She stared at the monitors with reports from her agents for so long that her eyes began to water. Stubbornly, irrevocably...
Ysanne Isard, the real one, not a clone, blinked.
It felt as if someone had thrown fine sand under her eyelids.
It took several minutes for the dryness of her eyeballs to pass on its own.
Only then did she open her eyes again.
How was she supposed to understand this?!
What kind of monster are you, Grand Admiral Thrawn?!
How... how could anyone even think of this?!
The Iceheart felt herself growing hot.
Jerking the collar of her crimson tunic open, the woman began gulping air convulsively.
As if she were suffering from oxygen deprivation, surfacing from the bottom of an ocean.
In all her years of working in Imperial Intelligence, she had done so much... No one and nothing, ever in her life, knowing her past, would dare to give Ysanne Isard shelter.
For one simple reason. Which was obvious.
After Thyferra and the poisoning of Coruscant, when millions had died by her will, after "she" had practically brought the wrath of the New Republic down on Krennel — to trust "Ysanne Isard" enough to spare her life?! Truly, either Thrawn was a fool, or he was a genius. So much so that his past actions and conquests were in no way consistent with what he was doing now.
For the umpteenth time, she asked herself questions.
Where did Thrawn get such a love for political and psychological intrigues? Yes, he had pulled them off in the past, but politics was clearly not his forte.
Could he have changed so much while in the Unknown Regions?
No, there was clearly something else. If he had improved his skills, picked up something new, it would have shown almost immediately. Thrawn was a being of action. He wouldn't have pretended to be a nonentity, biding his time for years. Weeks, months, yes.
But pretending to be an insignificant, genius piece of flesh who waited a year and a half before breaking his leash and shaking the galaxy in three months so hard that it was almost ready to eat from his hand?
Of course, the latter was an exaggeration, and things weren't so. But Isard was used to planning ahead and considering possible scenarios. That way they were easier to manage and adjust as needed.
Like now, for instance.
So, her manipulation of the New Republic to lure them into the Sluissi Hegemony to destroy Prince-Admiral Krennel and then direct the Republic elite towards her clone as cover for her primary mission was no longer relevant.
Thrawn had captured the Hegemony. And he had plans to annex at least two neighboring sectors to his little state. Positioned so advantageously that he just needed to take control of half a dozen star systems and... No one would ever be able to dislodge him from there.
What was unusual — Thrawn had never played "defensively" before. His style was attack. In that, he was terrifyingly brilliant.
But understandable.
And now, what?
The longer and more persistently the Grand Admiral acted, the more often Isard caught herself thinking that she COULDN'T UNDERSTAND WHAT HE, HUTT BLAST IT, WAS DOING!!!!
There was only one being in this galaxy whose skill at intrigue could surpass Isard's by orders of magnitude.
The Emperor.
But that was before the Battle of Endor. Now Palpatine was in the Deep Core, weaving his web of lies and deception far from her attention. Not keeping her informed. Which was absolutely right.
She had failed him — lost Coruscant, Thyferra... But that all meant little to the Emperor — so Sedriss, arriving on his behalf, had told her, making it clear that the Emperor was only concerned with one of her failures.
The Loss of the Lusankya.
Which that damned Thrawn had also flagged for the New Republic as his target! And now those filthy rebels had moved the completion site of her flagship again, out of the Morshdine sector… somewhere.
Now she would once more have to search for the ship, once more prepare to seize it, once more adjust her plans…
And do it all in such a way that she not only captured her Super Star Destroyer but also got rid of her own clone!
Which, if it cooperated with Thrawn, would turn from a minor problem requiring attention into a truly monstrous disaster!
Ysanne felt control of the situation slipping through her fingers.
The clone of the director of Imperial Intelligence had been grown by Isard herself after the death of the Emperor and Darth Vader on the second Death Star. Soon after the news swept the galaxy, Isard set about suppressing uprisings in the Imperial Center. In the course of concentrating control over the remnants of the Empire in her own hands, more by accident than by specific design, she found the Emperor's personal cloning center in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant.
The cylinders of the Spaarti program, equipped with enhancements from the GeNod program. An extremely expensive and undeniably rare thing. Which she had known nothing about. And didn't even have any leads on.
The Emperor knew how to keep his secrets.
She destroyed all the cloning cylinders except one, which she transferred to the Lusankya. Aboard her personal Super Star Destroyer, Isard secretly grew her single clone with the intention of using her when affairs required personal oversight but, due to some circumstances, the original would be unavailable for resolving problems.
To that end, Iceheart kept her double in a state of suspended animation, constantly and tirelessly updating her memories for one purpose only. Upon awakening, the clone was to believe itself to be the real Isard. Only that way could she circumvent the numerous problems of cloning using these programs. One tiny inaccuracy, the slightest overlap between the original and the clone, or a meeting of several clones among themselves — and clone madness was guaranteed one hundred times out of a hundred.
That was precisely why she had withdrawn into the shadows, allowing the clone to handle the matter of preserving and morally destroying her prisoners.
But with the appearance of Grand Admiral Thrawn, something had gone very wrong…
"Director Isard," came the voice of Colonel Broak Vessery through the comlink. "We're returning to base."
"Did you do a thorough job of covering the tracks?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," the colonel replied restrainedly.
Well, his competence was beyond doubt.
The problem was that the prisoners were no longer needed…
For the old plan, Isard corrected herself.
But a new one could always be devised.
"Come in for landing," she ordered. "And keep our 'prowler' prisoners in the hold for a couple of days. Let them experience despair."
* * *
This time Grand Moff Ardus Kaine didn't bother with trifles.
A glass? Ridiculous.
He threw a chair against the wall.
With the characteristic sound of splintering wood, the fragments of an expensive piece of furniture crashed to the floor.
Along with the computer panel hanging on the wall. But after meeting the chair, the latter didn't last long.
"Can this really be happening?!" the Grand Moff roared, pacing his office like an enraged rancor. "Thrawn! What the hell are you doing?!"
The HoloNet was seething with the colossal volume of information injected into the network by specialists from the Ciutric Hegemony.
"The New Republic is the aggressor!"
"Freedom — only in words?!"
"Children of a Republican councilor receive Imperial citizenship!"
"The future of the New Republic predetermined?"
"Uncle is a Jedi, family friend is a crook and swindler, father is a smuggler, mother is an Alderaanian terrorist, children are Imperial subjects. How much do you trust the well-being of the New Republic?"
"The New Order is broken, bring on the next!"
These and hundreds of thousands of other headlines — no less biting and, at the same time, extremely offensive to both the New Republic and the Imperial Remnants — in public publications, authoritative news agencies, tabloid holomags, and outright unreliable newspapers across various ends of the galaxy literally exploded the familiar and traditionally unhurried lifestyle of the galaxy's inhabitants. And while Grand Moff Kaine didn't care about most of them, the increasing cases of resignations from Imperial and alternative civil service in the Pentastar Alignment annoyed him considerably.
Dozens of officers, thousands of civil servants, ordinary citizens employed in various economic sectors of the Alignment were emigrating en masse. And to where? To a place where, just a month ago, no reasonable sentient would have set foot — especially if they were an alien. But now?
They were flocking to the Ciutric Hegemony in droves! With families! Whole generations and clans!
Especially the aliens — the very ones the Alignment had counted on for economic matters and production. Those who were supposed to stabilize tax revenues on their own backs! Highly qualified specialists whom law enforcement and the civil administration had spent years convincing that nowhere else would welcome them — because the New Republic was absolute chaos, aliens weren't welcome in Imperial Space, and the minor Remnants couldn't offer them the same working conditions as the Alignment…
And then, Thrawn appeared. He made himself known in a way that couldn't be scrubbed off even with solvent.
And in less than two years, he has put the New Republic in a knee-chest position, whipping it as if it weren't battle-hardened generals and admirals who crushed the Galactic Empire facing him, but a handful of children who can't think two steps ahead! And how did he do it?! With starships and openly rejected, uncontrollable crews!
And on top of that, he's taken so many Imperial ships from the New Republic that it's enough to arm several sector fleets! He's dug in at the Ciutric Hegemony, where it was hard to dislodge Krennel because of the few hyperspace routes that could be used to bring up a fleet in secret.
"Grand Moff," a voice sounded behind him.
Kaine, realizing he'd been standing there pounding the wall, only now felt the pain washing over him. He looked at his broken knuckles, hissed, and turned toward his desk.
Above which the hologram of the Director of Imperial Intelligence was already glowing blue.
As always — clad in his technological burlap.
"Blackhole," he growled. "What do you want? Come to delight me that Thrawn has done something else and the New Republic is ready to surrender?"
"Leave that alien alone," Blackhole chuckled. "Let him amuse himself however he likes."
"Is that so?" Kaine snorted. "And what do I do about the population outflow?!"
"Don't react," the hologram declared. Its face, as always, hidden from whomever it was speaking to. "Consider it a drain of potential traitors, nothing more. The Alignment doesn't need them."
"Oh, really?" The pain was beginning to sober him. And apparently the fracture of the radius or ulna as well. "And do you evaluate the loss of three of my destroyers the same way?"
"All of that is material," Blackhole laughed. "I wouldn't have sent those whose loyalty I doubted in pursuit of the Void Wanderer. You could say I financed Thrawn's work in dismantling the New Republic."
"Since when does Imperial Intelligence engage in charity?" Kaine asked skeptically, sitting down in his chair. He rummaged, pulled a can of bacta spray from his desk drawer, rolled up his sleeve, and sprayed the miraculous contents onto his arm.
"Since the moment one needs to dispose of non-performing assets," Blackhole stated calmly. "After all, we confirmed what was assumed. Thrawn is not a supporter of the New Order."
"Uh-huh," Kaine said. His hand grew a little cold as the fine bacta mist touched his skin. "And what next? We wait for him to join the New Republic and become their Supreme Commander?"
"We continue according to plan," Blackhole said as if it were self-evident. "Thrawn has issued ultimatums to the New Republic that it either cannot or will not fulfill. This was done deliberately to give himself a free hand for further aggressive policies. He's not going anywhere — he'll keep fighting. Let him destroy the New Republic; no one will let him rule the galaxy anyway. Simply because none of the Republicans will follow him."
"Yes, and I, as before, will keep accumulating resources and preparing for a war with the New Republic that most likely will never happen," Kaine snorted.
"It will happen," Blackhole said firmly. "In two months."
Kaine froze in place. The aerosol can stopped in his hand.
"Tell me more from that point," Grand Moff Kaine said, all ears.
Immediately, another hologram appeared next to Blackhole's.
A middle-aged, red-haired man with a hawkish gaze of amber-colored eyes.
Acting more mechanically than consciously, the Grand Moff dropped to one knee before the new hologram.
"Emperor…" he whispered, feeling his understanding of the realities of this world shatter into pieces.
And his own hopes along with it.