Nine years, nine months, and five days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, nine months, and five days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and twenty-five days since the Arrival.)
After Grand Admiral Thrawn finished his speech, Moff Ferrus was silent for a while, digesting what had been said.
Lieutenant Colonel Astarion, however, didn't mince words.
"Sir, ensuring the security of repair-restoration work on the Guardian will certainly be difficult, but achievable," the counter-intelligence officer said. "Considering Tangrene's defense systems, the camouflaged asteroids, and the rest... Yes, we will do everything in our power to conceal the very fact of a Super Star Destroyer's presence in the system."
"Thank you," Thrawn said in a calm tone. "Do you have anything to add, Moff Ferrus?"
"To be honest, yes, sir," Felix didn't reach for words. "In truth, I don't think Tangrene is suitable as a basing location for the Guardian."
"You'll have me repair it in open space next," shipbuilder Zion couldn't help saying.
"You will have time to speak," the Grand Admiral gently interrupted Ryan's remark. "Moff, I'm listening."
Felix loosened his uniform collar slightly.
"Sir, I'm operating from a security perspective," he said. "Tangrene has long been known as a basing location for the Ubiqtorate. The enemy knows we have repair capabilities there. Furthermore, the Morshdine sector itself is located in a 'dead end' of the Axila-Tangrene hyperlane, which eliminates any possibility of evacuating the ship in the event of an attack on the shipyard."
Astarion started to object, but Thrawn stopped him with a gesture.
"Continue."
"The Guardian is not an Imperial," Felix reminded him. "Repairing it will take considerable time."
"We'll manage by the end of the year," Zion said rapidly. "In fact, considering the damage, I'd propose starting a modernization of the ship immediately. At a minimum — reinforcing its deflectors with several SEAL system generators, supplementing it with Mandalorian lasers, reworking the hangars..."
"We will discuss your vision of the situation a little later," Thrawn noted softly. "Moff, do you have anything else to say?"
By the Hutt, yes!
"Grand Admiral, with all due respect, the ship should be moved from Tangrene," Felix declared. "Not only does it need repairing, but also modernizing, which will require additional equipment. And that, in turn, means more transport ships, more, and sometimes very specific, cargoes. Lieutenant Colonel Astarion is confident that he and his people can secure the ship and the entire Tangrene system. I'm saying that a simple promise isn't enough. Yes, we have camouflaged asteroids. Yes, there's a Golan, also with camouflage. Even the shipyard itself can be camouflaged. But the sector defense forces can't withstand an enemy fleet offensive — and if necessary, the New Republic or the Imperial Remnants will come here with an entire fleet."
Strangely enough, Thrawn didn't even think of objecting. Maybe it's because he hasn't come down from his victory at Soulex, maybe he's dreaming that his fleet already has nearly fifty destroyers and star cruisers... The Hutt knows what he thinks of himself, but that's not how it works.
"Your concerns are noted, Moff," Thrawn said. "The Guardian will remain where it is."
Well, brilliant! So he has to repair the ship, but who's going to be held responsible for its safety? That's right, Moff Ferrus!
"Why not transfer the Guardian to Ciutric IV?" Ferrus inquired. "Sir, the fact that we managed to take out the leadership of Kavil's Corsairs doesn't mean that crime in Morshdine is defeated. I admit it was my oversight, but the fact remains. Edusa and Vandaene have been cleared of their bases, Lieutenant Anilex has pulled his forces back to Axxila and is preparing to seize power on the planet. But the fact remains — Morshdine is not safe. I need additional time, additional forces, additional ships to conduct the sweeps. Especially given the latest intelligence from Lieutenant Anilex that there's a base belonging to the Cavrilhu pirates in the sector. Also, on Camdon there's a shadow port called 'Snake Lair' through which contraband tibanna and fuel are acquired. These are destabilizing factors. Until they are eliminated, I cannot guarantee the ship's safety. Forgive me, sir, but the traffic flow passes through Morshdine in both directions, and I wouldn't rule out the possibility that saboteurs could slip in aboard ships delivering cargo to Tangrene."
"Pirates are not the greatest threat," Thrawn remarked. "Especially not with the fleet now under your command."
Like a magician, the Grand Admiral produced an information chip that had appeared between his index and middle finger.
"This contains a detailed defense plan for the sectors, taking into account the additional forces now under your command."
"Forgive me, sir," Felix said, looking at him without understanding as he took the data storage device in his hands. "Are you... transferring new ships to me?"
"That's correct," the Grand Admiral said. "In addition to the starships you already have, I am reassigning to you a Procursator\-class Star Destroyer, all of the New Republic's Star Cruisers, all of the escort frigates, and five Avenger\-class heavy cruisers — once the campaign in the Sprizen sector is complete. Additionally, you will receive temporary command of those destroyers currently at Tangrene, being crewed by personnel from the Guardian and arriving clones. As of today, the thirteenth batch of clones is ready, which will be enough for you to staff the ships with the specialists you lack. There are also recruits sufficient to form crews for the frigates and other starships."
"I'm grateful, sir," Felix said, flustered. Just how many starships did he have under his command now? "This is... an enormous force for defending Morshdine."
There must be nearly fifty escort frigates alone!
"Now — for the specifics," Thrawn continued. "Shipwright Zion, I need a modernization plan for the Guardian within a week. The ship must receive an expanded air wing, a reduced crew, and greater fighter coverage. Your idea about installing additional SEAL system generators works for me."
"In other words, I intend to replicate the 'Trio,' but on the scale of an Executor\-class vessel," the shipwright said, a spark of anticipation gleaming in his eyes. "The project will be ready in three days. I won't even leave Ciutric IV to deliver it to you."
"Good," the Grand Admiral said. "Lieutenant Colonel Astarion, I need you to conduct some 'work' with the representatives of the shadow business in the Morshdine sector. After the integration of Axxila into the Dominion is complete, I want all illegal business moved out of our territory and onto Axxila. Anyone who disagrees — eliminate them. No exceptions, no pirates, no privateers, no freelance hunters within the borders of the metropole. In one week, the fleet will be ready to begin active military operations against the New Republic, so, Moff Ferrus, I must be certain that the ships under your command are prepared to shoulder the burden of protecting all sectors under your administration."
"Sectors under my administration?" Felix tensed. What was this all about...?
"The integration of Axxila into the Dominion will be completed shortly, and this is a significant step in your career advancement," the Grand Admiral continued. "Once Kavil's Corsairs have taken control of the planet and fulfilled the promises given to you, assume control of the internal affairs of the Dominion's metropole. The Morshdine, Nidjun, Oplovis, and Ciutric Hegemony sectors, and the Sprizen sector upon completion of integration — will henceforth be your domain, Grand Moff," Felix felt his palms growing sweaty. "Ciutric IV will remain the political center of the metropole and the entire Dominion. The Tangrene system is declared closed to all personnel except those with the appropriate clearance. Concentrate your production lines there for modernization work and secret fleet development. To ensure the secrecy of everything happening here, Lieutenant Colonel Astarion, you are ordered to establish a counterintelligence department headquarters on Tangrene, which will be responsible for Tangrene's security against sabotage and other malicious enemy actions."
"Yes, sir," the Dominion's chief counterintelligence officer said, not a single muscle moving on his face.
Ferrus, however, felt a bitter taste in his mouth.
He had barely managed to get a handle on the economy of the Ciutric Hegemony — Astarion had sent over a hundred officials implicated in embezzlement under investigation.
Not all the 'breaches' in Morshdine had been plugged yet, and now this kind of responsibility...
Of course, he would rely on and direct the actions of the planetary governments, but he would need to increase his staff to deal with the problems of all sectors at once...
"Next," Thrawn said, handing the newly-minted Grand Moff another chip. "This contains recommendations for placing additional production facilities on the planets under our control. Prepare construction sites — by the end of this month, factories for producing and maintaining the military goods we need will be delivered to the Dominion. Furthermore, I order you to take measures to purchase additional equipment necessary for the full functioning of the shipyards on the planet Vosterlig in the Oplovis sector. This shipyard will become the official shipbuilding source of the metropole. At the same time, it must be productive enough, along with the Ciutric shipyards, to handle the ship repairs that will be carried out there."
"In other words, we keep Morshdine as a secret fleet facility for modernizations, Vosterlig will handle starship construction, and Ciutric will handle repairs," Felix summarized for himself. "Sir, the current number of orbital defense stations we possess is completely insufficient to ensure the security of these facilities."
"Acquire as many as you need," Thrawn declared. "According to my data, there is an aurodium deposit in the Sronk system of the Oplovis sector. Additional supplies of metals and resources will come from peripheral systems. Establish logistics hubs near Axxila to prevent starships without clearance from accessing strategically important facilities. Exclude civilian specialists from piloting military freighters; better yet, replace them with clones. Begin an intensive search for additional specialists and soldiers. There are a great many small bands of Imperial warlords in the galaxy — I want to know about every single one. Any that can be taken for ourselves, we will subjugate; the rest we will destroy and take whatever remains into our own hands. An absolute condition — they must not be connected to the Pentastar Alignment or the Imperial Space."
"Rogue warlords," Astarion understood.
"Correct," Thrawn confirmed. "I have already identified primary targets. Lieutenant Colonel, identify secondary targets based on your department's work — among those who swear allegiance to us, there are many who previously served in such armed formations."
"It will be done, sir."
"Shipwright Zion," Ryan looked at the Grand Admiral in surprise. When Thrawn had summoned them to Ciutric IV, it was assumed that the 'man in charge of starships' would answer specifically for current developments. But he had already transmitted the files to Thrawn, so... "During the attack on the Hast shipyards, a damaged proton beam cannon, previously mounted on one of the destroyers, fell into our hands."
"Yes, sir, the mechanism is in the warehouse," Zion said slowly. "The damage is significant, so..."
"Assign a team to work on this project," Thrawn ordered. "I want a working prototype by the end of this month."
"Sir," Zion's hair stood on end. "That's... highly unlikely."
"I am not interested in probabilities, Shipwright," Thrawn stated. "The Dominion is in danger. And your department must provide projects 'Asteroid,' 'Asteroid-II,' and everything else we can use as offensive-defensive weaponry for its defense."
"I understand, sir, but a proton beam cannon is not a turbolaser," Zion said haltingly. "Figuring out this technology won't be easy..."
"Well, then figure it out," Thrawn ordered. "I don't need excuses — only increased work along the specified directions."
The Grand Admiral took three more information chips from his breast pocket.
And handed one to each of those present.
"I have prepared for each of you a set of tasks that you must complete in the near future. I will not tolerate failure."
Taking the chip meant for him from the Grand Admiral's hands, the newly-appointed Grand Moff thought that under the Ubiqtorate he hadn't been so unlucky after all.
But, strangely enough, today's meeting, which had brought with it additional worrying moments and an ocean of problems, only inflamed his desire to overcome them and make the Dominion better, stronger, and safer.
* * *
The ocean on the planet Maramere covers most of the surface of this world, trapped within the nebula-tight embrace of the Karthakk star system.
Planet Maramere
The vast bodies of water that provide the local inhabitants with a source of food — fish and other creatures — can both sustain life, yielding profitable catches, and destroy it.
The capital of Maramere, the city of Point Modi, was located at the foot of a huge reef, like a mountain peak jutting from the ocean's depths.
As Captain Steben had managed to find out, the settlement had been destroyed more than once by the impact of tides and tsunamis.
But with enviable persistence, the planet's native population, the Mere race, rebuilt their home from scratch, time and time again.
In reality, Maramere is home not only to the Mere.
Sol Sixx, a typical representative of the Mere race.
Here you can find Neimoidians, Rodians, Zabrak, humans, Twi'leks, and representatives of hundreds of other species. Everyone, one way or another, was involved in the planet's tiny economy. And maybe some didn't like fishing, but everyone wanted to eat, so every new day, before the local streets filled with natural light, hundreds of fishing schooners would leave Point Modi for the catch.
Characteristically, they mainly hunted a huge predatory fish — the Relix. The creature fed on anything it could chew, so even the fishermen's rickety boats sometimes returned with huge, ragged holes in their hulls.
That is, of course, if they returned at all — anything can happen in the ocean.
The capital of Maramere, the city of Point Modi.
According to Dominion census data, Maramere's population was approximately nine hundred million sentients. Without a doubt, Point Modi could not contain all that crowd, so it was quite logical for every newcomer to assume that other cities, similar to the capital, existed.
Yes, that was the case — Maramere actually had thousands of settlements, from small fishing villages to large cities. But they were united by only one thing — they were all, one way or another, located on reefs. Because the Mere didn't even have a concept of islands or continents.
The cantina "Silver Cloud" was packed to the rafters in the pre-sunset hours.
Cantina "Silver Cloud."
Fishermen were returning from the catch, workers from the numerous mines once built by the Trade Federation were arriving, and employees of the fish procurement and processing plants also dropped by this place to wet their whistles.
Steben was no exception.
He cast a bored glance over the crowd around the bar, lazily sipping his cheap, locally-brewed drink.
The time was approaching the appointed hour, so he had nothing left to do but keep drinking.
To be honest, over his years of service to the Empire, Steben had visited many planets. But he had mostly seen them from space — oceanic worlds were typically landed on by specialized dive teams or recruited amphibian representatives.
One could even joke that the Dominion continued the same policy in this regard as the Empire.
Arriving on the planet under the cover story of a simple mechanic, Steben wandered through Point Modi looking for a cheap flophouse, observing what was actually happening on the planet. He listened to conversations, stopping every now and then by some stall selling fish or other seafood, walking from one workshop to another looking for work, 'shooting the breeze' with anyone who could, in one way or another, shed light on what was happening on the planet.
A few days after starting his mission in the Karthakk system, a mission that was top-secret even from the local Moff, Steben began to catch himself thinking that he actually liked it here.
The cries of seabirds and the sound of the surf were calming, and the streets, meticulously cleaned by thousands of droids, were becoming more spacious and attractive with each passing day. According to their own stories, the local residents initially thought that after the destruction of the gangs in the system, they had simply exchanged one master for another and would now have to continue breaking their backs to provide the occupiers with everything they needed (that is, everything they demanded).
But reality had quite a few surprises in store for them.
Including the hints Steben had been dropping about his search for the band of Mere pirates from the "Mere Resistance" group. He especially hinted that he wouldn't mind joining them and meeting their leader in person, whom the locals referred to only as "the Ghost."
Not a bad nickname, especially considering the fact that this "Ghost" had supposedly died a hundred times but always returned to the world of the living.
"I didn't think you'd dare to meet," a typical representative of the Mere race said, sitting down at the table without an invitation.
To be honest, they all looked alike.
Tall, slender, with webbed limbs. For clothing, something resembling a high-strength wetsuit, protecting against the cold of the depths.
"Hey, Sol," Steben said, greeting his companion with a 'glass salute.' "I thought you'd decided to stand me up."
"Me?" the Mere laughed. Though to an unprepared sentient, it looked like the amphibian was coughing. Or sneezing. Or trying to hack up something stuck in its throat. "Never. Who am I to ignore a commission from the Ghost?"
Steben put on a look of surprise. Time to play his cover story in all its required aspects.
"So the 'Ghost' himself is interested in me?"
"Did you think the 'Mere Resistance' would ignore the appearance of a highly qualified mechanic on our planet?" Sol Sixx clarified, still laughing. "No, kid. We need skilled sentients. Especially now, when the Empire is seizing power on the planet."
Steben feigned astonishment — he needed to study the motivations of this small pirate band more thoroughly. A band that, while not exactly troublesome, nevertheless enjoyed respect among the locals for their selfless actions against the occupiers from the Trade Federation.
At moments like this, you even start to wonder what heroic deeds the representatives of the usually phlegmatic and imperturbable Mere could have done to still wield influence more than two decades after the overthrow of Neimoidian rule in the system.
"And I thought everything was fine here," he said. "When I first arrived, I thought a new life had started on Maramere..."
"The fact that you were rehabilitated after being a member of the Nima gang doesn't mean anything has changed," Sol said bitterly.
"Well, I don't know," Steben drawled. According to his cover, he was one of Captain Nima's former mercenaries, acquitted by a Dominion military court. Since Dominion facilities were primarily located on Lok, they hired people there who had good reputations. Those pirates who avoided becoming cautionary exhibits in the demonstration of the rule of law in the Karthakk system didn't have many alternatives.
Some could join the 'wolf packs' and become part of the raider fleet that conducted operations against the Dominion's enemies. There were many ships — already around a hundred or so, and for the most part, they were rickety freighters with illegal weaponry, so there was plenty of work for everyone.
Of course, there were also two Providence\-class carrier Star Destroyers, commanded by Captains Irv and Tyberos, but their crews were already formed, and the need only arose among pilots.
Those who didn't have major sins against the law could join the Karthakk Defense Forces, led by the local Moff, Tavira. According to rumors, not only were the Mon Calamari cruisers that had been repaired at the orbital shipyards in orbit around Lok under her control. But the 'wolf packs' also received orders directly from her.
By his own account, Steben didn't want to submit to the Dominion's leadership, so he was looking for a better place.
The locals' stories about the 'Ghost' and his band gave him the idea of contacting them.
At least, that's how the official cover story went.
In reality, Steben was supposed to locate the group's leader, determine his goals, find their base of operations, and capture the prototype invisibility device that the 'Ghost' was rumored to possess.
"Seems fine to me," Steben declared. "The planet is ruled by the locals, Point Modi is a pretty nice town. And the stormtroopers aren't lurking on every corner like on Lok."
"The local government — the Mere Council — is nothing more than a fiction," Sol said irritably. "The Dominion chose the most prominent Mere and put them in charge of the rest. And they, in exchange for loyalty and the support of Tavira's guns in case of an uprising, ensure the restart of the old Trade Federation mines in the mountains and on the ocean floor. And the fishing industry? Do you know that half of all the caught seafood is shipped out on Dominion ships that leave Karthakk? I'm not even talking about the fact that factories and mines are being built or restored on Lok. There are several legions of stormtroopers there!"
"But that gives the population jobs," Steben said, genuinely surprised. "What's wrong with that?"
"The Trade Federation said the same thing at first," Sol stated. "And then they brought their troops into the system and basically turned us into slaves. Why do you think the Dominion doesn't allow the Mere to build their own cruisers, the ones we had during the Clone Wars?"
"Because it's a waste of metal," Steben thought.
Ships barely two hundred meters long with a pair of sublight engines, one heavy turbolaser and a dozen light ones — that's not a cruiser. You could barely even call it a corvette. And Sol was fibbing — even with all the will in the world, the population of Maramere couldn't build those ships again. Because the Trade Federation had done everything possible to eliminate the Mere's production capacity, bombing it during the occupation. And the remaining starships were destroyed during the attack on the Neimoidian laboratory on the third world in the Karthakk system, Knod Karta.
"It won't be long before the Dominion stops pretending it's okay with Maramere having its own police force," Sol was saying. "Why do you think they opened all those recruitment centers? To train Mere volunteers to fly Mon Calamari ships? To turn them into combat swimmers?"
"Actually, that's exactly what Dominion instructors are doing," Steben thought.
"Why else?"
"They're breeding occupiers, advocates of the regime," Sol told him. "Karthakk is a wonderful source of raw materials for them. The Dominion is covering Lok with its factories, smelting armor for its ships, modernizing the old ones and improving the ones that arrive from each raid. On Knod Karta, as I've heard, they've set up factories that produce engines for Star Destroyers and some kind of equipment. You see? Our entire system has been turned into a raw material appendage of the Dominion. The Dominions extract everything they need from our depths. And they ship it out of here in transport convoys under the cover of their 'dreadnoughts.' Hundreds of thousands of tons of rare and valuable ores. Or finished hull plates, building structures — all of it gets shipped somewhere. And what remains in Karthakk? Old stations that the Dominion supposedly restored? A bunch of ships that undergo modernization, then get loaded with our minerals and leave forever? You see for yourself — every day Tavira sends out dozens of transports under guard. And in their holds are our resources — metals, composites, smelted structures..."
"As far as I'm concerned, that's trade," Steben admitted. "I gather none of this is done for free, right?"
"The money ends up in the pockets of the planetary government, and it's a Dominion stooge," Sol said conspiratorially. "The common Mere have to work practically for food."
"As far as I recall, the Maramere government was elected by a vote of the citizens," Steben thought. "And the people who ended up leading the planet were the ones the people chose."
They had directly told Tavira that they would handle their own planet's affairs themselves. They had formed their own small but effective bureaucratic apparatus and law enforcement agencies themselves. It was the population of Maramere that worked on harvesting marine life, processing it, and selling it to Dominion representatives. It was the population of Maramere that worked in the deep-sea mines and the former Trade Federation diggings, providing their own employment.
And whatever Sol might make up, the Mehre really do voluntarily sign up for training courses and join the crews of Karthakk Defense Force ships. Alongside the population of Lok, by the way.
From what Steben had heard from the locals, life on the planet had genuinely improved after its "occupation" by the Dominion.
Thanks to the designs of Dominion engineers, the quality of Mehre buildings had improved, the cities had gotten protective structures, and now they wouldn't be washed away or flooded by high waves.
The population could do more than just fish—which came with its own risks—and had found other ways to earn a living.
"So, what exactly do you want from me?" Steben asked.
"We're planning to strike the Dominion's shipyards," Sol said in a conspiratorial tone. "We'll destroy the ships in the yards and the yards themselves. Maybe even provoke a few crews into starting an uprising. And we'll seize power in Karthakk!"
"Idiot," Steben thought.
Essentially, Sol and the "Mehre Resistance" intended to repeat their campaign against the Trade Federation.
Except that in the past, the "Lok Revenants" and other gangs had supported them.
Now, Tavira had more than a hundred ships of various classes concentrated in the system. The shipyards were heavily guarded. The starship crews were loyal to the Dominion — otherwise, they wouldn't be there.
Not to mention that every candidate for a ship's crew position — whether it was a freighter from a "wolf pack" or a captured starship staying in Karthakk after repairs — was vetted by counterintelligence.
And really, it was a pipe dream to try and incite a rebellion among the Mehre, who were currently living in greater comfort than before.
Still, Sol didn't come across as delusional. If he was talking about some kind of strike, he must have had a plan.
"Alright, fine," Steben picked at his teeth with his fingernail. "What do I need to do?"
"Come to Pier Twenty-Three when you find a business card from a fishing company in your room," Sol said. "We'll head out to sea, take a dip..."
It seemed like some part of the "Mehre Resistance" plan was based on something located outside the inhabited parts of the planet.
"No problem," Steben agreed. "I hope the pay is good. Whatever I have to fix out there."
"Glad to have you with us," Sol stood up, slapping him heartily on the shoulder. "It'll be fun."
Leaning in, he lowered his voice and added:
"When I take power in Karthakk and we start trading with anyone who pays for our resources, rest assured — you won't be left out of the wealth and glory that follows."
"Of course not," Steben grinned, spreading his face into a theatrical pirate smile, like someone who'd just been promised great riches. "I love money. I really do."
Oh, you'll be surprised, you Mehre conspirators, when the Noghri come for your souls.
Just let me see what you've got that you're hiding in the ocean first.
Experience tells me this is definitely connected somehow to the rumors about the cloaking generator the Ghost once possessed.
* * *
When the door closed behind me, the Iceheart was already sitting in the chair behind the rows of monitors, turned toward me so I could see her face.
"Welcome, Grand Admiral," she said, not even paying attention to Rukh, who had darted past me like a gray flash, dashing through the apartment and checking for ambushes.
He paid special attention to the space behind the clone herself and the chair she was sitting in.
Finding nothing that could be considered a threat, the bodyguard literally dissolved into the apartment's shadows. But, no doubt, he was where he needed to be, ready to strike before any real danger could reach me.
"I was expecting you a little later," she said with a smile.
"Let's get down to business," I said, sinking into the chair opposite the woman. "What are the results of the operation to retrieve Fey'lya?"
For a few moments, the Iceheart-clone stared at me with the unblinking gaze of her icy and fiery eye, as if she didn't believe...
"Actually, I expected you to start asking me why I should be allowed to live," she said, obvious displeasure showing on her face. "So much effort... and not a single emotion."
"Let's skip the unnecessary introduction," I insisted. "Results."
The clone of Ysanne Isard sighed in disappointment.
"The Councilor returned to Coruscant," she said. Seeing my eyebrow twitch, she explained:
"The information came from open sources. I haven't used any communication channels except under guard supervision. Well, since I don't have access to the HoloNet, I make do with news broadcasts," the clone leaned back in her seat, pressing her tunic against her stomach with one hand and pointing to the window with the other. "A kilometer from the residence, there's a street monitor showing key galactic news. When I heard that the Bothan fleet had been sent on maneuvers and was ambushed, I realized the little animals had fallen for the trick. But this time they were smarter — the cover story about 'exercises' prevents us from using the complete destruction of their fleet as a propaganda move. But at the same time, it opens other possibilities."
"It would be interesting to hear which ones," I said, thinking about how many of the options I'd come up with her conclusions would match.
"There are several," Isard returned to her original position, smiling at the fact that I was staring intently at her face. "Since the Bothans sent their military in secret, we can enter into secret negotiations with them to arrange a prisoner exchange. There are a significant number of prisoners from influential clans among the captives, so I'm sure the latter won't want to be tainted by the scandal of their attempt to bypass the New Republic on the matter of destroying Your Excellency. I hope you don't hold it against me that I didn't demand a communication session with you from the guards to warn you about the Bothan squadron's advance to your location."
So, that wasn't supposed to be the function of the warning. No, if she wanted to destroy me, she would have come up with something more substantial than the remnants of the Bothan fleet.
Let's file that thought away.
"Let's say," I had about five more ways to play this "card" with the "illegal" prisoners from Bothawui, but this was the first one that came to mind. "Is the kompromat on Fey'lya ready?"
"Edited and ready," the young woman confirmed, picking up an infochip from the table. "These are recordings of my conversations with him. The angle is chosen so the mounting system isn't visible. An uninformed viewer unaware of its existence will think the councilor is kneeling before me of his own free will, enduring discomfort and drinking from a bowl, like his distant ancestors. Quite a sight... Enticing, I'd say. Especially the ending."
I don't even want to know what's in it, but I'm sure I'll have to watch it.
"The recording also includes the moment I offered him an alternative — save himself or save one of his underlings," Isard continued. "I think it's clear which one he chose. He played his part well — the betrayal of his subordinates, the betrayal of the New Republic with the deception about the operation's start time... If such behavior is considered normal on Bothawui, in a decent society it will only add negativity and prejudice toward Bothans in general and Councilor Fey'lya in particular."
"What was demanded in return?" I asked.
Does anyone really think this hardened schemer would give someone critically important information without her own benefit?
Isard squinted, tilting her head slightly.
"You think I could be that mercenary, Grand Admiral?"
"I'm sure that without stating your own interests in such a matter, no one would have believed you," I said, not taking my eyes off the Iceheart's eyes. "Not the Bothans, not the Provisional Government."
A smile appeared on Isard's lips.
"Your composure impresses me, Grand Admiral." She turned away and looked at the screen of one of the monitors. "As for your question, you are absolutely right. I took payment for my 'services.' Otherwise, such a relationship, 'behind your back,' would have been unconvincing."
I wasn't going to gratify her with a question. I didn't even plan to.
On the contrary, a simple conclusion interested me far more.
I had kept the Iceheart-clone alive not only because she was a clone with good data from the original, but also to avoid getting "complacent" after victories.
But practice proves I made a mistake.
And since I've already missed something from my field of vision, why should I continue to let her live? The key objective is to find the real Isard and save Himron. And there's been no progress so far.
"The New Republic transferred three billion credits in their own currency to several accounts of my shell companies," the pseudo-Isard squinted, studying me with interest. "As you can see, they valued your head quite highly, Commander-in-Chief."
I wonder, did she dig Krennel's grave with the same honeyed voice, all while telling him how he was about to achieve victory?
"And for the 'exclusivity' of offering my 'services' to the Bothans as my first clients, I received fifty billion in New Republic credits from Bothawui," the clone smiled charmingly. "I see you're not impressed, Grand Admiral."
Of course not.
I'm absolutely stunned. And let my teachers and parents who instilled in me from birth a dislike for foul language cry in the corner.
Fifty-three billion?
What does that even mean?
No, it's damn flattering to be valued at the annual income of some sector, but just for providing a set of coordinates, without even a guarantee that I'd actually be there...
"How did you convince them your information was reliable?" I asked, trying not to show how insanely interested I was in this detail.
"It's on the recording of the conversations with Fey'lya," the Iceheart pointed at the infochip. "But I understand you won't want to watch it anytime soon, so I'll tell you in general terms, without missing the point."
Yeah, you'd better try.
"I promised to betray you, receive an indulgence from the New Republic for my crimes, take over the Dominion, and cause them no trouble in the future," the Iceheart-clone beamed radiantly.
The next moment, it turned out that the hair on the right side of the woman in the red uniform was about ten centimeters shorter than the hair on the left.
"Easy, Rukh." I didn't even have to look for my bodyguard — I could literally feel him right behind me.
Isard squinted at the throwing knife embedded up to its hilt in the back of her chair.
She tried to pull it out — unsuccessfully.
"How interesting," she said, casually brushing the trimmed locks from her shoulder. "Obsidian. I hope your bodyguard won't insist on finishing me off after a miss?"
"Rukh doesn't miss," I said calmly.
"But what about...?" She didn't have time to finish — the chair collapsed, falling apart. It wasn't for nothing that the Noghri had so carefully studied that piece of furniture when he entered the apartment.
"Question withdrawn," the Iceheart-clone said, getting up from the floor and brushing off non-existent dust. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes... Fifty-three billion New Republic credits. They belong to the Dominion, without a doubt. My small contribution to the common cause."
I'd like to see what she considers a "large contribution."
"Our conversation was interrupted when you revealed my plan of destruction to my enemies," I reminded her.
"I merely reminded them that I'm power-hungry and shouldn't be trusted," the Iceheart-clone smirked, picking up another infochip from the table. "Here's that very 'indulgence' and forgiveness of all sins, an absence of claims, and assurances of no claims."
"Another mine you've planted under the foundations of the New Republic." I took the chip from the bodyguard's hands.
"I'd say, combined with the recording of the conversations with Fey'lya, it will blow the roof off that shack the rebels call the 'New Republic.'" Isard stood in the middle of the apartment, folding her arms across her chest.
And I have a "bomb" that will completely wipe out the foundation as well.
I just need to hold out for a while. Literally — a year or two, no more.
If only that were possible...
"Let's continue," I said. "Ennix Devian."
Isard blinked, taking a pause, which was clearly unusual for her.
What was that? Embarrassment? Confusion? Ignorance?
"Palpatine's favorite toy and his hired killer," the Iceheart began pacing the office. "Your fleet took quite a lot from him, if you think about it. Consequently, Devian first got an idea of how dangerous his opponent — that is, you, Your Excellency — is in direct combat. He sacrificed little to gain more. Based on what I know about this being, it's extremely unlikely this is his own plan — he is only skilled at assassinating small targets. He probably has an experienced military commander who planned this operation."
That's not the most profound thought — I came to that conclusion almost immediately. Something else interests me...
"Actually, given his losses, Devian will certainly be looking for additional helpers," the Iceheart-clone declared.
Interesting. I had the same thoughts.
"Based on the ship descriptions," she glanced toward the table where the infochip with the data I'd given her right after my arrival lay, "I assume heavy losses among fighters and interceptors. Devian will probably try to recruit more of those first."
Brilliant, Watson. I figured that out too and even prepared for it. What interests me more now is where this recruitment will take place.
I have certain assumptions, but what the Iceheart-clone has to say about it — that's very interesting to know.
"I see my deductions have already been anticipated by you," the Iceheart remarked. I nodded affirmatively. "Which means... the recruitment location, isn't it?"
"I've already calculated it," I said.
"So, this is a test?" the woman clarified.
"You may consider it so," I confirmed.
"And what is its purpose?" Isard asked.
"To assess the prospects of your continued usefulness," I stated. "After all, the search for Molo Himron hasn't moved from a dead halt."
"It's sad to realize that no one believes in you," the clone said with feigned pain in her voice.
"I have other concerns — trust in you isn't among them."
A metallic edge cut into Isard's voice:
"I'm not asking you to trust me, Grand Admiral," she said. "I remember the terms of our agreement perfectly. And I don't intend to deviate from them. I know where the real Isard's base is."
It only took three years...
"Coordinates," I demanded.
The woman handed me another chip.
"It's a secret 'jump' base where two squadrons of TIE Defenders were delivered for storage, awaiting further orders," the clone said. "The base is staffed with personnel, repair shops, and everything needed for long-term survival."
"What purpose would such a base serve?" I clarified.
"One of Palpatine's secret cells," the woman said. "Commanded by a weak-willed general who was so afraid of the Emperor that he wouldn't even make contact to check if his orders had changed. I assume the real Isard has already gotten rid of that pushover."
Most likely.
"I delayed the search because the initial criteria were incorrect," the Iceheart-clone explained, leaning on the edge of the table. "The Defender squadrons were placed at this facility not as complete units, but as 'spare parts kits.' So I had to repeat my search."
Turning the data storage device over in my hands, I tucked it into my tunic pocket.
"Well," the woman looked at me. "Now, I think it's also appropriate to say that Ennix Devian surely doesn't bother himself with ideologically grounded pilots. Because, seeing the junk they're flying, I suspect no one values them much. My assumption — the recruitment is happening in Hutt Space..."
And my conclusions are exactly the same.
"The planets are relatively close to the Ghost Nebula. A large number of former Imperials who turned mercenary hang around there. They aren't prosecuted under any law there, and they can always find not-too-strenuous work."
"And we should also take into account that the cream of the Pilot Corps didn't end up there," I finished the thought. "Only those willing to take any job."
"We're not so different, Grand Admiral," the Isard copy remarked. "You literally took the argument right out of my mouth. Well, now, can we move on to discussing the things that are important to me?"
Is that so.
"You may state your proposals," I clarified.
"Let it be so," the Iceheart-clone shrugged her shoulder. "I offer my services in bringing order to the affairs of Dominion Intelligence. And Counterintelligence as well."
Is that so.
"It would be interesting to hear your thoughts," I said.
"First, eliminate the phenomenon of fleet intelligence," the woman said. "Intelligence should be unified — operating deep in the rear, not on the front lines under the enemy's nose. Let the Assault Commandos or fleet special forces handle that — tactical reconnaissance is part of their activity. This eliminates duplication of functions."
Let's assume we just think alike...
"Counterintelligence, I would suggest, should deal exclusively with counteracting..."
."..enemy agents, filtration and border control, fighting organized crime, piracy, the slave trade, and other particularly socially dangerous illegal phenomena," I said. Seeing Isard studying me with great interest, I remained silent, letting her continue the conversation first.
"Judging by everything, you've thoroughly worked through the issues of primary importance," she said with a slight smile, full of icy calm, giving a barely perceptible nod.
"However, you have something to fill in the gaps in my knowledge," I said.
"Is that so," the Iceheart-clone looked at me with interest. "Well, I'd be happy to help."
"Oh, I doubt 'happy' is the word," I thought.
"Blackhole." The single name turned the clone's face into an icy mask.
"Is he really alive?" she hissed through her teeth.
"And operating the remnants of the Ubiqtorate in the Pentastar Alignment," I confirmed. "It seems to me, given that the opposition is starting to close in on me from all sides, it would be wise to launch a few preemptive strikes. I think eliminating Blackhole would be an interesting act of conflict between two intelligence agencies trained in the same methods. So what can you tell me about him that usually doesn't leave the Imperial Palace?"
"Indeed," the young woman's features relaxed. "He's just a name in someone else's memory for me..."
An interesting interpretation and a pointedly detached attitude toward the past, common to both her and the real Isard.
"Blackhole appeared in intelligence shortly before the Battle of Yavin IV," the Iceheart said without preamble. "He lived a reclusive life, contacting no one. I hardly ever heard of him going on missions himself — most of his work was done through droids, lower-ranking agents, and various covers. In his rare appearances, he presented himself through a holographic transmitter equipped with a visual scrambler. He used exclusively a cover alias — 'Blackhole.' The hologram traditionally depicted a body resembling a shimmering starscape or pointedly simple robes. The hologram's face either had no distinguishing features or only the eyes were transmitted. Despite all my attempts, I never cracked the secret of how he distorted his voice."
Because it might not have been a device, for example.
"Palpatine kept him at a distance, in my opinion — even listened to his words. It was during Blackhole's reign that Imperial Intelligence gained virtually unrestricted access and control over the Imperial HoloNet communication system. It was he who conceived and expanded the intelligence structure, defining tasks for each level. The multi-channel reporting system, where a copy went out via several types of communication simultaneously — that was his idea too," the Iceheart shed light on several aspects.
"After he vanished without a trace and Palpatine promoted Isard to fill the vacancy, it turned out that Blackhole had taken a significant portion of his technical achievements with him. He had exclusive access to a vast amount of galactic information, and that database was also lost."
There seem to be some real problems with databases in this galaxy.
"The Emperor favored him," the Iceheart-clone continued. "The Star Destroyer Singularity was placed at his disposal, along with a number of other elite units. For example, the Shadow Stormtroopers. They look like ordinary stormtroopers, but their armor is made of a material with such technologies that it makes them difficult to detect by most available screening methods."
"Is that all?" I asked the Iceheart.
"Other than that he's a crazy, cunning, and completely unscrupulous maniac, I have nothing more to add," Isard stated.
Disappointing.
It's practically the same thing I read in the other results of my inquiry.
Not much.
Let's assume we can pinpoint where Blackhole's ships are located. Mr. Ghent is working on that right now.
The only question is whether eliminating Blackhole will slow Palpatine down or not.
"You know," Isard squinted, "I think there is someone who can solve your Blackhole problem. Honestly, I'm even surprised he's not under your flag yet. A man with a heightened sense of social justice, always acts according to his code of honor. In the past, he performed excellently on missions that initially seemed impossible. And he always came back victorious. But at the same time, he didn't share the xenophobic policies established by the New Order and was well-disposed toward other races and droids. Because of this, he still remains a simple agent — if he found something to his liking after Endor."
"Who are we talking about?" For Isard to praise someone. And unreservedly at that?
"About an agent who had exceptional combat training. He was trained in both hand-to-hand combat and the use of cold weapons, firearms, and beam weapons. He also possessed excellent piloting skills for various vehicles. He was also observant and had a perceptive mind, but when necessary, he applied his combat skills without hesitation," there was a hint of respect in Isard's voice, and for her to acknowledge all of the above given her views on life... This really did seem like a reasonable, worthy candidate for recruitment.
Or else — his recruitment was a trap.
"What's his name?" I asked.
"Jahan," the Isard clone said. "Jahan Cross."
Something familiar...