Nine years, seven months, and sixteen days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and sixteen days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and one day since the Arrival.)
Rumor has it that you can't trust first impressions, because they're deceptive.
CorSec teaches that on a professional level. No matter what anyone tells you — don't believe it until you confirm their words with objective facts. But more often than not, it turned out those words had to be refuted.
At this point, Corran Horn had reached a simple conclusion: the Jedi who'd been picking his brain for weeks now was insane. And if he was a typical representative of the old Jedi Order, then against all his beliefs, Corran was starting to feel something like gratitude toward Palpatine. Scary to think what a whole Order of such characters could have done to the galaxy...
"What is the place of the Jedi in the galaxy, Jedi Horn?" inquired the gray-haired old man sitting across from him in a meditation pose.
Corran, from sitting in that pose for hours every day, had a stiff back, aching joints, and a worsening mood. But what annoyed him most were all these abstract musings, about as useful as pumping oxygen into space. You keep yourself busy, sure, but socially useful results — zero. Easier to scoop out the oceans of the Mon Calamari homeworld with a spoon, or manually groom a nexu on Hoth. Or pluck a Bothan.
"To guide and instruct?" Corran suggested. "To serve as a role model?"
The next moment, he felt irritation radiating from the Jedi Master. And it was like this every time — whenever the old man launched into some speech pretending to be deep philosophical wisdom, hoping to get a specific answer from Horn, he'd always get irritated hearing what Corran said. That's how Corran knew he'd done something wrong. Something the Jedi Master didn't like. But that didn't necessarily mean it was mistaken. Why did one particular Corellian, who'd held a lightsaber only a couple dozen times in his life, think the answers he gave weren't necessarily wrong? For the simplest reason — the old man never gave any answers. He only condemned the answers he heard from Horn.
Corran had absolutely no idea how Jedi of the past conducted training, but he seriously doubted it consisted of nothing but criticism.
"You learn nothing, Corran Horn," the elderly Jedi said with undisguised contempt. "How much time must pass before you begin to understand even a little from my lessons?"
"A bit longer than you think, Master C'baoth," Horn assured him. "We Corellians aren't a quick-witted people. We don't need all these sermons. We act, not philosophize..."
"A foolish postulate," the old man declared, hands on his hips. "That very thing destroyed the Order in the past. A reluctance to think — that was the Jedi's flaw, which Palpatine and his dark Jedi accomplices used against them. Those who cannot see beyond their own noses are doomed to be destroyed!"
And there were the crumbs of new info. This was what Corran endured all these sermons for. Of course, also largely because he couldn't leave this place. And somewhere out there was Mirax! And she was waiting while he wasted time here.
But the Force — at least that part of it that Corran had associated with intuition for decades — told him his dear wife was all right. Or was he just hoping that, and his Force abilities were actually so insignificant he couldn't tell if some great disaster had befallen her?
But his father, who'd been a Padawan in the Jedi Order, claimed intuition should always be considered and listened to — it would always show you where danger lurked. And Horn had used his gift more than once to protect himself and others.
Oh, maybe he should have accepted Skywalker's offer back then, after the capture of Coruscant, before all of Isard's schemes with the Krytos virus started, and learned something from him? At least the basics. Because C'baoth was no practical use at all.
How many times had he reached this conclusion? That kid from Tatooine, whom Wedge Antilles held up as an example when Horn first joined Rogue Squadron — at least he wasn't as insufferably arrogant as this old geezer.
"You think you're wasting time here, Jedi Horn?" C'baoth asked him sarcastically.
"No, I'm just thrilled I flew here to find my wife and ended up sitting on my ass all day like some monk, waiting to be taught something useful," raced through Corran's mind.
"I'd prefer to be taught something more practical," Horn said, straining his diplomatic abilities to their limit. "Lightsaber combat, for instance. Or establishing long-distance communication..."
Being on Jomark was a complete waste of time. Corran had already concluded he'd simply been lured here to stay out of the way. But by whom? And who could he have inconvenienced so much that they'd spend this much time on him?
He found no answers. It all seemed like a private initiative by C'baoth himself, who'd decided to "share invaluable experience" with a "Jedi" who'd found himself in a difficult life situation. In simpler terms — it seemed the old man actually possessed no talents beyond talking people's ears off and just "tagging along" with everything happening. He was useless. For finding Mirax, certainly. Maybe he knew something extraordinary, but he wasn't in a hurry to share that knowledge. Why? Was he waiting for Horn to figure out the answers to his own questions on his own? Fine, suppose. Then what did Corran need C'baoth for at all?
For a moment, the Jedi Master's gaze drifted off to some unknown distance, then returned to the surrounding reality. He stared intently at the pilot, then said:
"Get up, Jedi Horn. It's time to dispel your doubts and demonstrate the greatness of the Force!"
The culmination of days of asking to move from boring, useless lectures to something even remotely resembling actual teaching. Maybe this Jedi wasn't as useless as Corran had thought from the start? Interesting — was this related to Jedi being able to read minds? No. C'baoth probably couldn't decipher exactly what Horn was thinking — otherwise his face wouldn't show such all-consuming spiritual radiance. More likely there'd be a mask of rage instead of that smug, almost insolent expression. He could probably only sense the general emotional background, the way the Corellian himself sometimes could.
"Master C'baoth," Corran called to the Jedi at the doors of the castle where Horn had spent all this time in useless reflection and meditation. "Could you at least hint at what we're going to do?"
"Why?" the old man looked at him distrustfully.
"I'm always curious to hear an announcement of upcoming events," Corran smiled. "It's so motivating. I'd be very glad if you showed me how to contact someone thousands of light-years away..."
So he could finally get off this wretched rock.
C'baoth studied him long and scrutinizingly at the very doors, then grabbed the medallion hanging around his neck with hooked fingers. The old Jedi's face instantly brightened, as if he'd downed half a mug of good old lumin-el. He even got a bit of color. Hmm... Was the old man secretly hitting something strong while Horn shamelessly snored through all these so-called meditations?
"I will show you the place of the Jedi in the galaxy," C'baoth declared in a firm voice.
May someone dump sweetener in your fuel tank!
"Maybe we could still learn lightsaber combat?" Corran lovingly stroked the cylindrical hilt of his real grandfather's weapon. The weapon he'd found on Imperial-occupied Coruscant almost by accident, following only his instincts and the Force. Those same instincts that, from the very first moment of arriving on Jomark, kept telling him not to trust C'baoth and to run from him as fast as he could. And the explosion that destroyed the X-wing and Whistler — the astromech he'd been through so much with — had made that call stronger than ever.
Only he still had no idea how to escape from here. Without any means of communication or a way to send a message to his battle comrades — it was impossible.
"Swinging a sword is the lowest level of Jedi mastery," C'baoth declared contemptuously, pushing open the heavy wooden door and stepping outside. "That's work for those who lack the intellect to give orders. That is not your path, Jedi Horn."
Oh, really?
"But I've heard that all Jedi in the old Order knew how to fight with lightsabers and carried them," Corran shamelessly compiled several scattered and contradictory rumors he'd heard somewhere, sometime, from someone. Particularly from Skywalker, who said it was the traditional weapon of Jedi Knights. And if it was traditional, then everyone should have one, right?
"And where are they now, these 'everyone'?" C'baoth snorted contemptuously, approaching a rather crudely built cart whose guide poles were held by a strong young man. The mixture of emotions on his face sparked ominous suspicions in Corran. And those suspicions were confirmed when C'baoth, grunting, climbed onto the cart and settled into a cloth-covered seat like some comic king from a holodrama that had worn thin with everyone who'd watched it... "The sword is a Jedi's weapon. But it should only be used when there is no other choice left to defeat an enemy through the power of your mind. Palpatine destroyed the Jedi not by fighting each of them personally — he outsmarted them and brought them down. This is what you must learn, Jedi Horn."
Learn what exactly? To bring down Jedi? No-no-no, thanks for the offer, we humbly decline. However much of a model worker C'baoth might think Palpatine was, holding him up as an example was in poor taste.
Corran was once again confirmed in his belief that there was something wrong with his "teacher." Maybe he was a powerful Jedi, maybe he could tie Skywalker himself in knots with a single sneeze, but the old man clearly had serious problems with moral compass. Of course, everyone had to figure out for themselves what was "good" and what was "bad." But in Palpatine's case, you could confidently check the box next to the latter category. Whatever the dead man had done — it was unequivocally "bad." No matter what anyone said.
You'd have to be completely out of your mind to claim that a coup d'état, the extermination of an entire Order, the persecution of Jedi lasting over two decades, the destruction of their monuments, and the complete erasure of their achievements from galactic history — were truly accomplishments worth emulating. No thank you, we humbly decline, we don't need your propaganda. We're Corellians ourselves.
"What are you standing there for?" the Jedi asked him in a dissatisfied tone, patting the empty seat beside him. "Sit down immediately, time waits for no one."
Meeting the eyes of the man who, according to the delusional Jedi's plan, was supposed to serve as a draft animal for two people, Corran couldn't help but shudder.
"Thank you for the offer, Master C'baoth," he said absently. "I think I'll jog to the village on foot."
The local looked at him with a gaze full of gratitude. Corran felt a little awkward. Kid, what's wrong with you? Do you really think I'm crazy enough to agree to that?!
"My lessons are doing you good," the old man suddenly intoned with a smile on his lips. "You've grown wiser, since you understood where we're heading. I'll wait for you in the village in fifteen minutes. Don't you dare be late and show me disrespect! Move!" C'baoth barked at the local. The man, obediently bowing his head and gripping the guide poles, pulled the cart behind him.
Corran watched this scene and just shook his head.
No, you crazy old fool, I just figured out that I saw this cart in the village at the foot of the mountain. And I figured there's nowhere much to go in this corner of Jomark anyway.
Even if he needed to cross a desert or swim a sea to reach some desired goal, Corran would never ride in such a vehicle. Using a living, sentient being as a draft animal... That wasn't just the height of cynicism; it was a blatantly dismissive attitude toward human freedom.
It seemed C'baoth had completely lost his mind over his theory of Jedi superiority over ordinary sentients. Which made him very different from Skywalker, who never used even his authority to gain any advantages. Wedge once told how that kid from Tatooine lived for a week in a room on Echo Base with broken heaters because he couldn't fix the failed equipment himself, and it seemed wrong to him to distract the technicians. Such a modest guy. Who, by the way, already had the destruction of the Death Star and a high rank in the Rebel Alliance to his credit at that point.
No, a teacher like C'baoth was definitely not for Horn.
Watching the unexpectedly fast-moving cart recede into the distance, Corran suddenly understood one simple thing clearly.
Where had he even gotten the idea that C'baoth had the slightest clue about Mirax's whereabouts? Or possessed any Jedi skills that could help the Corellian find his beloved? Sure, mental long-distance communication was nice. You could even say it was cool — another good story to tell some of his comrades.
But since he'd arrived on Jomark, C'baoth hadn't demonstrated the slightest Jedi technique at all. Not even moving a pebble through the air, or... Hmm, well, right...
It would be great to at least know what Jedi could actually do. Skywalker once mentioned danger premonition — and Corran identified that with his own intuition. He showed how he could deflect blaster bolts with the Force. Corran tried it once too — almost killed himself and had to buy a new couch. And a wardrobe. And twenty-seven new dresses for Mirax to replace the ones he'd shredded. Skywalker also demonstrated telekinesis — as another "teaser" to lure him into training and moving from the pilot category to being a partner in finding Jedi heritage. Corran couldn't do anything at all then, so he even doubted that Skywalker could properly explain Jedi wisdom. And that became another strike against accepting the offer to study. But mainly, it was pride that flared up in Corran then — when Skywalker strained and strained but still couldn't read his thoughts. The Corellian, though not out loud, laughed at how "Well, what can you possibly teach me if I, without any training, can do what you can't?"
Corran was approaching the village outskirts when he noticed that the locals — generally friendly people who wished no one harm — were looking at him like a rancor eyeing a herd of banthas. That had never happened before. Yes, they hadn't sworn eternal love and friendship to each other, but on previous occasions when Corran secretly made forays from C'baoth to explore the local landscape (and find C'baoth's own ship), no one had regarded him with such suspicion.
The Corellian quickened his pace, orienting on the cart standing by one of the houses. C'baoth wasn't in it, and the coachman (if you could call him that) was diligently hiding behind a wheel, fearfully glancing at what was happening in one of the houses... whose door lay a couple dozen meters from where it should have been. And judging by the sparks of embers and characteristic scorch marks, it looked like lightning had struck it.
His heart beat faster.
He'd heard stories, supposedly sourced from Skywalker himself, that Palpatine shot lightning from his fingers aboard the second Death Star. And that this trick was a weapon of the Dark Side of the Force. And if so...
Then the answer to the question "How did it happen that the Emperor and Vader never found this local madman on this little planet?" was starting to take on very ominous implications. What if this C'baoth hadn't been hiding from the Empire at all? What if he was so dangerous and insane that even that pair — Palpatine and Vader — decided not to mess with him?
And that, in turn, meant... what? What conclusions could be drawn from such profound analysis?
A sith knows what.
Corran sighed heavily. A sith might know. But one particular native of a planet called Corellia — no. But he understood he'd better find the answer to that question quickly. He didn't like this place, and especially not C'baoth himself! He just didn't, period! His intuition kept telling him he shouldn't have taken this path searching for Mirax at all. Oh, now you speak up, huh?! But before the X-wing and Whistler exploded, you were telling me something completely different!
From the house he was approaching came the sounds of lightning striking somewhere and bone-chilling male screams. Then female ones joined them. In both cases, one representative of each gender was wailing.
Corran dashed inside like a nexu, noting that locals were fearfully peeking out from nearby houses. Too frightened to even come outside and approach the site of the ongoing...
At the threshold, Corran froze in his tracks! The scene before him made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
In the spacious living room, two people were writhing on the floor in sparkling, hissing blue-white snake-like strands of lightning — a man and a woman. A couple meters away stood C'baoth, his face frozen in a mask of contempt mixed with pleasure and fury. And from his hands came the very lightning that Skywalker said was a Sith weapon!
"C'baoth!" Corran shouted, reaching for his blaster. The people's screams now sounded like howling. "Stop!"
The Jedi Master didn't even hear him. He continued his dirty work, and clearly the longer the execution lasted, the more pleasure he derived.
Corran drew his weapon.
"Stay where you are, Jedi Horn," C'baoth hissed threateningly. There was so much venom and hatred in his words that the Corellian nearly choked on it. "I am demonstrating to you the punishment for those who broke the law."
"You're killing them!" Corran shouted.
"And what of it?" C'baoth looked at him in bewilderment. "They are my people. Who broke the laws I established!"
"I don't care!" Corran took a step forward and felt that at the very moment C'baoth raised his left hand toward him, while continuing to watch the people writhing in agony, the Corellian seemed to hit an invisible wall. Then the feeling became as if he'd been caught in a vice — every part of his body refused to obey, to move. His finger froze on the trigger... "What the hell are you doing?!"
"Teaching a lesson," C'baoth said in an unexpectedly deep voice, looking at him. Madness was clearly swimming in the Jedi's eyes. "You doubted my abilities, Jedi Horn?! Here they are, I am demonstrating them to you! These people broke my laws," he nodded toward the now-still, soot-covered bodies from which the stench of burnt hair, fabric, and flesh emanated. Horn's throat tightened with nausea. He forced himself not to look at the tortured victims. "And I punished them."
"What right do you have to kill people at all?" Corran asked, choking with rage. "If they're criminals, they should be tried!"
"I did try them," C'baoth stopped tormenting the bodies with his lightning. But it didn't ease Corran's own predicament. "I am a Jedi! I rule these people, and they obey me. If I said this world will have no contact with other planets — so it shall be. And I will certainly not allow anyone to steal from me! No one will encroach on my power again!"
"What did they do?" The momentary emotional outburst shifted, as always happened in such cases, to the cold reasoning of a CorSec operative who'd heard about a law being broken.
"I've been watching them ever since your ship exploded," C'baoth jerked the hand aimed at Corran, and an invisible wave carried the Corellian to a chair standing nearby. "They collected parts from your ship and were building something here. I gave them plenty of time to come to their senses. They decided to trample my laws — I punished them."
"Maybe they were building a food warmer," Horn frowned, running a professional eye over the interior of the house. And automatically noted that there were indeed samples of technology present. Outdated by a couple generations, but still. What had enraged this old fanatic so much?! "You can't build a ship from scrap, and I wouldn't mind if it somehow..."
"It doesn't matter what they were building. They took something lying on my land without asking my permission. Lesson one, Jedi Horn," the Jedi's voice became didactic and, consequently, even more revolting. "When you establish rules for your subjects — they must obey them, and you must enforce them. If someone does not follow the laws — kill them in the cruelest way you can. Those deaths will serve as a warning to the rest."
"Maybe they just didn't know the pieces of my," Corran put logical emphasis on the ownership of the wreckage, "ship were lying on your land?"
"Everything in this world — the earth, the crops, the fruit, the trees. The grass, the houses, the people, the life and death — it's all MINE!" C'baoth snarled. "I control everything here!"
A chill ran down his spine. Intuition, hey, what's with the cowardly whimpering of "I told you so!"? Weren't you the one who led me here?
"Lesson two, Jedi Horn," C'baoth smoothed his beard, once again grabbing the medallion with his fingers and beginning to stroke it like a child with a favorite toy. "If you can't see the outward manifestation of the power and might of the one who rules and teaches you, that doesn't mean it isn't there. In any other case, I would have shown mercy and simply ordered their hands cut off, but they would have lived. But you were so torn up about not seeing any Jedi greatness in me. So I showed it to you."
Cutting off hands is more merciful than killing?! In a world where no one even knew about cybernetic prosthetics?! That means condemning people to be cripples for the rest of their lives!
"Lightning is a Sith trick," Corran said carefully. The operative inside him kept following the trail.
"Jedi, Sith," C'baoth wrinkled his nose in disgust. "What's the real difference, anyway? Two sides of the same coin, too nearsighted and shortsighted to understand the truth about the nature of the Force."
"And what is that truth, Master?" Corran seized the chance to shamelessly flatter the old man, remembering how he'd asked to be addressed during their first meeting. It wouldn't bring the dead back, but understanding just how deep the hole he'd fallen into was worth it.
"The Jedi believe the Force is an advisor and ally that must be listened to and have its desires indulged," the madman said with irritation. "The Sith postulate using the Force merely as a tool to achieve their goals. Both are fools who don't understand that the Force is both an advisor and a tool at the same time. You must keep your ears open to hear its call, and be ready to subjugate it to yourself when necessary to achieve your goals. Only fools divide the abilities of the Force into those belonging to the Dark and Light Sides. Fools, like this Skywalker of yours." Corran's mouth went dry. So the old man could read minds after all.
"You think so loudly, I have no need to," C'baoth snorted. "All your desires, fears, anxieties — all of it is nothing more than dust under my feet. You came here to find your wife. I told you that you would receive all my power to achieve your goal. I may be old, but I've never been a fool. I foresaw the Order's fall and did everything to ensure all their knowledge was preserved. I will pass it on to you, but only when you are ready for it. When you cast aside all this husk of morality and the labels society has hung on you, and accept what you are."
It seemed the old man had forgotten they'd already had this conversation. And not even once, apparently.
"And where is this knowledge, Master?" Corran inquired.
"Here," C'baoth tapped his hooked finger on his head. "I could just pour it into that reckless head of yours, but your ancestors gave you a decent gift for resisting mental tricks. So I'm teaching you the old-fashioned way, like an unruly child. The same way they probably taught your Skywalker," he spat contemptuously. "I knew an uppity young man with that same surname once. Probably a relative of his. Just as harebrained, not lacking in intellect, but overflowing with power. A pathetic sight. Now it's clear why Thrawn never mentioned him at all. If even for a lackey like that Imperial, Skywalker is unworthy of attention, then he's even less so for me. But you, Jedi Horn... You're different. Your name was the first the Imperials thought of when they wanted my help. You should be flattered that our mutual enemies hold you in such high regard."
Uh... What?! C'baoth knew Luke's father?! Well, I'll be damned.
But that wasn't the main thing now... Corran had heard confirmation of his suspicions — C'baoth was connected to the Imperials. And they were probably the ones who made Mirax and Booster disappear. Did everything to get him here, into C'baoth's hands. The Empire... Now things had definitely gotten much worse. And it had turned from just a personal matter — into a military operation. He needed to urgently...
"You keep fretting about how to escape from here as quickly as possible, Jedi Horn," C'baoth continued. "That's all you Corellians. You run, you act on luck, you don't want to think. That's why the Green Jedi guarding the Corellian system were not liked in the Order. On Coruscant they thought too much, and you — you acted too quickly. You are the one who can combine both these directions and become the best Jedi. Stop already trembling at the thought that someone will harm your kin — they are nothing more than pawns for the Imperials to bring you to me. No one is going to kill them or hurt them. On the contrary, they'll keep them alive to have insurance, to have leverage over you. They were afraid of me, an old man, imagine how their knees knock at the thought that you will receive my power? Naive Thrawn, always thinking he was leading me around by the nose with his simple little intrigues. As if I didn't immediately realize that he needed my help, and after that he would do everything to remove me from the picture. And all his stories about restoring the Jedi Order were just nonsense to secure my loyalty... If that were the case, Jomark would be overflowing with students. After all, I am the last true Jedi..."
And that made it even scarier. Five minutes ago, he'd thought of C'baoth as just a grumpy old man with a couple of mental quirks and a bag of tricks up his robe sleeve, but now...
Now there could be no doubt.
It seemed C'baoth was that very weapon that had allowed the New Republic to suffer crushing defeats a few months ago. The Imps had used him to start a new round of conflict. They promised C'baoth a new Jedi Order, a trainload of students, and shipped him off to the backwater Jomark, throwing him a bone in the form of Corran. And they'd lured him out with the bait of Mirax and Terrik. Though, it wouldn't hurt to consider that the last Imp's star destroyer probably appealed to them too.
That left only one question then...
"If you're no longer needed by the Empire, and I'm just a handout to you, then why are we still alive?" Corran clarified. "It would be more logical to kill us and be done with it."
"Haven't you figured it out yet, Jedi Horn?" C'baoth burst out laughing. "The Imperials are just as stupid as you were a few minutes ago. You have a bright head, think about it — why did they give you to me to train, and not that Skywalker? What sets you apart?"
"He's supposedly a strong Jedi," Corran guessed.
"Exactly," C'baoth snorted. "Supposedly. The only one who could train him and name him a Jedi was a dogmatist from the Order. As blind as those who caused the death of all the Jedi. Without the right guidance, Skywalker will have to spend decades to understand the Force the way I do. And then he will become invincible. If he lives that long, of course. But until then, he's just a fool with a Jedi badge pinned on him. But you... I will train you properly. I will tell you about both the Light and the Dark side. You will gain such power that you will no longer have to worry about sneaking letters to your fake grandfather on Corellia. You will go to the Diktat's palace in Coronet and beat the spirit out of him, returning freedom to Corellia. And you will teach your kin to be better than they really are. You will find your wife without any problem and call Thrawn and the other Imperials to account. You have seen my power, so do not doubt what I am telling you — your wife and father-in-law are alive. As are all those you think about when you should be studying. Nothing will happen to them, take my word for it..."
"Suppose that's true," Corran muttered. "But what if I don't intend to rule anyone or overthrow anyone? The dictatorship in the Corellian sector is the choice of the Corellians. Everyone there is happy with things."
"Think bigger, Jedi Horn," C'baoth offered. "When you are weak — you obey the rules. When you are strong — you set them. How many more times do you think your loved ones will have to endure beatings, threats, become victims of kidnappings, until you accept your nature? Dozens of times? You dreamed of crushing all your enemies and living a free life, without worrying about the future of your children. How many enemies will you kill flying your X-wing? A dozen? A hundred? But if you have the power of the Force and my knowledge — you will be able to turn stars into supernovas and destroy enemy bases. And your victory will approach every day. And instead of fighting for decades, you will handle it in a year. And alone, at that. Find loyal comrades — and even faster. You will establish peace in the galaxy, go down in history as the greatest of the Corellians. And you will be admired by all your kin and representatives of other races without exception."
Corran felt a stir of unease. Honestly, this C'baoth — unexpectedly clear-thinking, explaining himself coherently, justifying his decisions and finding the right words for motivation — bothered him even more than the amusing old codger who'd called him mentally across half the galaxy.
"You didn't have to kill those people to get your truth across to me," Corran said, pointing at the bodies. "There were other ways to get my attention."
"But not one of them would you have received with the proper interest," C'baoth caught Corran's gaze, and it seemed as if he was trying to crawl into his thoughts through eye contact. A sharp headache began. "Remember this lesson, Jedi Horn. A display of power and cruelty is what will make you demonstrate the inevitability of punishment just once, without having to repeat your lessons over and over."
Corran swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
C'baoth held Horn's gaze for another couple of seconds, then turned towards the door.
"We're done here, Jedi Horn," C'baoth said carelessly. "Let's go."
"I'll stay here a while, Master," Corran said. "I'll bury the bodies in the yard."
"Why?" the white-haired Jedi asked with disgust.
"I'll do it deliberately slowly, so every villager can see firsthand the consequences of defying authority," he said, licking his dry lips.
"Finally, you understand the basics of power, Jedi Horn," C'baoth nodded to his own thoughts. "Carry on. I'll be in the castle, preparing a more intensive training program for you."
With these words, the elderly Jedi headed back to the cart, and a few seconds later the vehicle was rumbling over the cobblestones.
Looking at both bodies, Corran began searching the room.
C'baoth had given away a lot. Including what those two had been up to.
He needed to urgently find the parts obtained from the wreckage, procure the missing components, assemble a comlink, and get out of here as quickly as possible.
Before C'baoth, in his quest to teach his lessons, wiped out the entire population of the planet. It seemed no one had told him that Corellians could be stubborn as hell. Especially when they didn't want to walk into a trap that had been set for them.
* * *
Following the sound signal, the door to my quarters slid into the wall with a soft hiss, admitting two beings. I watched closely as the fit, strong-built Zabrak, adorned with tattoos, walked in with his hands cuffed. As soon as he entered the field of the ysalamiri, whose cage was in a special niche, he seemed to stumble, looking around in confusion, and then, finding no cause for his discomfort, continued his journey, unable to overcome the unknown that had cut him off from the Force.
I glanced at the screen of one of the monitors, which displayed data from the interrogators about the members of Tyberos's gang — or at least those who had been captured alive or identified. I picked out the name I needed, opened the file, and scanned it with my eyes... It was so sterile that it was clearly a forgery. This being's identity was fabricated. As were the identification documents found on him. I didn't even need to wait for the results of the technical analysis.
"Grand Admiral," the commander of the Fourth Squad, Sergeant TNH-0297, addressed me. "The prisoner has been delivered."
"Thank you, Sergeant," I tore my gaze from the information on the computer screens. I looked over the being standing before me. "You are dismissed, Sergeant."
"Yes, sir," the stormtrooper clicked his heels, turned sharply, and left the quarters, leaving the Zabrak standing in the part of the apartment that had been converted into my office.
"Please, have a seat, Mr. Eymand," I offered, pointing to a nearby chair.
"Thanks, I've had enough sitting," he said reluctantly.
"As you wish," I shrugged. "Are you and your comrades satisfied with the conditions of your confinement?"
"The cells aboard an Imperial star destroyer could easily pass for rooms in some one-star hotel," there was no insolence or disrespect in his voice. He knew perfectly well he was a prisoner, forced to play by someone else's rules, and picking a fight in the current situation wasn't the best idea. "So, thank you. It could be worse."
"Given the circumstances — yes," I agreed, steepling my fingers. "For example, you could have been cut off from the Force for your entire time aboard the star destroyer."
The man flinched and shot me a suspicious look. He wasn't young, middle-aged. He'd seen a lot. And based on the searches conducted on Tyberos's gang ships, I had certain guesses about who the Zabrak sitting before me really was. The very fact that he'd reacted to the loss of his connection to the Force already proved he was trained to use and direct it. Not spontaneously — deliberately.
And yet, he wasn't strong enough or reckless enough to try to influence the stormtrooper escort with a Jedi mind trick. A pity; I'd wanted to test if these clones were resistant to mental manipulation. Of course, I could have used those Force-sensitive beings I had under my command for that purpose, but then they would know this data as well. And there's no need to spread such interesting information unnecessarily — even if the result was unsatisfactory.
"And now what?" the Zabrak asked warily.
"That depends on how interesting your story is to me and how useful you can be," I warned. "The same cannot be said for most of your crew — they're all criminals wanted by the noose in at least three sectors."
"That didn't seem to concern you until recently," the prisoner noted cautiously.
"Denying that fact would be wrong," I said. "But in light of recent events, it was decided to slightly alter the personnel policy."
"Then what do you want me for?" Eymand tensed. That was his name, right? Yes, that's it. At least, that's what he called himself.
"That will be decided after you tell me what I want to know about yourself. First, answer this — are you a Jedi?"
The Zabrak was silent for a while, pondering whether to answer. I wondered if he suspected he'd already practically given an affirmative answer?
"I was one, once," he said with clear reluctance. "A Jedi Explorer, to be precise."
Worse than it could have been, but not so bad, if you thought about it. He could have been some Padawan or someone akin to an underachiever, after all. But here was a trained Jedi. It's just a shame I'm not very strong on the specifics of the Order's internal politics. So I'll have to ask questions. And rely on his answers.
"How did you manage to avoid Order 66?"
"Want to finish what was started?" the Zabrak grinned humorlessly.
"I intend to clarify the circumstances of your survival," I replied indifferently. "You can rest assured. At the very least, I have no intention of killing you or having my subordinates kill you for being a Jedi."
"Tyberos mentioned that," Eymand said. "Are you building a collection of personal Jedi?"
"You could say that," I answered vaguely.
Sighing, the Jedi Explorer briefly outlined his story. And judging by everything, the fact that he had fled the Temple while his Order comrades were being wiped out by the clones of the 501st Legion and Anakin Skywalker — those memories weren't particularly pleasant for him. An old ache he'd carried through the decades. An amazing being. I'd read dozens of similar accounts, where Jedi who had lost everything raged violently across the galaxy, seeking revenge. This one... just faded into the shadows. Intriguing. Was he broken, or was it simple caution?
"After that, I settled in the Outer Rim, tried to keep a low profile," the Jedi continued. "Then I met Orra Sing's family... That's how I got to know little Tyberos. After his parents died, I took him under my wing, thought I could raise a Jedi... It didn't turn out so well."
"Let's set aside the story of Tyberos's family for now," I suggested. "Let's return to your story. What exactly did the Jedi Explorers do?"
"Anything that was of interest to the Order and its divisions in terms of discovering new or long-forgotten old information," he explained. "We had quite a few 'narrow' fields of activity. Archaeologists, geologists, biologists, astronomers, linguists... We were all part of the Exploration Corps, so... We worked, as they say, 'in the field.'"
"And what is your specialty?" I asked. There was a bit of disappointment, to be honest. I'd have preferred a combat Jedi... But at the same time, I understood this Zabrak wasn't from that 'breed.'
"I'm an archaeologist," he replied.
Well... it could have been worse. There were plenty of Jedi ruins scattered across the galaxy. But if I'd ended up with some Jedi geologist, I'd have had to think long and hard about how to use him.
"Intriguing," I said, leaning back in my chair.
"Not really," Eymand snorted. "Fussing with dusty ruins, ruins buried underground, running across an entire planet looking for some tablet with records of some piece of Jedi history. Not the best job for a Jedi Consular. But a couple of years after my appointment, I made peace with it. And after a while, I even started to like it."
Something clicked clearly in my head.
A Jedi Consular. He was a Jedi Consular!
Conventionally, the entire Order was divided into Jedi Guardians, who participated in combat operations. I don't remember their exact designation. Either Sentinels or Guardians. But their focus was on combat characteristics.
Jedi Consulars, on the other hand, according to their creators' design, represented the quintessence of a Jedi, whose life path was oriented towards understanding the Force. That's in general terms, of course. But I remember in one of the computer games, a Jedi Consular literally tore enemies apart with the Force alone.
I doubt, of course, that this Zabrak could do that. But doesn't his title hint that he's actually trained in the ways of the Force — Jedi philosophy, techniques, and the like — better than a combat Jedi?
Probably, even without a large arsenal of his own knowledge, this being could be of significant help to me.
"I have a job for you, Jedi Eymand," I said.
"Thanks, but I've already done my job for you," he gave a bitter smile. "Our captain and my friend is dead, those of us who survived are prisoners, our ships are requisitioned, and our accumulated wealth is taken. Honestly, when I agreed to work for you, I thought we'd end up making a profit. Not destroyed."
"Captain Tyberos made a big mistake in trying to involve me in his internal feud with the Lok Revenants," I cut the Jedi off.
"The boy was desperate," Eymand shrugged. "Boy"? Tyberos was a giant, nearly two meters tall and as broad as a tram. After his boardings, it took hours to wash the blood and body parts off the captured ships. Some "child." "And you started executing and judging without understanding the full situation."
"Are you reproaching me for my actions?" I was surprised. Especially by how calmly this guy was carrying himself. He understood that a single command would be enough to make his life a living hell. And yet, he stood his ground. A mature and balanced attitude. This being had formed his opinion long ago and had absolutely nothing and no one left to prove to.
"Not at all," he assured me. "It's just that, if you have the time, I'd like to tell the story connecting Nim, the Lok Revenants, and Tyberos in a bit more detail."
"Captain Tyberos already informed me that he served under Nym command," I said, making it clear I wasn't going to listen to the same fairy tale ten times over.
"That's true," Eymand agreed. "Did he tell you what led him there?"
"I'm sure you'll enlighten me on that point."
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to whitewash the boy," Eymand warned. "I know him very well. And I see the fury with which he lives in his soul. That's what prevents him from accepting his destiny — to become better than he really is. He wasn't like that before — he grew up in a loving family, dreamed of becoming a gladiator in the Outer Rim. Orra Sing wasn't the best woman, but she was a caring mother. His father spent day and night smashing skulls in the arenas for Hutt peggats. Those tonfas you might have seen on Tyberos — they are exact replicas of his father's weapons."
"What happened to the originals?" I asked.
"They are trophies of Tyberos's worst enemy," Eymand explained. "He, together with the Alliance, organized an attack on one of the Imperial transports. Tyberos's parents happened to be on that transport, heading home. When the boarding started, Nim killed Tyberos's father..."
So he wasn't such a good gladiator after all, it seemed.
"It's not hard to finish off a wounded warrior grieving over the corpse of his pregnant wife," the Jedi Knight said, as if reading my thoughts. But I knew that was impossible — because of the ysalamiri.
So Tyberos was supposed to have had a little brother or sister. And they were killed... Personal. That was the problem.
"Captain Nym killed his parents and the child personally?" I clarified.
"Personally," Eymand nodded. "But we found out too late. There were... disagreements between them. Oora worked for Nim as a killer for a while. But when she had to choose which of her two suitors was more worthy to be her husband, she chose Tyberos's father. Nim was enraged. Oora was never known for tact or a gentle nature, so she didn't care what form she put her refusal in."
"Explain," I demanded. With every sentence, this story was getting more and more interesting.
"Imagine you're the captain of a powerful pirate gang. You're celebrating and you've had quite a bit to drink. And there's a woman that everyone wants to possess," recalling the expression on Aurra Sing's face from sources I knew, I could argue with that last part. I was even sure I could have come out the winner. No, in Eymand's words, especially in his intonation, there was something more than just a story. It was old pain and feelings that had never been realized. "In short, Sing didn't appreciate Nym's advances and she... Well, thanks to a shot from Aurra's rifle, Nym can no longer have offspring... It happened in front of the entire gang."
This lady was no joke. Reminded me a bit of that acolyte from the Clone Wars who served Dooku. What was her name? Ventress? I think so.
"One way or another, when Tyberos and I learned about the attack on the ship and the murder of his parents, we started looking for the guilty party. We found out from an information broker that his parents' missing Chekans and Aurra's sniper rifle had been spotted somewhere on Lok. We went there. It took months to infiltrate the gang, until one day Nym showed up with the Chekans. Tyberos couldn't control himself and tried to kill him. He failed. Then we escaped from the prison station and have spent several years trying to form a gang to deal with the 'Lok Revenants' and Nym."
A beautiful story, full of drama.
"How do you know for sure that Captain Nym killed Tyberos's parents, and not some other mercenary from his gang?"
"No one among the 'Lok Revenants' hides it," Eymand said. "At least not among the veterans. And there aren't that many of them left. There are constant gang wars in the system, blood flows like water. But as ridiculous as it sounds, Nym still doesn't know who Tyberos is."
"You managed to misinform him?" I clarified.
"He did it himself," Eymand replied. "Rumors reached him that Aurra had a child. But they lived in seclusion, so few people saw the boy. When he killed the pregnant Aurra, Nym thought he had finished everyone off. He bragged about it just like he bragged about Tyberos's father's Chekans. When we were captured and thrown into prison, Tyberos and I immediately realized that Nym didn't know which way the wind was blowing. Otherwise, we would have been killed."
"What holo-recording were Tyberos and Nym talking about?" I clarified.
"One of the attempts to break up the 'Lok Revenants' and get to Nym," Eymand explained. "We set up a fake contract to humiliate the captain. We found a broker who, for a good commission, hired Tyberos himself for the job. He infiltrated the system, bypassed all the security posts, broke into Nym's fortress, beat him up in front of his slaves, and recorded it all on a holo-camera. If the guards hadn't arrived and he hadn't needed to retreat, he would have killed the captain, but one's own head is always more important. One way or another, Nym killed everyone who knew about his disgrace. And we still have the recording."
"Why did you need such a complicated scheme?" I clarified.
"To hire ourselves?" Eymand clarified. "No one will kill a mercenary until they find out the client's name. It's just insurance in case of failure. If Tyberos had been caught, I would have gotten him out. Anyway, that's history now."
"It depends on how you look at it," I said thoughtfully. "The 'Lok Revenants' are held together solely by faith in their captain's invincibility, aren't they?"
"No one in the Outer Rim has been luckier longer than Nym," Eymand declared.
"I need that holo-recording," I said.
"I understand, but what's in it for me?" Eymand clarified. "You killed my captain and friend, captured the crew, and I myself am a Jedi and an outlaw in the Empire..."
Reaching forward, I entered a sequence of numbers on the panel. A hologram flared up.
The Zabrak's face remained impassive, but I could see in his eyes that it had worked.
"This is a live feed, Jedi Knight Eymand," I said. "As you can see, your captain is alive and well. The wound near his heart is healing nicely – my bodyguard works thoroughly. Now I know the story of Captains Tyberos and Nym. As it happens, I am also involved in it. And I intend to cut this knot and deliver justice. For this reason alone, your friend, Mr. Tyberos, is alive. Under the circumstances, we have two options – I hand him over to Captain Nym with a request to stop bothering me with his raids, or your captain's life, the only child of your unrequited youthful love, depends entirely on whether you will work for me."
Eymand glanced at the hologram of Tyberos lying chained to a medical bed, squirming unhappily directly into the observation camera lenses in the isolation room.
"How did you know I had feelings for Aurra?" he asked quietly.
"Not every family friend would babysit an overgrown avenger who refuses to listen to a more experienced and worldly mentor," I noted. "It's personal. Tender feelings for the mother, a woman you couldn't be with, transferred to her child. One of those tricky quirks of the sentient psyche. Nothing complicated."
"Maybe for you," the Jedi Knight declared. After a pause, he looked up at me.
"Will I ever see the boy again?"
"I'm not taking you into slavery, Jedi Eymand," I had to clarify. "I'm using this situation to spur you back to your roots. Right now, for the successful completion of missions, I need to keep you 'on a short leash.' After you complete the tasks assigned to you, I assure you, no one will hold you back. Honest work is always rewarded. An attempt at deception is also rewarded. But in the latter case – with death."
"Thank you for the reminder, Grand Admiral," Eymand smirked. "I can learn from others' mistakes. I don't need those kinds of lessons for free. I will work for you so that Tyberos lives. Where do I sign in blood?"
* * *
"Did you gather the data I need, Colonel Wessiri?" Ysanne's right eyebrow shot up.
"Yes, ma'am, Director," the commander of the TIE Defender squadron stood at attention before her, displaying his impeccable bearing. "Neither the smugglers, nor the rebels, and certainly not Thrawn's people have discovered our listening post in the Linuri system."
The man placed a stack of infochips on the desk in front of her.
"All data from the installation has been downloaded and is here," the pilot commented.
"You're dismissed." The man hurried away, leaving her alone.
One by one, she inserted the data chips into her computer, loading the information for comprehensive analysis.
She had done this kind of work all her life and could do it better than anyone else.
But right now, though she would never admit it to anyone, she felt uncomfortable being on this base – a small industrial complex run by some cowardly general. Who squealed far too much. But he had given her squadrons of Defenders. And the chance to get what she had so long desired to regain.
And everything was perfect... for a time.
First, her plan to rule over Thyferra, personally devised by Thrawn (which cost her transferring the traitor Soontir Fel to his command), failed due to incompetent subordinates. However, thinking through everything that happened, observing from the sidelines, Ysanne understood that the failure was largely due to her own petty tantrums. And the root of them lay precisely in her unwillingness to understand that precious time was slipping away. Along with her power over Coruscant and the remnants of the Empire. From being calculating and cynical on Thyferra, she had turned hysterical. And that had cost her everything.
Still, even in that state, she had managed to cover herself by creating her clone. Perfectly understanding that after the liberation of Corran Horn from the dungeons of the Lusankya, the rebels would be scouring planets looking for the other prisoners, Isard created her own clone. With one single purpose – to scatter the prisoners of her personal prison so that no one could reach them. Scatter them and guard them until she dealt with Rogue Squadron. After that, the clone, who considered herself the real Isard, would no longer be needed. She was created for a single mission, and with that, her existence was supposed to end.
But everything turned out differently.
With the help of her spy among the scum cooperating with Rogue Squadron, she had discovered the location of their base – an abandoned space station in the Yag'Dhul system. And she sent there her last two destroyers from the four with which she had captured Thyferra. One ship was destroyed by Wedge Antilles and his Rogues; the second, under the command of Sair Yonka, defected to the rebels. The remaining two were trapped by Antilles at Yag'Dhul, while he himself attacked Thyferra.
Rogue Squadron had outsmarted her at least three times in a row. And in the end, they captured both of her ships. The Lusankya surrendered, defected to the New Republic flag, and slipped from her grasp. Isard was left with nothing from her former wealth. However, she still had her signature cunning up her sleeve, the very thing that made her such a dangerous enemy for many. She used a remotely controlled shuttle to make the Rogues believe it was an attempt at her escape. They believed she was actually on board and gave chase. Tycho Celchu, the Alderaanian, a traitor to the Imperial Pilot Corps, Wedge Antilles's best friend, and one of the few who had resisted the personality-breaking programs during his captivity on the Lusankya, fired the shot that was supposed to kill her. Revenge had clouded his eyes and robbed him of logic. At the very last moment, realizing this weakness that had led to her defeat, she had managed to use it against her enemies, making them believe she was dead.
This allowed her to slip into the shadows and focus on solving another pressing problem. While she had been busy fighting Antilles and his lackeys, her clone – whom she had hoped to kill immediately after she distributed the prisoners from the Lusankya to various facilities – had, to her great surprise, proven capable of surviving Isard's attempt to dispose of her and had escaped.
And that had already become a warning sign for her.
No one was looking for her, because no one in the New Republic suspected her death; they assumed she had been on the shuttle and hadn't launched an investigation. The rebels, as always, willingly believe what they hope for.
Two years had passed since she lost the Lusankya and Thyferra.
By this time, she had already found the coordinates and headed for a secret Imperial base under the command of a general named Arnotian, whom she killed and took the facility for herself. The most valuable assets on this outpost were just two squadrons of TIE Defenders under the command of Colonel Broak Wessiri.
And since then, she had relentlessly tracked every minor move of her clone, who had latched onto that runt Krennel and was doing everything to keep him from dying amidst the chaos that insane bastard was creating.
Eventually, the plan began to take on characteristic features when, to everyone's surprise, just over a year ago, Grand Admiral Thrawn himself entered the scene. What the alien wanted from the Imperial Remnants was unclear at first. Every single Imperial ruler had soiled themselves with fear, because only a few of them could afford the luxury of disobeying him. In case of an attempted power grab, Thrawn had the best chance of turning the Imperial Remnants back into an Empire.
But he chose the path of compromise, and it took Ysanne a year to conclude that he was right. Taking money, ships, and resources, the last Grand Admiral secured some loyalty and logistical support, after which, like an obedient soldier, he began carrying out his master's orders. Namely, he launched an offensive.
Even then, she understood this wasn't happening for no reason. Thrawn had been lying low in his Unknown Regions while everything was falling apart, offering consultations to various Imperial dignitaries and receiving the best resources, technology, and personnel in return. It seemed he wasn't interested in anything happening to the Empire at all. Perhaps that was the case – surely the non-human had managed to enslave a couple of planets during his years of exile and was building his own little empire, glad that no one really knew how to get there.
Isard had never found the reason why Thrawn chose this particular time and method to oppose the New Republic. She was more concerned with how to get rid of her own clone. And also, to destroy Wedge Antilles, Corran Horn, and the rest of the Rogues; revenge is a dish best served cold, isn't it?
She watched Thrawn's cautious attacks, wondering about the truth of his intentions, right up until the moment she learned that Palpatine had returned in a cloned body. He had contacted her himself, demanding her loyalty. And, naturally, he got it from the woman who had always admired him. Especially after he had conquered death...
But the resurrected Emperor was not in the mood for sentiment. He intended to reclaim his Empire and destroy his enemies. Without mercy, without regret, burning worlds one after another. And for that, he needed only two things – a vanguard, and to pull into the Deep Core every single Imperial force that could be snatched from under Thrawn's nose. Thrawn himself was to be his invasion vanguard.
The Emperor had not said this directly or through his agents, when he ordered her personally to recapture the Lusankya and deliver it to a specified meeting point. The fact that he hadn't given her the coordinates of his location, Ysanne perceived as a slap in the face. She was no longer trusted. Trust had to be earned. She had devised an excellent plan, but...
Suddenly, it turned out that Palpatine's weapon was broken. No, Thrawn was striking, destroying enemies, demoralizing, and disrupting supply lines. On the surface – everything as it should be. But over time, her deep-cover agents began to report that the last Grand Admiral seemed to have realized the role intended for him – to be the locomotive that would break the back of the New Republic, but then die, because Palpatine could not tolerate rivals. And a successful commander was no longer even a rival – he was a threat. Especially when he was seeking political alliances with the rulers of some of the Remnants.
When Thrawn started negotiations with Krennel and promised to acquire ships for him, Ysanne was genuinely alarmed. She was bending over backwards to ensure the Ciutric Hegemony lacked sufficient strength to repel a New Republic attack. That attack was supposed to, first, open a path for Ysanne herself to the Lusankya, which the Bothans were diligently recommissioning at a breakneck pace, and second, this orchestrated attack was meant to kill the clone. The clone, who genuinely believed the most reasonable course was to keep the Hegemony from falling apart... It seemed that after the assassination attempt, the clone's mind had completely gone soft.
One way or another, the operation to capture the Lusankya was on the verge of collapse. She had to force the pace. The clone had played out the performance with General Jan Dodonna perfectly – Ysanne herself had observed this on Christophsis. Simultaneously, by manipulating the information reaching the clone and Krennel, she had managed to point the Republic towards Linuri – a base that Thrawn had supposedly left, but...
The last thing Ysanne had learned from her spies, before the thirteenth Grand Admiral had conducted his purges, was that the planet held great interest for him. So much so that he had removed all data about it from the computer network and all operational briefings. Only civilian ships traveled there – to lower the attention of the hysterical New Republic. But the personnel there were military.
And now, after listening to the data from radio intercepts of the Republicans, smugglers, and Imperials on the planet, along with arriving freighters, Ysanne noted that she had spent several days on this task.
But the result was worth it.
Thrawn, who had always been squeamish about superweapons, was building one. Allegedly.
Ysanne could not help but note with what elegance and almost artistic flair Thrawn was feeding disinformation to the New Republic. After General Cracken's piece was removed from the game board, their intelligence didn't have many tools left capable of processing this level of disinformation.
Why did she consider the data about the simultaneous construction of three Death Stars to be "disinformation"? It was simple – the Galactic Empire at the height of its power could barely scrape together the funds for two such behemoths. Of course, Thrawn had put in considerable effort, and the information was fragmented – she had obtained this data, along with copies of the recovered recordings, from her informants in the New Republic government. But even the most inattentive analyst could have noticed that in the case of the Death Star supposedly located in the Ghost Nebula, an existing orbital residential palace platform had been used. The rebels had once mistaken one of those for another battle station. And now everything was framed as if an axial turbolaser and enough power cells for firing had been integrated into the nearly finished orbital palace structure.
According to the data on the object supposedly being built for the Empire on Lianna, the station was apparently assembled as a "skeleton" and work was currently underway to calibrate the axial superlaser and numerous weapon systems, which would clearly require a massive fleet to suppress. Or – a Super Star Destroyer.
At this point, Isard understood what Thrawn was aiming for.
His third target was supposedly the Hegemony, which was in the same production situation as Lianna. And here they supposedly planned to build their own version of a Death Star, by shoving a superlaser into the hull of a Torpedo Sphere.
After studying this information, Ysanne concluded that Thrawn had definitely not gone rusty in his Unknown Regions. On the contrary, his intrigues had become larger in scale, his manipulation of the enemy involved a higher percentage of engagement... It was as if some inspiration had awakened in him. Was it really all that drivel about art helping him? No, utter nonsense.
On the one hand, Thrawn's decision not to feed the New Republic data about three full-fledged Death Stars of the kind Palpatine had built, was correct. The New Republic would never have fallen for such a fairy tale – Ysanne knew this for certain.
But what angered her most was that Thrawn had beaten her at her own game.
Because she had planned to use the trail left on Commenor to lead the New Republic to one of Krennel's planets. To a place where she had already set up a laboratory and, right under the nose of that idiot admiral, was creating the blueprints for a "Pulsar Station" a farce that would never have been realized in metal. That was how she intended to lure Rogue Squadron into a trap following this "revelation." And now she would have to change her own plan! Because the non-human had mixed up all the cards! After the discovery of the data on Linuri about the Death Stars under construction, what was supposed to be discovered in the Ciutric Hegemony itself would simply be laughable.
No one would ever believe that.
And if so, she had to do something... She also didn't dare compromise Thrawn's data – that would raise even more questions and cause more hysteria on Coruscant.
All that was left was to sit and wait, and see how it all unfolded.
For the first time, Isard was forced to admit – she had been outplayed. Right under her own nose, using her own methods...
Until now, Ysanne had respected and admired only one sentient being in the entire galaxy – Emperor Palpatine. But today, she had concluded that Thrawn was, generally speaking, not bad either. She had expected him to be crushed by now, growing more and more contemptuous of the enemy with each victory... But he was alive, still weaving intrigues, setting traps, and making his opponents fall flat on their faces right where Thrawn had piled extra mud for them.
A worthy opponent. She could even respect him, but... He had set his sights on what belonged to her. So, he would have to die. One way or another.
Ysanne pulled back from the monitors, pondering what her next move would be.