Nine years, eight months, and twenty-seven days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, eight months, and twenty-seventh day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and twelve days since the Arrival.)
Finishing his reading, Anilex leaned back in his chair and tossed the datapad onto the table in front of him. He ran a hand through his long hair, tossing it back behind his head. A luxurious long hairstyle and dandyish mustache, combined with stylish clothes and skill at sabacc, with a reasonably attractive appearance — he could have become a hero on the pages of romantic stories and love novels about noble pirates. As the model for the main character, of course.
Lieutenant of Kavil's Corsairs, Anilex.
But he was interested in something else, compared to literary fame.
The lieutenant and de facto — unofficial leader of Kavil's Corsairs looked at his underling with a bored expression.
"The information is accurate?"
"Of course, boss," the skipper chuckled. "We pay the snitches so much they wouldn't dream of trying to pull one over on us."
"Suppose," Anilex yawned lazily. "Pretty far from our usual hunting grounds."
"But what a prize," the subordinate's eyes lit up. "We didn't make that much on the last capture. The boys aren't happy..."
"I'm not a Zeltron girl to satisfy everyone," Anilex stated. "We don't touch Imperial convoys."
"Boss, but...!" the skipper tried to object, but the pirate leader pretended not to hear. Instead, he began polishing the barrel of his own blaster.
"Understood, chief," the interlocutor backed down. "No means no. We'll find another target. If only we had an interdictor cruiser, it'd be easier... But no, we spend everything on those scum from the Lower Level and..."
The blaster spoke, a short sound signaling to the skipper that he should close his mouth. Preferably as fast as possible.
"Go find another target," the skipper said with a resigned sigh. Heading toward the exit hatch, he stopped and slapped himself on the forehead. "Boss, there's an encrypted message for you."
"From whom?" Anilex perked up. Quite unusual — everyone in the gang knew that exchanging telemetry during missions was risky due to tracking. It was only used if something irreparable happened.
"I don't know," the skipper shrugged. "I told you — it's encrypted."
"Transfer it to my datapad," Anilex ordered, instantly shaking off his drowsiness. The subordinate nodded and left.
Something had definitely happened.
His personal computer notified him of the received message.
Yes, the grunts might not recognize the cipher.
Because it was known to only three beings in the galaxy — the three lieutenants of Kavil's Corsairs.
Decrypting it, Anilex's eyes ran over the lines of the report.
"Bridge," he activated the computer. "Contact our base on Edusa."
"One moment, boss," the comms operator replied. He was silent for a few seconds, then reported: "I don't know what's going on, boss, but we can't get through the interference. The signal goes to the relay, passes through, but the base isn't picking it up and..."
"Set course for Edusa," Anilex ordered. "Contact the nearest ships — we're moving out."
"Yes, boss, but they won't be glad to see us there, that's the lieutenant's base..."
"And that idiot slept through the attack!" Anilex barked. "We can't contact the base because the Imps are jamming the comms!"
"We're getting responses from our ships in the sector," the bridge reported. "Five vessels are ready to depart immediately, two more will join in half an hour. The other thirteen haven't answered the call yet."
"And the other two squads, the Edusan and the Vandaian?" the corsair leader inquired.
"Not a single ship is answering, boss. They were fresh off raids, laid up at the bases..."
And most likely — at this moment, they were burning in the green plasma glare of Imperial turbolasers.
Oh, what idiots those two "colleagues" were! He'd told them the Ubiqtorate hadn't withdrawn from the sector for nothing! That the patrols hadn't appeared for nothing, that Star Destroyers and heavy cruisers weren't flying around like they owned the place for nothing!
No, they had to sit on their asses... And now, it seemed, they were all being taken out.
All that remains is to see with his own eyes what happened there. Lucky if there aren't too many Imps — then there's a chance to negotiate an exchange. But if it's some half-crazy Shohashi, who according to rumors moved to the Dominion, then you can safely forget about two-thirds of the large ships of the entire "Kavil's Corsairs" fleet. Only his twenty rearmed freighters will remain, plus a couple of light cruisers of the "Arquitens" class that he bought on a whim about a year ago and kept their location secret from the pirates.
"Contact everyone you can!" Anilex ordered. "We have a day and a half of flight time there, so either we'll arrive by the time the Imps put out the fire, or we'll manage to give the local garrison on the base a beating. I told you — pull her out of there, something's been rotten in Morshdine for the last four months, but no, you didn't believe me… Wait, what about our base on Vandyne?"
"Making the query, sir," the same communications officer replied. Though, he's the only one on watch, so… "Same thing. No responses, only interference."
"Oh, Hutt slime!" Anilex howled. "Everyone we managed to contact — we're taking with us to Edusa. Anyone we reach during flight — send to Vandyne."
Oh, he'll give those two idiots a thorough dressing-down.
Of course, if they're alive…
Because if Shohashi is there…
Hutt. He needs to think about who to send for reconnaissance into the systems and figure out what's what. Because even if all the large ships of his group respond, against the "Butcher of Atoa" that clearly won't help.
Because that's the standard Imperial style — find out where you can incinerate a couple of enemies and do it.
* * *
After the hologram of Moff Ferrus finished its very detailed speech outlining the plan of action, there was a moment of silence.
Felix looked at me expectantly…
And what did he want to hear?
Especially after he had already started acting?
I won't say the plan is bad or excellent — it's quite decent. Much better than what I've heard about other Imperials' plans. Not everyone is a genius of multi-layered schemes (myself included), so expecting a "nesting doll" from a semi-civilian… Well, frankly, that's ridiculous.
"Proceed, since you've started, Moff," I said. "Are the forces of the Morshdine sector fleet sufficient for a successful conclusion of the operation?"
On the other hand — this venture of his is very much like my own. So, I'm to blame myself — I set similar examples. If a rout occurs, then responsibility falls partly on me.
"Yes, Grand Admiral," he confirmed. "The task isn't difficult, I have all the necessary resources, especially since the 'Immobilizer' has returned to its station."
"Good," I agreed. "Proceed. Report the results. If necessary — use Captain Aban's group, he's just heading to Tangrene from the raid."
"Yes, sir," the Moff replied. After waiting a couple of seconds — to see if any new instructions would come — he disconnected.
Was it worth expressing my displeasure at an unauthorized operation against the "Kavil's Corsairs"?
No, definitely not.
If subordinates can't do anything without guidance, then they're poor subordinates. The Moff is responsible for actions within his sector (and given the absence of other Moffs, for all key sectors of the Dominion in general).
In the past, each Moff managed not only planetary affairs but also had authority over the military forces under their command. I gave Ferrus such forces. He equipped and trained them.
Having two pirate bases on his territory, especially in industrial worlds (where, before our intervention, only memories of industry remained) — that is, undoubtedly, a failure.
But who among us is without sin? For me, for example, I have to adjust plans on the fly to avoid falling behind schedule or causing even greater complications.
However, it's worth noting that conducting an independent operation, without my actual participation, is a benefit for my subordinates in general and Moff Ferrus in particular. Because, isn't this what I originally sought through regular fleet training? Slowly but surely raising my subordinates' competence, identifying their strengths and advantages? Yes, it is.
Did I overlook something in training the rear services? Unlikely — ship repairs and modernizations proceed exactly on schedule.
But the sector fleets, the civilian administration…
Yes, I haven't paid attention to their training.
First, because I don't understand it.
Second, it's Ferrus's own responsibility.
Interfering in someone else's "kitchen" without knowing how it works only makes things worse. At the moment, the civilian administration under the Moff is fully performing its duties. Yes, mistakes have surfaced — Felix took the initiative to fix them. Will he manage? Quite likely.
And if not?
Well, then I'll have to do the post-mortem.
The operation regarding Axila and eliminating the threat from "Kavil's Corsairs" will allow the Moff to reveal himself from another, not purely administrative, side. And that, in turn, will give me an understanding — whether this man is ready to solve a wider range of problems and whether more global tasks can be set before him.
That's precisely why I didn't decide to promote him after the creation of the Dominion. It's not time yet.
But the current situation — well, it's a fitting "exam."
Because my plans are to grant the Dominion sector Moffs practically the same powers they had under the Empire — that is, not only civil-political matters in their areas of responsibility, but also fighting piracy, smuggling, crime, establishing and developing security spheres.
A ruler, like a military commander, shouldn't solve all problems himself — that's what subordinates and executors are for.
Internal affairs are the domain of the Moffs. But they should still be appointed on merit, not for reasons of political expediency, to satisfy some desires, sympathies, and so on. That's why I like Moff Ferrus — he doesn't complain about the work, doesn't shift it entirely onto his subordinates. He works himself where needed, when needed. If only there were more like him, but… Moff is a public position. You can't clone such people to solve all the problems of the sector's population.
At least, for now, I plan not to do that. But I'm increasingly leaning toward the idea that I should. Because truly worthy and competent administrators aren't all that numerous at my disposal.
To repel attacks and external threats, I have the regular fleet, the army, the Stormtrooper Corps. True, there's never time to structure all of this and put it into "godly order." There's always something to do. And doing it — breaking a system people have gotten used to for decades — on the eve of Palpatine's invasion is wrong. Sacrilegious. "Sabotage," as it was called in my past.
The holoprojector blinked an indicator, signaling an incoming call. Directly to me, not to the "Chimaera's" communications center. And few beings had that right.
But the question of the caller resolved quickly — I just looked at the frequency.
"Captain Inek," I greeted the agent. His current mission was to locate the mythical ship "Sa'Nalaor" from the Confederacy of Independent Systems fleet, supposedly filled with advanced cybernetic implants, as well as a large amount of valuables and funds. At least, that's how it was listed nearly thirty years ago. "Do you have something to report?"
"Yes, Grand Admiral," the agent's hologram flickered, indicating poor signal quality. "I am currently ten light-years from the Raxus system. I've tracked the most likely lead to the 'Sa'Nalaor.'"
"Interesting," I said. "Details."
"At the 'Wheel' station in the Mid Rim, there was a cybernetics company that previously dealt in prosthetics sales and installation," Inek explained. "They ceased their core operations almost immediately after the ship's disappearance. They also hired space salvagers from a Rodian clan. One of the teams disappeared. Simultaneously — one of the company's co-owners, the founder's son. The latter was prosecuted by the Empire for a number of crimes related to lacking a license to manufacture and implant cybernetic prostheses. I ingratiated myself with the founder's daughter, and she led me to what she claimed was her brother's base on the planet Raxus Prime. For a long time she tried to shake me off. Before my departure, she used the ship's communication systems."
"Was the message decrypted?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," the scout confirmed. "'I am three hundred kilometers south of the base. Shed the 'tail.' Location of base and cargo not disclosed.'"
An interesting cipher. But nothing more.
"You believe she will lead you to the 'Sa'Nalaor'?" I clarified.
"Sir, I have a hypothesis that this ship has already been found," Torin Inek stated. "This is indicated by the disappearance of the company founder's son, his payment from company funds for a Rodian search party. That they didn't return, and the sister flew straight to meet her brother, gives grounds to believe the Rodian search party was destroyed immediately upon finding the ship and learning about its cargo."
"Have you determined the defensive capabilities of their base?" A more than fair question, as Raxus Prime is a junk planet. There are huge numbers of outdated and decommissioned starships that could be stripped to create defensive lines. We ourselves bought parts there for the "Colicoid Swarm" and the "Black Pearl." In the past, there was even an Imperial shipyard that used the planet's trash as a source for melting and making materials for subsequent star destroyer construction. Galen Marek destroyed it in the first part of the game "The Force Unleashed." And besides…
"Sir, as insane as it sounds, there is a Star Destroyer on the planet," Torin said what I didn't want to hear. So, my worst assumptions were confirmed — this ship didn't just survive the crash, but was never evacuated. Or scrapped. Astonishing negligence on the part of salvagers, Imperials, rebels, and anyone who even suspected a Star Destroyer had crashed on the planet. "And that's exactly where they've holed up. I tracked the girl using reconnaissance droids. The ship is almost fully restored — jury-rigged, of course, but… It has numerous emergency launch engines — I assume they've been restoring it all this time. I think they'll try to lift it into the stratosphere soon, then leave Raxus Prime in an unknown direction."
Laborious but quite logical way to keep the secret of the "Sa'Nalaor" story. Transfer the cargo to the Destroyer, restore it, and fly off somewhere you can live comfortably without any financial problems? The holds are full of valuables…
But if it was so lightly damaged in the crash, why didn't the Empire take it? Why leave a functional (well, "conditionally functional") Star Destroyer on a junk planet?
I'm afraid I still can't understand the logic of the local beings, one way or another.
If a ship can still be used, why abandon it? And if you do abandon it, at least strip the most valuable parts!
Astonishing wastefulness… And at the same time, it gives me certain ideas…
"Continue observation," I ordered. "An operational-tactical group of the Dominion fleet will arrive shortly. I need those beings, their cargo, their ship, and their resources."
"Order understood, Grand Admiral," Torin said. "Beginning implementation."
After the scout's hologram faded, I expanded a hologram of the disposition of my forces in the galaxy. And after studying the map, I pondered only two questions.
First. If they were so careless about a crashed Star Destroyer in the Empire's best years, then how likely is it that at other crash sites, something useful might also remain? Yes, Kaine promised supplies, but to be dependent on one or two suppliers, like the Grand Moff and the Baron, who, for all their words and actions, can't openly help you? Frankly, it's not worth it.
Trust in a friend, but don't slack yourself.
Actually… And actually, the second question.
The closest operational-tactical group to Raxus Prime is under the command of Captain Antonias Stormaer, nicknamed "the Abyss."
This man loves trophies.
And I have vague doubts: if he goes on this mission, won't he bring back half the planet with him? Because there really is something interesting there.
* * *
She watched curiously as the creature in front of her licked blue milk from the floor.
Like its distant ancestors, obediently purring, it diligently worked its tongue, emptying the saucer.
"Such an obedient one," the woman praised, leaning forward and stroking the silky fur on its mane. Leaning back, she felt the tiny medallion, a gift from Thrawn worn under her tunic and blouse, touch her skin again. Burning cold, but… It was a pleasant cold. One she had even stopped noticing. "Want more milk?"
"Yes," the face pulled away from the saucer. Drops of bluish-white trickled down its muzzle and fur.
"Bad flea-bag," she cuffed the disobedient pet on the back of the head, making it, already cringing before the blow, shove its muzzle back into the saucer. The furry face's milk coverage increased. "Did I let you speak?"
"No," the "pet" said quietly.
"How foolish you are, Councilor Fey'lya," the clone of Ysanne Isard sighed, shaking her head. "How did you even get into politics?"
"I am intelligent enough," he muttered.
"Enough to break my order to behave like a household pet for the third time?" the not-Iceheart inquired with a smile on her face.
"Your crude methods of processing won't work on me, Isard," the Bothan said angrily. "I am sentient!"
"And who led the core of the Fourth Fleet into a trap that only a complete idiot couldn't have foreseen?" the clone asked with the same look of concern. "You, my 'sentient' one."
"That… That…" it seems this case should be shown to specialists. For the first time, a Bothan, especially one of such high rank, couldn't immediately find words. "It was a trap. Some clever deception and…"
"Yes," Isard agreed, stroking the Bothan's head. From the outside it wasn't visible, but he was on his hands and knees not entirely of his own will. This humiliating position for any sentient was maintained by a set of collars and restraints chaining Fey'lya to the cell floor. Though, if anyone observed from the side, they wouldn't notice the thin manacles and shackles made of a soft but strong fabric material known in the galaxy as "rancor skin." The name fit the content — one of her agents had procured this material for her back when she was cooperating with Prince-Admiral Krennel. Expensive, of course, but this contraption was prepared not for a Bothan at all. But for Krennel himself… What a pity he never got to try it on.
But a replacement for the dead man was found in time.
With a single sweep, Isard placed her slender legs in nearly skin-tight red trousers on the Bothan's back, crossed her ankles, thus using the New Republic councilor as a footrest. Maybe, if Fey'lya's wrists and hands weren't chained to the floor, he would have tried to throw her off, but he couldn't control his body.
"You see, my dear councilor," she said, taking a saucer of pastry from the table and taking a bite. Mmm, delicious… "You of the New Republic have encountered an enemy you cannot understand or predict. Every time you thought or will think you have figured him out, he will already turn the situation to his advantage, and any attempt at counteraction will lead into another of his traps."
"Nonsense!" Fey'lya proclaimed.
"Really?" Isard feigned surprise, fluttering her eyelashes. "Let's reason this out. You wanted to catch him at Rugos, sent a huge fleet there — in the end, you practically gave him all the combat-ready ships. And in doing so, he destroyed a huge number of pirates, smugglers, and other criminal scum. You sent hunting parties after him — in the end, he captured several more ships. You prepared a fleet against him at the Hast shipyards — he took those from you too. And after that, you came to Ciutric IV with your most combat-capable units — and there you met the same fate as before. Rout, fleet capture… But even then you didn't calm down — you decided to hold the Oplovis sector — he defeated you there too. And again took your ships. Honestly, I'm starting to worry…"
"That his military luck will soon run out?" Fey'lya said sarcastically.
Isard slightly bent her knee, pressing a thin heel into the Bothan's back. And pressed a little, to twist it more comfortably into the soft skin.
"That he will have to allocate an entire planet for holding prisoners of war from the New Republic," Isard-clone said with feigned regret. She had already gotten used to calling herself that. Simple and reflects the essence. She is Isard. At least by blood. And she is a clone. "Did you know that the Dominion already holds so many of your soldiers and fleet specialists in captivity that it would populate a small city somewhere in the Core Worlds? By the way — you were one of the wholesale suppliers of prisoners of war."
The Bothan tried to say something, but Isard pressed her other heel into the back of his head and dunked his muzzle into the saucer. Well, not a saucer… A bowl, about five centimeters deep. Enough to make him gurgle with exhaled air.
"You know, councilor, I have a question," Isard-clone continued. "What do you value most?"
The Bothan gurgled something.
"I can't hear you, Fluffy," Isard said. "Repeat."
Councilor Fey'lya diligently gurgled into the bowl.
"Oh, yes," the not-Iceheart removed her foot from her toy's head, allowing him to lift his face from the treat that constituted his diet. "What were you gurgling, my favorite toy?"
The Bothan, ignoring the insult, looked at the woman with hostility and disgust.
"Power," he said.
"How petty," the clone sighed, feigning a yawn, elegantly covering her mouth with her hand. "Though, what else to expect from a Bothan?"
"You know nothing about my people!" Fey'lya flared up.
"More than you can imagine," Isard assured him. "You are a race of hangers-on, swindlers, manipulators, schemers, and flatterers, ready to tear each other's throats out just for praise from the hands of a stronger and more powerful master."
The Bothan opened his mouth to obviously object, but Isard shoved a pastry into his mouth with one hand motion, trying to smear the cream from the plate across the councilor's face.
"Be quiet," she advised. "And listen."
"Mmph-mmph…" the Bothan tried to chew the unexpected dessert.
"Restless animal," Isard sighed, once again sending the Bothan's head into the bowl. "Better this way. Just listen and don't interrupt. And don't gurgle — it's annoying, animal."
She critically examined her clothes in the dim cell light, making sure there were no stains or crumbs, then continued:
"You have already proven your incompetence in opposing a strategist like Thrawn," she said. "No matter how hard you try, he will always outplay you. It's even boring. And doesn't fit my plans at all. You see, I didn't come to Krennel for nothing. It was a safe place to keep the prisoners from the 'Lusankya,' yes. But that's not the main thing. The Prince-Admiral, like an animal similar to you, didn't see the main thing — his own worthlessness. He received a wonderful and self-sufficient state into his possession. I would use such a place to spend my old age without a worry. Thrawn slightly spoiled my plans, but that's not a problem. I know how to adjust them. Especially since I no longer need only the Ciutric Hegemony. I want his Dominion."
The woman, hearing the gurgling stop, moved her leg aside. Hooked the Bothan's ear with her heel, making him rise from the bowl:
"Have you not drowned yet, flea-bitten animal?"
"No," the Bothan gritted his teeth.
"Excellent, that you admit your animal status, so low that you've become targets for parasites," with these words she again dunked the Bothan into the bowl. "I like the Dominion. And most importantly — it's very easy to defend. Including from you. Not to mention the Remnants — Thrawn acquired suitable resources. A wonderful fleet, two shipyards, many industrial planets. Yes, it'll take a lot of work to make them presentable, but I'm used to it. So, I'm thinking — why don't you, an animal, help me eliminate Thrawn? And help yourself at the same time…"
The gurgling became quieter. It seems the little beast was drinking the bowl's contents. Such an obedient little bastard.
"Do you know why no one wants to ransom you, animal?" she asked. And without waiting for an answer, continued:
"You are spent material. A big headache. Everyone would be fine if you died here. But at the same time, I can use you to solve the problem of Thrawn's existence. But I'm not vain, so I'll let the New Republic do everything in exchange for you no longer troubling me. What do you think, animal, a fair price?"
A brief gurgle was her answer.
"I'm glad you agree, little flea," she assured him. "Right now you're a political corpse, but if you return to the New Republic with valuable information... and tell them I gave it to you so that you'd stay away from the Dominion... Yes, I think the question of ultimate prospects will make your comrades accept my offer. So, at this moment, Thrawn should already have met with Grand Moff Kaine. As a result of that meeting, Thrawn will gain control of a Super Star Destroyer." The Bothan grew agitated, trying to lift himself out of the bowl. Isard pointed the animal back to its place. "So here I sit, in these luxurious palace apartments, pondering: what will become of you, poor wretches, when the Grand Admiral gets his own analogue of the Executor? He washes his hands in your blood every time his ordinary Star Destroyers meet you in battle. And what can you pit against a ship that's worth an entire fleet of Star Destroyers?"
Fey'lya tried to say something again, but all that came out was a strange gurgling.
"Yes," she continued, "you might retort that you have my Lusankya, but as far as I know, you're keeping her as a final, ultimate weapon. In your opinion, the time to use her hasn't come, of course. But that's just verbal populism, a smokescreen to hide the true state of affairs. I wonder if anyone in the New Republic besides you and Ackbar knows that the Lusankya is missing not only weapons but also several internal systems, even main engines? And that you can't obtain them now, because after Thrawn's attack on Xa Fel and the capture of hundreds of hyperdrives of various classes, types, and purposes, the Kuat Drive Yards haven't just raised their service prices—they're not exactly eager to supply you with equipment to restore that ship? They told you, didn't they: 'Solve the problem with the Imperials, get the parts'?"
The New Republic councilor gurgled something in response. Judging by the frequency of the sounds, it was clearly a curse.
"And at the same time," Isard continued, "it's quite interesting that the equipment intended for the restoration of the Lusankya has actually already left Kuat."
At that moment the Bothan fell silent. No, he hadn't drowned; he just became all ears. Apparently he'd heard something new.
"While you're scraping together credits to buy the equipment, the Kuati have already sold off what they had in storage," Isard went on. "Quite interesting, since they didn't manufacture the parts—these are old Imperial stockpiles intended for repairing the Executors when they were still part of the Imperial Starfleet. Sly bunch, I must say. First they took money from the Empire's pocket for building and producing repair kits and spare parts, and now they're selling them a second time around..."
The Bothan remained silent. What a good little animal, obeying its mistress. Well done. Must reinforce positive behavior.
The Isard clone leaned down and scratched Fey'lya behind the ear.
"So, let's return to the main point of our meeting," she continued. "I want the Dominion. I like what Thrawn is building. It has a certain charm. And you need to escape from here, don't you?"
This time she let the Bothan lift his head from the saucer.
"Yes," he said, sputtering blue milk.
"Wonderful," Isard smiled. "It so happens that I have information about where Thrawn will be over the next few weeks. It's related to his intention to take possession of an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer. Oh, don't bulge your eyes like that, little animal. You know perfectly well that there are other ships of this type in the galaxy besides the Lusankya. So. Thrawn will be there with a small number of ships. I'll tell you the exact date when he acquires the Executor, then help you escape. You'll reach the New Republic. You'll give them the information, and also my demand: leave me and the Dominion alone. No military action against the Dominion. All caravans and convoys will pass through New Republic territory without inspection, without stops, without interception—and so on. In return, you get the meeting location. First you'll bring the proposal itself to Coruscant. I'll give you an untraceable comlink to send me a message. Once you're ready to accept my offer, transfer three billion credits to an account I'll specify, and I'll send you the meeting coordinates. You understand you need to hurry with solving this problem—Thrawn won't be fiddling with this ship for long. At most a couple of weeks, no more. So I'm giving you a courier droid, very, very fast—it'll get you to Coruscant in less than a day. That's the deal, councilor. Do you accept it?"
"You hold my allies captive," the Bothan declared. "I want them freed."
"No problem," the Isard clone snorted. "But the droid is single-seat. And only a courier droid won't be checked by patrols when leaving the planet. There's simply no room for anyone else. Frankly, I'd advise you to think, Fey'lya, whose fur is closer to your skin—your own or your incompetent comrades', who can't take care of themselves and are ready to loosen their tongues to save their own hides at difficult moments. How do you think I found out about your petty financial scams, little animal?"
The Bothan growled, and she dug her heel into his skin, hard.
"Your voice came out wrong, Fey'lya," she explained. "I'll ask a simple question. Choose who flies to Coruscant with valuable information—you, or one of your underlings? Those who stay will rot here in prison until your government is ready for an exchange."
"I'll fly," the Bothan said quickly.
"Smart animal," Isard smiled, ruffling the alien's scruff. "Always knew you'd make a good little doggy, pleasing me as I deserve. I'd kiss your furry face, but you, dirty beast, are all covered in milk. Ugh, bad doggy. Come on, lick yourself clean, get yourself in order." With the same grace she achieved through an incredible amount of daily physical training, she removed her feet from the living footrest. "I'll go attend to pressing matters for now. Conspiracies are conspiracies, but work waits for no one."
The Bothan muttered lowly as she rose from the chair and headed for the exit. Out of the corner of her eye, Isard noticed the Bothan cleaning his face—rubbing it against his hands and chest, licking the drops off his snout. A true animal.
"Don't be bored, puppy," she said in farewell, turning at the door and waving her hand. "I'll be back soon. This time I'll bring you green milk, with algae. And for sure it'll be from a female animal this time, not like now."
Just before the door closed behind her, the not-Iceheart heard sounds characteristic of a living creature emptying its stomach.
Chuckling at the stupid animal, she walked to the door next to the cell and unlocked it with a palm print.
Entering, she settled into a chair in front of a large panoramic screen that showed everything happening inside Fey'lya's cell. He was still emptying his stomach.
"Poor, poor xeno creature, imagining itself a higher-order sentient being," she shook her head. "Clearly never tasted cheap milk from Tatooine. Almost a shame he believed such an absurdity... Did I break the toy, and he takes me at my word?"
The woman made herself comfortable in the chair and began compiling a selection of holo-recordings from the hidden surveillance cameras placed in the councilor's cell. After all, they had been conversing very, very often lately... not to mention the habit Bothans have of talking aloud when they think they're alone.
Stupid animals.
Having achieved the desired result, Isard copied the files onto an infochip, made several copies, then took them all with her and left the palace catacombs. There was still a lot of work ahead; she couldn't put it off.
* * *
As soon as the Striking emerged from hyperspace at the agreed point, Commodore Dobramu's eyes beheld a scene that symbolized the full might of the Imperial Navy.
Dozens of large-tonnage ships, gleaming with their polished streamlined sides, hung motionless in the vacuum of space. Surrounded by mountains of debris that had once been parts of their engines, as well as charred hulls in which the frames of escort frigates were easily recognizable.
But the impression was that they had fallen into a giant furnace.
Deformed and sooty, melted and burned through by turbolasers...
Well!
"Now that's truly Imperial work," Dobramu said admiringly, gazing at the destroyed ships. The battlefield was indeed grimly depressing—for every twenty-one bacta tanker ships, there were about thirty escort Nebulon-Bs in both modifications, used by the rebels.
Apparently, this convoy was indeed important to the enemy—sensors also noted at least four large debris fields in which parts of Mon Calamari cruisers could be discerned. Unfortunately, it was impossible to identify the number of destroyed enemy line ships. For one simple reason: the very forces that Lord Solusar had mentioned had done their work thoroughly.
The enemy starships were so destroyed that nothing remained that could be used later.
Escort ships stripped of engines, weapons, hulls punctured, reactors torn open, and central "booms" broken.
Even if Thrawn were here, he'd want to see with his own eyes how the blue-skinned alien would implement his favorite tactic of capturing enemy ships. Because everything here was literally destroyed—except for the ships that Akrey was supposed to take.
Regarding the latter, there were certain doubts.
Because, judging by the damage, the commanders of the transports had tried to flee. But accurate turbolaser fire pierced the thin, unarmored hulls and engine nozzles, burning out corridors and compartments, destroying command bridges, knocking out main reactors and life support systems...
It seemed as if those who did the job knew exactly where to shoot. Because they destroyed literally everything on the ships that could in any way point investigators to the attackers' identity: sensors, scanners, data banks. Bridges were destroyed to prevent data recovery from the central computers, which on civilian ships are located closer to the bridge.
Life support systems were knocked out so that survivors of the raid would die and be unable to properly repair the ships...
As far as Akrey knew, the bacta tankers had auxiliary reactors that ensured the integrity of the tanks and their contents. Looking at the damaged ships, the young Imperial noted that not a single tank or hold had been damaged.
Lord Solusar had kept his word—he had placed enormous wealth in his hands. Even if only one or two standard-sized transport tanks per ship, that's a huge mass of bacta. Which, as Solusar had said, could be used for the needs of an entire army. And for a long time, at that.
"Tech crews," Akrey activated the comlink. "Prepare to board as prize crews to capture the ships and extract the bacta. If there's a possibility of returning the ships to service quickly, I want to know. Over."
Turning off the device, he looked once more at the picture of the Imperial war machine's grandeur, shaking his head.
Thrawn can snap the rebels' noses all he wants, but this—this is real work! Right before his eyes!
This convoy was certainly destined for one of the four rebel fleets. But now it will go to the needs of the Dominion's soldiers... And it could have gone to the Emperor as well...
No, he didn't think the Emperor could have made a mistake. Why would he? He's the smartest man in the galaxy.
Indeed—a man.
And only a man should rule the galaxy.
And Akrey, to the best of his ability, will help him with that.
* * *
Data analysis and precise time calculation are what allow one to keep a "finger on the pulse."
No team of analysts can replace someone who, one way or another, knows more than even the most qualified specialists.
For example, a transmigrant.
You can uncover as many "hidden pitfalls" that were "off-screen," but that won't change the current situation.
Studying the operational reports, I was frankly stalling for time.
Because I had absolutely no idea how to react to the sentient sitting before me. More precisely—the female sentient.
But the silence couldn't last forever.
Especially since the audio playback had finished and silence reigned.
I needed to say something; I couldn't miss the chance to seize control of the conversation and steer it in the direction I wanted.
But on the other hand, the "oppressive silence" gave her the opportunity to "start making excuses." However, judging by her bored look, Ahsoka Tano had no intention of doing so.
And she had been perfectly comfortable in silence for fifteen minutes since the recording of her words provided by the guards had been played in my quarters.
She hadn't even moved—impressive composure and nerves, I had to give her that.
Rukh, despite also appearing outwardly imperturbable, would occasionally turn an obsidian dagger over in his hands. It seemed that this type of weapon, produced at the former Trade Federation station directly from chunks of stone black as night, had really taken with the Death Commandos.
It was mined in the asteroid field surrounding the planet Lok in the Karthakk system under the careful supervision of the guards—more clones of Tierce.
I had also examined a couple of such daggers. And was pleasantly surprised. Because in my understanding, obsidian is just volcanic glass. That is—sharp but brittle.
But in reality, local obsidian was not only sharper than vibroblades and never dulled, but its strength was only an order of magnitude less than dura steel. In other words—by no means a disposable weapon. Far from it...
Well, let's use psychology to the fullest. Especially when you're within range of ysalamiri—Jedi tricks won't help you. Now if only I could figure out the mechanism of this natural defense and understand if it can be transferred to someone else.
I continued studying the documents, letting the silence transform into something indefinite. Without the Force, a Jedi can't perceive my intentions or emotional tension. And given that the ysalamiri is in relatively close proximity to the Togruta, she can't independently reach out to the Force either.
And this should be eroding her unshakable confidence in herself and her abilities, her conviction that things are going right, and so on...
I, on the other hand, indignantly continued working with documents, reading reports and sending orders to recipients. Once again realizing that with the growth of the armed forces, it was time to create something like a General Staff and an Admiralty... Soon we would begin building and equipping the military-industrial complex, which should qualitatively strengthen the Dominion and determine the potential for our forces to launch ground strikes not as raids, but as a systematic offensive campaign with subsequent conquest and subjugation of planets and their facilities.
Half an hour after listening to her own words, the Togruta began to get nervous.
I was thoroughly studying Shohashi's report that the capture of the Nidjun sector was complete. Occupation and cleanup of systems and planets from pirates and other criminals were underway. He separately noted Ventress's suitability for ground command. Not without criticism, but she had passed final exams of the accelerated command courses. As expected—her space strategy knowledge wasn't brilliant. But ground-wise... Shohashi believed she could be promising in that area. In fact, that was the original plan.
I didn't intend to use her as an acolyte, as before. The fight with Tano showed the woman was clearly out of shape. It's simpler and more effective to use Inquisitor Obscuro as an infiltrator. Especially since he and the entire Dantooine expedition are currently aboard the starship. They'll have work too in the upcoming campaign. And more than one.
Ventress's lot, apparently, is ground operations. Maybe in the future she'll regain her former skills, perhaps even surpass them, but definitely not here and now. Past merits are all well and good, but positions are given based on current contribution to the development and defense of the Dominion.
Jedi and other Force-sensitive beings have advantages where speed of reaction and aggression are needed. Space battles require more—command talent must be innate. It's a matter of perception and understanding of information, as well as surrounding circumstances. No more, no less.
Ground command is a bit simpler. Ventress pilots well—almost on the level of Dominion ace pilots. Shohashi predicts progress in this area too, but not drastic.
Well, let her focus on ground command. Especially since the stormtroopers on the Crimson Dawn are already used to working with Ventress. She doesn't allow excessive losses among her assigned forces.
There's potential, and that's the main thing.
After an hour of silence, the Togruta had become agitated.
I was studying data on sectors located north of the Dominion, practically on the galaxy's borders. The traditional borderlands with the Wild Territories... Which no one wants. But on the other hand, this is a promising direction for expansion. Minimal resistance, but the chance to obtain new markets for products, sources of income and resources with relatively weak opposition from the local population.
An interesting prospect, but... reconnaissance is required—at least. And archival records regarding the planets there. Hmm... Imperial Intelligence archives? Or another raid on Obroa-skai to get a full database? Or computer hacking?
At the end of the second hour of waiting, Ahsoka Tano couldn't take it anymore. Psychology is a wonderful thing.
"Maybe just throw me off your destroyer and let's call the incident closed?" she asked.
I tore my gaze from the monitors and looked at the young woman. How old was she now? "A little over forty"? And she looked quite good. That's what it means to live in the future, when "the grass is greener."..
However, it puzzled me that I had even noticed the Togruta's attractiveness.
Puzzling... And alarming.
It seemed part of me had indeed been affected by Double-Isard's remarks. I wasn't going to follow them, of course... Probably. There was a rational kernel in the sub-Iceheart's words, certainly, but I had no time for "matters of the heart."
"Sensible suggestion," I agreed. "A decent alternative to the traditional Jedi execution—being shot by 'boys in white armor'."
Ahsoka shivered in her chair.
"I thought they'd at least give me a shuttle and..."
"Then you chose the wrong word lexically," I noted. "'Throw out' implies you'll actually be thrown out of the ship. While the Chimaera is moving through hyperspace."
"I heard no one survives that trick," the Togruta shrugged.
"That's why I called it an alternative to the traditional Jedi execution," I clarified. "Or did you expect something else after confessing your intention to kill me?"
"I said I'd do it if you became a threat," the Togruta declared.
"I don't think I need to remind you that I am the ruler of the Dominion and the Supreme Commander?"
"That's hard to forget."
"And those positions, combined with the New Republic's stance, automatically make me a threat to them," I explained. "And not only to them, I should note."
"That's not exactly what I meant," Ahsoka looked away.
"Do you have some problem forming logical thoughts?" I inquired. "Perhaps injuries, head trauma?"
"Fine," the girl said sharply. "Yes, I actually felt distortions in the Force. I think many Jedi felt them—at least those I maintain contact with—definitely. I decided to figure out what was happening and used the current situation, your search for Jedi, to understand how much you resemble the Imperials. You know, it's not pleasant to live and one day see a vision that the future, even a probable one, has become foggy, and you can't even peer into it. The last time Jedi encountered something like that, we were exterminated."
"Explain." No, I understood what she was talking about, but... If there's a chance to obtain information from one of the "locals" completely "legally," which could be used completely "legally" in the future, then why not? It helps avoid "thorny moments" down the line.
"Jedi can see probable futures," she said reluctantly. "It's always in motion, so the Order taught not to trust them blindly. We can also sense those who are sensitive to the Force." The Togruta wrapped her arms around herself. "When we have access to it, of course."
"In that case, why didn't the Jedi know about their sad end?" I inquired.
"The Dark Side hid the future from us," the girl said. "And rare flashes of insight... They weren't trusted. And that's how it turned out. During the Clone Wars, the Order couldn't even partially fulfill itself—we were manipulated by the Sith."
"Whom you didn't detect," I reminded her. "Despite just claiming the opposite."
"Palpatine somehow managed to hide his Force sensitivity from us," the girl admitted. "And because of his machinations, we never understood what was happening with my former teacher and..."
"Because of Palpatine, or because the Order was unable to perform its functions?" I asked.
"There were many reasons," the girl said.
"Something to think about." I caught her hint that she didn't want to continue the conversation. Fine, I had other questions. "So, kindly explain where that fine line lies that I shouldn't cross, lest I become the object of your attack?"
"That sounded as if you're prepared to pursue an exclusively peaceful policy," Ahsoka said with a wry smile.
"Need I remind you that you went to war at age fourteen?" I inquired. "And your targets weren't just the battle droids of the Confederacy of Independent Systems."
"We fought for freedom and democracy," the girl said firmly.
"And it led to the creation of the Empire," I finished her thought. "Don't you see the irony?"
"More like a bad omen for the future," the Togruta said gloomily.
"In that case, I'd like to know what really drives you," I said. "Why did you come to me?"
"My goals haven't changed," the Togruta said firmly. "I'm not against cooperating with you, provided you intend to trust me. But I also can't abandon the sentients of the Outer Rim, where lawlessness now reigns. I lived among those sentients, and now I see them growing poor and about to be sold on slave markets. You can fix the situation—crush the crime. Among all the warlords of the Empire, you're the only one who cares..."
"You're wrong, dearie," I thought.
And I don't care about how things are in another part of the galaxy that doesn't answer to me.
I started fighting against the New Republic only because I couldn't back then, and certainly can't now, get out of the way. Thrawn, as a phenomenon of a galaxy far, far away, is what's called an "inoculation."
First it hurts, then you realize it was actually absolutely necessary...
Since you're going to live in this galaxy, which will be shaken by one crisis after another for decades to come, you should think about the safety of that corner of the galaxy where you intend to settle.
Only a fleet and an army can provide security—numerous and excellent ones that will help both restore order and repel an attack.
The fleet needs replenishment of material assets and recruits, construction of new ships and maintenance of old ones. The same goes for the army.
Therefore, a necessary base. A full cycle of all necessary industries to ensure your own economic and industrial self-sufficiency. At the moment, we are capable of producing almost everything except a few key components—hyperdrives, navigation computers, solar ionization reactors, turbolasers... Ground combat vehicles we can't even replenish with new ones—only repair the old ones...
That's why the Dominion was born.
That's why I'll fight for it—because it fights for me. I want to live and protect the people loyal to me from the fate of becoming food for freaks from beyond the galactic rim in fifteen years.
And that's precisely why—I don't care about those who can't be useful in the existence of the Dominion and its functioning. Industry—military or civilian, labor reserves, taxes—that's what I need to pay attention to those who, one way or another, want to join me.
"Are you capable, Lady Tano, of transporting planets across half the galaxy?" I inquired.
"Um..." The girl furrowed her snow-white brows. I wonder—are the markings on her face tattoos or skin patterns? "What's the point of that question?"
"The point is that the Dominion's resources are limited," I stated. "Exactly to the territory we control. We annex sectors that are ready to become our part, and only if it aligns with our interests. What do I care about those who have lived on the galaxy's fringes for hundreds of years but never demonstrated any desire to join us?"
"I don't think there were any in the Nidjun sector who wanted to join the Dominion," she stated. "But you came there anyway."
"The sector is largely uninhabited," I reminded her. "Pirates captured our transport ships. A threat to logistics is a threat to the Dominion. So it was decided to destroy them after the attack. The survivors will be convicted of war crimes and will atone for their deeds through hard labor."
"Send them all to Kessel?" Ahsoka was surprised.
"We have a large number of habitable planets," I reminded her. "With resources in their depths, and cities can be built on the surface for those flocking to the Dominion from all corners of the galaxy. Building cities on planets where there was nothing but virgin forests before... Yes, it's difficult, but quite achievable. If there's someone to build for. Demand creates supply."
"I think I understand," the Togruta squinted. "You're hinting that you're not interested in the aspirations of other sentients if they don't want to serve the Dominion."
"I'm not hinting," a heavy sigh escaped my lips. "I said it outright. Twice. Now, and at our previous meeting."
The Togruta was silent for a while, staring at the floor. Then, raising her head, she looked me straight in the eye:
"Your pragmatism is clear to me. I won't say I sympathize with that philosophy..."
She hesitated.
"Is that so?" I clarified. "And here I thought you came to serve me only so I would pay attention to the criminal activities of the 'Zann Consortium.' And thereby destroy the structure that oppresses the inhabitants of the Outer Rim. For that, you mentored my subordinate, helped her complete an important mission... You did what I needed so I would do what you needed. That's pragmatism, Lady Tano. No matter what synonyms you replace that word with—it's what you're doing. Jedi altruism doesn't suit you, no matter how much you cling to it in memory of the past."
Pain and anger flickered in the woman's eyes as she looked at me.
However, she gave in quite quickly and looked away.
"I don't judge you for that, Lady Tano," I added a touch of paternal care to my voice. Couldn't do without it. "On the contrary, I welcome it."
Tano looked at me with distrust.
"The Jedi Order, the Old Republic, the Empire... They all fell for the same reason—they tried to control the uncontrollable," I said. "The Jedi were too few to protect the galaxy. Even in their best years, they were few. And their philosophy and methods left much to be desired. The Old Republic expanded over most of the galaxy but disbanded the armed forces that could have protected it from external and internal threats. It was replaced by the Empire, whose authoritarianism and blatant humanocentrism, the stupidity of many bureaucrats, the simplest mistakes, and the exorbitant ambitions of its leadership led to its collapse. We stand on the threshold of Palpatine's second coming." The girl's eyes widened. Not from surprise... Rather, from the realization that her guesses matched my words. "I will not waste my resources, which I may need to fight him, to start a struggle here and now for the rights of the proverbial natives of proverbial Tatooine. They have nothing to offer me—and the Dominion's warriors will not die for others' interests."
"So I wasted my time joining you?" the girl sighed.
"On the contrary," I countered. "You've completely shed the husk of idealism. I can see it in how your face changes when I speak. Now you also know about Palpatine. He is near. And he's about to start a massacre."
"So that's why you need the Jedi," the Togruta sighed. After a pause, she added:
"And not only the Jedi."
"I will need every resource to oppose both Palpatine and the threats that will come with him and after him," I stated. "You and the other former Jedi are a resource. Those who can train others—sentients similar to Jedi. With a philosophy of protectors..."
"Sounds like the beginning of a very interesting story," Tano concluded.
"And you will hear it, if you pledge your loyalty to me," I said. "And immediately after that, you will receive a ship and head to Hutt Space."
"For what?" Tano became alert.
"As I said, I can't help everyone who needs it." The Togruta leaned forward, showing her interest. "On the other hand, I can facilitate the purchase of valuable specialists from slavery—they will receive freedom, Dominion citizenship, but only on the condition that they agree to work in the interests of their homeland. As far as I remember, there was an episode in your past when slavers attacked your own people. And they couldn't oppose them because there was no one to protect them. After all, they are simple peaceful workers. But imagine—would that have been possible if your people had worked for the benefit of the Dominion, even not in the military sphere, that's not mandatory. But in the civilian sector. Producing goods for the population's needs, paying taxes, thereby gaining the right to protection. With all the forces the Dominion possesses. The slightest aggression against our citizens—and a turbolaser rain will fall on the heads of the perpetrators. I guarantee that. As well as the fact that not every madman in the galaxy will dare to attack us."
The Togruta was silent for a while.
She looked at the floor, then shifted her gaze toward my small gym. She even turned around, looked at Rukh.
And only then did she look me in the eye:
"It only just occurred to me that you're recruiting me to be your agent," the girl said. "Manipulating my desires and fears to serve your goals... Using my desire to help sentients against me, knowing that alone I can't achieve what I want."
"You would most likely die," I agreed. "Trying to change what is beyond your power."
The Togruta looked at her feet again.
And again raised her eyes to me.
"I agree," her voice was firm, her gaze steady, her hands not trembling. She voiced a balanced and sensible decision, made with both heart and mind.
"Glad to hear it," I said. Touching the comlink transmitter on my tunic collar, I activated the device:
"Captain Pellaeon, is the ship ready for Lady Tano?"
"Yes, sir," came the reply. "Fueled, serviced, and combat-ready."
"Excellent," I said. "Move it to the storage bay."
"Understood, Grand Admiral." Pellaeon signed off.
The Togruta looked at me with surprise.
"I thought you'd send me on my way right now," she said with a hint of provocation.
"I believe we already discussed that leaving the ship while in hyperspace is not the best idea for someone who intends to live and serve their new Homeland," I said.
Ahsoka shifted in her chair.
"I hope the 'throwing out' issue is closed?" she asked. "And regarding my words... Now that we've cleared everything up, I don't intend to kill you..."
"Well, thank you for that," I smiled slightly. "No, you won't be punished for it. At least not in the way you imagine."
"Already a relief," Ahsoka sighed. "Without the Force and without weapons, I feel..." She fell silent.
"What do you mean by 'not in the way I imagine'?" she asked.
"Words must be answered for in any case," I said. "But not with your life."
"I don't like this mysterious tone," the girl said.
"Of course," I agreed. "What follows it you won't like either. But you will live."
The Togruta let out a heavy sigh.
"I've gotten myself into this," she said. "You're not going to send me to work with Ventress, are you?"
In the semi-darkness of my quarters, with my face lit only by the glow of monitors and my eyes burning like gates to the underworld, the sly smile that appeared on my lips made the Togruta flinch.