"Filthy alien," Delak swore, fastening his tunic. Despite having done this thousands, maybe even tens of thousands of times, today he clearly couldn't manage to look as impeccably turned out as usual. The Prince-Admiral was firmly convinced that he wasn't nervous or worried about the Chimaera's arrival — Thrawn's flagship — in the orbit of Ciutric IV. Yes, it was an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer, one of the most formidable machines of war and destruction ever devised by the Galactic Empire's military-industrial complex. Krennel had no reason to fear this ship — after all, his own Reckoning, a sister ship to the alien's vessel, was hanging in orbit. Not to mention that he knew for a fact that the arriving ship's crew consisted mostly of young sailors and officers who had only started fighting in the last few months. Meanwhile, his own flagship was crewed by first-rate personnel who had been through a lot. If a battle broke out... Yes, Thrawn might, of course, try to do something — look at statues or pictures, for instance. But in open combat, that wouldn't help him.
Krennel stepped into Isard's shadowy lair. Not quite the right term, but the Prince-Admiral couldn't imagine anyone actually living in this room. Lamps hanging from the ceiling barely illuminated the fiberplast crates, making navigating the labyrinth nearly impossible. It looked mostly like some kind of warehouse, whose manager had decided to use the containers of goods to create impassable obstacles for anyone trying to get inside, find the lone sentient, and hold them accountable for plundering the valuables.
He found Isard around yet another corner, sitting in a massive chair in the middle of a small cleared space. Countless images danced across two dozen monitors around her, the Snow Queen's fingers fluttering over a keyboard built into the chair's armrests. Each keystroke changed the picture on the screens or the volume of the sound; as he approached, the woman swiveled her chair, and the images rippled. Krennel silently cursed himself for not getting a good look at what had captured the attention of the former Director of Imperial Intelligence. But at the very least, he suspected she was watching the new arrival.
She seemed surprised by his appearance (was there anything in this galaxy capable of confusing her?), then a polite, slightly haughty smile returned to her lips; the Snow Queen settled into a more comfortable position.
Oh, how he wanted right now to wipe that smirk off her face! Preferably with a punch. Preferably with his right, prosthetic hand. But one thing you couldn't deny the Prince-Admiral — he never did anything to harm himself. At least, not consciously. Harming Ysanne meant shooting himself in both feet.
The woman's gaze flicked to the Prince-Admiral's clenched prosthetic fist.
"I see meeting your old commander stirs up quite a reaction."
Suppressing his anger, Krennel punched a hole in the nearest crate with his prosthetic hand. Looking at the damage, he pulled the arm back, then met the woman's eyes, clasping his hands behind his back.
"What is he doing here?" he demanded an answer to the question that troubled him most.
"Waiting for landing clearance confirmation," the Snow Queen purred, continuing to fuel the fire in the Prince-Admiral's soul.
"Is that so?" Krennel's features twisted into a snarl. "And here I was, such an idiot, not realizing that. What in the Hutta is he doing on Ciutric?"
"He has business with you," Ysanne said in a bored tone, gracefully crossing her legs, letting the fabric of her uniform trousers cling to her slender thighs. Krennel felt his own tunic becoming uncomfortably tight. "If he wanted war, he would have arrived with his entire fleet, don't you think?"
"Yes, only you yourself said his fleet is wandering around somewhere," Krennel growled. "It's entirely possible he's stoking a fire behind my thrusters, diluting the fuel in my reactor!"
Isard let out a short laugh and pressed another key on her armrest. To Krennel's right, a holographic projector flickered to life, displaying the planetary defense systems he had set up on the planet. Every gun, every base... There was no doubt the Snow Queen had applied this same meticulousness to every planet under the Prince-Admiral's command.
"Calm down," she advised. "The defense network you've built is enough to withstand a small fleet. That buys you plenty of time to call in the rest of your loyal ships. Thrawn isn't an idiot, after all — he fully understands what's at stake. He may be a filthy non-human, his sense of honor is overdeveloped, but he will never break his word once given to an ally. Our esteemed Grand Admiral is incapable of harming the Empire, or an ally who gave him everything."
"Then what does he want now, coming here in person?"
Isard nodded, as if in agreement. But with what? Was she hearing voices in her head?
"Now that is the right question, Prince-Admiral," she said, burning him with one eye and chilling him with the other. And there was no need to specify which iris was responsible for which. "Think — what is so precious to him that he would tear himself away from his favorite pastime of planning?"
Krennel nodded back, short and quick.
"Technology," he said confidently. "Or money. He can't get anything else from me anyway. You said yourself he won't violate the terms of the agreement. So he clearly won't be begging me for any ships."
"He won't need to," Isard snorted. "I sent you the report — he has a fleet."
"Right," Krennel snorted. "Three dozen heavy cruisers that belong in a museum. And not a single one beyond that. You know, at first it might have looked like the Katana Fleet, but now... I'm sure he just swept through the Outer Rim, taking whatever he needed from pirates and minor governments. And all that bravado about discovering the Dark Force...
"Oh," a smile appeared on Ysanne's lips. "What's this? One of the stages of accepting the inevitable? Bargaining, I take it?"
"No, anger," Krennel snarled. "You've been living here quite a while now — thank you for at least moving out of my office. You've been given the best equipment, your agents are paid exorbitantly, and all we get for success is misinformation about the forces he commands?!"
"My dear Prince-Admiral," the Snow Queen's voice took on a durasteel edge, laced with weariness. Like a parent returning home after an exhausting work shift talking to a rebellious child. Krennel involuntarily felt his own uniform shrink on him. "Thrawn is not in a position to just throw hundreds of millions at junk he doesn't need. I track his purchases — and he bought exactly enough spare parts for two hundred Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers. Unlike you, he's settled in an extremely poor sector, so he has to save every credit. Look here," the woman, arching gracefully, leaned back in her chair, then switched the image to one of the monitors. "Initially, he and his pet Moff Ferrus were looking for two hundred second-class hyperdrives suitable for dreadnaughts. Know why?"
"Of course I know," Krennel said irritably. "The standard hyperdrive on Imperial fleet ships is class two. On Rendili junk, it's class three at best. He decided to optimize his flotilla's mobility to avoid wasting time making constant adjustments for speed differences in hyperspace. Otherwise, you could send one part of the fleet into battle, and the second would arrive only after the enemy had left not a single intact frame from their predecessors. And you have to do calculations constantly because that Rendili garbage never works the way it should."
"I can hear your own suffering in that voice," Ysanne smiled. Krennel ignored the barb. "Now watch closely, Prince-Admiral." Again, barely audible clicks of buttons. "Some time ago, representatives of Rendili StarDrive approached Moff Ferrus and suggested he not bother buying spare parts on the black market, but contact the supplier directly. They accept the offer, a bill is presented to them —" Krennel felt his cheek twitch nervously. Had the Rendilians completely lost their nerve?! For that amount of money, you could build a dozen brand-new heavy cruisers, with better class and armament! " The curious part is this. First, they agree, and then —" again the magic of the buttons, " they refuse the most expensive part of the repair work: replacing the hyperdrives."
"He doesn't have free cash," Krennel realized. "So he decided the best course was to save on that, forcing his navigators and pilots to rack their brains every time they coordinate the fleet's forces."
"That's correct," Ysanne agreed. "But aren't you curious, dear Prince-Admiral, where he got those hundreds of millions?"
"Someone is sponsoring him," Krennel understood. "Because the money we, the Imperial Remnants, gave him wouldn't have been enough for a scheme like this."
"And he certainly wouldn't have bought that quantity of spare parts if he didn't actually have a fleet of that size," the Snow Queen's voice took on a lecturing tone. "He has the ships, that's a fact. I'm more than certain that the rest of his fleet is guarding them somewhere because they're non-operational."
The Prince-Admiral wanted to say everything he thought about the Director's tactical abilities, but caught himself thinking that she was right, generally speaking. How old were those ships now? Over half a century? In that time, any insulation would have turned to dust, and the windings in the relays would have melted.
"Then what does he want here?" the Prince-Admiral inquired impatiently.
Isard slowly shook her head.
"And here I thought you could calculate your opponent's moves. Don't make me lose faith in you, Krennel. Or should I have bet on the Grand Admiral instead?"
The remark cut through his fury and anger.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Thrawn will be undone by his own overconfidence," she said. "Because he can't even conceive that someone might be better than him, that someone could defeat him. His victories have reinforced his mistaken belief that he alone is the hero of this era, and everyone else is just an extra," the Snow Queen paused. In her head, pictures of a new plan were undoubtedly forming. "The Grand Admiral intends to make a new agreement with you. He needs money."
"This non-human won't get another deci-credit from me!" the irritated Krennel snarled.
"You will agree to his proposal, Prince-Admiral," Ysanne Isard said in an icy, measured tone. "Our goal is the destruction of the New Republic and the subjugation of the Imperial Remnants under your rule. Thrawn is an excellent tool for this. While you sit in the shadows, he will act on the front lines. Let his people die, let his ships be destroyed. When failure befalls him, his entire fleet — whatever remains of it — you will claim for yourself. To achieve this, you must show goodwill toward his actions. Right now, Thrawn is the only Imperial commander with the capability to harm the Rebels. Let it remain so. Money... it's nothing compared to what you can gain after his death."
"Isard, you're wrong," Krennel turned away from the monitors, which clearly showed a Lambda-class shuttle emerging from the Chimaera's belly and slowly descending through the atmospheric layers. He looked at the Snow Queen and met the gaze of her red-and-blue eyes fearlessly. "I will not cooperate with that alien!"
The Snow Queen shrugged.
"I expected nothing less from you, Prince-Admiral. But today you must decide for yourself what matters more — your pride, or the ability to profit from others' mistakes. Allow Thrawn to spend your money strengthening his own fleet and bases, which will then come under your control. He already has more Star Destroyers than you do. He has the Katana Fleet. He has an orbital repair yard capable of building starships. And he's getting resources from somewhere to crew his ships. There are things — his victories — that can be explained by logic, common sense, and even his uncanny ability to understand an enemy through their art. But some things still don't add up. Therefore, he has a trump card. And he has an ally who supplied him with money. Perhaps even more than one. Xenophobia is not a vice, my dear Prince-Admiral. But today, you should leave it outside the upcoming conversation. Note," she pointed at the screen. "Despite the fact that your men are drilled no worse than attack dogs, even they were afraid to shoot down Thrawn's shuttle..."
"That's easy to fix," Krennel bared his teeth, pulling a comlink from his pocket. "A couple of salvos and nothing but stardust will remain of it. No one has the right to invade my personal space...!"
"Even the Supreme Commander?" Ysanne asked with a smirk on her lips. Krennel opened his mouth to answer, but the woman cut him off:
"Before you answer, think — would you say the same thing if Darth Vader were in Thrawn's place?"
"He —" Delak jabbed his prosthetic hand at the monitors showing the feed from a surveillance satellite tracking the shuttle's movement, " is not Vader!"
"Fair enough," Ysanne snorted. "He doesn't have a fashionable armored suit and his breathing isn't as intimidating. But he's done far more to defeat the Rebels than any Imperial commander in the last five and a half years. Well, except maybe Zsinj accomplished more — but he lost everything, including his life and two Super Star Destroyers. Pay attention to how many volunteers are flocking to Thrawn..."
"Twenty-seven thousand," Krennel grimaced, seeing the required number on one of the monitors. "My crew on the Reckoning is larger."
"Yes, only you pay your crew three times what they got in Imperial times," the Snow Queen remarked. "And you execute them for the slightest infraction."
"Incompetence must be punished," the Prince-Admiral stated categorically. He had already realized the former Director of Imperial Intelligence was right. There were positive aspects to her scheme — more than negative ones. He just needed to swallow his pride, wait until the traditionally short-sighted Thrawn made a mistake, and take everything from him.
But only an idiot unfamiliar with Ysanne's dealings would believe that this proposal wasn't motivated by her own self-interest. What were the chances she wouldn't cut his throat the moment Thrawn died? She had spoken of eliminating him more than once. Vicious bitch with her mismatched eyes.
"Fine. This could work," Krennel smiled crookedly. "I'll hear what this bastard wants from me. I might even finance his next campaign — but he definitely won't get large sums from me. And certainly not without moral satisfaction. For now — moral satisfaction. But one day, I'll kill him."
"The Grand Admiral has a large appetite," Ysanne remarked. "Do you have the necessary funds?"
"The money is there," he looked at Isard. "I'll give him what was earmarked to pay your agents for the rest of the year. I'm sure you'll survive that, won't you, Isard?"
"Of course," she said calmly. "After all, my agents don't receive salaries."
"Bitch!" Krennel swore inwardly. "Then where did the billions I paid you go?"
* * *
While the Lambda was breaking through the dense atmospheric layers of Ciutric IV, I studied the ship's interior. No — even though the vessel looked like a standard model, inside it was a true work of art. Which, unfortunately, had cost a fortune to build.
No, it was not made especially for me. Judging by the numerous residual traces, the ship had been converted from a standard version into a luxurious personal yacht specially commissioned by Palpatine. Inside, where the guard detachment usually sat, now sat expensive equipment, scanning and communication systems, defensive systems, and many, many other things. The technicians from the Chimaera unanimously claimed it was the first time they'd ever seen two hundred million credits' worth of technological innovations crammed into one small ship.
Two. Hundred. Million.
I wanted to howl with helpless rage. The cost invested in this ship was the price of an Imperial Star Destroyer plus another cruiser! May your black bones bleach in the light of day, Palpatine! I could have put that money to such good use.
And in spite of all this, I understood perfectly well that nobody wanted this ship at all. Not because the aft section housed a deflector shield generator that provided protection some light cruisers could only dream of. Not because this vessel carried twice as much weaponry as standard. Not because it had the most modern encryption, direction-finding, jamming, communications, and electronic warfare systems. And not even because the hull was made from an alloy that, at one-third the thickness of a standard ship of this type, provided exactly the same protection. And not even because everything here was built by Imperial engineers to a special order and clearly had no even approximate analogues anywhere in the galaxy.
Simply because no sane person would buy a starship like this for that kind of money. At least — not quickly. And at the same time, if you stripped out all those statues, draperies, and bastardly precious-metal decor, you got a pretty decent ship. Bloody hell, there was even a bedroom… Well, you certainly couldn't forbid stylish extermination of Jedi.
For now, I was deep in thought about whether I should properly strip this ship down to its bones and restore its original appearance. But I also understood that the best I could do without extra expense was simply to remove the decorative excess. If you set aside the pointless emotions, the ship really was decent. Good enough as a mobile headquarters for someone who always keeps his finger on the pulse and controls everyone and everything. A starship like this could be useful. Especially for relatively discreet movements or… retreat.
The fact that my entering the atmosphere in violation of Ciutric IV's traffic control clearance had caused no repercussions put me on alert.
Something was going on. I didn't believe that Prince-Admiral Krennel would simply flex his muscles — pulling his flagship alongside mine, launching fighters, keeping me stewing in orbit for a good half hour — and then not react at all to my unsanctioned descent. Who had they been afraid of? The Chimaera? No, I refused to believe that. The pair of TIE Interceptor escorts? An unlikely possibility, of course, if not for their specific coloring…
Most likely, Krennel had been running something like a "test for weakness," fully aware that the bulk of his defensive installations had been cataloged from my flagship. The bulk, because I didn't believe that in an industrial world producing military goods, there was no one who could have hinted to the Prince-Admiral that displaying your defensive installations openly was the height of tactical stupidity.
So there was something else here. And most likely — something ultimate, capable of giving an invasion force a real thrashing. I should keep that in mind so as not to get burned. I think Krennel decided to play it safe when he saw my escort. You had to have some remarkable nerve to allow yourself something like that. And it wasn't even about ego and landing without permission. I called this peculiarity of sentient thinking in this galaxy far, far away "color magic." Certain colors clearly triggered fear and respect in the locals. Let's just hope it didn't come down to a quality check. I had no doubts about Lieutenant Kreb, who led the escort, as an elite pilot, but something told me he didn't measure up to the high bar that red TIE Interceptors set in the memory of the locals.
The shuttle was coming in to land. Through the viewports, I could see the rooftops of skyscrapers, the alluring lines of buildings, traffic scurrying about its owners' business. In the distance, industrial districts were visible, their futuristic landscape punctuated by massive hangars — storage sites for finished products. Going by the fact that several TIE Fighters and TIE Interceptors had already passed us, the Prince-Admiral was continuing his "muscle-flexing." Well, you're the master here, who's going to stop you?
As soon as the landing struts touched the permacrete of the spaceport and the muffled sound of gas being vented by the ship's systems invaded my ears, I unbuckled my harness straps, which were made of expensive materials (fine, I'll admit — they were sturdy and soft, they didn't dig into my skin like the standard-issue ones). Getting to my feet, I rolled my head, taking advantage of the fact that no one could see me. In complete silence, listening to the quiet work of my escorts preparing for disembarkation, I headed for the loading ramp.
When my soles touched the surface of the landing pad, the light of the local star struck my eyes, warming my skin with its gentle heat. Two squads of stormtroopers, arrayed on either side of me in full combat gear, stood frozen as an honor guard of snow-white statues. But even this made little impression on the man who had come to meet me — a lieutenant of the naval infantry. Judging by his appearance, I was looking at a typical stormtrooper. Only his eyes, full of astonishment, betrayed him as a man who hadn't been through the breaking and training on Carida.
And only the massive figure moving to my right made his mouth fall open. I wonder — did his hand twitch to make the sign of the cross, or was he reflexively reaching for the blaster in his thigh holster?
"Lieutenant," I said phlegmatically to the greeter. We stood at the edge of the landing platform, and behind this young man loomed the gray bulk of the planet's main building — the Prince-Admiral's residence.
"G-Grand Admiral, sir," the boy snapped to attention. "Welcome to the Ciutric Hegemony."
"Let's dispense with formalities," I said. "Is the Prince-Admiral on the planet?"
"Y-yes, sir," the greeter replied, still stammering. "M-may I escort you?"
Was he a natural stutterer, or had what he'd seen shocked him?
"Permission granted," I said. The boy (I could forgive myself calling him that — he was younger than both my present and past self, maybe by half or more) hesitated for a moment, then walked slightly ahead and to my left. The honor guard stayed in place — not many were allowed to parade around someone else's residence with such a retinue. Well then…
The moment we stepped under the archway into the building, the boy stopped at a checkpoint, where a stormtrooper was hiding behind a duracrete box that vaguely resembled a bunker.
"S-sir," the young officer swallowed nervously, simultaneously wiping large beads of sweat from his forehead with the edge of his tunic sleeve. Well, well — his armpits were soaked all the way down to his waist. "I must ask you to surrender your weapon. No one is p-permitted to carry blasters on the residence grounds…"
Silently, I unholstered my blaster pistol together with its holster and placed them on the table beside the bunker, from behind which a snow-armored stormtrooper had emerged.
"A-and… your escort," the officer mumbled, casting a hopeful glance at me, begging for understanding. He tried not to look in Grodin Tierce's direction. What's more — Krennel's stormtrooper took a cautious step back. And his right thumb moved to the safety catch of the blaster rifle he was gripping too tightly… Was it that precious to him, like a first-birthday gift?
"What about 'my escort'?" I clarified, looking at the boy in uniform.
"He… m-must surrender his weapon." The youngster's lower jaw was trembling. I could even hear his teeth chattering. What was that creaking sound? Ah… You're kidding? What material were the grips on E-11 blaster rifle handles made of, that they'd cracked in the hands of Krennel's stormtrooper?
"You want him to disarm?" I asked with a slight smile, glancing at the motionless figure beside me in red-and-black robes, casually holding his vibroblade upright in ceremonial position.
"If it's n-not too much trouble," the lieutenant said, swallowing.
"For me — no," I said. "But an Imperial Guardsman has no reason to disarm. It contradicts his very essence and everything he was taught on Yinchorr. Your friend," I nodded toward the stormtrooper, who was still abusing his weapon, "should know who he's facing and what he's capable of."
"I-I-I…" the lieutenant stammered. "I've… only heard of them, never seen one…"
"How long have you been in the armed forces, Lieutenant?" I asked.
"T-two months," the boy said. "Accelerated g-graduation…"
"Then you should be proud of yourself, Lieutenant," I said. "You saw an Imperial Guardsman, you tried to disarm him, and you're still alive. A wet tunic and trousers are a small price to pay for the possibility of continuing your bloodline in the future. If my Guardsman had been a soldier from the 501st Legion, they wouldn't have bothered to be so polite with you."
"The… the 501st Legion?" the boy repeated, stammering.
"The problem with accelerated education is that instructors forget to instill respect for the past and knowledge of the symbols of once-foolishly-disbanded units. The two squads standing in front of my ship are soldiers from the 501st Legion. Also known in the past as Vader's Fist. I assume I don't need to explain why they changed their name now?"
"Oh…" the young lieutenant smiled stiffly. "I thought…"
"Don't do things you're not suited for, Officer," I noted coldly. "For the first five years of your service, your command thinks for you. Or a senior-ranking officer. In this case, me. Escort me and my bodyguard to Prince-Admiral Krennel, before I order your planet taken by assault."
"I-I-I…" Krennel's greeter stammered. "Disarm… I…"
"Guardsman," I said quietly. "This lieutenant is broken. We need another."
Grodin Tierce stepped forward, unceremoniously shoving the floundering lieutenant aside with his shoulder. The stormtrooper flinched forward but remained in place — the vibroblade, which had cut his weapon in half, had left a long, deep scratch across his chest plate. Was I imagining it, or did a whimper come from under the soldier's helmet?
No, that's nonsense. He's a stormtrooper. That doesn't happen.
* * *
After the colorful pair disappeared around the corner, the lieutenant looked at the stormtrooper, who stood beside the bunker like a statue.
"If anything," the young officer said, wrinkling his nose at the smell of his own sweat, "we'll say they broke through by force."
The stormtrooper thought for a moment, then silently nodded.
Neither of them knew that everything that had happened was being recorded by hidden holocams of the surveillance system.
Fifteen minutes later, the secretariat of Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel notified their relatives of the servicemen's death during training exercises. A form letter that surprised no one in the Ciutric Hegemony anymore.
Ysanne Isard could not stand cowards.
* * *
"Reactor section on the line. Ready to begin start-up cycle," came the report over the intercom, shattering the silence of the Steel Aurora's combat information center.
Captain Kalian looked toward the watch officer and nodded slowly.
"Begin."
The watch officer pressed the intercom key on the terminal. A siren howled briefly.
"Attention, crew," Kalian said into the comlink microphone after the alarm fell silent. "This is the captain. Beginning start-up cycle of the solar ionization reactor. Stand by your stations. Radiation alert."
The siren sounded twice more through the compartments of the Victory I-class Star Destroyer. Only after that did he look at the tactical display, which showed a longitudinal cutaway of his ship.
What were the chances that, for the third time, the artificial star would finally work without melting the safety fuses and cooling circuits? Small, but still… Repair by the crew was all they could do for now. Fortunately, the Imperious had delivered the necessary spare parts and helped by sending several repair crews to the Steel Aurora. The Victory's crew, thinned during the battle in the Rugosa system, was grateful for whatever help they could get. As was the Sentinel, which not only had to patch holes in its hull but effectively rebuild all the reactor compartment equipment from scratch. Working around the clock, both crews were exhausting themselves, trying to get the ships in order. The Grand Admiral's fleet had no tugs, and no one was likely to send a mobile drydock after them — even if one existed.
They had to make do with their own resources. If only it would start up normally. Even at fifty percent. Hell with that, even thirty — they could make three short hyperspace jumps instead of two medium ones. Just get out of here. Because right now they felt like animals on the hunt…
Not that the base on Linuri annoyed him in any way. No — there were warehouses, a garrison, technical specialists (competent only in ground equipment) who were also exhausting themselves setting up the base with the captured equipment the Grand Admiral had obtained a month ago during the raid on the Dufilvian sector. At least they'd installed an ion cannon. Though its generator… well, you could either fire it or hold the base shield. A terrible solution, to be sure. But the Imperial commander here had no other reactor that powerful. It was as if this outpost had been forgotten entirely.
"Ten percent power!" the watch officer reported. "Reaction temperature stable! No deviations in readings!"
Well, that wasn't a victory yet. Not until they reached at least forty-five…
"Twenty-five percent!"
"The coolers?" Kalian asked. They were what had fused during the very first start-up.
"Holding," the watch officer replied after a pause. "Thirty percent…"
He looked expectantly at the commander.
"Reaction stable. Fuses normal, coolers normal, radiation shield functioning at full power. Transfer power throughout the ship?"
It wouldn't hurt. The red glow of emergency lighting had gotten tiresome after all this time. The backup generators would soon burn out from constant operation — they had to be activated one at a time to allow maintenance on the others. Kalian didn't want to risk turning on all emergency generators at once — losing them too was unacceptable.
"No," the captain replied. "First, let's see how much we can count on. Continue the test start-up. Increase power slowly. I don't want the fuses blown like last time."
Back then, a power surge had shorted out the fuses of the radiation shield. The fault in the reactor emergency shutdown system was discovered only after they managed to manually shut down the solar ionization reactor. The three volunteers who had stepped up for that work were buried as soon as the radiation level in the compartment dropped to a minimum thanks to emergency purge. Not even the highest-grade protective suits could save them. Nothing saves you when you're practically walking a couple of meters from a compact star.
Kalian added three more entries to the crew combat loss log. And then another — when they found the idiot who hadn't checked the emergency shutdown system. A young kid, fresh from technical school. All he'd had to do was open the unit casing — he would have seen the melted wires immediately. But this… foolish one had been too lazy to go back to the technical workshop for the right tool, verifying the unit's functionality through the ventilation vents instead.
A day later, they found him strolling near the Star Destroyer. Without a spacesuit. The airlock he'd been sent to check had shorted, and the doors had slid open. The kid was blown into space in one and a half milliseconds. A very strange fact, considering he was supposed to be checking a working airlock. Well, Captain Kalian understood the Steel Aurora's chief mechanic. A crew is a well-oiled mechanism. It has no right to fail because of one defective component. If you can't turn your back to a battle comrade in a difficult situation, trusting his work, then that comrade is worthless.
"Forty percent," the watch officer almost whispered.
Kalian felt a trickle of sweat running down his back under his tech suit. Yes, he was the kind of commander who didn't put on a serious face and claim there was something on the ship he shouldn't touch. He damn well should touch it. It was his Star Destroyer. And if extra hands were needed anywhere on the ship — he would be there. And the officers would be there. Everyone necessary would be there, if only…
"Fifty-three percent!" the watch officer almost squealed with pleasure. "It worked, Captain, it worked! Increasing…"
"Hold the power!" Kalian barked, approaching the control console. "Thirty seconds of reactor idle!"
"Sir, where do we put the excess energy?" The watch officer's eyes seemed ready to pop from their sockets. Kalian understood his reaction — the solar ionization reactor's energy buffers couldn't store power indefinitely. If you didn't give it an outlet, the accumulators could blow…
"Route it to the Steel Aurora's systems," he ordered. If there was a power surge, a lot of fuses would burn…
"Beginning connection of lighting systems," the life-support operator reported. The crimson light in the CIC shifted to the familiar white, painfully stinging the eyes. "Switching heating and air supply to main power…"
Cool air flowed through the CIC, driving out the stale, dank carbon dioxide. The emergency system, which had been running all this time, wasn't nearly as efficient…
Kalian inhaled the fresh air deeply.
"Readings," he demanded.
"Reactor at fifty-three percent, Captain," the watch officer replied. "No power fluctuations. Radiation shield holding. Coolers and fuses… normal."
"Begin supplying main systems from the primary reactor," Kalian ordered. "Inform the Imperious and the base commander on Linuri. Crew repair is presumably complete. Monitor reactor operation for twenty-four hours. If there are no changes — test the hyperdrive with a short jump, check all systems, and move out to Tangrene."
After a pause, he activated the intercom.
"Captain speaking. Reactor is at half power. Beginning system-wide test. Off-duty crew members, rest. Technicians and specialists from the Imperious… thank you very much. When we get back to Tangrene, drinks are on us. Lots of drinks…"
* * *
Krennel's office, to put it mildly, did not impress.
Too large, too much empty space. Too lavish in its decor. What was wrong with these military men, anyway?
"Grand Admiral," Krennel greeted me in a calm tone, waiting until I took the seat across from him. Grodin Tierce stood silently behind me. A pair of stormtroopers behind the office's master exchanged glances. With a soft creak, their hands gripped their blaster rifles tighter. Tierce didn't even move.
"Prince-Admiral," I returned the greeting.
"Your man crippled seventeen of my soldiers," Delak said through clenched teeth. His prosthetic right hand emitted a barely audible metallic creak as its owner clenched his fingers into a fist. Interesting — was losing one's right upper limb a fashion in this galaxy far, far away? Well, that was just a thought to relax my psyche, nothing more. Each did as they pleased with their life.
"Your seventeen soldiers were obstructing me and my bodyguard from meeting with you," I clarified. "Imperial Guardsmen do not recognize obstacles. You know that better than anyone. You put on a show; we participated. If you have any complaints — let's discuss them."
Krennel looked at me for several seconds. I looked him in the eye.
"The purpose of your visit, Grand Admiral?" He looked away, pretending to be interested in how his artificial fingers were clenching and unclenching.
"First, I would like to know the delivery time for the fighters, interceptors, and bombers I ordered," I said. My words drew a faint smile from Krennel. "During negotiations with Moff Ferrus, your administrator tactfully omitted this rather important detail."
"Six standard weeks," Krennel said without looking at me. "I need forty days to manufacture the two thousand fighters and one thousand other machines you ordered. So, the Prince-Admiral's production capabilities allow him to produce seventy-five machines per day. That is twice plus three more machines than the assembly plants produce — plants I intended to discuss acquiring with Lady Santhe. And I would have discussed it, if not for unforeseen expenses that forced me to compromise with my conscience: either order machines from Krennel, spending a considerable amount of money, or spend several times more and buy the factory. A factory for which I have no resources to build machines, no qualified personnel, and, frankly, no guarantee they'd even sell it to me. Whereas the Prince-Admiral's assembly line runs constantly. And he presumably has reserves — he must have, since practically all the Imperial Remnants 'stock up' from him. Except the poorest ones, of course, like the Antemeridian sector. Its Moff desperately wants to meet with me. I have to postpone the meeting, since I already have more than enough 'quests' as it is. Getting another 'loyalty mission' with a 'yesterday' deadline is the last thing I want."
"Does that include delivery of the machines already in your warehouses, Prince-Admiral?" I asked.
Krennel tensed for a moment, then slowly turned his head to look at me.
"My warehouses are not your concern, Grand Admiral," he said with poorly concealed irritation. He was visibly restraining himself. But he was doing a terrible job of it. Had the enmity between him and Thrawn truly been so fierce?
"Why all this talking through gritted teeth?" I inquired. "You supported my initiatives, Prince-Admiral. You supplied me with equipment in the past. Everyone was satisfied with how things were going. What changed?"
"You are an immensely intelligent al... sentient being, Grand Admiral," Krennel said. "You were given the chance to wage war against an enemy we couldn't defeat. And everyone was fine with it while you had only a small fleet. But now the leadership of the Imperial Remnants holds the opinion that you've gotten your hands on the legendary Katana Fleet."
"I understand what you're driving at, Prince-Admiral," I said. My calm tone seemed to irritate Krennel more with every minute he spent in my company. If all the rulers of the Imperial Remnants felt this way about Thrawn, it was no wonder they'd shipped him off to the far end of the galaxy. "You fear for your sovereignty."
"How interesting," the warlord snorted. "You drew the correct conclusion without even attempting to examine the art collection I've assembled..."
A taunt. Open, undisguised. And probably meant to sting.
"There's no need for that kind of behavior toward an Imperial," I said. "When I took command of the forces opposing the New Republic, I promised I would not violate the sovereignty of the Imperial Remnants or treat them as something in need of unification. I'm accustomed to keeping my word. As long as everyone else maintains the same position."
"Right," Krennel smirked. "I know that feeling from personal experience."
A hint at a shared past? If only I knew the answer...
"At any rate, I've heard your ships are undergoing repairs," he said. "So you'll have to wait regardless until my factories build you the required number of small craft."
"But the required number is already in your warehouses, isn't it?" I needed my fighters, interceptors, and bombers. It wasn't just that my ships were under repair. The real issue was training pilots to master those machines. Losses among flight crews didn't please me. So it was time to introduce regular training exercises. And you couldn't do that without the actual craft.
"They are," Krennel said reluctantly. "But..."
"I already understand that your reluctance to empty those warehouses is primarily based on the notion that it would reduce your defensive capacity," I said. The Prince-Admiral nodded in affirmation. Well then, let's try to sort this out now.
Krennel traded with everyone who used Imperial combat starships. He supplied spare parts to them and to a considerable number of semi-legal sentients. He had plenty of money. The question was: why didn't he build capital ships for himself? Because his shipyard was a repair facility, not a construction yard. So why didn't he buy one? Because all manufacturers of that kind of product were now subordinate to the New Republic or the Imperial Remnants. The shipyards at Yaga Minor, Ord Trasi, and Bilbringi were perfectly capable of building Imperial Star Destroyers. Not to mention the other yards under Imperial control. Ideally, Krennel should have possessed a sizable fleet of battleships... but he had barely more than a dozen. Why?
His Hegemony had been formed from territories that once belonged to Sate Pestage and a number of planets Krennel had managed to tear away from the bloated carcass of Warlord Zsinj's empire. Yet his fleet was small. Instead, he built up planetary defenses that no one could penetrate. So there was a certain casuistry at work — he had the money, but he didn't order starships.
"You were refused construction of Star Destroyers at the Imperial shipyards, weren't you?" I asked, inwardly hoping I hadn't said something stupid.
"Don't tell me you didn't know that," Krennel snorted. "They're willing to trade with me, but building a ship, or even several, in Imperial Space — that's considered bad form. Even among those who owe me their very fighters, interceptors, and the rest..."
Ah, so that's it. They never forgave him for killing the Grand Vizier. An interesting form of internal Imperial democracy, I supposed.
And those restrictions prevented him from acquiring his own starships. The Ubiqtorate, sitting on Tangrene, kept him from using pirates and ship-jackers for that purpose — no one trying to make a buck would go against Imperial Intelligence command. Honestly, I suspected it was the Ubiqtorate that had turned everyone else against Krennel. A useful isolation of a supply source...
"In that case," I said, "we can help each other, Prince-Admiral."
"Is that so?" Krennel smirked. "Don't tell me you've decided to sell me the Katana Fleet?"
"Why would you need such a relic?" I asked. "I have a better offer."
"Your Star Destroyers?" Krennel pressed on. Judging by the spark in his eyes, the hint had caught his interest. "I've heard you have a few Victory-class and Interdictors..."
"Something better," I said. "How long has it been since you last fought the New Republic, Prince-Admiral?"
If mentioning the rebels in that particular context grated on Krennel's ears, he didn't show it.
"I can destroy them at any moment," he said pompously.
"In that case, you might find use for two Mon Calamari MC80 Liberty-class star cruisers," I said phlegmatically. "Two Mark I assault frigates. A Neutron Star-class cruiser..."
"Assault frigates and Neutron Star-class — they're garbage for stationary duty," Krennel grimaced. "But the Liberties... yes, those are decent ships."
"Each one is worth a single Imperial-class Star Destroyer," I said. "An Imperial I, to be precise. And they cost far less."
"I've heard you trade in trophies, Grand Admiral," Krennel said mockingly. "Decided to unload this non-liquid asset too?"
"Why call it non-liquid?" I asked. "In skilled hands, these starships are a tremendous force. Not to mention that possessing them would prove your involvement in operations against the New Republic. You're only sticking to a defensive strategy because you don't have that many capital ships. I'm offering you these vessels. Of course, they've seen battle and sustained serious damage..."
"In exchange for what?" Krennel fixed me with a piercing stare. I'd guessed right. He needed capital ships.
"A mere trifle," I said. "Each one costs a hundred million..."
"Seventy — no more," Krennel interrupted. Catching the unspoken objection in my eyes, he bared his teeth. "Since they've been in battle and sustained serious damage..."
"Fair enough," I noted. "In that case, I ask that you return those hundred and forty million from the amount you paid me. Additionally, I recommend you take a closer look at the assault frigates. Excellent ships. And if they're brought up to spec, they can fight on equal terms against cruisers..."
"And what price are you offering them to me for?" Krennel smirked. His posture, the movement of his eyes and hands, the sneer on his lips — all of it indicated the Prince-Admiral was hardly short on funds. But he was haggling for the sake of haggling. He enjoyed drawing blood. Specifically, mine. So even on the edge of his own profit, he couldn't overcome his hatred and old grievances. Fine. You've made your move. Now for mine. Or rather — mine.
"I'll give them to you for free," I said. The Prince-Admiral's eyebrows drew together above the bridge of his nose. "But I have three requests of you that won't burden the Ciutric Hegemony."
"I'm listening," the Prince-Admiral said patronizingly.
"First. The small craft I ordered from you for my fleet are needed as soon as possible," I said.
"Well, alright," the owner of the prosthetic right hand smirked. "And the second?"
"I've heard you have some decent prisons," I said. The Prince-Admiral tensed. Clearly suspecting that his little secret with the mismatched eyes had been uncovered. And it had been uncovered — but as long as Ysanne Isard, who had a spy in every backwater of the galaxy, if not two, believed that no one knew about her plans or whereabouts — including me — I had nothing to fear from her schemes. For a while. Which was why the operation needed to be carried out as quickly as possible. "I have a considerable number of Republic prisoners. But no prisons. Keeping them on my main base is wasteful. Since we've found common ground, perhaps you could meet me halfway and accept the rebel prisoners for detention?"
"You'll have to pay for their upkeep," Krennel snorted, clearly exhaling in relief. He hadn't caught a single hint of...
"I don't see that as a problem," I said. An immoral act, but... "I'm sure you'll give the enemy soldiers a proper reception."
"Oh, don't you worry," Delak almost smiled, showing all his gleaming white teeth. Now that he was the owner of four excellent ships for a pittance, he seemed to have warmed to me. Well, that was the plan. Because the main thing was still ahead...
"And the third favor..." I meaningfully rubbed my thumb against my index and middle fingers. Funny fact: in this galaxy, that gesture meant exactly the same thing it had in my past life. Though here, it had been invented by... the Neimoidians, creators of the Trade Federation. Or the Muuns, famous traders. Either way, it didn't matter. The gesture was widely recognized.
"You need more money?" Krennel smirked.
"That too, among other things," I said calmly. "A major operation is being planned. With substantial trophies. It requires appropriate preparation."
"How major an operation?" the Prince-Admiral said quickly. I was sure he didn't care about the operation. He cared about the trophies. Only the trophies.
"As a result, you could become the owner of five or seven Mon Calamari star cruisers," I said indifferently. Was I doing the right thing? Yes. What did I need them for? No standardization, no precise plan. The weapons were... decent, but restoring and maintaining them would cost a fortune. Besides, owning those ships would effectively make their owner a target.
"I'll buy them at the same price," he said languidly. Of course he would. Nine battleships for a throwaway price...
"I have no doubt about your commercial talents, Prince-Admiral," I said. "But these ships are practically in perfect condition." In reality, there were far more of them at Sluis Van. But you didn't need to know that. In a couple of months, there would be an attack on the New Republic's main shipyard in that region, and... it would be interesting. "So I'm prepared to offer them to you for a hundred and fifty million each."
Judging by Krennel's expression, he hadn't even realized I'd quoted a price nearly forty-five million higher than buying them directly from the Mon Calamari shipyards. He simply didn't care. It felt like this wealthy Pinocchio had a family of leprechauns stashed away somewhere, dispensing credit chips.
"A hundred and forty," he said. "I'll pay half as an advance for your current expenses. And during the operation, I'd like the enemy to be left with a reminder of my involvement."
I wanted very much to run my palm down my face. How did this man even become an admiral? Nothing but ambition and an overinflated ego. I'd read his personnel file — he was... average. Maybe a little better than Pellaeon. I wasn't even going to compare him to myself — even someone like Krennel had managed to forget more about fleet operations than I'd learned in all the weeks since my arrival. In strategy, he'd certainly lose to me, if he didn't have his quiet mismatched-eyed assistant. But in tactics... that needed thought. I needed more information about him.
"Of course," I said. "Those ships will be yours for the agreed sum. And the enemy will never forget your involvement. What kind of mark would you like to leave on the New Republic's memory?"
God, it sounded like I was selling him household appliances...
"Burn it all down there," Krennel said vindictively. "Kill them all, Grand Admiral. No mercy for the Republic scum."
Oh.
You.
Son.
Of.
A.
Bitch.
* * *
Ysanne Isard pulled back from the information displayed on the central monitor of the ten arranged in a semicircle before her, feeling her spine press into the hard back of her chair.
The young woman folded her arms across her chest, gazing thoughtfully at the data showing on her equipment.
So that's how events were unfolding...
To be honest, she'd never noticed political flexibility in Thrawn before. And now, here he was, casually discussing matters he'd once been utterly cold toward. Since when?
She remembered perfectly well the operation the Emperor and Thrawn himself had devised — creating a suitable pretext to divert the attention of his colleagues, who were more versed in the internal affairs of the Galactic Empire, away from the talented commander. Rufaan Tigellinus would have "eaten" Thrawn for breakfast, destroying his reputation with every single Imperial Moff without even flinching. Rufaan was a seasoned politician who sensed the elite's moods and skillfully adapted to them. He didn't steer them — he adapted. But that was the Emperor's way — he didn't elevate anyone who could form even the slightest viable coalition against legitimate authority. For "keeping things interesting," he had Bail Organa and the other senators.
But all of that was just talk of the past.
The future was far more interesting.
Thrawn never deviated from the task assigned to him. And right now, he had only one — to wage a military campaign against the New Republic. Yet for some reason she couldn't determine, he wasn't pursuing conquests. Only inflicting damage on the rebels, breaking down their defensive network, destabilizing their logistics... Very, very strange.
And his conversation with Krennel had been completely level. As if the man sitting before him wasn't a former subordinate the Chiss had gotten rid of due to "excessive cruelty," but an insignificant little insect the Supreme Commander tolerated only because he...
Isard felt her heart begin to beat faster. Not much, but it was a sign she was agitated. The woman ran her palms over the perfect skin of her face, gathering her hair into a ponytail with her thumbs and letting it flow freely down her back and shoulders. A useless gesture, but a calming one.
At nearly forty, she remained in excellent physical shape. Thanks to regular training, a habit instilled by her despotic father in childhood. Her father, the legendary Armand Isard, father of Republic Intelligence, which he had forged from dozens of spy organizations into a single whole. He had also been present at the birth of Imperial Intelligence... until Ysanne got rid of him.
The woman crossed her legs, smoothing an almost invisible crease in her trousers.
So. Thrawn.
A dangerous toy that, for some reason, had stopped performing its function. A useful but dangerous tool, whose part was supposed to be brilliant, spectacular, shaking the foundations of the New Republic's statehood — but short.
And yet the last Grand Admiral loyal to the ideals of the Galactic Empire was behaving strangely. Instead of continuing his military campaign, striking the rebel planets without pause, he had for some reason started making deals.
He did it clumsily, crudely, in a way that provoked nothing but a smile. Baron D'Asta had won him over with feigned friendship and funding, pushing him into an attack on a New Republic military installation. Well, that was acceptable, as it served long-term prospects. But any fool would understand the Baron didn't care what the Grand Admiral was trying to do. The D'Astan sector was nothing more than a convenient appendage that would never return to the Empire. Unfortunately, Isard's agents hadn't managed to learn the details of their conversation. Only what the Baron had seen fit to tell his daughter — that he'd secured the support of a simple-minded, foolish alien who would do all the work of restoring control over the transport networks of the sector and beyond. Interesting — did the Baron know about the peculiar trait of the person he was being so frank with? No, unlikely. Otherwise he wouldn't have been so open with her and would have taken appropriate search measures.
Thrawn had alienated Rendili, first luring them with orders, then refusing to repair ships at their yards. A mortal insult to those who had been on the fringes of state contracts even in the Empire's best days. And they could have been a great asset to him in the long term.
The same went for Brentaal IV. Excellent shipyards that had produced no small number of experimental developments...
The reason Thrawn was concentrating all repair and production capacity in the Morshdine sector was unclear. Was it simple paranoia? He'd never suffered from that before. Nor from a desire to lay his blue hands on every single trophy without exception... He'd always relied on the Empire's resource base...
And now, here he was, coming almost with an outstretched hand to Krennel. An idiot who fancied himself a great commander. Getting money from him — which could be considered a decent asset — since Thrawn, considering his trophies not yet sold on the black market, effectively had a billion Imperial credits on hand, a colossal sum. In cash. What was he going to do with it?
Why hadn't the Grand Admiral taken the simplest position — negotiating with Krennel to repair his ships at the Ciutric Hegemony's shipyard? That would have effectively put his ships back into service much faster...
What was Thrawn hoping for? His style was speed, deception, and momentum. Why was he stalling? What was he counting on? If he really had captured the entire Katana Fleet, he would need enormous repair capacity to bring those ships into service. According to Isard's intelligence, repairing each dreadnought would take two weeks. His existing orbital repair facility, a type two, could bring no more than three dozen dreadnoughts into service in that time, given their radical modifications. Using Krennel's facilities, he could repair and upgrade a hundred ships in the same period. Every one of his Dark Force vessels would be operational within a single standard month. But as it stood, in that same time, he could only add sixty heavy cruisers and the starships captured at Rugos to his fleet, including those orbiting the planet Linuri.
What was the Chiss planning? To attack the Ciutric Hegemony and seize it? No, that was foolish. The population, while not fond of Krennel, lived very well under him and most were satisfied. The humanocentric policy of the New Order, which he continued to cultivate in his domains, contradicted an alliance with non-humans. If Thrawn took this territory by force, he would only gain millions of humans who hated aliens. He understood that perfectly well — he had experienced xenophobia himself during his training at the Imperial Academy and his subsequent service.
Then what was he counting on? In a month, two at most, the New Republic would remove disarmed military vessels from its logistical rotation, and he would lose the ability to strike wherever he pleased. His attack on Sluis Van would fail — he simply didn't have the necessary number of starships to fight such an opponent. And the Imperial Remnants wouldn't support him, as had been agreed from the start.
Isard thoughtfully bit her lower lip. What. Was. This. Alien. Planning?
The words drilled into her mind. The question joined all the others she hadn't been able to resolve. What operation was he conducting with the asteroids? What did he need plasma drills for? What was the point of the rhydonium? For what purpose was he methodically reorganizing pirates into auxiliary forces? How had he managed to move an orbital defense station from the Dufilvian sector to Tangrene's orbit? Why was he wasting resources on restoring that battered piece of metal when he could easily buy several new ones? For what purpose was he meddling with Xa Fel when he could simply purchase hyperdrives for his fleet? Especially now.
And finally — where did this non-human get an IMPERIAL GUARD?!
Isard didn't believe it could be a "fake." She had carefully reviewed the video recordings tracking the progress of this interesting "pair" through the corridors of the Prince-Admiral's residence. Analyzed every action, every technique this unknown figure used to eliminate obstacles in his path. And she had arrived at the only correct conclusion — this Guardsman was genuine. Their training program couldn't be copied or replicated. These techniques couldn't be learned by chance, and targeted training would take years. Therefore, the Guardsman was real. But why was he subordinate to the Grand Admiral? All of them were currently either on Byss or watching over the Imperial Ruling Council, guarding the selected politicians...
Isard checked her records. No, the last ones were in place. She also dismissed the possibility that one of the Guardsmen might have betrayed their duty, survived some battle, and decided to serve the Grand Admiral instead of fulfilling their oath and returning to base. That was nonsense. Imperial Guards answered to only one man — the Emperor. Everything else was a violation of their oath. Even when she had ruled Coruscant and several Guardsmen were in her entourage, they were executing Palpatine's order — to protect her. Until the very end.
More questions... Questions she could get answers to, but... she clearly didn't want to step out of the shadows and reveal to anyone significant that she was alive. Not now, not when her plan was only beginning to unfold.
She would have to wait, or try to find out everything herself. But would she succeed? Thrawn had established a relatively decent counterintelligence service, and his intelligence was good as well. The clever alien had gathered around him either specialists in their field or those who had, in one way or another, suffered from the actions of the Empire's official authority. And now he was their master. Not their former leadership.
Isard glanced sideways at the two snow-white strands framing her face.
Gray hair right before her eyes. Gray hair that no one knew about, believing this color to be natural. Gray hair visible to everyone, but no one knew what it really was. Gray hair...
Struck by a sudden realization, the young woman nearly burst out laughing.
So simple… And yet, it was fascinating how this inhuman creature had managed to conceive of such a simple and yet effective plan. So this was how he intended to increase the repair capacity of his sector. This was why he was luring civilian specialists with high salaries. Oh, how easily he had led Krennel by the nose. He had played on the latter's weaknesses and conceit, getting enormous sums of money in return. She had held the prince-admiral in higher regard. Yes, he had plenty of money — he was reaping the fruits of his nearly exclusive work on TIE-series technology and raking in enormous profits from selling it to Imperials, bandits, and criminal organizations. Just last month alone, Grand Moff Ardus Kaine had purchased technology from him for a sum of seven billion credits. An order that had allowed Krennel to enrich himself, purchase a huge amount of new production equipment, and strengthen his defenses.
And in the end, not only did their grand admiral have a considerable fleet that he was successfully modernizing, but he was also gaining additional forces. What were those Republic tubs to him, which his Star Destroyers had captured in battle? He could get far more. And if he could also pull off his deal with the Santhe family, then Krennel would be left gnashing his teeth in envy. And in the end, even Baron D'Asta would owe Thrawn a not inconsiderable sum. Of course, the cunning aristocrat would try to wriggle out of it, most likely fobbing Thrawn off with his obsolete ships or rowdy pilots that were no longer needed, and were even a liability. After all, he had managed it once, hadn't he? He had. And the Grand Admiral had only smiled in response, understanding the essence of what was happening. But he had said nothing. It seemed the Unknown Regions had changed the Chiss so much that he was grateful for any help. It wasn't for nothing that he had tried to forge an alliance with Carida and, in frustration, had sent his flagship's commander to complain about the Academy government to the Imperial Ruling Council…
No. The woman shook her head decisively. Too convenient a version of events regarding Thrawn's political game. Too good to be true. He was far too well-versed in the affairs of the New Republic. There was something else here. Something besides the fact that Thrawn, like her, had access to the "Delta Source." Apparently, Thrawn had some other source of information that allowed him to stay a couple of steps ahead of his opponents. That was precisely why he had time for all these political games.
Consequently, it was necessary to restore his motivation to return to his favorite pastime — war.
Ysanne smiled. Manipulating intelligent beings and causing them pain was something she knew how to do, loved to do, and did with immense pleasure.