Nine years, nine months, and seventeen days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, nine months, and seventeen days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Five months and two days since the Arrival.)
If the transport he was being carried on to an unknown destination was a simple fishing boat, then Steben himself was a Zeltron dancer.
The operative sat with his characteristic calm in a small cockpit, watching Sol Sixx steer the flimsy little vessel into a gap between monstrous-looking cliffs.
"The Ghost Strait," that's what the locals on the planet Maramere call this place.
And the Mer themselves tried to avoid this part of the ocean, superstitiously believing that ghosts lived here.
Quite a curious coincidence, isn't it?
The Strait of Ghosts.
The rebellious "Resistance to the Sea," led by someone known to no one in person or by name as "the Ghost."
A place no sensible local would venture into of their own free will.
They say that somewhere here lies a mythical island that no one has ever been able to find.
And for outsiders, here, among these huge and awe-inspiring cliffs, you could always set up a few ambushes with heavy weapons.
For example, on that peak.
Or on that one.
And in that grotto over there, you could even mount a laser cannon or a heavy blaster, and then the approaches to this spot would be reliably sealed off from prying eyes.
And any disappearance could always be blamed on the rampaging "ghosts."
A very convenient piece of geography on Maramere.
One that could easily be turned into the location of a secret base for the "Resistance to the Sea."
Easy to deliver supplies under the guise of fishing boats.
Easy to hold the defense.
Easy to shake off pursuit and bury any traces of pursuers at the bottom of the "Strait of Ghosts."
"The Strait of Ghosts."
"You never did say where we were heading," Steben remarked.
"To our base," Sol unexpectedly opened up.
"Oh, really?" the operative added a note of surprise to his voice. "You've known me for a few days, and you're already dragging me to your lair. Careless of the 'Ghost.'"
Sixx laughed quietly.
"You think we're some kind of amateurs?" he asked.
"I think what I said," Steben snapped back demonstratively. "Something's not right about this. Nima's recruitment wasn't like that at all."
"Nima was an idiot," Sol shared a valuable observation. "And he ended up with a cracked skull. Disgraced and insulted. I knew him. He wasn't sharp in anything that didn't involve operational planning."
"You knew Nima?" Steben was surprised. "I never saw you on Lok."
"We worked together many years ago," Sol said reluctantly. "We didn't exactly understand each other right away or find common ground. But in the last few years, we lived in relative peace, not encroaching on each other's spheres of influence."
"You talk an awful lot about how important you are," Steben grumbled, analyzing the Mer's words. Familiar with Nima, the leader of one of the largest gangs in the Karthakk system. Had his own sphere of influence, and apparently even enjoyed the respect of the "Lok Ghosts," since they hadn't crushed this talkative Mer under their thumb. And that was assuming they hadn't just killed a weaker competitor. And the only type of being that could be "not weak" for Nima were the leaders of equally strong and large factions as the "Lok Ghosts."
"I'm just saying it like it is," Sixx said carelessly. "Since you're one of us now, there's no point in beating around the bush."
"I don't remember going through any checks or anything like that."
"That's because you didn't," Sol stated. "While you were waiting for me to call, my Mer checked your history. Asked around your acquaintances, made inquiries..."
"My Mer.".. An interesting turn of phrase.
"So you dug into my past?" Steben clarified irritably, still playing his role.
Checking the "legend" was one of the professional risks for any scout or operative working undercover.
An occupational hazard that threatened death if the enemy found an inconsistency — then it was anyone's guess if the operative's body would ever be found by those who followed his trail.
Well, risk was part of the profession.
The Dominion above all.
His "legend" was well-constructed, so any rebels and insurgents would have to dig deep to find even the slightest inconsistencies in the story he had told them.
After the defeat at the hands of the Rebel Alliance, scouts had done a lot to improve their skills.
"The Resistance to the Sea doesn't just drag anyone in," Sol stated. "Even the fact that you're an excellent engineer-mechanic didn't guarantee you a place among us. But I'm satisfied with the check. That's why we're heading to the base."
"But last time we met, you promised we'd go out to sea for a swim," Steben recalled. "I don't see any suitable bodies of water here..."
"We needed to get something from the ocean floor," Sol stated. "I thought you could help, but we managed on our own. The cargo is waiting at the base."
"And what kind of cargo?" Steben clarified.
"My old ship," which didn't make things any clearer. "The Ghost..."
Now these words were starting to smell of extremely unpleasant coincidences.
It took Steben a couple of minutes to piece them together.
And another few to demonstrate his not-so-brilliant intellect. An ordinary pirate shouldn't be too smart.
"'Ghost' is the ship, 'Ghost' is the leader of the 'Resistance to the Sea,' the 'Strait of Ghosts,'" he listed parts of the same logical chain. "It's all a bit suspicious..."
"Well, go on, think it through properly," Sixx suggested.
"Already have," Steben stated. "I don't think an ordinary pirate could just casually make deals with Nima. And now I understand why I never saw you before. You are the 'Ghost,' the head of the 'Resistance to the Sea.'"
Sol grunted with satisfaction.
"You're thinking straight," he stated. "I am the 'Ghost.' And the 'Resistance to the Sea' is my creation."
"I'm just bursting with pride," Steben declared. "The big boss himself handles my recruitment... What did I do to deserve such an honor?"
"Nima had a subordinate whose ship had a cloaking system," Sixx shifted to a business-like tone. "You know about that?"
This question was nothing but a test. Anyone who had worked for Nima knew exactly what he was talking about.
Steben hadn't worked for Nima, had never been a member of the "Lok Ghosts," but at the same time, he made a habit of studying any information related to his mission.
Including Captain Tyberos's report on the battle with Nima's forces in the Monastery system.
"The Guardian Mantis," he said. "A machine built by the Xi-Char for Vana Sage, Nima's henchwoman."
"Ever repaired it?" Sol clarified.
Another check.
"Would they let an ordinary mechanic near such a unique piece?" Steben shook his head. "No. Just helped put a couple of components in order a few times, that's all."
"That's more than my engineers know," Sol chuckled. "You see, the 'Guardian Mantis' was equipped with a cloaking system based on stygium crystals. Name sound familiar?"
"Well, I've heard it a couple of times..." Steben replied casually, tensing up internally.
The Empire (and others too) had used stygium to build cloaked ships. Not as clumsy, "blind," and "deaf" as the hybidium technology the Grand Admiral used, but far more advanced. However, deposits of this type of crystal had long been destroyed, and the remaining resources of this type in the galaxy had long been resold for exorbitant sums.
"When the Trade Federation occupied Maramere, I managed to steal their viceroy's ship," Sol continued. "It had a cloaking system based on stygium. The ship sank, thanks to Nima's efforts. Later, I salvaged the ship — that's actually what I wanted to send you 'for a swim' to get. But my boys managed without any outside help or advice."
"So you have a working sample of a cloaking system," the operative concluded.
"That's putting it too strongly," Sol objected. "More like its remnants. I want you to use what you know about these devices to build cloaking screens for the 'Resistance to the Sea.'"
"They'll hide the starships from the shipyard scanners," Steben nodded understandingly. "And then you can start equipping them with something heavier and blow everything to hell."
"Quick on the uptake," Sixx agreed.
"Repairing the devices is no big deal," Steben said. "But I don't have any stygium to make them work properly..."
"You might not have it," Sixx confirmed. "But I do... Ever heard of the Invisible Island?"
Yes, that same old tale about a patch of land in the middle of the "Strait of Ghosts" that no one had ever been able to find.
"A legend," Steben waved his hand dismissively. "Scanners these days are so powerful you can see any island from orbit and..."
The boat, guided by the helmsman's wheel, sharply turned sideways, literally squeezing into a turn through a very narrow passage between the rocks...
Before Steben could object, the boat was in a vast expanse of water.
And on the horizon, the edges of an island were visible... Suspiciously shimmering in the rays of natural light...
"Welcome to the Invisible Island," Sol laughed out loud. "The only piece of land on Maramere that has deposits of stygium crystals. They also mask the island from detection by all kinds of surveillance means. You see it only because part of the coastal stones have already been hauled off to the workshops, making the island visible..."
Steben wasn't listening.
An island.
By the most conservative estimates, it was about seven kilometers from one shore to the other.
And it was all filled with stygium crystals...
And the mission was starting to get more and more intriguing.
Transfer to counterintelligence, maybe? There was so much interesting stuff discovered sometimes right inside the Dominion itself...
Continuing to chat with the "Ghost" about trivial nonsense, Steben pressed the heel of his left boot into the deck. Applying some effort, he slightly moved a part of his shoe, allowing a disguised tracking device, hidden in the sole, to activate on a specific frequency.
Your Invisible Island was nice, now it would belong to the Dominion.
Well, there was no turning back now.
Either the support group would arrive before the enemy triangulated the transmitter, or this would be the last operation of his life.
* * *
"Your work on Balmorra was excellent, Bravo-Three," I said, looking at Agent Rederick. "Brilliantly executed."
The scout calmly listened to the praise, routinely replying that it was part of his job.
"You have a new assignment," I warned.
"Ready to begin immediately," the agent responded.
Well, I expected nothing less from him.
The young man took the information chip I held out.
"Your assignment has a double purpose," I explained. "You'll head to the Corporate Sector. During the period they supported the Empire, they were provided with Victory-class Star Destroyers. By the most conservative estimates, over fifty ships. Similarly, the corporates also got their hands on outdated starships from the Clone Wars era: Acclamator-class assault ships, Venator-class Star Destroyers, and Separatist vessels. From open sources, we know the Corporate Sector is currently pursuing a policy of expanding its armed forces based on its own technologies. There's a high probability they'd be willing to sell us part of their fleet. We're primarily interested in those ships that previously served in the Imperial Navy."
"Acclamators, Venators, Victories, cruisers, corvettes, frigates," Rederick immediately assessed. "In proper condition, quality, and configuration."
"It will be enough if the starships are capable of making a hyperjump and reaching Dominion territory," I clarified. "We can handle the necessary repairs ourselves."
What was even more important was that these ships were slated for modernization, so their current condition didn't matter much.
"I understand, sir," the man replied. "Will I be briefed beforehand on the second part of the assignment?"
"Of course," I agreed. "Are you familiar with the name Jahan Cross?"
The scout answered negatively.
Which only confirmed my theory that Jahan was a high-ranking Imperial agent.
At least, he had been one.
"I need this man," I said. "You'll find complete information we have on this individual on the information chip. He is dangerous enough because he has special training. There is evidence of him carrying out several special missions in the interests of the Galactic Empire. Under diplomatic immunity, of course," the scout nodded understandingly. Yes, he too understood what I was implying. "Little is known about Jahan Cross's past; it's most likely the data was destroyed to ensure his security during undercover work. But at the same time, there are several names he could potentially be connected to."
Rederick remained silent, waiting for the briefing to continue.
He had taken the news of the Fleet Intelligence's dissolution quite calmly. The unit was being disbanded, and its already few personnel were mostly being redistributed to Dominion Intelligence or fleet special forces. A few had chosen the path of Dominion Security Bureau operatives, so options for reassignment "due to downsizing" were available.
Rederick had chosen the path of a scout.
Apparently, he didn't particularly like special forces, despite having all the attributes to become one. Service "dealing with personnel" also didn't impress him, so he had found his calling.
Along with Torin Inek and Sergius, he had received the operational callsign "Bravo" and a serial number, thus classified as a special agent participating in solving tasks set directly by me. At the moment, some work was underway to select a candidate for the position of Director of Dominion Intelligence, as Molo was still not freed, even though the guardsmen led by Tierce — the real Tierce — were working on it.
"The first and key lead is Cross's father, a former Alderaanian diplomat named Davim Cross," I said. "According to our intelligence network, this man is a prominent figure among the refugees from Alderaan. He is currently on New Alderaan. Our Spies report that Jahan has not contacted his father in the last few months, and Davim has not been inquiring about his son either."
"A family conflict?" Rederick clarified.
"Quite likely," I agreed. "The father is a staunch Republican, while Cross is hypothetically — or was — a high-ranking Imperial agent. According to our information, the father might have known what his son was doing, so a conflict of interest is evident. Furthermore, during the Clone Wars, Jahan's mother and sister were killed in a Separatist attack on Coruscant. The father survived. According to my information, on one of his last assignments, Jahan Cross eliminated the ruling Count from House Dooku on Serenno, thereby facilitating the rise of a pro-Imperial regent. After which, he took measures to preserve the life of the legitimate heir through the Alderaanian aristocracy. This fact indicates a principle of justice that guides Cross in his activities. This fact might have forced him to 'go into hiding.'"
"In that case, if Jahan Cross is sufficiently skilled and trained, even after the fall of the Galactic Empire, he would have found himself a bolt-hole to lie low in," Rederick speculated. "A standard 'cover identity' wouldn't work — that's for ordinary agents. Consequently, if he's alive, he used his own support networks, often based on criminal connections, to create a new identity and escape potential pursuit by Imperial authorities."
"I thought the same," the agent looked at me calmly, expecting new information. And, naturally, he received it.
"Thanks to breaking into Republican files, we have information on a certain Sluissi by the name of Alessi Quon. Contrary to the norm, he worked in the experimental technology department of Imperial Intelligence," I said. "Indirect analysis indicates that Quon, at certain times, submitted data for approval to the leadership regarding the completion of tests on a number of objects. Chronological analysis indicates that Cross, at the same times, used exactly the same technical developments. Shortly after the completion of Cross's missions, Quon reported the complete destruction of the technology samples he had produced."
"Likely, he's the technician who provided Cross with special equipment," Rederick suggested.
"And he vanished from intelligence view almost immediately after Cross completed his operations. Specifically, the one connected to House Dooku," I said. "The conclusion in his personal file: either executed or fled. But it could also be that Cross arranged his evacuation. This might indicate a friendly relationship between them."
"A third possibility is that Intelligence might have used Quon to lure out Cross," the agent suggested.
"Which is exactly why you should be interested in the company 'Rossum Droidworks' in the Corporate Sector," I warned. "Its founder was Iaco Stark. Cross conducted an operation against the Starks' plans. He was accused of the death of Iaco Stark's widow, and according to Republican information, he carried out a successful action against the latter's plans for a droid uprising. Together with a woman known as Ellie Stark. Officially considered the daughter of Iaco Stark and his first wife. In reality, Iaco Stark was not her biological father. However, that didn't become a problem for her. Not without Jahan Cross's involvement, all members of the Stark family — Iaco, his biological son, and his second wife — were eliminated. 'Rossum Droidworks,' having lost a significant portion of its capitalization, passed by inheritance to Ellie Stark. Curiously, three years before the Battle of Yavin, after the death of her relatives, Ellie Stark applied to the Imperial Intelligence Academy. But was deemed unreliable, after which she took over the management of the business she inherited. This date coincides exactly with the year Jahan Cross destroyed her family and also carried out his operation with House Dooku. And it was the last year anything was ever known about him."
"So he deserted thirteen years ago?" Rederick was surprised.
"To one degree or another, we are all deserters," I remarked. "Your task is to find this man and recruit him for cooperation with us, not to accuse him of treason and bring him to trial."
"My actions if he refuses?" Rederick clarified.
"Make sure Jahan Cross is alive," I stated. "If he wants to cooperate with us, or remain out of the picture — that is acceptable. If, however, he is working for the enemy, the Noghri you will receive as support for your mission will ensure he no longer poses a threat to us. After that, proceed with the operation to acquire the Star Destroyers," I said.
"Collateral damage?" Rederick clarified.
A good question.
The data gathered on Jahan Cross directly indicated that he would stop at nothing to save his own life. Consequently, given that he was working for the enemy, Rederick could not be bound by any conventions regarding collateral damage and destruction.
Within reason, naturally.
"Anything necessary to destroy the enemy agent," I said. "But, in any case, under all circumstances, no one must know you are acting in the interests of the Dominion. Secrecy is paramount."
A direct hint that if he was caught and couldn't be quickly extracted, the agent would be eliminated.
"As always, sir," he replied. "Occupational hazard, nothing more. When do I begin?"
Before I could answer, the comlink came alive with Captain Pellaeon's voice.
"Grand Admiral, sir," the device's speaker said. "The decryption section has received a signal. Guardsmen frequency. The encrypted message is signed by Major Tierce, addressed to you personally."
"Forward it to my datapad," I ordered, knowing the message could only be decrypted using my code cylinder. The work computer was, without a doubt, disconnected from the general network and couldn't receive messages except on information chips. But the working datapad was designed to be efficient for routine matters.
The device blinked.
Touching the code cylinder to the receptacle, I scanned the lines of the report.
Then I looked at the tactical monitor, correlating the current position of the Chimaera with the signal source...
"Get ready, Bravo-Three," I ordered. "In one hour, you depart for the rendezvous point with the support team."
"Yes, sir." Rederick left my office.
After I was alone, I activated the comlink: "Captain Pellaeon, prepare the Chimaera for exiting hyperspace and changing course."
"We're leaving the fleet?" Gilad clarified.
"That's correct," I replied. "We're leaving the fleet."
The commander of the flagship Star Destroyer had no further questions.
All the better.
* * *
The first thing you need to learn when working undercover as a government agent: if you've thrown in your lot with deserters, it's highly unlikely they'll maintain the discipline that instructors drilled into them for years.
So Mara wasn't particularly surprised that the search of the freighter she was hiding on hadn't been carried out properly.
She waited patiently until the pirates, first scouring the ship, peering into every nook and cranny, and poking around the computers, moved on to unloading.
It took them quite a while.
From the looks of it, no one was in a particular hurry, meaning there was no rush to deliver the cargo.
Or the former Imperials were just lazy.
She had to wait a long time.
A very long time.
But finally, her ship was unloaded, and then it was towed to a holding area. The deserters scoffed at the cowardly crew, assuming, as she had expected, that they had abandoned ship. "Got scared when the course changed," as the loaders said.
However, from snippets of conversation, the Hand of Thrawn understood that her intervention had actually saved the lives of the freighter's crew — no one here was planning on standing on ceremony with anyone.
Surprising, wasn't it?
Now it was clear why those who had already made similar runs never showed up on Wohai again.
No one was paid — the crews were executed to maintain secrecy about what was happening.
No wonder such a high bounty had been placed on Lieutenant Lon Dowell's head.
Fifteen thousand credits was serious money for a mid-range bounty hunter.
But it seemed Republican Intelligence didn't suspect that Dowell was just a cog in one big machine.
And just how big that machine was, Mara Jade could see with her own eyes, observing from the cockpit of the freighter docked at the space station.
Ten massive bulk freighters, three DP20 frigates, five CR90 corvettes — not just any, but the "Killer" modification, a pretty dangerous combat variant of the Corellian hull. The Imperial Fleet had been quite fond of these for their enhanced armament, high speed, and consistently tough hull plating. Not to mention the "Super Transport XI," which had been jury-rigged by mechanics into an escort carrier.
On top of all that, it's worth remembering that Donell has a interdictor cruiser at his disposal, and judging by what she's seeing now — just a massive fleet of a couple hundred light and medium freighters and cargo ships.
And most of them are being armed...
Mara couldn't boast a perfect memory, but she recognized the place she'd been brought to.
The Barpine star system in the Venin sector, in the Outer Rim territories of the galaxy. Literally a couple of sectors away from the Dominion's borders.
The Venin Sector.
It was located next to Quelli and... Donell's plan was becoming clearer, confirming Jade's own suspicions.
The deserter placed orders for equipment deliveries, gave completely random coordinates to the contractors. Then, with a clear conscience, he took both the goods and the freighter they were supposed to be delivered on.
And after that, he hauled them all to the Barpine system.
The planet of the same name was located in quadrant N-6, and Mara could swear on the natural color of her red hair that this was exactly where they were.
Right here, in accordance with the Empire's large-scale program dubbed "one sector — one shipyard," were the Imperial orbital shipyards of Barain.
Pretty decent, well-equipped shipyards, capable not just of repairs and refitting, but of building a starship from scratch. You could see it in the vast factory areas laid out on Barpine's cloudless surface. They could probably produce everything needed for the fastest possible repairs here...
But, since there was nothing remarkable in this sector or its neighbors, and the shipyards themselves had been converted from civilian facilities, the slips here were small — suitable for corvettes or frigates, sure, but not for building a Star Destroyer, for example.
However, judging by the fact that all the slips were occupied by transport starships, Lon Donell had found a way to create his own fleet without much effort.
Thrawn had literally turned the galaxy upside down with his "wolf packs." And those packs were nothing more than converted freighters. It seemed the renegade Imperial commanders had an idea of what was happening in the galaxy. And they were learning lessons from the Grand Admiral's and the Dominion's activities.
True, they were doing it exclusively for their own benefit.
But what scared her the most wasn't this.
What scared her was the nineteen-kilometer wedge-shaped starship hovering over Barpine.
Yes, yes, yes — that very "guy."
It took the woman several minutes to calm down and start thinking rationally.
First and foremost.
All the "Executor"-class ships built at Kuat and Fondor were either destroyed or their locations were known. This couldn't be one of them.
Second.
Looking closely at the ship, Mara noted numerous unfinished sections all over the hull. And a huge number of transport and repair ships delivering exactly the cargo that Donell had been capturing.
Using a macrobinocular, Jade scanned the ship kilometer by kilometer, noting what immediately lodged in her memory.
First, the starship had multiple geometric gaps — the starboard side was almost completely unarmored.
Most of the main engines were missing — literally two or four out of the entire cluster.
Empty weapons mounts, gaping voids where launching racks should be, an incomplete superstructure, no deflector shield generators...
The main hangar was basically some kind of technical zone with not the slightest hint of being in use.
Not to mention that the ideal geometry of the hull was compromised in several places.
And...
What conclusion did that lead to?
The ship showed not a single trace of having been in battle.
No scorch marks, no impact scars.
The condition of the Super Star Destroyer didn't suggest it had been in a fight at all.
Because either that was the case, and by now all damaged elements had been dismantled, and the shipments Mara had hitched a ride on were needed to replace what was lost.
Or this starship was... under construction.
The latter argument was supported by the fact that there was no artillery or launching systems on board at all. Surely this "Executor" couldn't have been so damaged in battle that it lost all possible weapons, shields, and most of its main engines?
But...
Where would Donell have the resources to pay for such massive deliveries? He clearly didn't have that kind of money!
And if he did, why build an "Executor" when he could have bought an entire fleet with the money spent on all these purchases?
Since Donell was borrowing successful tactics — and the mass arming of freighters proved that — why would he need to build an "Executor"?
To successfully use a ship of this type, you need massive cover. Darth Vader was probably the only one among the owners of such ships who understood that, which is why his flagship moved with "Death Squadron" as escort.
And the fleet Donell had couldn't replace even a couple of Star Destroyers.
So, what was Donell planning?
Creating quality protection for his flagship by increasing numbers?
"Rogue Squadron" had demonstrated the effectiveness of such tactics when they attacked the Lusankya at Thyferra...
A shiver ran down the woman's spine.
The New Republic had hidden the Lusankya's repair location, after all. And according to their official reports, Ysanne Isard's favorite toy had been damaged very, very significantly!
What if this was where the New Republic had been repairing the Lusankya?
What if this shipyard was secretly cooperating with the New Republic? And the ship's restoration required such secrecy that the Republicans still didn't know the vessel was in enemy hands?
Thrawn's Hand stood stunned for a while, pondering which of her hypotheses was most likely.
She seriously doubted the ship before her eyes was the Lusankya.
No matter the secrecy regime, the New Republic would never have left an object unguarded! And even if Donell had managed to capture the shipyard and the Lusankya in a non-combat-ready state, they would have definitely pulled a fleet here to get it back.
Or destroy it!
No, this couldn't be Isard's toy!
But... Whose, then?
The other ships were destroyed! Except for the Reaper, which was in Grand Moff Kaine's possession!
But this couldn't be that either! What would make Kaine rebuild his own flagship in such a backwater, right under the Dominion's nose, with such flimsy escort? A couple of Star Destroyers would be enough to capture the entire shipyard here!
The woman immediately reined herself in.
Alright, she'd overdone it with the "couple of Star Destroyers."
The shipyard was guarded by almost a dozen Golan-I orbital defense platforms. That pointed to the secondary importance of these slips even during the New Order.
But there must have been a fleet in the sector that could come to the rescue! There weren't that many interesting star systems in Venin. No more than a dozen, for sure.
So...
Mara shook her head, realizing her reasoning had led her into a logical dead end.
No time to keep speculating.
She'd arrived at the shipyard on a ship loaded with turbolasers.
The ships on the slips were swarming all around the Super Star Destroyer, meaning systems were being installed.
She hadn't been able to spot Lieutenant Donell's Immobilizer 418 near the shipyard, which meant it was quite possible he'd left on another mission to capture freighters with their cargo.
If so, then...
The woman looked at the instrument panel.
The ship she was on was in a preserved state. Power consumption was reduced to just enough to keep everything from icing over during the long wait.
But as soon as the communication panel and reactor came online, everything would be clear.
There would be patrol fighters, a boarding party, interrogation — all the delights of an investigation where the interrogating party didn't restrain their methods or techniques for getting information. There was definitely no hiding on this ship — the deserters, having pinpointed encrypted communications, would take the starship apart screw by screw to find the spy.
And if she stayed silent... There was absolutely no guarantee she'd have a chance to report what she'd found until her freighter docked, they started refitting it, and she got a chance to escape.
Still, the temperature here wasn't the most comfortable.
Her combat suit could keep her alive for a while, and she had some supplies, but...
There was no guarantee the ship wouldn't be taken somewhere else from here.
A dilemma — act now and definitely expose herself, or wait for a better moment, not knowing if she'd survive that long or if she'd have a chance to report what she'd seen in safety.
One of the professional risks...
Sigh. Why wasn't Thrawn Force-sensitive? She could have contacted him telepathically, like she used to with Palpatine...
Yes!
Of course!
Thrawn might not be Force-sensitive, but he had allies who didn't have that deficiency.
She just had to strain every nerve to contact that Togruta and hope that her skull wasn't too thick and that her old skills in this area hadn't critically faded...
Ah, the secrecy regime was shot, but Tano knew the score anyway...
The woman sat more comfortably, concentrating on the Force, picturing the image of that annoying Togruta...
And the next moment, she felt another ship arrive in the system. A very strange ship. Filled with unbridled rage, anger, a desire to destroy...
The woman, having formulated her thought for the Togruta twice, decided to figure out what was going on.
A Star Destroyer.
An Imperial I-class.
And it was heading straight for the unfinished Super Star Destroyer. It seemed Lieutenant Donell had allies.
The red-haired fury reached out to the ship with the Force...
And the next second, she barely held back a scream.
The ship, radiating the icy rage of the Dark Side, changed course, heading straight for her.
* * *
The Chimaera drifted in interstellar vacuum, several dozen units from a celestial body that didn't even have its own name in astrogation file catalogs.
The stop, like the course change, hadn't been planned, but the signal that came in made me give the corresponding order.
Whether it was guilt or rationalism that played a part, I don't know.
But the fact remains.
We are here.
Alone.
Without a fleet.
And my JV-7 escort shuttle was currently cutting through the fabric of space, approaching the desired target.
The place we'd rushed to, but arrived too late.
I sat in the chair, eyes closed, analyzing Major Tierce's report.
I couldn't entrust this mission to anyone else — only the Guard. Because only Tierce and his men, the clones, could be guaranteed not to be sleeping agents of the real Ysanne Isard.
I opened my eyes slightly, looking at the guardsmen in black-and-blue armor sitting across from me.
They almost completely replicated the armor of the Imperial Guard, except the color and a number of technical improvements set them apart from the original equipment patterns.
The Guard.
When it became absolutely and irrevocably clear that restoring the Empire was a dead end, doomed to fail from the start, I concluded that it would be a good idea to designate an elite among my armed forces.
Whether it was a coincidence or not, I couldn't come up with anything smarter than calling the most distinguished units and starships "Guards."
That name certainly carried grandeur, spirituality, and the elite status of those who bore this proud title.
And no awkward questions about succession or bad reputation.
The Delta flew into the hangar bay, folding its wings on the fly for convenient parking.
Accompanied by Rukh, I silently headed for the exit.
The guardsmen in blue-black armor followed me like silent shadows.
They were my personal guard. The best of the best clones, handpicked by Tierce himself.
The Grand Admiral's personal guard guardsmen.
At the ramp, we were met by two dozen Noghri — death commandos attached to the guardsmen as "working hands" for delicate missions — and Grodin Tierce, clad in armor the same color as the rest of my bodyguards.
With one exception — the guardsman kneeling before me held his helmet under his arm.
"Mission accomplished, Grand Admiral," the leader of the guard bodyguards reported crisply. "Target located, identified, identity confirmed. Poses no immediate threat. Evacuation is impossible, but he himself objects to it."
"Stand up, Major," I ordered. "I need to see him."
Grodin straightened, replaced his helmet on his head, and became an indistinguishable part of the faceless bodyguards like himself.
"Please follow me, Your Excellency," he said, moving toward a wide corridor that provided access to the base's interior.
Empty corridors, passages, compartments... Nothing here suggested the presence of sentients or any machinery at all. Just a medium-sized asteroid — a couple of kilometers in diameter — sitting in the middle of airless space not far from the Hydian Way.
A very advantageous position tactically.
The Hydian Way was one of the five largest in the galaxy. Alongside the Corellian Run, the Perlemian Trade Route, the Rimma Trade Route, and the Corellian Trade Route, the Hydian Way crossed a significant portion of the galaxy. Station a "jump base" nearby with the appropriate equipment and supplies, and at any necessary moment, you could organize an attack on merchant ships that, one way or another, dropped out of hyperspace to correct their course.
Or were caught by interdictor cruisers.
I had no doubt that the Empire had scattered hundreds, maybe even thousands, of similar bases across the galaxy. And of course, it wasn't certain that most of them had survived, but the idea itself...
There was something to it.
Let's just say it resonated very strongly with the tactic of clone cells deep behind enemy lines that Mitth'raw'nuruodo had used in the events I knew. It was very well demonstrated in the Hand of Thrawn duology...
But that wasn't the point right now.
Grodin led me to a compartment, the entrance to which was guarded by another pair of guardsmen. As I approached, they silently slid aside.
Rukh, a gray shadow, was the first inside, was gone for only a couple of seconds, then emerged, confirming it was safe inside.
Accompanied by the Noghri and the real Grodin, I entered the holding cell.
Despite having been kept in a bacta tank, Molo Himron looked frankly terrible.
Several serious fractures that had healed incorrectly, a severed ear, a gouged-out eye, missing teeth, several stumps where his fingers and toes should have been, shattered kneecaps, a missing right foot.
All of this was pointless if you wanted to get information from a person. But it was a perfectly logical action if you were just torturing a prisoner for perverse pleasure.
"Grand Admiral," a faint smile twitched on the spy's lips.
He sat on the edge of a hard cot. His hands trembled slightly — damaged nerves or tendons.
"Major," I replied.
"You came," he stated the obvious, still the head of intelligence.
"Too late," I said. "The fault for your injuries lies with me..."
"Occupational hazard," Himron grinned crookedly. "When I chose intelligence work, I understood that someday I might make a mistake. And end up in a dungeon. Though I didn't think it would be Ysanne Isard's torture chamber."
"How long ago did she escape?" I clarified.
"I don't know," he admitted. "It's hard to keep track of time when you're locked up. I don't even know how long I've been here."
"You will be taken to the Chimaera and receive the highest quality treatment possible," I promised.
The intelligence officer shook his head.
"Can't," he stated.
An interesting way to put it.
"Reason?"
"I was a prisoner of Isard," he reminded me. "I have memory gaps from the beatings. I can't vouch that I'm still the same Molo Himron I was before. And I can't claim that I wouldn't harm you, the Dominion, or the campaign if I remained free. And least of all do I want to do something terrible and die with the word 'Lusankya' on my lips, like the 'sleeper agents' the Ice Queen 'activated' before."
Obsidian blades appeared in Rukh's hands. Tierce, as if casually, took a step to the side, shifting his vibro-glaive to a more comfortable grip.
Yes, that was right. From an ally I wanted to extract, Molo had become a threat.
Not because he'd been a prisoner of the Ice Queen.
But because he'd said something he shouldn't have known.
"The Dominion," I said. "What do you know about it?"
The intelligence officer spread his hands, showing his right hand, missing all fingers except his pinky, index, and thumb.
Never in my life had I felt such revulsion at a "gesture."
"Only what Isard told me during her hand-to-hand combat practice sessions," the spy said. "The state you're creating on the site of the Ciutric Hegemony. She complained to Colonel Wessiri that a number of her agents had gone silent. She was afraid that her clone, who was in league with Delak Krennel, had gone over to your side."
"Colonel Wessiri," I noted my interest. "Who is that?"
The name was familiar to me. 'Delta Source' had mentioned this person more than once. But in the context of being a Republic agent, a close friend of Wedge Antilles and Corran Horn. And for some reason, I remembered that was exactly the case. Was the Corellian playing both sides?
"Broak Wessiri, commander of a unit of two squadrons of TIE Defenders," Molo said. "The 'Breachers' and the 'Stranger.' As far as I understand, he's her right hand in the current operation."
"And what is her goal in all of this?" I clarified.
"I'm sorry, Grand Admiral," Molo shook his head. "They unfortunately weren't inclined to answer those questions," he looked at his mutilated hands. "Even during especially sadistic interrogations. But from indirect clues in Wessiri's conversations, I gathered that he's been training new pilots to fly his machines for some time. And veterans, aces, at that. I should warn you," the intelligence officer caught himself. "I'm not sure that everything I learned here is true. Forgive me, sir, but taking my word for it, given the circumstances, would be very foolish."
"I'll take your wishes into account, Molo," my voice changed by barely a tone, but it was enough for Rukh to pay attention to me. "Again, I'm sorry it turned out this way."
"Thank you, sir," the intelligence officer smiled warmly.
We looked at each other for a few seconds, both understanding that his release had reached a dead end.
He couldn't return to his duties as head of intelligence. He couldn't even be a simple operative. His skills, experience, knowledge, contacts — all of this made one of the best operatives of the Dominion Intelligence Directorate one of our most dangerous opponents if he really turned out to be a "sleeper agent."
There were no skills for "deprogramming" those who had survived Isard's conditioning. They either carried out orders or died.
And it wouldn't be resolved with Isard's death.
Because there could always be someone alive who knew how to turn Himron into a compliant puppet.
And even a potential brain transplant wouldn't help here — the subcortex was programmed.
"I'm sorry," he said unexpectedly, slumping. "I failed the mission at MandalMotors. I lost the squad. I was captured. I'm dangerous."
"Nothing more than an occupational hazard," I said as calmly as I could. "You will be placed in an isolated medical facility where you will undergo rehabilitation. It may not be immediate, but we will find a way to determine whether or not you were subjected to conditioning by Isard."
This was the best of all the alternatives I could offer him.
To spend the rest of his life in confinement. Where he couldn't harm himself or the Dominion.
But even so, anything could happen.
"Half a life in a cage," Molo said without humor.
He was silent for several minutes, staring at the floor.
Then he raised his gaze, looking me in the eye.
"My clones, sir," he reminded me. "How are they doing?"
"The best operatives among those at my disposal," I admitted.
"That's good," the spy smiled.
He looked at his crippled hands once more, understanding that a broken body wasn't a death sentence.
But his potential danger — that was something he had sworn to eliminate.
"I don't want that, sir," Himron said, looking me in the eye. "Keeping me in a special facility will divert resources needed elsewhere. Isard or her minions, her agents — someone might know how to activate me if they did make me a 'sleeper agent.'"
Both he and I understood perfectly that Isard's conditioning method couldn't be cured or escaped.
The outcome was always the same — either you resisted it, or you didn't. And waited for the moment you were "activated."
"It's possible you weren't conditioned at all," I said. "And the memory lapses are just consequences of the beatings."
"It might be so," Molo said. "You and I both know what's at stake. We can't take risks. And leaving me alive," his voice faltered, "is also impossible. I can't leave this facility. I can't return to duty, even after prosthetics — also impossible. Isard's conditioning is irreversible. And I don't want to live out the rest of my days in a cage or under the fear that one day I might become an enemy. My honor won't allow it. I'm more than certain that Isard's target is you," he nodded toward Tierce. "I dictated all my thoughts to your guardsman. To put it simply, I believe she has a ship. Probably a Victory-class Star Destroyer. As far as I remember, when she was on Coruscant and governing it, one destroyer of that class disappeared. And never reappeared. Anywhere. That's likely the ship she left on. That would explain why there are only two squadrons at the base..."
"I'll listen to your warnings, Major," I said honestly, without advertising the fact that we'd have to work hard to verify them. "You've fulfilled your duty to the end, and I'm grateful for your service."
"Live to serve, sir," Molo said, spreading his hands apologetically. "Forgive me, I can't stand on my leg," he showed the remaining stump. "Sorry we worked together so briefly. But you'll always have other Molo Himrons."
"They won't be you, Major," I noted.
"They will be what remains after me," the scout declared. "Each one will be loyal to you until the end. I'd say 'I vouch for them,' but in current circumstances, I can't even vouch for myself. I can't even guarantee that I haven't revealed any Dominion secrets to Isard and her lackey Wessiri."
Himron looked at me guiltily. His face wore an expression of apology for what he had already decided for himself.
"The Dominion's secrets are in safe hands, Molo," I assured him. "You did your job. I have no complaints against you."
"Thank you, sir," gratitude flickered in the scout's eyes.
Each of us was delaying the moment of the final decision. Because neither of us liked it. But we both understood that this was the only way it could end with the least losses for all of us and the common cause.
"If I may, sir," Himron said quietly, "I'd like to ask that the Iceheart doesn't die quickly."
"Your wish is heard," I assured him. "And it will be granted."
"In that case," the man sighed, glancing at Rukh, who had moved closer to him. "I'm ready, sir."
"Thank you for your service, Agent Himron," I said, nodding almost imperceptibly to the bodyguard. "The Dominion and I will never forget what you did for us."
"Live to serve, sir," the scout replied in a voice full of strength, smiling. But tears welled in his eyes.
Those were his last words.
The gray shadow of the Noghri lunged at the man, delivering an imperceptible killing blow.
Supporting the body of the man who had chosen to die rather than jeopardize my mission, Rukh and Tierce, who had approached him, carefully laid it on the bed. One of the guards handed the executioners a body bag...
"Deliver the body to the Chimaera," I ordered. "This man and others like him are the backbone and foundation of the Dominion. Despite everything, he deserves a burial with military honors."
Rukh, pulling the obsidian blade from the base of the scout's skull, nodded silently.
Turning, I strode toward the shuttle.
Time to return to the Chimaera.
Time to accelerate my work to destroy the Iceheart.
The comlink in my tunic pocket began to chirp...