Nine years, ten months, and seventeen days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fourth year, ten months, and seventeen days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Six months and two days since the Arrival.)
The Ammonis system in the Quelli sector, like the entire specified region of the galaxy, was under Dominion control.
* * *
It was for this reason that counterintelligence had to deal with the problem of the remnants of the Cavrilhu pirates.
Captain Steben slammed into a sturdy Rodian, grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, and forcefully spun him around towards two other pirates who had decided to shoot the operative in the back.
The alien tried to squirm free, squeaking something in his native language, but Steben headbutted him in the face.
A combat knife flashed in his right hand—and an instant later, it rivaled blaster shots in the speed of making extra holes in the pirate's body.
Shifting towards the shooters, the captain shoved the corpse at one of them and threw the knife at the second.
The blade sank into the Devaronian's throat up to the hilt, and the pirate, spraying the corridor of the Cavrilhu base with a fountain of blood, slowly slumped to the floor.
Steben kicked the Nautolan, who was crawling out from under the corpse, in the face, then drove his heel into his nose, smashing the bones into his skull.
The criminal wheezed and convulsed, but by the time the operative retrieved his knife and blaster, he had already gone still.
After making control shots, the counterintelligence officer looked at his burned shoulder.
One of the pirates had managed to hit him.
Painful, unpleasant, but not fatal.
The operative took a bacta spray from his belt medkit and sprayed the contents of the vial onto the wound.
It was unpleasant, but the soothing coolness relieved the pain.
"Corridor Three is cleared," the operative said into his wrist comlink.
"Corridors One and Two are also clear, sir," the squad leader replied. "Levels One through Three are under our control."
"Continue the clearance," Steben ordered.
This was the last Cavrilhu base.
Not just in the Ammonis system, but anywhere in the galaxy.
He needed to push harder to finish what he'd started.
The man checked his blaster's charge and continued on his way.
At the turbolift, he had to shoot a couple more pirates before he could use the lift.
But his path lay one level down.
Down to where the Cavrilhu had equipped a small hangar for a couple of speeders in an underground grotto.
The counterintelligence forces and stormtroopers had the pirate base's perimeter securely blocked, but Steben decided not to allow even the most hypothetical possibility that the Cavrilhu pirate leader could escape.
Whether their aircar got shot down or not—that was no guarantee that Captain Zothip, the Cavrilhu leader, would die.
Too often, all sorts of adventurers manage to cheat death by faking their demise.
But not today.
When the turbolift doors opened, Steben pressed himself against the cabin wall so he wouldn't be hit by a blaster salvo.
Staying out of the shooters' line of sight, the operative snatched a flashbang grenade from his belt and threw it into the open doorway of the turbolift cabin.
His helmet's light filters reacted as needed, and unlike his opponents, the operative could still make out objects.
With several shots, he sent the pirates to their ancestors.
Jumping over their corpses, he took cover behind a shipping container from a burst of fire.
"Die! Die, you Imperial!" Zothip roared, firing from the cabin of an aircar.
Steben instantly oriented himself.
With a short sprint, he was behind the next container.
The shots shifted towards him.
The operative detached a thermal detonator from his belt and hurled it over his head towards the shooter.
About fifty meters separated them, but Steben wasn't counting on luck—the grenade wouldn't hit the aircar.
And it didn't—the device detonated before covering even half the distance.
It boomed, and for a moment, the firing stopped.
That was more than enough to change cover again—this time, he was five meters closer to his target.
The pirates weren't perfectionists, so shipping containers with unknown contents were scattered around the improvised hangar in random order.
Some were open, revealing looted goods inside.
Others were sealed, and one could only guess at their contents.
Though—why bother with that?
After the pirates were eliminated, investigators would handle the searches and inventory of what was found.
The operative had a different task.
"Box him in, box him in!" That was Zothip again.
Steben caught sight of one of his henchmen approaching from the side.
A shot to the chest—and the Rodian, who looked like a killer, crumpled to the floor.
The operative launched himself from his spot and changed cover just as a thermal detonator landed nearby.
It boomed, and quite powerfully.
Small shrapnel clattered nearby—the shipping container he'd just been hiding behind was thoroughly torn apart.
The blaster fire ceased for a moment—apparently, the pirates hadn't seen that Steben had managed to avoid death.
About thirty meters to the aircar.
The operative peered out from behind the corner of his new shelter.
The pirates were trying to stuff jewels into the cargo compartment, pouring them from a small crate.
I see.
They decided to grab a small amount of valuables so they wouldn't leave empty-handed.
Before Zothip, armed with a blaster carbine, could react to the new movement, Steben shot him in the leg.
With shouts and curses, the pirate collapsed onto the floor of the open aircar.
Darting out from cover, the operative sprinted towards the vehicle, firing his blaster pistol on the move.
He managed to shoot one pirate near the cargo compartment—the second ducked behind the vehicle's body.
A crimson bolt flashed over his head from behind.
The operative belatedly realized that more enemies could still be behind him.
Taking advantage of the pirates' confusion near the aircar, he spun around and, with a short burst, killed the man with the rifle.
Hearing the roar of the aircar's engine starting, he looked at the vehicle.
Zothip had moved to the driver's seat and clearly intended to escape.
Given that his valuables were in the cargo bay, shooting him down wasn't the smartest option.
He couldn't be allowed to escape the cave.
The operative, calculating the trajectory of the pirate leader's flight, rushed to intercept him.
He managed to grab the edge of the back seat just before he missed the vehicle.
His wounded hand cried out, so to keep from losing control, the Operative had to let go of the Blaster and grab on with both hands.
Tensing his muscles, he pulled himself up, climbing into the cabin of the convertible aircar.
"Ah, you!" Zothip roared, swerving the vehicle to throw the Counter-Intelligence Officer off.
"Yes, me, me," Steben held on, grabbing the headrest of the driver's seat.
With a quick motion, he drew a combat knife from its sheath and slashed the muscles in the pirate leader's arm, turning it into a useless limb.
The aircar swerved and crashed into a pile of shipping containers.
Tucking into a roll, the Operative tumbled out of the aircar but managed to avoid serious consequences from such an extreme landing.
Cursing under his breath, he got to his feet.
A sharp pain shot through his right thigh, but it didn't stop him.
He limped toward the wrecked vehicle.
Zothip was just peeling his bloodied face off the dashboard.
His bleeding lips started mumbling an offer to reward the Counter-Intelligence Officer if he would let the pirate escape.
"A full trunk of jewels…" the Cavrilhu leader whined pitifully, glancing at his leg pinned by twisted metal. "All yours…"
Steben, realizing he had no weapons left, grabbed Zothip by the hair on the back of his head and slammed his face into the dashboard with all his strength.
"Wrong," he said, pulling the pirate's head back to its starting position. "That all belongs to the Dominion."
After the second blow, Zothip's face was drenched in blood from the head wound.
"And I have a salary," Steben slammed the criminal again. "When will you," another slam, "scum," yet another slam, "understand," tough bastard! Fine, one more time! "There are things more valuable than jewels."
"Wha?" Zothip slurred through his now-toothless mouth.
With his relatively unhurt hand, he drew a Blaster, but Steben countered the move, disarming him while breaking a couple of his fingers.
"Honor and self-respect." With a punch, the Operative knocked the leader of the Cavrilhu pirates unconscious.
Exhausted, he sank to the cave floor next to the wrecked aircar and patted his pockets.
Finding a pack of cigarettes, he opened it and put one in his mouth.
The reflex actions and overexertion that had turned a reminder of a healthy lifestyle into a source of tobacco infuriated him.
But the shock of nearly dying, of being splattered during that aircar chase, was stronger than his own principles.
"Bastard," Steben stated, glancing at the unconscious pirate. "I hadn't smoked in five years!"
He searched for a lighter but couldn't find one.
Steben brought the barrel of the Blaster to the tip of the cigarette.
He pulled the trigger — and a crimson bolt shot into the ceiling.
The tip of the cigarette glowed red.
Taking a drag and exhaling clouds of aromatic smoke, the Counter-Intelligence Officer activated his comlink.
"Zothip is taken," he said. "I'm in the hangar. There are a couple more pirates here."
"Sending a support squad, sir," the stormtrooper commander responded. "Do you need medical assistance?"
"Uh-huh," the Operative took another drag. "Bring me a lighter."
* * *
The planet Demezel was located in the eponymous star system of the Meram sector.
This world attracted visitors with its vast grassy plains and short day — only twenty-two standard hours compared to twenty-four on Coruscant.
It was once a thriving trade world of the Outer Rim, founded by a consortium of Core Galaxy Systems enterprises.
But ever since the Rebel Alliance clashed in battle with the Galactic Empire, the planet had lost its significance, becoming a world that, while still generating profit for the local government, was no longer among those a casual visitor could safely set foot on.
And the real reason, in fact, had nothing to do with the confrontation between the champions of democracy and the Imperials.
The issue was that during the Galactic Civil War, realizing the scale of the problem called the Rebel Alliance, the Empire shifted the fight against crime to the planetary governments. The fleet and armed forces concentrated on fighting the rebels.
And this allowed one extremely cunning criminal to assemble his own gang, establishing his headquarters on Demezel.
"Glasfir's Ring" that was the name of this gang.
Despite their small numbers, they quickly, acting with bloodshed and terror tactics, eliminated the competition on the planet, including the small gangs under Hutt control.
The kings of the underworld didn't even notice the loss of this planet — it was too far from their territories. The Hutts considered it beneath their dignity to get involved in a fight for that planet.
They simply made sure Demezel ceased to interest potential investors, dealers, and smugglers.
Within a few years, the world from a prosperous trading planet had turned into a swamp boiling in its own juice.
The local government tried to fight "Glasfir's Ring," but the criminals swiftly eliminated all the undesirables and simply intimidated the rest.
Given that the government was under their control, the impoverished local population was forced to toil for the benefit of the criminals, with the youth swelling the gang's ranks.
Terrorizing their own population.
The leader of "Glasfir's Ring," a Defel named Glasfir'alik, was once a Hutt mercenary.
However, the Hutts, true to form, got stingy with payment for his services, which greatly upset the mercenary.
In retaliation, he launched a three-year campaign against the Hutts and killed all their agents.
The Hutts got the message, squeezed the planet hard. And to keep the troublesome Defel from bothering them anymore, they put a bounty on his head.
Sixty thousand credits — a pretty substantial reward for a mid-tier hunter. So quite a few of them set off for Demezel.
Where they met their end at the hands of Glasfir'alik's thugs.
And so a rather paradoxical situation arose — anyone who dared to come to Demezel for Glasfir'alik's head was immediately killed by his bandits.
While the gang leader himself was not eager to risk his hide, so he never left the planet, knowing that in the wider galaxy there were plenty willing to kill him.
He effectively became the ruler of Demezel, and this led to a sharp rise in crime. The rare attempts to eradicate the scourge led Glasfir'alik to form an alliance and provide the Thalassian Slavers Guild with a safe harbor on Demezel.
On the planet, he had significant forces for such a backwater world, and in space, he was covered by the slavers, to whom he periodically sold his debtors.
This situation had been unfolding here for years.
The locals had finally resigned themselves to their fate and learned to live under the thumb of the criminals.
Their submission was largely ensured by Glasfir'alik's belonging to the Defel race.
Since his kin were so rare in the galaxy that ordinary citizens usually hadn't even heard of them, Glasfir'alik became infamous on Demezel for his cruel nature and mysterious abilities. Superstitions grew up around the "monster" that ruled Demezel's underworld.
Legends were told of his ability to dissolve into space and remain invisible.
However, unlike the locals, Captain Tyberos knew more than enough about his enemy.
For that, he should thank Dominion Intelligence, but they could get by without his gratitude.
Glasfir'alik was nothing more than a petty thug who used intimidation and the uniqueness of his species to his advantage.
Defels came from a high-gravity planet orbiting an ultraviolet supergiant called Ka'Dedus. Since their homeworld had no ozone layer, ultraviolet light freely reached the surface, while other wavelengths of light were mostly blocked by heavy gases in the planet's atmosphere.
Thus, all life forms on the Defels' homeworld could see in the ultraviolet light ranges but were blinded by anything except the dimmest light in other wavelengths.
That's why Defels usually wore visors when leaving their homeworld, expecting to be outdoors at their destination. Compared to other species, they could see exceptionally well in the dark.
They camouflaged quite easily in shadows thanks to their relatively compact size. And their fur had the ability to absorb light, allowing Defels to remain invisible — they only needed to freeze in some shadow.
It was exactly this kind of creature that Captain Tyberos now had to fight.
He stood in the middle of a large room, chekans clenched in his hands.
The absolute darkness he had fallen into while pursuing Glasfir'alik played right into his opponent's hands.
Unfortunately, the raider had knocked the Defel's mask off his face almost immediately.
He had planned, of course, to tear it off along with his eyes, but the Force warned Tyberos at the right moment.
Silently growling with tension, Tyberos strained with all his might to listen to his senses, trying to determine the place from which his opponent would attempt to attack.
In vain — Glasfir'alik stepped soundlessly.
Hutt-spawn.
Tyberos was furious — right in the middle of the battle with the Thalassian slavers, he was informed of Eymand's death.
An old friend had fallen at the hands of Luke Skywalker during his research into the Jedi past.
Rage seethed inside the raider, and he knew exactly where he would go after he finished this fight.
"Stop hiding, you fluffy ball of fur," the man hissed, sharply tracing a circle around himself with his chekans.
Unfortunately, his assumption that the enemy had crept up and was nearby did not pay off.
"I won't kill you painfully," he promised the Defel. "I'll just bash your thick skull in with my chekans and make a fur vest out of your pelt. It can get cold in space sometimes…"
At the last moment, the Force warned him of danger, and the raider twisted, avoiding a fatal claw strike to his liver.
Just a few scratches — nothing more.
But what infuriated him most was that he had missed.
Again.
The Defel didn't react to the insults and threats, knowing that his voice would give away his position in the empty space.
A cunning bastard.
Tyberos tried to strain his hearing again.
In vain — he reacted at the last moment again.
And again — thanks to the Force.
And gained equal wounds on his lower back.
If not for the thick jacket, the wounds could have been far more serious.
Glasfir'alik was starting to annoy him.
A wave of rage rose from the depths of his soul, mixing in one cauldron the pain of losing a friend, hatred for the black-furred Defel, and the stinging sensation of his wounds.
His hands itched with the desire to sink his chekans into the gangster's carcass.
While his guys were cleansing the planet and Glasfir'alik's bases, their own captain could bleed out in an instant from dozens of cuts that the fluffy bastard intended to inflict on him.
Oh no, you picked the wrong guy.
Just let me hear you now…
"Use the Force, Tyberos!"
Startled by the unexpectedness, the man nearly dropped his weapons.
That voice, so familiar, so clear…
A voice belonging to a dead man!
"Eymand?!" Tyberos was taken aback.
Anger receded, making way for conflicting feelings.
How was this even possible?!
"But you're dead…"
Maybe he was deceived? How could he hear the one who was finished off by that son of Darth Vader, who was now guaranteeing himself an unscheduled date with the chekans of one very angry raider?
"Remember what I taught you!"
Don't piss against the wind?
Wipe the blood off your weapons? Don't trust a Hutt's promise, a Jedi's word, or a Twi'lek's tears?
Which one?!
Tyberos diligently began digging within himself, sifting through memories, losing his vigilance for just a moment…
Suddenly, the world seemed to slow down.
The darkness around him flared with the fires of life.
Something long forgotten, something Tyberos had barely touched, opened up to him.
The Force, flowing through him, pushed the boundaries of consciousness harder than the purest Spice.
But unlike drugs, the Force gave him something else.
The sensation of an approaching spark of life, radiating blind malice and the desire to pierce Tyberos's kidneys with one precise strike.
"Not today," the raider grinned, spinning around and striking flat with his right chekan.
With a distinct crunch, the heavy weapon crashed into the Defel's jaw, shattering it into several pieces.
The opponent yelped like a Bantha being raped by a rancor and collapsed to the floor like a sack.
Calm gave way to rage.
The world around changed again, taking on shades of red.
A bloody veil rose before his eyes, and the man, savoring the sensation of fear and pain emanating from the Defel, slowly moved toward his opponent, twirling his chekans.
Glasfir'alik mumbled something, but his broken jaw prevented him from forming understandable words.
But Tyberos felt what he couldn't say.
"No, my little furry friend," at that moment, Tyberos felt like he could blow up a star, so strongly did his rage make his blood boil.
Adrenaline reached the necessary parts of his body at faster-than-light speed, and the raider began to breathe deeply, literally devouring the oxygen around him.
Glasfir'alik mumbled something again.
"No mercy," Tyberos declared, stepping onto his opponent's feet and crushing them with his own weight.
The Defel squealed like a wounded Gamorrean, for which Tyberos kicked him hard in the ribs, stepping aside.
"Don't give in to the Dark Side…"
"Not today, Eymand," Tyberos brushed off the voice.
He grabbed the meter-and-a-half tall Defel and brought his muzzle close to his own triumphant face.
Even through the darkness, the raider saw how a pitiful grimace distorted his opponent.
The Defel mumbled again.
"Mercy?" Tyberos repeated.
Glasfir'alik nodded vigorously.
"How many of the thousands of Demezel inhabitants you sold to slavers begged for mercy?" Tyberos asked, literally choking on the power of the Dark Side. "How many families did you blow up to make them fear you? How many did you kill, becoming the terror in the eyes of hundreds of children who saw you gutting their parents in the middle of the night?"
The Defel desperately tried to say something, but Tyberos was tired of listening.
"If you kill him in anger, you will fall…" Eymand's weakening voice reached him.
He always used that tone when the young student had disappointed his horned teacher.
Tyberos shook his head, dispelling the illusion.
The crimson tones began to recede, and his mind cleared.
Really — why had he decided to kill this bastard?
Because he executed the locals?
Or to satisfy his killing urge caused by the loss of a close being?
Killing a criminal wouldn't bring Eymand back.
And that damn Force had shown up so inconveniently…
Though, that last part was a slander.
If not for the Force, Glasfir'alik would have killed him long ago.
"I won't kill you," Tyberos said, heading toward a window tightly sealed with metal shutters.
Glasfir'alik wailed, expressing his gratitude, assuring his assailant that he held no grudge for his injuries, begging for forgiveness…
One blow from the mighty chekan was enough to knock the bolt off the shutters.
Prying the metal with the tip, Tyberos swung the window open.
He inhaled deeply the fresh, clean air.
The midday sun didn't blind him — the Force helped his eyes.
"That doesn't count as falling to the Dark Side if you didn't die by my hand, does it?" Tyberos grinned, tossing the Defel out the window in one motion.
A shriek rang out, cut short a few seconds later by a dull thud.
Tyberos looked out the window, verifying that the fall from the third floor hadn't turned the black fuzzball into a bloody, hairy rag.
Then his gaze shifted to the townspeople standing near Glasfir'alik's house.
The wealthy estate was located right in the center of the city, surrounded by a cobblestone square.
Now it was littered with hundreds of bodies of "Glasfir's Ring" gangsters killed by the raiders.
And one rising, furry piece of blackness.
"What are you standing around for?" Tyberos barked, looking at the townspeople. "There's your tormentor, the murderer of your families. Just an ordinary creature of flesh and blood."
The townspeople were silent, but pitchforks and spade bayonets began appearing in the hands of some.
In fact, what else would be in the hands of simple farmers?
Not a plow.
"You have until I come down," Tyberos warned. "Do with him what you will. The Dominion gave no order to take him alive."
Turning away from the window, he found the mask that had been knocked off his face.
Picking it up, he heard the dull thuds of heavy objects hitting flesh.
Accompanied by gurgling shrieks, they marked the end of the Defel's dictatorship on Demezel.
Tyberos, feeling a sense of calm in his soul, headed for the exit.
And he walked very, very slowly.
* * *
Footsteps, measuring the distance covered in the depths of the underground base, sounded hollow.
Even though, of the three walking down the corridor — gleaming with fresh paint and brand-new lighting equipment — two of the humanoids had heels on their footwear.
And one individual's heels were traditionally feminine.
But even so, Iceheart managed to move almost silently, placing the toe of her boots down first, and only then the heel.
Despite having no need to conceal her presence from me, Rukh, and the guards in black-and-gold armor lining the corridor, the woman used simple conspiratorial techniques.
Most likely, this habit was ingrained in her subconscious at the level of a conditioned reflex, like blinking or covering her mouth with a hand when yawning.
"You know, Grand Admiral," the Isard clone said quietly, casting an interested glance at me, "I've never before been invited to visit a state's secret base without them being absolutely certain of my loyalty."
"There's a first time for everything."
"Or perhaps this is a gesture of trust on your part," the woman continued, sticking to her line.
"What is more likely is that this is your insatiable desire to figure me out through simple operational provocations," I said in an unchanged tone.
"Oh, come now," the woman smiled. "I learned your warning the first time — do not test you."
"In that case, don't make the same mistake regarding my patience either," I advised.
"As you wish," the Isard clone said peaceably. "I'm quite pleased with the warming of our relationship — after all, you brought only one bodyguard. I'll take that as a sign of trust."
This woman was clearly a provocateuse from God.
She knew perfectly well that I could have done without Rukh entirely — the laboratory was guarded by a battalion of Guardsmen capable of shredding a small army if it ever decided to land on this planet.
We continued our journey in complete silence.
The guards from the secret facility security division, stationed at every intersection, stood like statues, frozen in place.
Not a single movement, not a hint that they were even alive.
I suspect these guys could teach the English Queen's Guards a thing or two. As far as I remember, those prim and proper sentries would occasionally show signs of activity.
But Grodin Tierce's clones — no.
Until intervention was required, they successfully posed as furniture.
We crossed several corridors, ignoring the locked doors leading to various laboratories and offices.
Today, my interest was focused on a very specific department of the secret base.
I doubted, of course, that in such a short time since the facility's creation, the local staff had managed to settle in and begin research.
But I was certain about one particular laboratory — it was functioning normally.
And that was exactly where we were heading.
Seeing my approach, the pair of guard sentries silently unlocked the passage, allowing us inside.
We were in a spacious hall, where scientists worked at workbenches and laboratory tables arranged around the perimeter.
Without the usual white coats, but in comfortable light uniforms, three dozen beings spoke quietly among themselves, discussing the details of their projects.
They paid no more attention to us than they would to a change in the position of the local star.
Fanatics of their work — they can be forgiven.
"Oh," I heard a young female voice, generously laced with a clumsy accent, coming from somewhere to the right. "Grand Admiral. Unexpected."
Turning my head, I saw the owner of the voice.
By her rounded cheeks and energetically working lower jaw (and also thanks to the holographic photo from her personnel file), I recognized the young woman.
"Hello, Third. Enjoy your meal."
Ysanne studied the fragile-looking woman with a slight squint. I could bet that Iceheart was currently trying to answer the question — how could a service jumpsuit hang like a sack on a woman who was on the go, snacking on a juicy steak? And clearly not for the first time eating this way.
Upon personal acquaintance, Third was startling in her thinness.
I don't know what was going on with her metabolism, but I suspected her body structure had clearly been altered by the monks of the order she belonged to.
"Sankthoo," Third, swallowing the piece (by the looks of it, without chewing, since tears welled up in her eyes, which happens when food is forced down the throat), looked regretfully at the fork with the uneaten piece of meat.
Resolutely setting it aside — on a stack of papers with some diagrams — the lab director wiped the remnants of food from her face with the sleeve of her jumpsuit (which made Iceheart's crimson eye twitch).
Giving the steak a wistful look, Third met my eyes:
"Don't you want to eat?"
"I don't make a habit of taking food from those who need it," I said.
Ysanne let out an almost imperceptible snort, continuing to burn a hole through Third with her gaze.
The latter, looking at the Isard clone, quickly turned her gaze to me:
"If there's something you need, just say it, because I don't know what you're here for, right?"
"I'm sure it has something to do with your current projects," Isard's voice rang out. "This is a laboratory, isn't it?"
Seeing the smile on her face, Third gave a frightened hiccup.
Ysanne wrinkled her nose in annoyance.
Interesting.
Even in a "suspended state," Iceheart managed to instill fear in those around her.
People who didn't even know who they were facing.
"Actually, it's an operating room," Third blinked. "The laboratories are behind the door," she waved toward the only entrance door.
"How interesting," Ysanne Isard squinted, looking at me again.
"I want to know about the patient's condition," my voice literally gave the Third some courage.
"Oh, he's doing well," the young woman nodded energetically. "The surgery was successful, no signs of rejection."
"I'd like to see him personally."
"Yes, of course," the Third said absently, gesturing toward one of the spacious doors leading out of the hall.
It took a few minutes to reach the coveted room.
It looked less like a high-tech hospital room and more like...
One bed, on which lay the body of a middle-aged man, numerous medical devices, droids occupying practically every free space.
We were in a room adjacent to the ward. Separated by a one-way mirror, we didn't disturb the post-op recovery environment.
There wasn't much point in standing next to the patient — I'm no specialist in this kind of thing. I can't figure out what the instruments are showing or how well it matches the former nun's report.
I can only hope the lab director's report is truthful.
Though, she'd never lied before.
"He's asleep," the Third explained, accounting for the oxygen mask on the patient's face. "We're administering nutrient solution and bacta aerosol to speed post-operative healing and reduce the risks of headaches, post-operative shock, and so on. Vital signs are stable. The droids have checked his reflexes and all organ function. The nerve endings in his arms and legs respond to external stimuli within normal human physiology. In a couple of days we'll bring him out of the induced coma. After that we'll run a series of cognitive and physical tests, but I can already assure you the result is achieved — the transplant was successful. Well, as always."
"No problems with the accelerated metabolism?" I asked.
"None at all," the Third shrugged. "We're keeping him on nutrient solutions for now — supporting his body pharmaceutically. Once recovery is complete, he'll need a strict diet for the first while, but overall it's a standard process, nothing excessive."
"Thank you," I said. "You're not leaving us, are you?"
"Yes, of course," the Third replied, darting a glance behind me. "If you need me, just call."
If my spatial orientation was correct, she was interested in the half-eaten steak left on the service documentation.
The Isard clone studied the unconscious body with curiosity, then looked at me.
"As far as I remember, General Veers didn't look that young. And judging by your scientist's words, the sensitivity of his lower limbs has been restored."
"Do you have questions?" I inquired.
"More like theories," Isard narrowed her eyes. "It's not a clone — otherwise none of these machines would be necessary. But at the same time the body is younger — by ten to fifteen years, if not more. It's not cybernetic prosthetics — Veers was against modifying his body with cybernetics. That leaves one option — is this scientist of yours from the B'omarr monks?"
Is it really that obvious?
"You are quite erudite," I observed.
"Part of the job," Isard said. "The thinness, the insatiable appetite, the small tattoo on her earlobe — she's from the Order. And clearly not an ordinary novice."
"A specialized expert," I confirmed, continuing to watch the droids connect another IV drip to Veers's body.
"The monks transplant brains into droid bodies," Isard reminded me. "But here... Would I be very wrong if I assumed you transplanted the general's brain from his paralyzed body into a clone?"
"No, you wouldn't be wrong," I confirmed. "That's exactly it."
"How interesting," Isard folded her arms and leaned back against the one-way mirror. "Grand Admiral, I admit, you know how to intrigue an intellectual. The B'omarr don't exactly publicize the possibility of transplanting brains into something other than the droids they construct. I won't ask how you came to know about it. A different question interests me much more."
"Go ahead, if you're genuinely curious," I said.
"This facility was built quite recently," Isard observed.
"Its construction was recently completed," I clarified. "But building began almost immediately after the Dominion was created. There was supposed to be a different project here, but this one was prioritized."
"You're so forthcoming," the Isard clone tilted her head. "That wasn't like you before. Nor was letting me out of the palace on Ciutric IV. And now not only are you sharing information, you've also brought me here, shown me what capabilities you have, let me see that this process is clearly not experimental for you..."
"So what is the essence of your question?" I looked at the woman.
"What are you planning, Thrawn?" the clone asked. "You're not boasting — you decided to intrigue me. I admit, you've succeeded. I feel like a little girl, eagerly waiting for her father to come home from work and tell her what gift he brought for her birthday."
Oh...
Unexpected information.
Honestly, I don't recall ever encountering any information about how such holidays are celebrated in this galaxy.
But if what the Isard clone said is true — then it's exactly the same as in my past.
"I have reasonable doubts that you actually felt such feelings for Armand Isard," I said.
"I didn't — the original might have," the woman corrected herself. "But that's not important. Just memories I can't erase from my head."
"Quite true," the woman was practically devouring me with her eyes. "We're ready to strike at the real Isard."
"Wonderful," the clone smiled wordlessly. "But that's not why we're here, is it?"
"Correctly observed," I agreed. "Over the course of our cooperation, you have proven yourself on the positive side. You even found a way to overcome the desire to take the 'Lusankya' prisoners."
"Oh, that contradictory feeling eats me alive every night," the clone said. "But I have no desire to die carrying out someone else's will. Of course, unless you've changed your mind and want to hand me over to Shohashi."
"Your work on the reorganization of the intelligence service and other truly important areas has been presented to me. It deserves commendation."
"Is this how you thank me for the tip about the Ubiqtorate operatives?" Isard clarified.
"Among other things. The question is different. I intend to keep my word — Isard will die. That's non-negotiable."
"I'm among the first who'd like to see her lifeless body with a hole in her head," the clone said. "Shohashi wants revenge — and I support him. But the problem with me remains, doesn't it?"
"Including the question of your loyalty," I said. "As we know, anyone can be programmed. Even for delayed actions."
"You have a way to check that — you need to take Isard alive and copy her memory," the clone said. "If there really are hidden commands and programming in me — get rid of me. That would be the most rational solution of all."
"That's in the plans," I agreed. "However, let's consider another scenario. Isard's memory tells us there are no dangerous encodings in your mind. You work for the benefit of the Dominion. After the real Isard's death, any legend connected to your appearance will be extremely untenable."
"You want to transplant my brain into another body," the clone nodded. "Audacious. I admit, I'd never have dared such a thing myself. But then what?"
"Wrong question," I replied.
"Then what's the right one?"
"'What will happen before the transplant?'" I said.
The Isard clone gave a restrained laugh.
"Grand Admiral, I can't contain the delight I feel from your pragmatism," she said. "Don't take this as flattery or anything of the sort. Those qualities are foreign to me, and right now I'm being honest. Your genius deserves praise. Capturing me, healing me, forcing me to work for you, manipulating me with the possibility of eliminating the original and being the only one. I've done a lot for you, but still — not enough to earn a new body."
"One such transplant costs as much as a third of a Super Star Destroyer," I said. "The reagents and chemical compounds involved are made to special order. I think you understand that such expenses cannot be incurred for trifles."
"More than," Isard smiled. "So, what do you want from me, Grand Admiral?"
I looked at Veers again.
"Are you familiar with what's called the 'Delta Source'?" I inquired.
"A complex eavesdropping device installed in the Vestibule of the Imperial Palace on Coruscant," Isard answered quickly. "The original used it to know everything happening on the planet. The Emperor personally gave the original the operating frequency for that device."
"Not just her," I replied.
"How sweet," Isard said. "And what of it?"
"The latest batch of reports from the Palace is striking in the level of Republican planning," I said. "They know Isard is alive. And they assume she intends to capture the 'Lusankya' when it's ready."
"She's doing it for Palpatine," the clone said.
"Exactly," I confirmed. "Moreover, they plan to first lure out Isard, and then me, using the same Super Star Destroyer."
"Oh, the Republicans have decided to use the 'disinformation and ambush' tactic against the creator of that very tactic," the clone chuckled. "How ill-advised of them."
"Those are just general outlines of the plan," I said. "The details will be discussed aboard Bel Iblis's flagship in orbit of Coruscant. Each part of the plan on a new ship."
"Cautious of them," Isard nodded. "They fragment the information and see what of it becomes known to us. I'm sure the overall plan has drastic differences from what's being discussed."
"Yes, that's logical," I agreed. "The only problem is that after the destruction of the Ubiqtorate, an opportunity has opened up that I don't want to miss. And it's directly connected to Isard and the 'Lusankya'."
It took the Iceheart clone all of three seconds to put the pieces together.
"O-oh, Grand Admiral," her eyes lit up with a mischievous spark. "An intrigue on the edge of a gamble. Honestly, I thought you were going to use that slug Sate Pestage as a double agent. I've just started breaking him. Soft as molten plastic. And just as disgusting, if you dig deeper."
"In that case, if I can use Pestage, why do I need you?" I asked.
"A valid question," Isard agreed. "And you have no reason to trust me or my actions. Including in the matter of breaking Pestage. And other sentients. Including Advisor Fey'lya."
"Correctly observed," I agreed.
"But you do trust," the Isard clone stated. "And you're even offering to make me part of your plan against Palpatine. Aren't you afraid of my betrayal?"
"Despite everything, you've had every opportunity to betray me before," I noted. "But you chose loyalty to me, to my cause, and the fight against your own programming."
"True," the Iceheart clone confirmed. "Walking on a knife's edge."
"Dangerous times call for dangerous decisions," I said. "Now I want your answer, Ysanne. Are you with me?"
The woman winced at the name she preferred to distance herself from.
But she didn't break eye contact.
Her eyes — the color of ice and hellfire — looked at me as if trying to penetrate inside my skull, invade my mind, and read every thought within.
"Significant preparatory work will be required," she said.
"The mechanisms are already in motion," I replied. "I just need your consent. And the desire to demonstrate your superiority over the original in operational matters."
The woman peeled herself away from the one-way mirror and stood directly in front of me.
I saw her expression — calm, devoid of any emotion at that moment. Ice and fire in her eyes.
Her nostrils inhaled filtered air, and her chest rose heavily.
It seemed the red tunic was about to burst at the seams.
I could practically feel the electricity in the air of the short distance separating us.
Even Rukh, his gray shadow visible in the periphery, had already drawn his blades and was ready to spring at her.
"You're pointing me at a rabbit hole and telling me to dive in headfirst, for you and your goals, Grand Admiral," she said, her voice slightly hoarse. "You're playing on my professional pride. You know that if it all comes to light, your plans will never come to fruition?"
"I am acutely aware of that."
"I could betray you," the Isard clone reminded me. "Because you can't shake the thought that all this time I might have just been pretending, nursing my own plans. And in essence, you want to hand me a weapon capable of destroying everything you've built."
"You've been co-author of many of my recent achievements," I reminded her. "And yes, I have no desire to trust you: the example of Prince-Admiral Krennel is still fresh in my mind. Your original was close to Palpatine, and there's no guarantee you won't follow in her footsteps."
"She was in love," the Isard clone clarified. "And for her strange love of the Emperor, mixed with fear, adoration, and ambition, she was ready to do anything. Ambition isn't foreign to me either — you can't beat that metaphysical quality. I've worked for you and derived almost physical satisfaction from it. Like ordinary sentients, I also feel fear — I may just be a clone, but nothing human is alien to me. I'm afraid of you — and what you could do to me."
"There's only one last ingredient in this devil's cocktail," I noted. "Adoration."
"True," the Isard clone said breathlessly. "Do you know it would take me a fraction of a second to tear the belt off my uniform and slit your throat with the sharpened edge of the buckle?"
Rukh tensed like a spring.
"One move of my hand and the threat to Palpatine's dominion would be eliminated," I confirmed, not taking my eyes off the woman.
"I could snap your neck," the Iceheart clone continued.
"Or with a strike of your sharpened nails, sever the artery in my neck," I confirmed. "Or you could take me hostage, escape the facility, seize a shuttle, and flee anywhere."
"Oh, you noticed my special manicure," the Isard clone replied without a trace of a smile. "And still you came close enough to me that even your bodyguard wouldn't have time to react."
"It's a matter of trust," I noted.
"Of a slave or a subordinate?" Isard asked with interest, still boring into me with her gaze.
"Of an ally," I clarified. "You are devilishly dangerous and unpredictable, deadly and treacherous."
"But you trusted me," the woman's gaze warmed by a fraction of a degree.
"I have every reason to. Because you don't have adoration for Palpatine."
"No," Isard agreed. "You know the Emperor never stayed alone even with the original. Even with his mistresses, he never behaved in a way that would allow them to harm him."
"I have Rukh," I reminded her.
"At this distance, he's useless," Isard reminded me.
Her right hand, with sharply filed nails glinting with a metallic polish, pressed against my stomach.
"You didn't even wear a body armor vest, as you used to," her eyes flickered with surprise.
"As I said — this conversation is a matter of trust," I reminded her, smelling the perfume of the woman standing before me.
It smelled of fruit and herbs.
A light, unobtrusive scent.
Not even pheromones, which are usually so sharp.
"I'm impressed, Grand Admiral," the Isard clone's palm slid across my torso and rested on the command panel. "Such composure, such self-control..."
The Isard clone licked her lips with the tip of her tongue.
A movement of her eyelids, and the cold in her eyes became the light of distant stars, approaching which threatened to burn with streams of stellar radiation.
The woman took a step and was right up against me.
Her face almost touched mine.
She was only a couple of centimeters shorter than me, but compensated with her heels, which had stabbing spikes embedded in them.
"Just twenty minutes ago, I thought this was nothing more than a delusion," she said, placing her other hand on my chest.
The metal-gleaming nails pointed straight at my unprotected neck.
"And what is it really?" I inquired, not taking my eyes off her.
The Iceheart clone's palms slid higher, landing on either side of my neck.
"Adoration," she mouthed, before our lips met in a brief kiss.
Judging by the clatter, Rukh dropped his daggers. And his jaw hit the floor.
If Isard's thumbs hadn't been supporting mine, it would have followed.
Gravity, you heartless bitch.