Nine years, seven months, and thirty-four days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and thirty-four days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and nineteen days since the Arrival.)
Just like old times, they walked side by side through the corridors of a warship, while crew members scurried around them, slowing their hurried pace only long enough to smartly salute before continuing their urgent errands.
Only now, this wasn't the Great Temple on Yavin IV, nor was it Echo Base on Hoth, nor any of the other bases they'd cycled through during their long years of service in the Rebel Alliance.
They were walking the deck of a New Republic warship that was heading toward Elom, having dropped out of hyperspace.
Wedge Antilles's task force was returning to home port to lick its wounds and continue its duty.
"I don't like any of this," the New Republic's youngest general finally said. "Every time trouble brews, you fly off on your Jedi business."
"Unfortunately, it's inevitable, Wedge," Skywalker said with a smile. "I've left military affairs behind. I chose the Jedi path."
"Yeah, but you could've used that Jedi stuff to help us knock some Imperial heads," the Corellian lamented.
"I thought Admiral Ackbar ordered us not to poke the Empire," Luke said, wary. "At least until the situation becomes clearer."
"That's true enough," Wedge said with a sigh. "But you know how it is... Why would Ackbar be recalling starships that are flying with half their armament to the shipyards?"
"No idea," Skywalker admitted.
"They'll take two cripples and make one unarmed one and one armed one out of them," Wedge explained. "Just like it was planned from the start. Thrawn's strikes on our logistics chains have pretty much ground all intergalactic trade to dust. Now we'll have to catch up at double speed. So the most combat-ready ships will keep serving, and the rest — the ones least suited for all this — will go back to cargo duties."
"I don't think that's the best tactic," Luke said as they turned another corner. "Thrawn caught us with that approach once. He might do it again."
"Uh-huh," Wedge agreed. "Only now, no ships will fly alone — we'll form convoys and guard them with combat-ready fleet units. Command thinks Thrawn will be afraid to poke his head out of his hole because the other Imperial Remnants will definitely try to take the Hegemony away from him. With its industry, it's a prize any Imperial dictator would envy. So this Grand Admiral will have to work hard to hold onto what he's got. Ackbar wants to use this breather to help Mon Mothma fill the treasury, strengthen our borders, and just regroup the fleet by bringing in reservists for these protection and escort operations. I've got a feeling that as soon as my ships are repaired, I'll be joining those raids too."
"Good luck with that," Luke said sincerely. "A lot will depend on what you do."
"That's for sure," Antilles said bitterly. "But it won't bring the guys back."
"Are you sure things are really that bad?" Skywalker's mood darkened.
"For a dozen X-wings to disappear without a trace, along with the entire Rogue Squadron?" the Corellian asked. Luke nodded in agreement. "No, buddy. There's no such thing as a coincidence like that. The guys are captives — I wouldn't be surprised if it was this same Thrawn who took them."
"They could be dead, Wedge," the young Jedi said carefully.
"No," Antilles said firmly. "If that had happened, I would have known."
At that moment, Luke literally stumbled on the flat deck, nearly disgracing the entire Jedi legacy. Good thing Antilles's reflexes were still sharp, and the Corellian caught him.
"Sorry, maybe I'm missing something," Luke said with an ingratiating smile, freeing his arm from the youngest general of the New Republic's grip. "But when did you sign up to be a Jedi?"
"That's all I need on top of everything," Antilles shuddered. "No, Luke, I mean something else. When you fly with someone for a long time, you... I can't explain it. I just know they're alive."
"And you don't have the slightest idea what might have happened to them?" the young Jedi asked.
"Not the slightest clue," Wedge said sadly. "The worst part is that Ackbar has flat-out forbidden sending any search parties into the Hegemony. So as not to provoke the Imperials."
"I'll bet you've already been thinking about how to resign, grab an X-wing, and fly off to find the guys," Skywalker said.
"What, is it that obvious?" Wedge asked with a sigh.
"I've known you so long that I'd be less surprised to see a banner unfurling over your head with the same message than I would be by your silent desire to save your pilots," Luke said as they reached the flight deck next to the Jedi's fighter, and he extended his hand. "Thank you, Wedge. I owe you a lot. If I can, I'll help find the Rogue Squadron guys."
"If you need anything, just let me know," Antilles returned the handshake. "And hey. Take care of yourself out there. Wherever your precious Force calls you."
"I will," Luke promised, stepping onto the first rungs of the ladder leading to the cockpit. "May the Force be with you, Wedge."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the Corellian waved his hand. "Same to you, likewise."
Chuckling quietly, the young Jedi climbed into the cockpit and settled into the seat. The canopy was beginning to close as he pulled on his helmet and fastened the chin strap.
"Take us out into space, R2," he asked the astromech, wrestling with his harness.
His faithful friend responded with a whistle and reported readiness. The X-wing glided over the deck on repulsors alone.
Without interfering with the starfighter's control procedures, Luke reached into his flight suit pocket and pulled out a small metal talisman on a chain.
The same one he'd taken from the body of the Jedi Master clone killed by Corran Horn.
The same one Grand Admiral Thrawn wanted. Just as badly as the old decoy the young Jedi had found on Dagobah.
Strange... It was all so strange...
And yet, Luke clearly understood that he had a chance to resolve several questions that tormented him. He just needed to give this medallion to the being who had just confessed to the entire galaxy to committing a dozen crimes against the state Luke intended to protect.
"Jedi of the past would never have sullied themselves with deals like this," he sighed, shaking his head and tucking the trinket back in his pocket. But despite his words, he wasn't sure of his rightness — at least because the Force was conspicuously unhurried to confirm or refute the young Jedi's thoughts.
It was all so strange...
"R2," the young Jedi called to his faithful astromech once their X-wing had put a decent distance between itself and the New Republic ships. "Our long-range comm antenna is repaired, right?"
The droid responded with an affirmative beep.
"Good," the young Jedi replied. "Well then... Let's give the Empire a call, shall we..."
If the New Republic couldn't resolve the issue of exchanging his sister and friends through its own channels, then he, as a brother, a friend, and a Jedi, had to intervene. Thrawn had said...
He'd said a lot of things. It was time to check the price of his words.
A small holographic figure of a blue-skinned humanoid with burning red eyes appeared above the fighter's control panel. He was dressed in a snow-white uniform, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.
"Jedi Skywalker," Grand Admiral Thrawn said by way of greeting, giving a short nod. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I have the medallion," Luke replied. "I'd like to meet and discuss the release of my sister and close friends from your custody."
The Supreme Commander was silent for a few seconds, boring into him with his gaze. Then, as if remembering the need to answer, he said:
"Very well. You will be sent the coordinates for the meeting location and the time you need to be there. I advise you to hurry and to come alone."
Without a farewell, the hologram dissolved.
"R2," the young Jedi called to his astromech. "Did we get the data?"
The droid confirmed the data packet had been unpacked and the new information was loading into the ship's database. But...
"You've got to be kidding me," Luke muttered, staring at the coordinate lines on the nav computer's display.
And then the X-wing vanished into hyperspace.
* * *
There are a great many things that can irritate a noblewoman in Imperial Space.
For example, society receptions.
Where you may not want to be. You may be sickened by the people you'll meet there, but your status and title force you to swallow your pride. So you patiently spend long hours before the mirror while your maids lace you into an extremely uncomfortable dress suitable for the evening's theme, and you go where you don't want to be. Where, organically, you have no desire to be.
Well, as the sages of the past used to say: "Nobility is not only privileges, but also responsibilities. And it's not so easy to tell which there are more of — the former or the latter."
In modern reality, you can say with certainty: responsibilities.
Especially when you're a member of the Imperial Ruling Council.
So, whether you like it or not, you have to endure the whole night in an uncomfortable dress, on treacherously fragile heels, with an absurd hairstyle, and with decorum and dignity speak to everyone who shows up at the reception, sparing at least a few minutes of your precious time for each. And even if you're starting to feel sick from having to look at people dressed like peacocks — men and women — bowing to officials and military officers, and showing courtesy to their companions, the show must go on until the very end.
In accordance with those same unwritten rules.
Because otherwise...
Oh, none of the aristocrats even think about what would happen if one of them broke the unwritten rules and behaved like a commoner.
Everyone understands there's "want" and there's "must."
Despite the fact that the galaxy is huge, and there are thousands — possibly hundreds of thousands — of aristocratic houses in it, only a few aristocrats are truly free and do exactly what they want.
But the Empire is in danger. It has been for six long years now.
And the duty of every aristocrat is to do everything possible to preserve at least what remains.
Baroness Feena D'Asta (spoiler — she has a skeleton in the closet)
Stripping off all those vile lace skirts with vengeful hatred for the luxurious black-and-red dress, tailored exclusively for the past society soirée, Baroness Fina D'Asta spent a few seconds with poorly concealed pleasure stamping the garment into the incinerator with her foot.
Smiling at her own thoughts about how that disaster would burn in the furnace, the young woman sent the lace fabric decorative ornaments after the dress. In the end, the magnificent black shoes that had rubbed her feet raw followed the same path. Though, before the footwear vanished into the rectangular maw of the garbage chute, the baroness didn't deny herself the pleasure of petty revenge, snapping off the heels that had made her legs ache from walking on them. Had anything sharp been at hand, she'd have cut the lasts into tiny pieces as well.
Well, let those instruments of torture consider themselves lucky.
Forget it like a nightmare.
Shaking her silvery platinum hair, she wrapped herself more cozily in a warm robe, sat down on the soft pouf before the vanity, and spent a few minutes removing from her hair those Hutt hairpins, knitting needles, bobby pins, and other metal elements that had given her hair that unimaginable mix of wildness and magnificence at the evening event.
And only after that, having gotten rid of everything she hated so much, did the aristocrat wash off her light makeup, finally erasing the imprint of festivity.
Reaching the luxurious sofa, the baroness climbed onto it with great pleasure, stretching out her slender legs and letting them rest at least a little. Picking up the fruit bowl from the nightstand beside the sofa, the baroness began consuming ripe berries, savoring their taste.
Idiotic rules.
Idiotic reception.
Idiotic corset!
Because of these three idiotic things, she'd been hungry as a rancor since last evening, from the very start of the reception held by the Imperial Ruling Council. Because the rules didn't even allow her to snatch a Hutt tartlet and eat it! After all, she had to talk to every pompous ku-pa dressed in wild color combinations who wanted to impress the young daughter of the baron who ruled the D'Asta sector.
Savoring the taste of the fruit, and sipping wine from the glass, she experienced practically unearthly bliss.
No, if Paradise really existed, let there be wine, fruit, and a soft sofa.
Though, she had strong suspicions that after death they'd all end up in Hell.
And wear lace dresses with corsets on high heels and bow, smile, engage in idle conversation, while around them the flames of the infernal cauldron raged...
She was roused from her lofty thoughts by the signal of a holographic communicator. The expensive little device lay on the same nightstand from which she'd taken the fruit and wine.
Not that many beings knew the frequency of this device.
And among those who did, at the moment she didn't want to talk to a single one.
Debating whether to spill wine on the holocomm, the young baroness nevertheless decided not to sacrifice even a drop of wine that cost over ten thousand credits per bottle. And the vintage... Those bottles had been corked back when the Jedi were cutting down Mandalorians on Galidraan.
An elegantly aristocratic, refined, well-groomed finger touched the activation key of the holocomm. And immediately above the projection plate appeared the image of a middle-aged man in a military tunic. Which he wore more out of old habit than any real necessity.
So, a conversation awaited with the one she wanted to talk to least in the world. Though no, that was self-deception. The Ruling Council had idiots with whom she wouldn't even want to breathe the same air.
"Hello, father," she took a demonstrative large gulp of wine. Her habit of indulging in alcohol always infuriated him. "Right on time as always. I've always dreamed of meeting an Orind dawn with a glass of wine, a bowl of fruit, and a talk with my dearest parent. Doesn't it bother you that I've been on my feet for two days straight and all business can wait until I've rested?"
"Your wine can wait, but I can't," her dearest parent replied sharply. "You're not twenty years old for us to keep trading barbs."
"And you're not Emperor Palpatine to spit on someone else's personal life and call whenever you please," the baroness snorted. "Oh, what a wonderful time it was when you did everything not to talk to me."
"Pesky girl," the parent growled. Fisa merely smiled.
"Thank you, my father," she smiled feigningly and took another gulp. Playing on the baron's nerves had become almost her favorite art form in recent years. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure now?"
"Can't I just talk to my daughter?" Remiz grumbled.
"Let's skip the sappy sentimental crap, shall we?" she grimaced. At least in a conversation with a parent who only remembered her when it suited his interests, she could hold back nothing. "That worked on me about fifteen years ago. Now, forgive me, Baron, your little girl has grown up."
"And the insufferable character remained," her father lamented.
"That is entirely your doing, dear parent," she broke into a smile. Being a bitch is easy when there aren't many options. Good-natured people, altruists, and the blissful don't live long in this galaxy. Especially if they belong to aristocratic families.
Baroness Iran Ryad could confirm that. Only she's just a little bit dead. Which only confirms the rule.
"Alright," the hologram of the baron waved a hand. "Enough. I need information."
Fina rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue.
"Just as I start thinking you might, for a single moment, stop being a pragmatic asshole, dear father, you invariably prove me wrong," she said with a strained smile.
"A little more respect, young lady," the baron said with a threatening tone.
"Or else what?" she inquired with a smile, raising her eyebrows. "Put me in the corner? Send me to clean the cattle yard? Hand me over to the maids for a week? Dear father, I'm just a little past the age when such threats might have had any effect."
"Be that as it may," Baron D'Asta twitched his lips. "I want to know what the members of the Ruling Council decided at the reception today."
"We'll index payments for certain categories of civil servants, introduce new anti-inflation measures..."
"Fina!" the baron growled threateningly. "Stop clowning around! We don't have that much time on a coded channel."
"Oh, forgive me, Baron, I've offended your proprietary feelings," the young woman laughed. "Don't worry, no one's going to terminate contracts with your transport companies because of your rash moves."
"'Rash moves'?" Ragez repeated, squinting slyly. "So that's what they call it?"
"And what did you expect?" the woman wondered. "That they'd kiss you and appoint you Emperor for single-handedly declaring war on the New Republic by organizing an attack on the Hast shipyards? Honestly, dear father, do you think the Council is filled with nothing but dunces, if you thought we wouldn't find out..."
"And you didn't find out," the baron chuckled. "Until he himself announced it to the entire galaxy."
"Yes, the entire Imperial Ruling Council laughed at that childish stunt," Fina smiled. "That pet alien of yours isn't quite the genius after all."
"No," the baron smirked back. "It's you who can't see past your own nose. That's why the Empire is in such a cesspool that they want to scour off the face of the galaxy..."
"Let's skip your magnificent grand speeches, shall we?" the baroness suggested to her father. "Your alien has gotten himself thoroughly dirty. He effectively spat in the face of everyone who allowed him to wage war against the New Republic. No one is happy about his seizure of the Ciutric Hegemony."
"So it would have been better if, after that sadist Krennel's death, that Imperial Remnant had gone to the New Republic?" the baron inquired.
"Thrawn was given clear rules of the game, which he violated back when he started looking for political allies," Fina said coldly. "And your interest in him was noted as well. But apparently, it never occurred to you that the termination of your contracts in the past was nothing more than a mild rebuke and a warning: 'Stay out of it!' As long as everyone thought that mad idiot Krennel was behind the attacks, no one had any concerns, because the Hegemony was a thorn in everyone's side. But now, your glorious alien just walked up to the sabbacc table, and instead of joining the game, he beat up the croupier, slammed every player's face into the table, and then flipped the table itself. I don't suppose I need to mention that he's given shelter to deserters from the Imperial Navy?"
"He is a Grand Admiral of the Galactic Empire," the baron objected. "And the Supreme Commander..."
"Stop," Fina swirled the wine in her glass. "Stop spouting that nonsense. The Ruling Council is unhappy with this state of affairs. The Hegemony will go to us, or..."
"Or what?" the baron inquired. "Will you take it by force?"
"If necessary," the baroness shrugged. "We have plenty of ships..."
"And there are only two Grand Admirals in the entire galaxy," Ragez reminded. "With one being held prisoner by the other. And the latter just handily crushed one of the New Republic's four fleets. By the Hutt! Do I really have to explain such elementary truths to my own daughter? If Thrawn hadn't come to the Hegemony's aid in time, it would already be part of the New Republic! And all your orders and shipments would be gone!"
"Everyone understands that perfectly well..."
"But do your colleagues understand that moving troops against Thrawn would, at best, leave the fronts exposed and make dozens of star systems a tempting target that the New Republic would take simply in retaliation for that parade of sovereignties that has begun across the galaxy?" Baron D'Asta clarified.
"Five sectors, and on the periphery at that, are nothing to the New Republic," Fina said. She didn't actually think that. But she wanted to bolster her opinion with a more authoritative and more sensible perspective from outside. Given what was happening in the Imperial Ruling Council, only her father could sound like the voice of reason.
"This is only the beginning," the baron warned her. "According to my information, Thrawn has issued an ultimatum to the New Republic regarding prisoner exchanges. Ciutric is a practically inexhaustible source of loyal manpower for him. Not to mention that after defeating the New Republic in the last battle, he now has the third largest fleet among the major Imperial Remnants. Try thinking, for just a moment, that this is only the beginning of his campaign! Palpatine knew talent when he saw it. He wouldn't have brought a being into his inner circle who didn't possess the talents of a strategic genius."
"I could name at least a few Grand Admirals that even I could beat in battle," Fina smirked.
"Because I taught you that," the baron reminded. "Along with political instinct. Talk some sense into your colleagues. If they can't see the obvious truths, approach from a different angle. Thrawn has stepped out of the shadows now — he's drawn the New Republic's attention..."
"With resources we gave him," Fina reminded. "And Grand Moff Kaine. Reaping the harvest with other people's hands is very easy."
"Then you do the same," the baron pressed. "Let Thrawn do what he does best — wage war. You do what you do — build up your strength. After all, your goal is still to retake Coruscant, isn't it?"
"Sometimes I wonder what's leakier in our state: the borders or the methods of keeping secrets," Fina grumbled, her mood practically instantly souring. Her father knew far too many details of the 'inner workings' of Imperial Space. Especially for someone who had withdrawn from politics many years ago.
"That's not important now," the baron declared. "Talk some sense into the Council. We don't need a war among ourselves — it only weakens the Empire. The New Republic grew precisely because we fought among ourselves while they scavenged the scraps. Now they have the largest territory. Let Thrawn continue his campaign and don't hinder him with your petty nitpicking — and he'll bring the New Republic to its knees. In less than three months, he's taken a huge number of their military personnel and generals prisoner. And what will happen by the end of the year? The New Republic will start coming apart at the seams. All the Empire needs to do is throw the New Order in the trash heap of time and learn to live without xenophobia. You were considering the question of Thrawn's coronation, weren't you? And he, by the way, is not human. Such a move would be an excellent PR campaign."
Recently, the initiative about choosing a new Emperor had somehow dropped off the agenda.
"I can't deny you're right about some things," Fina agreed, satisfied that her thoughts were identical to her father's judgments. "But you benefit from this first and foremost, don't you?"
"I'm confident I can negotiate good contracts with Thrawn for food supplies or other necessities," the baron didn't deny. "After all, I care about the well-being of our sector. Which you will inherit someday. And having an ally like Thrawn is beneficial in every sense. If I were in your place, I'd have already paid him a visit, established personal contact, opened a dialogue..."
Fina felt a sour taste in her mouth.
"You're at it again," she stated. "Here I was wondering why you were advertising this alien so much!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," the baron pretended his words were truthful.
"Enough," Fina said with emphasis. "I won't tolerate interference in my personal life. I'm no longer a sniveling little girl..."
"But I'm still cleaning up your messes," her father noted. "For once in your Council, think not about tomorrow, but about the day after that. War can't go on forever — sooner or later resources will start running out. Along with the will to wave blasters around. If by that time Thrawn manages to bring the New Republic to its knees, there will be a chance to demand peace treaty terms in our favor."
"Well, of course," the girl declared. "You live and breathe only to declare a truce with everyone so it doesn't interfere with your beloved trade and shipping."
"Every agreement must benefit both sides," the baron declared. "Go to war against Thrawn — you'll lose the support of the population and your own armed forces. No one wants the steamroller of Thrawn's fleet to roll over them. So be reasonable!"
Fina was silent for a while, then said:
"I hear you, father. I'll convey the idea to the members of the Imperial Ruling Council. I might even lobby for it, but I won't be too insistent. The atmosphere inside the council is tense enough as it is. Perhaps it can be smoothed over according to your advice."
"Don't forget to also use my suggestion to get to know him personally," Baron D'Asta smirked.
"Uh-huh," the young woman said. "Absolutely. I'm already running — my hair's flying back."
"Fina!" Her father didn't get to finish his thought — the girl had finally emptied the contents of her glass onto the communication device.
Leaning back against the sofa cushions, she began to think, simultaneously reducing the number of berries in the bowl.
* * *
If in the past, when I first descended into the dungeons of the moff's residence on Tangrene, I considered them gloomy and uncomfortable, then finding myself in the underground of one of the wings of the prince-admiral's palace, I had to concede the crown.
Because this place truly made such an oppressive impression that my first mental impulse was to flee without looking back.
It would seem, how could a dungeon packed to the brim with electronics in the palace of the first person of an interstellar state be damp? Turns out it can be.
And damp, and wet, and it smells of mildew. I wouldn't be surprised if there's fungus somewhere.
The semi-darkness from barely working light fixtures didn't hinder me or my constant companions — Rukh and one of the Tierce in the guise of an Imperial Guardsman. A little ahead, as a force support squad for unforeseen circumstances, moved the Fourth Squad of stormtroopers in full combat gear, armed as if they intended to storm an enemy citadel.
Though, under some circumstances, that was exactly the case.
The overseers and interrogators of the dungeons — incredibly stubborn, to the point of stupidity, people who tried to offer resistance to trained soldiers accustomed to blasting their way to their goal regardless of any opposition.
Is it any wonder they were eliminated at the slightest sign of resistance? No, it isn't.
The transition of the Ciutric Hegemony under my protectorate and the change in internal and external policy in favor of openness and equal rights for all before the law had been announced throughout the state's worlds yesterday, immediately after an agreement was reached with Commander Darron and the other commanders of combat ships and ground units regarding full subordination to my orders.
Oddly enough, this, combined with sending ship detachments to the Hegemony's systems, successfully helped resolve problems of potential discontent and possible bloodshed.
And then began the time of getting acquainted with Krennel's secrets.
Mr. Zakarisz Ghent worked nonstop, cracking encrypted data. The progress was slight, admittedly, but that guy knew how to keep secrets.
In one night, Ghent managed to crack only a couple of files.
And one of them interested me extremely.
Some time ago, Krennel had ordered one wing of the palace cleared of outsiders, but at the same time installed guard droids there and blocked all entrances and exits. Getting inside without his biometric data without raising an alarm throughout the entire complex was impossible.
And what could be guarded so heavily?
Not knowing the prince-admiral's backstory — many things. But knowing, in fact, who his ally was and how important it was to keep that secret — that was a different question. That's why I had the fire support group with me.
Those scum were liable to pull some nasty trick.
And a deadly one at that.
The catacombs in this wing of the palace were in no way connected to the general network of the building's underground. And that made things even more tense.
In fact, on every corner, in corridors, on staircases, by turbolift shafts and so on, clones of the GeNod project stood guard. Why them?
Because they are utterly loyal. And efficient.
Even with reduced combat skills, they still surpass ordinary stormtroopers. For now, at least.
Which means not a single heterochromia-eyed snake will get away from them.
This dungeon had been built much earlier than the rest of the palace — this is evident from the foundation and walls being laid from massive hewn stone blocks. Not permacrete, not durakcrete, not ferrocrete — relatively new construction materials used for hundreds, if not thousands of years. But actual stone.
But running through this antiquity are perfectly modern cables for power supply, communications, and the like. Which kind of hints that this part of not only the palace but also the dungeons had been used. And used diligently.
When we started encountering cells designed, judging by the interior, for solitary confinement in very unfriendly conditions, the purpose of the dungeons became clear.
This is a prison for particularly dangerous — most likely political — enemies of Krennel.
But that's only the original purpose of the complex.
Because, if there's a prison, then where are the jailers? We didn't encounter a single droid here, let alone living overseers.
Which increasingly led me to believe that I was on the right track.
At least, I was following a trail.
The next turn was met with blaster fire.
Judging by the number of bursts — at least a dozen rifles were firing.
The Fourth Squad, stopping our group with a gesture, got to work.
And now I had the opportunity to see them in action firsthand.
First, one of the clones, on the order of Sergeant TNX-0297, extended an optical probe and assessed the situation from around the corner of the corridor. Considering that the shooting stopped the moment the scout pair of soldiers moved out of sight, there was at least advanced automation installed there, reacting to movement or possessing limited artificial intelligence.
The stormtroopers, wasting no time on talk, communicated among themselves in sign language. And right now I needed a translator...
"Droidekas," Tierce spoke, as if hearing my thoughts. "Four of them. B-2 droids. Distance — seven meters."
"Thank you," I said. "Their actions?"
"Eliminate," the man hidden under the guardsman's mask replied simply. "In the most optimal manner."
Almost simultaneously, the stormtroopers, acting one by one, almost nonchalantly, began rolling ion grenades from around the corner towards the source of fire. Exactly three soldiers — with the sergeant being the first.
The corridor branch lit up with blue-white flashes — artificial lightning struck the metal soldiers.
Another check — and TNX-0297 steps into the corridor first.
A second's hesitation to check the security of the cleared path — and the soldier gives the order to continue moving.
Half the soldiers head forward, the second half spreads out through the corridors as combat security.
No sooner do we round the corner than we are met with the sight of droids lying on the floor, disabled by special weapons.
As far as I can see thanks to Chiss physiology — the droidekas and B-2s are clearly not from storage. Not the slightest scratch, not a dent — as if they'd just come off the assembly line yesterday.
Interesting.
Meanwhile, the stormtroopers continued to crack the metal and clearly armored door, intending to open it using electronic lock picks. This took them a good ten minutes, during which I curiously studied the droids.
And concluded that these were by no means those outdated models we got from the Colicoid Swarm.
I hadn't imagined it — the models were modern. And they hadn't been built that long ago — there were no signs of wear or use. I don't believe in careful storage. Or in improvised modernization, either. This was clearly a factory model.
And just how many factories in the galaxy produce droidekas on commission? My point exactly.
If Krennel had resources like that, we'd be tripping over them. At least in the palace. But he left them here, to guard something more important to him than the entire palace.
Interesting.
The thermite paste burned through the locking mechanism, and the stormtroopers, covering each other, slid the metal sheet aside, clearing the way into...
A dwelling.
It was clearly a former cell — even the drapes and cosmetic repairs couldn't hide that.
But at the same time, it was several times larger than anything we'd seen before.
Spartan, practically bare surroundings. The furniture held nothing unnecessary, only the bare essentials.
Most of the room was empty — even of furniture. Hints of workout equipment — at least one corner was set aside for it. A couch, looking very rigid.
No carpets, curtains, floor lamps, or anything of the sort. No decorative ornaments. As if this weren't a living space but merely an office for someone who preached minimalism as a life creed.
So we hadn't gotten the wrong address.
Bare floors and only crimson fabric stretched along the walls instead of wallpaper. And a few separate rooms — the bare minimum for a sentient being to exist.
Who, for some reason, wasn't present in her dwelling.
And an ugly suspicion started forming that the Isard clone had managed to escape. That was bad. Because it wasn't clear when she'd gotten out of here, why the guards remained, and where she was now.
"Search the room," I ordered.
Nothing here suggested that the clone of the former Director of Imperial Intelligence could have worked in this room. Because it's impossible to imagine an Isard living outside an information network.
Intelligence was, first and foremost, information. Having agents deliver it deliberately was too slow and at least made some of the information, especially operational data, irrelevant by the time it reached her.
Imperial Intelligence had well-branched, redundant information transmission channels. I doubted someone like Isard, even a clone, could have missed them. And she certainly wouldn't have given Krennel access to her illegal agents. At least not willingly. And that this woman could be broken, tortured into submission, or bent to someone else's will against her own — that was extremely unconvincing speculation on my part. Therefore, she must have at least a cheap computer terminal. But where was it?! And where was Isard herself?!
I recalled, in the events I knew, on the eve of Krennel's arrival, she had at least tried, but failed because of the intervention of Rogue Squadron, which lethally ended the life cycle of the Isard clone.
And now, with her absence from this hotel room, the question arose: had the clone managed to escape in this reality?
Several arguments stood against that.
First — I seriously doubted that, given such security measures, Krennel would have allowed Ysanne to leave her containment.
Second — she clearly couldn't have left the planet during the Bothan attack; the planetary shield had been raised. The only ships taking off from the surface were interceptors. But right now, they were either destroyed or had returned to their stations. My pilots were currently sweeping the combat zone, including the ion cannon bunkers, to look for deserters. But the search had been fruitless. I trusted my pilots' competence, so they hadn't missed a single gap where Ysanne could have hidden if the clone had managed to capture a ship.
Therefore, she was on the planet.
And most likely, given the guards at the entrance, she was here.
It took five minutes of searching to find a hidden door leading to a separate, dimly lit room.
Which strongly reminded me of my own command center, which also doubled as my living quarters.
Semidarkness, hiding the room's dimensions. Computer monitors arranged in a semicircle above the desk. Server terminals...
And all this equipment had been destroyed in the most barbaric way. As if someone had taken a hydraulic hammer to it. Or crushed it with the fingers of a mechanical hand.
But what bothered me most was the smell. Rotting organic matter, blood, stomach acid... If you've ever been present at an autopsy, you can never forget that smell. It's like radiation — invisible, but the feeling of too much of it in your system stays with you for life.
"There's a body here," the stormtrooper TNX-0333 reported in a colorless voice, drawing attention to the far corner of the room.
Rukh moved through the gray shadow, slipping past the stormtrooper into the darkness without a second thought. I took a couple of steps in that direction until I heard a hoarse laugh.
Like someone scraping metal against glass.
"What a pleasant surprise! Grand Admiral Thrawn, in the flesh," the voice was female. But strangely guttural, as if her trachea was damaged. "And accompanied by your pet Noghri."
Metal clinked, then the dark corner was illuminated by the weak light of a panel, revealing a medium-build figure, distinctly feminine.
She sat on the bare floor, in a torn red uniform similar to those worn by high-ranking fleet officers. Except it looked like it had survived an encounter with a thicket of rabid plants, each branch apparently making bets on who could tear off a bigger, better piece.
But even through the rags that her uniform had been reduced to, you could see fresh bruises blooming on her ribs, swollen arms and legs. That didn't happen for no reason — that was how broken limbs swelled.
Two white streaks in her hair, heterochromatic — blue and red irises — and a scar across half her temple. Split lips, torn-out clumps of hair, bruises all over her body, a misshapen lower jaw, multiple abrasions on her sharp-cheeked face...
And a puddle of bloody vomit that she was sitting in. With great difficulty.
"Ysanne Isard," I said. Well, the mind games begin. Because laying all my cards on the table right now would be at least foolish and absolutely unproductive. "Judging by your appearance, you require medical attention."
"The best thing you could have done for me, Grand Admiral, you've already done," she said. "You, a loyal servant of the Empire, are here. May I, as an old friend, ask you a favor?"
"I will do whatever is necessary," I replied. She had clearly endured some of the most unpleasant moments of her life, but apparently hadn't yielded an inch. People like her were called rock-solid. But in reality, she was an extremely dangerous and vindictive sentient who knew so many ways to cause trouble that others couldn't even imagine. "However, I don't recall anything resembling friendship ever existing between us."
Her heterochromatic eyes narrowed, almost closing behind their swollen lids.
"Oh, yes, how could I forget," her crusted lips twisted into a frightening grimace she probably intended as a smile. "You have no friends."
"I'm not alone in that," I replied, raising my eyes to Rukh. I saw him indicating that he'd found no weapons of any kind near Isard. "What happened?"
"Oh, a little display of superiority from Prince-Admiral Krennel," she smiled. God, how repulsive that looked. But I knew I couldn't look away. Thrawn would never look away. "Anyway, twenty-four hours have passed, so... How's Krennel? Already spitting out his guts?"
"That's hard to verify, since he and his entire senior officer corps aboard the Reckoning were atomized by a salvo from Republic ships," I informed the young woman. And she really was young — no more than forty. Or thereabouts. I remembered images and photographs from my past life — a harsh, emotionless predator, ready to pounce and tear out a throat at any moment. But with this one... something was off. Either she was playing me, or Krennel had slightly damaged her cloned brain. Because I distinctly recalled that in the plot of the book Isard's Revenge, it was the clone, not the original, manipulating Krennel in the Hegemony. They were easy to tell apart by the wound scar near the temple.
"Is that so," disappointment flickered across her beaten face. "Had I known that in advance, I wouldn't have..." She paused. "Grand Admiral, would you be so kind as to help a lady obtain an antidote? It's hidden in a secret compartment under the desktop. You need to press an inconspicuous bump, very similar to a casting flaw. I'd do it myself, but... My arms are quite broken, from wrist to collarbone."
Is that so.
Interesting.
"I'd like to hear the full story first," I said. But I gave the appropriate order. The stormtroopers began retrieving the serum.
"Couldn't that wait?" she asked. "In about two minutes, I'll have another seizure. I don't think you'd want to see me emptying the contents of my rich inner world."
No, I supposed that was the last thing I wanted right now.
The stormtroopers weren't gentle with the desk. Why bother pressing some button when you could just rip the hidden drawer out of its slots?
A small plastic ampoule with purple liquid inside landed in my hands.
"This it?" I confirmed.
"Do me the honor, pour it into my mouth," she smiled. "And I'd be very grateful if your Noghri would stop propping his foot against my back."
Handing the ampoule to Grodin Tierce, I silently watched as — for just a moment, just a split second — the pupils of Ysanne's heterochromatic eyes dilated when she saw the Imperial Guardsman.
Tierce approached the woman without ceremony. Before she could say anything, Rukh grabbed her by the hair and tilted her head back, forcing her mouth open against her will. The Guardsman, meanwhile, crushed the ampoule between two fingers, and purple drops trickled into the mouth of the young but extremely dangerous bitch.
After making a couple of truly disgusting swallowing sounds, Ysanne spat a piece of glass into Tierce's visor that had slipped between his fingers.
The Guardsman didn't react, simply stepping back a couple of paces.
The Noghri released the woman from his grip, and the face of the Iceheart copy once again fixed its burning, yet icy gaze on me.
"Thank you, Grand Admiral," she said. "It was an unforgivable oversight on my part not to anticipate that Krennel would decide to break my limbs. Otherwise, I'd have handled it myself long ago."
"The story," I reminded her.
"Oh," she narrowed her eyes again. And smiled. Now my own stomach nearly rebelled. How utterly disgusting. "Not even going to try patching me up? Interrogate me right here?"
"I see no obstacle to that," I said.
"Not bothered by the smell or my appearance, high command?" It seemed her game was to feign friendliness and try to win trust. And I even knew why.
"I've seen worse," I admitted. Though that had been in nightmares and Hitchcock films in my past life. "What were you doing here, Isard?"
"I needed to keep something here, on Ciutric," her tone instantly shifted from ingratiating to dry, official, businesslike, devoid of any hint of emotion. Now that was the Iceheart. A copy, of course. "Prince-Admiral Krennel was kind enough to help."
"In other words, you used him to keep the prisoners from the Lusankya here on Ciutric IV," I said. Her swollen lids began to rise, failing to hide her surprise. "Simultaneously using him to settle your scores with the New Republic and Rogue Squadron. Krennel eventually figured that out and expressed his displeasure in the most logical way he could think of — beating you."
"He was incredibly stupid and straightforward," Isard snorted. "So poisoning him was fairly easy. He had some kind of mental disorder based on an attraction to me. I think he was very upset that, instead of what he wanted, he had to demonstrate his dominance with his fists. Still, he left satisfied."
"The prisoners from the Lusankya," I reminded her. "Where are they?"
"I've always held your intellectual abilities in high regard, Grand Admiral," there it was — another round of manipulation. "Well, I must admit, you are perceptive. Even overly perceptive."
"That's not an answer," I noted.
"And you won't get one," she said firmly. "The Lusankya prisoners are my guarantee of future revenge..."
"This isn't your revenge," I said calmly. "And it never was."
"You can play word games with your soldiers all you like, Grand Admiral, but..."
"You are a clone," I said calmly. The light dimmed in the beaten woman's eyes.
"The real Iceheart created you to watch over the prisoners from the Lusankya while she finished work on Thyferra and opposed the New Republic. After that, she no longer needed you, and she tried to eliminate you. The scar on your temple came from that."
"Nice story, Grand Admiral," the Iceheart's lips spread into a hideous smile. "But far too unbelievable."
"If I were you, I'd believe it with every fiber of my being," I felt compelled to advise the woman.
"I doubt you'd ever want to be in my place," the clone snorted.
"Undeniable fact," I agreed. "Because, in truth, cooperation with me is your only chance of survival."
"Oh, really?" The same smile continued to adorn her lips. I didn't know what medicine she'd taken, but she was definitely feeling better. "That doesn't make much sense. If I'm a clone, then all the better for me. I'm not Ysanne Isard, and everything done in the past has nothing to do with me."
And now, for the real reason for all this.
A test of the knowledge level that the original Iceheart had instilled in her clone.
"Do you remember the terms under which you handed over Baron Soontir Fel to me?" I asked.
"A memory test, Thrawn?" the clone asked in a bored tone. "You helped me with advice on capturing Thyferra."
"Exactly," I confirmed. "Then I trust you remember perfectly well that you used the 181st Imperial Fighter Group for your internal vendettas against Imperials who caused you certain problems?"
"Thrawn, I've done worse things," even in her current state, she didn't lose her edge. Broken, battered, stripped of everything, but oh, that regal nature... "Trying to scare me with old secrets?"
"No," I replied. "I don't need all of them. Just one specific one... You undoubtedly remember the Red Star, Madam Director?"
The smile vanished from the Iceheart's face.
"Where are you going with this, Thrawn?" the harpy hissed.
"Simple," I replied. "Either you work for me, or I'll delight Captain Eric Shohashi by handing you over to him as the real Isard. I'm sure he'll be happy with such a gift. Perhaps even more than with Baron Fel's head. After all, getting to the one who gave the order is a more desirable goal for the revenge that's consumed him for years than the joy of turning Baron Fel and his beloved TIE fighter into interstellar dust. I fully entertain the possibility that this revenge will be his catharsis, restarting his life in new colors. And the fate of Baron Fel will no longer concern him."
"So that's it," the clone bared her teeth. "You decided to set me up to save your pet pilot from execution? Since when did you become so sentimental, Thrawn?"
"Life doesn't stand still," I remarked philosophically. "Especially for those who aren't clones created for a single purpose. Tell me, Isard, what's it like living for months with the thought that the galaxy has become nothing but a tiny prison for you, where you're the sole warden with no alternatives? Have you never wondered why you were tasked with keeping Republican prisoners alive — prisoners who in the past wouldn't have inspired even a desire to care for their survival, let alone been noticeable among other, more global plans? Just like that — one defeat and now you're nothing but a guard. All in the best traditions of the Iceheart, isn't it? And who else in the entire galaxy could be trusted with such an important cargo, one that would help lure Rogue Squadron to the right place at the right time? But what exactly did you intend to do with them?"
Now there wasn't a trace of emotion on Isard's face.
"Destroy them," she said confidently. "Or break them and make them my agents."
"How?" I asked. "The Lusankya's brainwashing equipment cost billions. There's nothing else like it in the entire galaxy."
Isard's face darkened.
From her posture, it was clear she had lost all desire to continue the conversation.
"Take her to my ship," I ordered the stormtroopers and Major Tierce. "Discreetly, of course."
"Will be done, Grand Admiral," Sergeant TNX-0297 reported, grabbing the Iceheart by the scruff of the neck without any hesitation or fear. The remains of her uniform tunic strained but held. The stormtrooper, without ceremony, fired a white-blue paralyzing charge into the clone of the most dangerous woman in the galaxy, then ordered his subordinates to transfer the body into a body bag. TNX-0333 expertly pulled the necessary packaging material from his armor kit — thin, like the plastic bags I knew well, but incredibly durable.
They moved the unconscious body inside. Zipping the bag shut, the clones hoisted it and headed for the exit, to deliver it aboard my personal shuttle. And then...
Then things would get interesting.
The operation to recruit the Ysanne Isard clone for the fastest possible search for the real Iceheart was officially underway.
To pit one Isard against another.
To pit a clone with limited motivations but Isard's thinking, combined with my resources, against the Iceheart herself...
Yes, this would be a clash of titans.
All that remained was to methodically, carefully, and productively play on her sense of self-worth.
And not get myself killed in the process.
Dangerous games you've started, Grand Admiral Thrawn.
But this was the only way I could gain quick access to at least some of Isard's knowledge, who surely knew many secrets.
And which of them I'd eventually hand over to Shohashi...
We'll see which of them can offer what for my cause. First, it would be good to find out what technology Isard used to create her clone. And she clearly didn't do it in just a few years.
But those were thoughts for the distant future.
First, I needed to finish clearing the Ciutric Hegemony of pirates and take measures for its defense.
* * *
"So," Mazzic didn't look pleased after watching the latest news, which marked Grand Admiral Thrawn's debut to the entire galaxy. "What does all this mean?"
"I don't know," Karrde admitted. "I need more information. Thrawn never does anything just for show. I'm afraid he's planning something big. Really big."
"You mean to say that everything this Grand Admiral has done so far was just minor intimidation tactics?" Mazzic whistled in surprise.
"I'm sure of it," Karrde confirmed. After thinking, he added:
"Set a course for the Yaga Minor system," Karrde ordered. "I need to talk to someone and decide whose side we're on now."
"Before Thrawn gets the idea that we're a threat to him, we'd better secure support from someone more powerful than the Empire," Karrde said. "Besides, I've heard Thrawn has some kind of project at the Yaga Minor shipyards. I'd like to take a closer look."