This guy clearly wasn't a candidate for the title of "Friendliest Person on the Planet Bosph."
Honestly, he wasn't even a human.
No, without a doubt, he once left the maternal womb born with a full set of human genes and distinguishing features, but now...
This two-meter mountain of muscle, whose arms and legs were replaced with massive prosthetics, and half of whose head was hidden under a metal plate so that the red photoreceptor replacing his eye made him look more like a droid than a human, clearly didn't inspire trust.
And definitely couldn't be their contact.
"Grissom," Arista said quietly, pretending to be busy sipping her cocktail but actually watching the cyborg giant approaching their cantina from under her long, fluffy eyelashes. "We seem to have problems."
Arista Kabul.
The massive Gamorrean, whose build was in no way inferior to the cyborg's, was sipping lumin ale with apparent indifference, but Arista knew he was preparing to fight.
Her loyal companion always tensed his neck before a fight started.
Grissom.
"Cover your ears," came the chirping of a Jawa from under a dirty brown hood. "There's going to be a big boom-boom..."
"No need, Tech," Arista said in the same language, placing a hand on her comrade's shoulder for emphasis. "Blowing up the cantina is not in our plans at all."
And picking a fight isn't either, generally speaking.
But it seems trouble is looking for them.
Ever since they left Otunia, after blowing up the Kabul Industries mines, trouble had left them alone for a while.
And now, today, on the very day they were supposed to meet a liaison offering help in preventing Set from seizing the remnants of their father's corporation, this very cyborg appears, moving through the crowd like a Star Destroyer among civilian yachts.
And there's nowhere to run—they were sitting in the farthest corner, the only exit—which is also the entrance—lies behind the cyborg.
And separating him from them is a crowd of drunk locals, who in their current state only need a good personal reason to start a fight.
Only the dark-haired young woman wasn't sure that in this scuffle, the scrawny local farmers would have any chance of winning a fistfight.
If the people here were locals—Bosphians—then they might be able to come up with something, but as it is...
Only hope lies in Grissom's muscles and her own agility.
"No boom-booms?" Tech babbled questioningly.
"No," Arista declared.
"I have small boom-booms," the Jawa's voice took on pleading notes. "Very small boom-booms..."
"No need to attract attention to our campa—"
Arista didn't get to finish.
The cyborg was unexpectedly fast, appearing behind Grissom as he rose from the table.
A heavy bar stool appeared in the air, crashing down on the Gamorrean's head with furious speed.
The Jawa, Tech.
Grissom's eyes rolled back, and he went limp.
The Gamorrean's massive bulk crashed to the floor, lying among the splinters, showing no signs of life.
"Son of a...!" Arista barely had time to think, watching the cyborg unceremoniously grab the Jawa and knock him unconscious with one strong blow under the hood.
"Hey, tin can, what do you think you're doing..." the nearest farmer began, but the cyborg sent him into oblivion with a single slap.
"Don't come any closer!" The cyborg's voice was also artificial.
But the disintegrator that appeared in his hand from nowhere was as real as it gets.
"What do you think you're doing!?" other drunkards began.
"Doing my job," the cyborg cut in. "These three are terrorists and criminals accused of blowing up the Kabul Industries mines a few years ago. My task is to deliver them to Otunia for trial. Anyone who interferes with the contract will die on the spot."
Which was to be expected—this provocative situation didn't arise out of thin air.
She had to react—and fast.
Headhunters don't like letting victims out of their clutches.
Especially when the client is someone like her uncle Set.
Arista swung into action.
Instead of charging at her friends' attacker, instead of smashing something impressive into the cyborg's teeth, Arista slid sideways, dodging a disintegrator shot that blasted a huge hole in the wall, and then, coming up behind him, she braced herself on the counter of the nearest table and thrust her long leg forward.
The kick, with all the force a frail woman could muster, struck the cyborg in the temple on the side of the metal plate.
The headhunter staggered, and Arista herself hopped on one foot, realizing she had at best injured the other foot from the impact.
Why couldn't he just turn around, huh?
Only a few seconds passed before the cyborg got back up, back on his feet.
His monstrous weapon had disappeared somewhere, and he clearly intended to finish off the frail girl with his bare hands.
Especially since Tech had also slipped from his grasp.
Arista knew she couldn't withstand a direct confrontation with the giant under any scenario.
The cyborg looked like the victim of a fatal collision between an airspeeder and a pedestrian, assembled from the wreckage of both.
And the frail woman next to him, even with a miniaturized concealed blaster in hand, was just a joke.
But then a new participant appeared on the scene—Grissom got up from the floor.
The Gamorrean didn't look troubled by the wound on his head at all—he didn't even pay attention to the trickles of blood.
His sculpted body, the envy of most of his kin, his giant stature, his clearly experienced combat stance—the opponent assessed it all in an instant.
And he grinned: not a hint of amusement, coldly, threateningly.
The cyborg started again.
Scattering the patrons, who fled screaming in all directions, he tore a bolted-down table from the floor, lifted it above his head, and with a strained grunt, swung it at his opponent.
An ordinary person wouldn't have had time to duck, but Grissom wasn't an ordinary person.
The Gamorrean lunged forward, crouching, and thus dodged the heavy projectile.
He went for the cyborg's legs and knocked him to the floor with the mass of his body.
Immediately after, Grissom received heavy blows to the head from the cybernetic arms.
Teeth flew to the side, and the Gamorrean's fanged head slammed into the cyborg's face with a powerful blow.
The clang of crumpling metal was heard.
Grissom's heavy fists pounded the cyborg so hard that his photoreceptor flew off somewhere and the metal plates cracked—on his head and upper torso.
The other bar patrons finally reached a certain consensus.
They cleared space for the fighters and started placing bets on the winner.
The clearing of the area allowed Arista to spot Tech, who was crawling out from somewhere in the back rows, cursing furiously.
The girl barely managed to duck: a mug flew over her head and shattered against the wall.
"Terrorist!" someone from the crowd yelled.
Arista only cursed powerlessly and silently.
Clearly, the cyborg had support or a provocateur to stir up the emotionally drunk crowd.
Over the years since the mine explosion, Set, nearly bankrupt, had managed to spread plenty of rumors that hundreds of corporate workers had died in the tunnels.
Despite the fact that there wasn't a single living soul there, now few cared.
Whether they recognized her or not, there were unfriendly glints in the crowd—any moment now, some brave souls might step forward to tie her up and claim the reward.
Grissom was already pounding the cyborg's head, breaking through the wooden floor and leaving cracks in the permacrete underlay beneath.
And then the cantina suddenly rippled with black uniforms of security forces.
Arista didn't have time to be surprised that humanoids recognizable by their silhouettes were working as law enforcement on Bosph, before the crowd was already under the sights of four fighters' blaster carbines.
The fifth, their commander, made an unambiguous gesture with his hand, telling her to come over immediately.
To argue with a man in full armor who is also armed is a stupid thing to do.
Judging by the fact that Tech was also dragged toward this being, and three soldiers immediately had Grissom and the cyborg in a crossfire, it was clearly professionals at work.
Perhaps mercenaries or...
The girl realized she was getting scared.
Especially because, looking closer, she could tell that these guys were wearing elements of Imperial uniform.
And that was clearly worse than bad.
The planet Bosph had been shelled from orbit by the Empire in the past, and the locals preferred to consign the very mention of Imperials to oblivion—according to native beliefs, this is the highest sign of contempt.
And they definitely would not have hired Imperials for work.
Of course, they could be mercenaries using widely sold black-market Imperial gear, but such groups cost too much for a remote sector.
So it's much more serious.
They're Imperials.
And they're surely working for one of her uncle's allies.
They'd rather shoot them than let them go alive.
She didn't even notice how they took her blaster, pulled out spare power cells and a tibanna cartridge, a knife from her boot, and fastened heavy cuffs on her wrists.
"Out," the squad commander ordered.
The crowd, having stopped their rowdiness in an instant, only watched in fascination as the law enforcement worked in unison, immediately dragging each of the four detainees toward the doors.
Without further ado, they were led out of the smoke-filled bar into the street, but no one noticed any particular change in the atmosphere.
It was pouring from the sky, and Arista was instantly soaked to the bone.
They were led to a vehicle.
A bulbous van with no windows, the kind usually used for transporting prisoners.
One soldier swung open the rear doors, and they shoved in the cyborg, who seemed clearly lost in reality, with metal parts on his head coming off so clearly that the staples attaching them to his skull were visible.
Grissom was clearly in a bad mood, as he had nearly killed the headhunter.
The Gamorrean himself looked quite lively and even seemed ready to start another scuffle.
He tensed up again when a blaster was pressed to the back of the cyborg's head.
The squad commander pulled the trigger, and several concentric discharges of white-blue energy ran across the headhunter's body.
They immobilized him.
The Gamorrean had already started tearing at his restraints, but they took him down too, as well as Tech, who barely had time to squeak "I'll give you such a boom-boom!"
Then one of the soldiers shot each of her friends in the body with a pneumatic syringe, putting them to sleep, after which both were tossed into the same van.
Three soldiers climbed in after them, the fourth got into the cab, and another windowless air car stopped next to Arista, who was silently stunned by what was happening.
"Here," the squad commander ordered uncompromisingly, pointing the girl to the open rear door.
"Go to Hell," she snapped.
"Ma'am, I just got back from there," the mercenary said unexpectedly, then unceremoniously shoved the girl into the cabin and sat by the door himself, blocking the way back.
The air car started moving, traveling along deserted streets, following the van with the prisoners.
It was dark inside—not only because the lights were off, but also because the windows she could make out turned out to be fakes—armor plates were visible from the inside in their place.
So.
A quick summary.
They lured her from her hideout to the cantina.
They put on a show.
Got her.
Separated from her friends.
Being taken somewhere in an armored car...
What else could surprise her today?
Suddenly, the light came on inside the cabin.
It painfully cut her eyes, but she covered them and squeezed them shut to get used to the bright glow faster.
"Well, I must apologize for this meeting not going according to plan," a man's voice sounded.
Clearly not belonging to the mercenary squad commander sitting nearby.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, still trying to get her eyes to adjust to the light.
"The one who promised you help dealing with your uncle," the man replied. After a couple of minutes, her vision finally returned, and Arista could at last make out her interlocutor.
Like the squad commander, he was clad in black armor.
A strong face, close-cropped hair.
A piercing gaze and cold, appraising eyes.
Even seated in a chair, he commanded respect and clearly had nothing to do with civilian structures.
An experienced military man sat before her.
The only question was who he represented.
That was exactly what Arista asked.
Not even a hint of a smile appeared on her interlocutor's face.
"It's not yet time to name names," he said. "But I can tell you that the forces behind me are clearly intent on breaking the blockade of the Bosph sector and at least establishing trade relations with the corporation 'Kabul Industries.'"
"The company is bankrupt," the girl declared. "The mines are destroyed."
"Your information is outdated," the man replied just as seriously. "Your uncle, Seth Kabul, with the support of former Moff Harsh, the crew of his Star Destroyer 'The Cauldron,' and those who are sponsoring the subjugation of the sector's planets, has begun their full restoration. Now it's no longer a couple of barely functional mines trading minerals with the Corporate Sector. This is a full-scale revival of the entire industrial potential of 'Kabul Industries.' Investments in restoring the enterprise and greasing your uncle's palm in exchange for handing over the entire business to the Corporate Sector. According to our information, your uncle intends to transfer the entire corporation and all its mines to the shadow government of the 'Corporates,' thereby finally subjugating the Bosph sector and establishing total dictatorship over the local population. That bounty hunter was supposed to deliver you to your uncle. After that, the death of you and your friends would serve as a cautionary lesson for anyone who might think of rebelling."
A chill ran through the young woman.
"And you must be those wonderful Republican liberators from the New Republic base in our sector, who fight for all that is good against all that is evil, but just don't have the funds to liberate us?" she asked with a hint of reproach.
"No," the interlocutor replied calmly. "We don't care about 'all good and all evil.' We need the mines and resources of your enterprise. We are ready to provide all necessary support to you in restoring control over your father's company. We will also help you get rid of your uncle. If you want, you can put him on trial or blow his brains out right in the mansion — we don't care. The only condition is an equal partnership in your future enterprise. And, naturally, we will ensure a constant demand for your mines' minerals."
The girl frowned.
"You're being evasive," she said. "You don't say who you are, you don't explain why you're helping... What you're talking about is a full-scale war that would require thousands of soldiers, hundreds of ships... Maybe the mines could be retaken by capturing my uncle and forcing him to renounce the inheritance, but what about 'The Cauldron' and the Corporate Sector fleet that's blockading the borders? Not to mention they have an army..."
"The time hasn't come yet for answers to some questions," the interlocutor stated. "But I can say with full responsibility — we are not afraid of such a confrontation. We have soldiers, ships, and the desire to prevent this sector from falling to our enemies."
"Because you intend to conquer it yourselves?" the girl realized.
"My leadership has no desire to fight for the annexation of the sector to our holdings if it contradicts the wishes of the population of the planets within it," the interlocutor declared. "We believe the resources aren't worth spending time on occupation."
"Oh, tell me about it," the girl snorted. "On Otunia alone, there are a large number of mines extracting nearly every metal from the periodic table. Not to mention that the sector has over two dozen uninhabited systems rich in minerals, which my father planned to turn into new mines. To conquer these planets, the Corporate Sector invaded Bosph and besieged the borders, preventing the population from escaping and reporting their dire situation. These reserves are enough to build an entire fleet, maybe even more than one!"
"Yes, we know," the interlocutor replied. "And we prefer not to just waste time fighting for the sector, only to get kicked in the ass and told we're not welcome here. Either we will take care of the population, its security, and develop the sector's economy, or there's no point for us to start. Permanently subsidized sectors as part of a state don't interest us."
"Even in Imperial times, Bosph had no importance; only mineral supplies allowed the population to live decently," Arista noted.
"In that case, we just need to take a smart approach to territorial development," the interlocutor remarked. "The Outer Rim and everything beyond it are a source of enormous resources that are always needed. Both for military affairs and for civilian industry. The initial investment pays off — if you approach colonization wisely."
"That sounds overly utopian," Arista declared.
"That sounded like a refusal to cooperate with us," the interlocutor calmly stated his opinion.
"From my perspective, it looks like you intend to use me as a nominal leader who, with your help, will regain control of the enterprise, which you will later use as the core of your own colonization," Arista said. "Especially since, by your own words, you'll take half the company under your control. But you don't even intend to declare who you really are."
"Your position is perfectly clear," the interlocutor stated. "Yes, 'Kabul Industries' is destined to become the backbone of the sector's industry, a source of jobs, and the main conduit for our aspirations for peaceful association. Understanding this makes you, in my eyes, a sufficiently competent and clear-sighted manager. But the fact that you clearly don't realize that I and the forces behind me are offering you not just half of your father's old company, but half of what 'Kabul Industries' could become in the future. With proper management, of course."
The young woman was silent for a while, then, lifting her head, asked:
"So when will the hints start that half of a family business, obtained with your help and on your terms, is better than getting nothing but doing it yourself?"
For the first time in the entire conversation, a smile appeared on the interlocutor's face.
"As you can see, I have no need to say that," the man said. "You understand that perfectly well yourself. But if it makes you feel better, I'll repeat your own words, but simplify the phrasing as much as possible: a growing 'half' is better than a whole 'nothing.' Not to mention that by getting rid of the attacks on your company, you'll also remove the target that Seth Kabul has put on your back."
The girl gave a strained smile.
"You don't expect an answer immediately, do you?" Arista asked.
"Of course, you're free to think whatever you want for as long as you like," the interlocutor agreed. "But I think you should know that our operation will be carried out. Regardless of whether you consent to it or not."
"Then what do you need me for?" Arista was surprised.
The interlocutor smiled again, emotionlessly and thinly, which gave the young woman the impression that she was speaking not with a diplomat, but with a professional killer.
"Having a direct heir in charge of the company will allow you to get it running in the shortest possible time," she realized. "My name and the good memory of my father among the miners will attract them to the corporation much faster than if you did it yourselves."
"Correct," the interlocutor agreed. "Gaining loyalty also takes time and money. We prefer to spend both on restoring the enterprise. But I advise you not to forget that one of the fundamental reasons we are offering you cooperation is your professional knowledge in managing your father's company. You were his right hand and perfectly understand how and why certain changes are needed in the company, and how to manage it for the best result."
"And also, a direct heir at the head of the company will help you avoid a reputation as invaders," Arista continued, voicing her point of view, licking her lips from an excess of emotion.
"Yes," the interlocutor was telling her so simply that she was just being used. "A mutually beneficial deal. You help us establish ourselves in the sector, we help you — and proactively at that — to gain control of the company and avenge your father's murderer."
"But if I refuse, you will destroy my uncle, the fratricide, yourselves," Lady Kabul concluded. "After which you will declare yourselves liberators and begin restoring the mines, building up the planets with everything the population needs, and methodically cultivating them for loyalty."
"As cynical as it sounds, that will happen anyway," the interlocutor became serious. "We are not predators who only care about resources."
"But you do need them!"
"It would be strange to deny that," the man shrugged. "And foolish to claim that we came solely to make the local population's life a fairy tale for free. We have interests in the sector, and we intend to satisfy them. Without all the fancy talk about democracy and other theses that will never come true."
Arista was silent for several minutes, thinking about what answer to give her unexpected and ambiguous benefactors.
"At least you're honest," she said. "I understand your interest in 'Kabul Industries.' The mining company and ancillary productions, my father's factories, gave work to hundreds of thousands of beings throughout the sector. That's why you're starting with it. You show the population that your interests are also important to them..."
"I remember perfectly well what I said just a few minutes ago," the interlocutor said. "There's no need to repeat my own statements back to me."
"I need to think," the woman stated in a firm tone. "And at the very least, I want to know who is extending a 'hand of friendship' to me. Stories about 'bad Corporates' and demagogues from the New Republic are fine when you yourselves aren't them. I don't even know your name."
"We are neither the Empire, nor the Republic, nor representatives of the Corporate Sector," her interlocutor assured her. "You may call me Bravo-One. I represent the Dominion in your sector. And we hope for mutually beneficial cooperation."
Arista couldn't hide her bewilderment.
And her skepticism.
"The Dominion of Grand Admiral Thrawn?" she grimaced. "The one who died a little less than a month ago? Honestly, after that news, my enthusiasm for cooperating with you has waned... The Republicans on the HoloNet have been mocking you for a couple of weeks now, saying you can't do anything without Thrawn, that you've holed up in your core territory like womp rats..."
"As you wish," Bravo-One replied indifferently. "I won't boast. But I'll tell you straight — after we take the Star Destroyer 'The Cauldron' away from former Moff Harsh, we won't need you anymore. We will rid the sector of his tyranny ourselves, and the locals, maybe not immediately, will accept us as their liberators."
Moff Harsh.
Seth Kabul's accomplice, who killed her father.
The man who intended to seize 'Kabul Industries' for his own profit.
The bastard who was at the forefront of the sector's takeover by the Corporate Sector forces...
A man whom, like her uncle, her conscience demanded she kill.
But she lacked the means to do so.
"You might not consider yourselves Imperials, but you manipulate beings' interests just like them," the woman replied with distaste.
"We took the best from the Empire," Bravo-One declared. "If a man's prejudices prevent him from making the right and beneficial decision, we'll explain it on a more accessible level. Believe me, when I set out on this mission, I thought I'd be dealing with a pragmatic young lady, not a child who is smart but has poor control over her emotions."
"You're mistaken," Arista lifted her head proudly. "I have control over my emotions. And I accept your offer. You help me — I help you. But if you try to deceive me, I'll start a revolution in the entire sector, and your power won't last a month."
"If you could, you would have done it already," Bravo-One waved away her threat. "Empty boasts don't interest me. Let's discuss more constructive aspects of our cooperation instead..."
Arista couldn't find anything to say in response to that sensible suggestion.
* * *
As paradoxical as it might sound, work on Project "Asteroid" revealed another way to apply this technology.
Unrelated to minefields, planetary blockades, or asteroid attacks on enemy fleets.
Prison cells, whose security level is ensured by the vacuum of the surrounding interstellar space itself.
My personal shuttle was just hovering over one of these "prison asteroids."
Medium-sized, unremarkable, yet at the same time — quite valuable in the long term.
Drifting alone in the middle of vast interstellar space, beyond the inhabited systems of the Dominion.
Far from well-traveled hyperspace routes and places where ships might appear, even by chance.
A secret prison where one could be held for a very long time.
A fusion reactor powers the air purification and gravity systems; magnetic locks on the solitary cell door.
For food — monotonous porridge and drinking water, delivered directly into the cell twice a day through special nozzles.
Minimum comfort, minimum amenities, no portholes, communication or control systems.
Not even any cutlery.
Nothing that could be used to create even a half-decent transmitting device.
A computer programmed to blow the reactor if the security protocol or cell seal is breached.
And the only way out — through the door.
Which also serves as the airlock for a tiny compartment.
The perfect solitary cell, designed to drive someone mad.
I confess, when the airlock door slid aside and the shuttle's cabin was hit by a wave of stale air, I expected the prisoner to lunge at an attack, try to escape, or at least harm those who arrived.
But nothing happened.
The sole prisoner, clad in a simple prison jumpsuit, was lying calmly on the solitary cot.
But the movement of his eyes betrayed the tension hidden behind the indifferent mask on the clone's swarthy face.
"You're not looking well, Mr. Fett," I said, settling onto a folding chair brought from the shuttle.
"And you look far too healthy for someone who was killed with a lightsaber and thrown into space," the bounty hunter replied, demonstratively staring straight ahead.
If he thought that phrase would throw me off balance, he was mistaken.
I know perfectly well what Tierce told him when he visited the prisoner immediately after the Sluis Van operation.
That he had been captured on my orders.
And I also know that from the moment of his capture until the adjutant's previous visit, Fett had a portable HoloNet receiver.
In fact, after that device was discovered, he was transferred from the regular prison to the asteroid.
He had some news, after all.
"Can't say the same for your friend, the bounty hunter named Dengar, who showed up to free you," I said.
Boba Fett turned his head toward me.
He still seemed unflappable, but if there are any beings in the galaxy he gives a damn about, Dengar, at whose wedding Fett had attended and whom he'd called on for help more than once, was one of them.
"Did he die quickly?" the Mandalorian clarified.
"He's seriously wounded, but he'll live," I replied.
"At this point, by the laws of the genre, you're supposed to offer me a deal in exchange for Dengar's life," the bounty hunter snorted. "I don't like preludes. Get to the point."
A professional approach.
A mercenary only cares about money.
At least, that's what the clone of Jango Fett wants me to focus on.
"You're not so easy to find, Mr. Fett," I said, intending to let him "stew" a little longer.
I needed to track his reactions, his behavior, to understand if I could do business with him.
Or if the insult of being captured would overpower everything, and the Mandalorian, as soon as he was free, would immediately start seeking revenge.
I personally lean toward the latter.
But I don't want to dismiss the simplest option either, without consideration.
"Those who go looking for such things usually don't live to finish the search," the mercenary replied.
"You refused the offers to work for me," I reminded him, recalling how many requests had been sent through the Bounty Hunters Guild (and other means) by my agents to find the clone.
All of them — fruitless.
"And I also refused the contract on your head," the mercenary replied. "One hundred and forty thousand credits. A pretty large sum, even by my standards."
"So what stopped you?" I was interested.
In the past, Fett hadn't been particularly picky about which contracts he took, so his remark...
Quite intriguing.
"Your little 'Jawa' assassins, gutting anyone who took the job," the mercenary answered honestly. "Pretty inventive operators. It took me a long time to connect the appearance of the Jawas with the bodies of my dead colleagues. Though I intended to kill some of them myself."
"Perhaps you'll still get that chance," I said meaningfully. "You just need to agree to the work offered to you."
"Let me clarify something, Grand Admiral," Fett said, sitting up sharply on his cot, his eyes fixed on Tierce.
He was clearly testing my adjutant's reaction speed for any possible outbursts on his part.
Grodin didn't even flinch, perfectly understanding what was going on and not rising to the provocation.
"You're not the first Imperial who planned to use my blood to create a clone army, like in the days of the Old Republic," the bounty hunter said, not taking his eyes off me. "Beings far more powerful than you tried to pull that off. The Empire was at the peak of its power, and even they failed. I didn't allow it. And I won't allow you to do it either. Millions of my clones won't be running around the galaxy."
"You talk as if anything depends on you," I said, narrowing my eyes.
"Everything depends on me, Grand Admiral," the man said, his voice full of conviction. "I don't know what technology you intend to use to replicate me, but you won't succeed. You can drain as much blood as you want and make as many clones as you like. Cover the whole galaxy with them — but you won't be able to put anything in their heads. At least, nothing I know. Otherwise, you'll get some kind of mess, and the clones will degrade exponentially the moment they take their first breath. Go ahead. Waste your time, money, and a couple million bodies, but you'll end up right back where you started."
For an ordinary bounty hunter, he knows far too much.
A hint of voluntary cooperation in mind-copying and the negative consequences if he refuses.
Could this be a bluff?
Yes, without a doubt.
We've already cloned those who were unwilling to cooperate.
Yes, the resulting mind impressions weren't the best, but they were functional.
And Fett is saying he can complicate the process...
Wait.
There's logic to that.
Those who voluntarily undergo mind copying produce the most stable impressions.
Those who are less willing to cooperate yield "damaged" mind matrices.
And that's despite the fact that before copying, they are "broken" to make them compliant and unresisting.
So, if he refuses to cooperate, we'll get nothing but fragments from Fett's mind, or something similar.
Hypothetically, of course, he could be broken.
Like any sentient being.
The question is just how long it would take to convert him into what I need.
I suspect that a man who survived being inside a sarlacc pit won't be broken by simple torture and manipulation.
And I don't have an inventive interrogator at hand.
Unfortunately.
But I wasn't about to give up so easily, either.
If necessary, Fett would be put through the mental meat grinder, but he would cooperate.
Whether he wanted to or not.
"Well, we'll return to that question later, Mr. Fett," I assured the prisoner. "For now, I'm interested in some circumstances of your past work."
"I don't disclose information about my past contracts," Fett cut me off categorically.
"And you're also extremely verbose for a mercenary with your reputation," I noted. "Feigning superficial cooperation while verbally refusing to communicate, in order to speed up the end of the dialogue — a well-known rhetorical trick. But still useless."
Fett looked at me calmly, then glanced at Tierce, and swept his gaze over the walls of his cell.
"There won't be a conversation," he said, easily lifting his feet off the floor and lying back on the cot, staring at the ceiling.
"In that case, there will be my monologue," I stated. "So, briefly, the facts that, at first glance, seem unrelated. You are the only clone of Jango Fett in the entire galaxy who lacks the genetic alterations the Kaminoans applied to the other clones of the Grand Army of the Republic. You were created and raised on the planet Kamino. And some time ago, you visited it to recover after your stay in the sarlacc pit. The fact that you are alive is known to a very small number of beings. But what interests me most is information about a very specific assignment given to you by Darth Vader."
The clone only gave a sarcastic grin.
In his career as a bounty hunter, he had worked for the Sith Lord so often that he had been called the right hand of the Empire's Supreme Commander more than once or twice.
"A hunt for Galen Marek's clone from Kamino and back to Kamino, pursuit of a ship to Dantooine, a wrenching from Darth Vader's captivity," I calmly listed the circumstances I knew regarding the end of Boba Fett's story in this context. "Do these points refresh your memory?"
The headhunter remained silent.
"I want to know what happened on Dantooine, whether Galen Marek and his allies are alive." My intentions didn't register on Boba Fett's face at all.
An awkward silence hung in the air.
And the longer it lasted, the less respect the mercenary would have for me.
And the less he'd want to cooperate.
"Lieutenant Colonel Tierce," I addressed my adjutant quietly. "Break one of Mr. Fett's arms."
"Which one, sir?" came the question from the former guardsman.
"Any," I said. Fett remained calm, but he was visibly tensing, readying himself for hand-to-hand combat. "Your choice."
The guardsman slid forward like a gray shadow, driving a fist into the mercenary's chest.
But Fett had already sprung from the bed and assumed a combat stance.
The guardsman's kick landed in the headhunter's stomach, and he flew back into the wall.
He lunged at the adjutant immediately.
Tierce dodged a blow aimed at his head, pivoted his torso to soften the impact of a kick he blocked.
For a moment, the opponents froze, then Grodin, holding the opponent's leg, crouched, performed a sweep, and sent the headhunter crashing onto the metal floor.
Fett softened the fall, twisting and driving his other foot into the guardsman's head, but Tierce didn't even react.
He grabbed the mercenary by the arm, worked his body, lifting him off the floor, and then slammed Fett's back onto the metal with force.
Without letting the opponent recover, the former guard of Palpatine threw his full weight onto him, punching him in the throat.
Fett, caught off guard, lost control of the fight for a moment, allowing Tierce to continue the assault.
I didn't have time to see how the headhunter's right arm ended up locked in my adjutant's hold, but the latter, as if playing with a foolish child, slid his elbow into the crook of Fett's arm, twisted the wrist, breaking it, and then, with a short, powerful blow, snapped the radius and ulna of the forearm.
After that, he performed a lock on the healthy arm, flipping Fett onto his back and pressing his knee into his back against the floor.
He did it so that the injured arm was pinned under the sole of his right foot.
"Thank you for demonstrating your skills, Mr. Fett," I said. "Are you comfortable?"
The headhunter was silent.
"You were asked a question," Tierce stated flatly.
But Fett continued to stay silent.
A mistake.
Grodin, not really hoping to grab the opponent by his short hair, used his free hand to yank his head back, lifting his upper body off the floor, and then slammed the mercenary's face into the metal with full force.
He repeated this procedure twice before Fett's face started to resemble a bloody pulp.
Split lips, a broken nose, bleeding scrapes, several knocked-out teeth.
"You're a stubborn man, Mr. Fett," I assessed. "I fully understand that your code of honor prevents you from divulging information from past contracts. But you must also understand that since I'm officially dead to everyone, I have all the time in the world. And Lieutenant Colonel Tierce can continue this game until he gets tired. Take my word for it — his stamina is limitless. And you've just seen for yourself his skill at breaking even the best."
"Then just clone him," Fett hissed, his head pulled back by the former guardsman so far it seemed ready to snap off along with his spine.
"I'll definitely consider your suggestion," I said. The irony of the situation was that Tierce himself had been cloned many times already.
As a guardsman, as a commander of stormtrooper units, and as an assault commando to replace Colonel Selid's fallen clones.
His training as both a stormtrooper and a guardsman allowed the clones derived from him to become anything.
On the ground battlefield.
"It seems I overstated when I said you were an intelligent man, Mr. Fett. Don't disappoint me. Tell me you fully understood that the purpose of my visit isn't so much to convince you to become a donor for our clones. Frankly speaking, with your experience, we'd get anything but the professional soldiers the Dominion needs. Commandos, assassins, saboteurs — yes. Your life experience can instill those qualities in clones. However, I need not just your blood and a mind-print from you, but information. So, shall I repeat my question?"
"By all means," the verbal sparring ended for Fett with another slam to the floor.
"As you wish," I satisfied the mercenary's request. "How did you free Darth Vader, and what happened to Galen Marek, as well as his fighters? If it pleases you, I'll take your revelations to the grave. When I finally decide to visit it."
The mercenary shot me a withering glare.
"I destroyed the rebel base on Dantooine," Fett wheezed. "Called in Imperial specialists. While the rebels were busy repelling the frontal assault, I freed Vader. Marek, Eclipse, Kota escaped. Vader tasked me with finding them, but it was a lost cause. That trio fled somewhere into the Outer Rim on their ship. What happened to them afterward, I don't know. I didn't engage the clone in direct combat — he's devilishly powerful and insane in battle. Such a fight could have cost me my life."
"Assuming that's true," I said. "What do you know about Galen Marek's clones?"
I was interested in only one of them, really.
"I know I was hunting the clone of the Jedi Vader had killed," Fett said. "There were many like him on Kamino, but all were complete madmen. After the Alliance defeated the Empire at Kamino, I know nothing about the other clones."
In other words, Fett was saying he didn't know about another stable clone of Galen Marek.
And I'm not talking about Starkiller, the hero of the second part of the computer game The Force Unleashed.
I'm talking about the so-called "Dark Apprentice," who only appeared in the game when Starkiller, after his duel with Vader, intended to finish the latter off.
Whether it actually happened that way, or it's all a fabrication and the so-called "game convention," I don't know.
But I do know for sure that spies on Kashyyyk spotted at least one Galen Marek.
In the company of Rahm Kota, Juno Eclipse, Kyle Katarn, and his assistant.
So, Katarn carried out the order of the late General Madine and found Marek.
Or Starkiller.
I don't know who is who.
Whether the hero of the second game is a clone, or it's the restored original who wasn't finished off on the Death Star.
There are theories and facts supporting and refuting each version.
You'd just need the desire to find them.
It doesn't really matter which is which — there's a problem.
The newly formed Alliance, with its capital on the planet Dac, had absorbed a significant portion of the galactic sectors in the northeast that were once controlled by the New Republic.
And that jeopardized several of my own planets, like Columex, Trogan, Garos IV, and Makem Te.
The Empire is at war with the New Republic, but the Alliance is still recovering and re-equipping the Second Fleet, based on the planet Elom, which had joined the Rebellion's leaders.
Though, the latter is nothing more than aggressive, stupid propaganda.
The Second Fleet, as before, supports and protects the New Republic.
Only a few dozen ships (line-class, admittedly) and no more than a hundred corvettes and frigates defected to join the new Rebel Alliance.
The new state's striking power is the Mon Calamari sector fleet.
And it's enormous, I must admit.
Over the past six months, the inhabitants of Dac have significantly increased their industrial potential for constructing warships.
There's no doubt that if I don't manage to send reinforcements to the Dominion's peripheral systems, the enemy will besiege them.
And to crew every single ship, I need personnel.
Experienced fighters, who have practically already been drained from the Defense Fleet.
The same situation that has been plaguing me for the last four months is repeating.
I have the ships — I don't have the crews.
But now it's a real problem of catastrophic proportions.
And it needs to be solved as quickly as possible.
Cloning sentients to crew, at best, one, maybe two Star Destroyers in a month — that's a failure.
And endlessly diluting crews with volunteers who've completed crash military training courses is also only a temporary solution.
That's why the Guardian hasn't left its constant training cruises ever since it participated in the battle with Moff Gronn's destroyers.
The crew is seventy percent clones, but combat coordination is needed.
And even more clones.
They're needed literally everywhere.
In the army, the Stormtrooper Corps, the armored forces, the air force, the navy, for garrison duty.
Training our own troops will take a long time, but fighters and specialists are needed right now.
Considering the existing threats.
In defense, sure, we can hole up.
For a while.
And only the core worlds.
But if we let the enemy onto our territory, a massacre is unavoidable.
Same goes for the peripheral systems.
For now, they're protected by the chaos in the galaxy, defensive stations, planetary artillery, shields, and the iron will of their commanders.
But the longer this conflict drags on, the more human and technical resources I'll have to commit to defending the territories.
Palpatine is not the New Republic.
Once he tries (and he or his allies will definitely do it) to conquer the Dominion and gets a bloody nose, the most logical and obvious step will be to attack the Dominion's external systems.
My clone's staged death will divert the blow from the Dominion for a while, but I can't make it last forever.
And all this leads to one simple logic — I need clones.
The more, the better.
The existing cloning facilities are already at their limit.
I need more cloning cylinders.
Especially since, using the example of my own clone, grown with experimental technology involving a Kaminoan incubator, I already know how to reduce maturation time.
We can provide them with everything they need — millions of sets of Phase II clone trooper armor are still gathering dust in Dominion warehouses.
And special forces armor from the Grand Army of the Clones.
And a lot of other equipment, not much inferior in quality to the Imperial stormtrooper armor we currently use, but designed for specific body parameters.
One single body in the galaxy.
Retrofitting this gear for recruits or clones is too slow, too expensive, not to mention the melting down and reworking.
And our own production of stormtrooper armor and its variants, to put it mildly, doesn't meet the military's needs.
Same as the production of armored vehicles, or the modernization of trophies from storage bases.
And no matter what Fett says, he will help me create a new clone army in his own image.
But for that, I need to capture one single planet.
Though that implies a full-scale war with one of the most dangerous criminal consortiums in the galaxy.
"Well, Mr. Fett, thank you very much for your cooperation on this matter," I said. "You will receive your due reward and compensation for the inconvenience caused."
"My services don't come cheap," the headhunter forced out.
"Oh, they will certainly be paid," I assured him. "Immediately after you help my troops capture the place where you were born."
The headhunter's expression was, to put it mildly, eloquent.
Very eloquent.
"That's right," I confirmed his guess. "You're to lead the 501st Legion through the corridors and cities of Kamino once again. Lieutenant Colonel Tierce, prepare our guest for transport."
Without a word, the former guardsman drove his fist into the back of Fett's head with full force, knocking the headhunter out.