Horn.
The hero has broken.
The galaxy doesn't need such.
From former heroes come the most desperate villains.
"There are a mass of solution variants for the problem," I continued, clicking the first switch. "You were quite correctly examining the ceiling, Captain Horn. Notice anything interesting there? Or, perhaps, on the floor? You weren't looking at the floor for no reason while Mirax Terrik-Horn and Booster Terrik picked your bones for collaboration with the 'Zann Consortium' renegades."
"Closed holes," Horn licked his lips. "Which just opened… What is that?"
"Well now,"—I raised an eyebrow.—"You're an operative, even if not in service. Don't you guess?"
"Don't look like shocker outputs," Horn examined the holes in the ceiling and floor with interest. "Gas chamber? Decided to poison me with gas?"
"Why would I destroy what can be useful?" I inquired. "No. And arranging an execution place in the middle of a prisoner compartment—is not the best idea. Too costly in planning."
"Interesting prisoner compartment you have," Horn huffed. "Only three cells… For VIP persons?"
"Something like that," I agreed. "The experience of opposing Ysanne Isard taught me that sometimes, to avoid potential danger, one needs not to kill the enemy or a potential saboteur, even if he himself wants it. But to freeze. To avoid harmful consequences and find a solution. If one exists. If there isn't—dissolving carbonite in acid is much less painful than killing."
"Carbonite chamber," Horn huffed. "You know, Thrawn, I've outplayed you. From the very first moment as your paratroopers entered my ship with these lizards, I understood you'd take me captive. You'll try to break me, recruit me, make me the same hand-held toy as that redheaded bitch who killed my grandfather. But no, Thrawn, you miscalculated…"
My attention was attracted by a second stormtrooper.
He entered the compartment, clutching a deck in his hand.
"Sir, an urgent report from the medical compartment."
The portable device lay in my hand.
Eyes quickly ran across the report's lines.
After that, I nodded to the stormtrooper toward the cell I needed.
The fighter immediately headed for the door.
"Well now," I said, looking at Horn. "Today is full of surprises, Captain."
"And how," he huffed. "Freeze me as much as your heart desires. But the fact remains. Whatever you try to do, however you want to use me, any clone of mine will secretly hate you. The Force won't allow you to use my legacy for your purposes—it is written in my grandfather Nejaa Halcyon's notes. I've won, Grand Admiral Thrawn. You're left with nothing! You've had your nose wiped! Но you won't reconcile with it! You'll freeze me and look for a way to exploit me! And Ysanne Isard herself didn't break me! And you won't break me! I'll wait a year, two, ten—and find a way to escape. And then—your whole Dominion will be washed in blood."
"Funny you think so," I smiled, showing him the brought deck. "Know what this is?"
"Take me for an absolute idiot?," Corran Horn was taken aback. "A deck. With an 'urgent report from the medical center'."
He pronounced the last phrase in a mocking tone.
"Quite right," I confirmed. "Curious… To tell the truth, I expected this several years later. But… We have what we have. Medical test data indicate you were pleased to meet your spouse after all, Captain Horn. Obviously the long separation and a desire for her to leave you in peace as soon as possible prompted you to this feat. Thank you. Everything is developing strictly according to my plan for filling my own Jedi Order."
Horn frowned.
"What are you talking about?"
"About your spouse's pregnancy," I said calmly, turning toward Mirax Horn's cell.
As assumed, she had already been standing outside the cell for some time under her escort's guard.
"Forward," the clone commanded.
The woman, compressing her lips, approached me silently, looking toward Horn.
"Mirax,"—Corran jumped to his feet.—"Is it true? We're having a child?"
The girl tried to hide eyes in which tears glistened.
"Yes," she answered quietly.
"Let me out of here, you bastard!" Horn yelled. "Let my wife and daughter go! If you need me—do what you need with me, but don't you dare touch them! Hear me, Thrawn! I'll get you from under the ground if you touch them even with a finger! You have no right…"
"Right, Captain Horn?"—I looked intently at the Corellian.
Our gazes met.
Mine—calm and confident.
His—enraged and bewildered.
"I have no right?" I repeated,—handing the deck into the woman's hands. "On the contrary, Captain Horn. As the ruler of the Dominion I have every right to show attention and care toward this child. I would even say—maximum attention. To him and his mother. Since she is here by my order. Object four, you can stop playing the role of a caring wife."
The "Mirax Terrik" standing next to me instantly stopped depicting a waif who was embarrassed by the fact of concealing pregnancy from a "spouse."
The simple look of a woman who met with a genetic material donor for her offspring.
Horn looked at me uncomprehendingly.
Then shifted his gaze to her.
"No,"—he shook his head.—"No-no-no! I would have felt she's a clone! I would… I would have understood that! I felt clones on Kamino! I know their radiation! I would have understood it from Booster and Mirax!"
"Exactly why I cloned only Mrs. Horn,"—the explanation knocked Corran Horn's legs out.—"Your father-in-law—is himself a difficult target for cloning. Then we didn't understand that—because of his eye prosthesis it's impossible to clone him so that he doesn't remember it. Your spouse has no unextractable augmentations. So yes, you didn't recognize the clone because you didn't see another source of the same radiation near you. And when you saw her last, you didn't yet possess sufficient Force capabilities."
"You're a monster, Thrawn!" Horn ground his teeth.
"Maybe," I shrugged. "But at least I don't hide it under a mask of virtue, calling mass murders of legitimate authority representatives a 'fight for a righteous cause.' I needed agents of influence among my opponents—I created them. And embedded them. Mrs. Horn was one of them."
"What happened to the real Mirax?" Horn asked exhaustedly.
"She, like her father, became testers of a new type of prison,"—I spoke, trying not to give myself away.—"Unfortunately your spouse is less mentally stable than her father. Indelible mental damage, the correction of which in a clone required significant time. We had to create a clone from an earlier sample for cloning—obtained immediately before her placement in a cell. And then—had to make up the difference between the clone's and original's memory. Actually, therefore the exchange and meetings were always postponed to the last. However, no need to worry. Your spouse passed into another world without torment and nightmares—my medics saw to that. And the new Miss Terrik-Horn,"—I looked at the clone,—"is much more restrained. She will raise an excellent son, Captain Horn. Don't worry about that. I think you should know that by indirect signs, the appearance of midichlorian counts in the fetus exceeding the mother's is being tracked. Even more than yours…"
"You've infected my child with something?!"
"I? With nothing. This only says that potentially the child can become a Jedi stronger than you yourself," I explained. "Good that your megalomania—is acquired, not a real psychiatric diagnosis. In that case it would be a pity for the little boy. Or the little girl. In any case, he and the mother will be rendered proper care and necessary attention. This child will become a good citizen of the Dominion."
"Thrawn, I'll take my child from you…"
I didn't listen to the hysteria of the Corellian who had believed in himself further.
Simply pressed the central (of three) red button on the remote to the stop.
But for some reason instead of dense cortosis steam, pillars of flame appeared from below and above, in which in a few seconds Horn's body turned into a pile of ash.
I slowly turned my head toward the stormtrooper-guard.
"Should have been carbonite," I reminded.
"Sir, carbonite—is the far-left red button," he explained. "Central—crematory. Far-right—sleeping gas. I conducted the briefing before the start of the interrogation."
And I was with my thoughts far from here…
"Well now," I said, rising from the chair and looking at the charred pile of ash, "it seems the Force itself wanted that."
Mirax Terrik looked indifferently at the remains of the genetic material donor.
Then looked at me.
And indifferently headed for the exit.
I wonder if she'll ever mention even a word that she is not a clone, but voluntarily agreed to collaborate with us when she learned what her hubby had done?
Not without the help of double-Isard, of course, she agreed.
And she even thought it was all a deception…
Hm… And an interesting little slip occurred.
The real Object-four is also a woman, after all.
But the total opposite of Mrs. Terrik-Horn.
However, the donor is different there too.