Ten years and thirty-first days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year and thirty-first days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months and sixteenth days since the Arrival.)
Over the years of his service, Captain Steben had been in quite a number of scrapes.
Once he had to spend two days in the sewers of an ecumenopolis, tracking those seeking to profit from the contraband sale of Imperial property.
And then also engage in a battle in that abode of stench and decay.
And until now he was sure that his olfactory receptors could no longer be surprised.
Oh, how wrong he was.
The cell stank as if someone had devoured a long-dead rancor that had deigned to begin the decomposition process in all its glory.
But in reality — nothing of the sort, just one too fat, too dirty, and too smelly Hutt, despite his former position, was soiling himself.
And if it were dictated by some objective reasons — Grappa the Hutt did it deliberately, mocking the counter-intelligence officer.
"Well," Steben looked at the huge pile of excrement, almost the size of Grappa himself, rising in the center of the cell, "at least now I know where it comes out of you. How's the smell? Do you yourself enjoy being in such filth?"
The Hutt, sitting in the far corner of the cell — which had once been a prison storeroom and was the only one suitable for holding a prisoner of such size — merely gave the counter-intelligence officer a contemptuous look.
"You know how your game of silence ends, Grappa," Steben sighed, unbuttoning his tunic and pulling out a respirator mask and safety glasses from an inner pocket. "First you pull stunts like this — though last time with vomit all over the floor was much more inventive — then the interrogation droids come and do their dirty work," at the mention of the latter, the Hutt barely noticeably shuddered all over. "A little time passes, and you start talking, blabbing like a Jedi being interrogated in the Inquisitorium. Why go through the same path over and over?"
Grappa rumbled something in his native language.
"Mr. Grappa says that in this way he expresses contempt for you humans, showing that, like any honorable Hutt, he doesn't care about human laws," translated the silver C-3PO series droid standing nearby. "He shows you his unbroken spirit and readiness for torture."
"Last time, after your session with the interrogation droid, you couldn't even control your own drooling, you disgusting worm," Steben chuckled, sitting down on a folding chair he had brought. "And now you decide to play the unconquered? If my command decides to make public even part of what you've already blabbed, so many bounty hunters — sent by your own kin and former associates — will come after your hide that you'll beg the Dominion for political asylum."
The Hutt growled again in his deep voice.
"Mr. Grappa declares that he has powerful allies and patrons who will come to his rescue as soon as they learn he is captive. And then your suffering will be endless."
"The key point is 'if they find out'," Steben emphasized logically. Sighing, the man asked: "You clearly don't want to voluntarily tell me about your aforementioned associates, do you? Not about Tyber Zann, not about whose order you cloned Baroness D'Asta, not about where the original is now?"
The Hutt spat juicily at Steben, but he dodged the offensive fluid, which was enough volume to drown in.
"That was rude," Steben stated.
"Mr. Grappa says that even his spit is more valuable than your life, Operative Steben," the translator droid reported. "His friends will come for him and punishment awaits us all."
"We've heard all this before," the counter-intelligence officer assured, heading for the exit of the cell.
When the metal bulkhead slid aside, he looked at the Hutt, who had long since started tirelessly flapping his tongue but continued to play the innocent Alderaanian caught in an arsenal with a homemade explosive device.
"Sure you don't want to say anything before I leave?" Steben inquired.
Grappa barked a reply in Huttese.
"Mr. Grappa is detailing the executions he will subject you to when he is free," the translator droid reported.
"Well," Steben sighed, opening the door. "Nice to know you've made such a deep impression on someone. Come in, guys, it's your time. But Grappa, I knew you'd say that. Today you'll have a special company of metal spheres."
The Counter-Intelligence operative stepped aside, letting into the former storeroom one after another half a dozen Imperial interrogation droids, purchased on the black market about a month ago.
The Hutt spoke again, but now his voice dripped with fear.
Obviously his hide — pierced with needles and repeatedly cut with the thinnest scalpels — remembered what it was like to be in the manipulators of this type of droid.
And today there are exactly five more of them than usual.
So the pain threshold will be reached six times faster.
"Mr. Grappa apologizes for his words and says he would not mind speaking with you in private..."
"Certainly," Steben assured him. "As soon as the 'spheres' finish, we'll talk."
Locking the door, he ordered the stormtroopers among the guards to call him in six hours.
During that time, the interrogation droids would finish all the dirty work, and he could tally and compare some earlier records.
There was also a great need to check a number of other sources to form an overall picture of what was happening.
The affairs of Grappa the Hutt and his underlings, tied to cooperation with the Zann Consortium and the cloning of Baroness D'Asta, smelled bad and required maximum attention to detail.
* * *
The armored doors of the tactical compartment of the 'Crimson Dawn' slid apart.
."..a coordinated strike will bring them to their knees," General Ventress continued reporting her view of the situation, pointing at enemy markers on the holographic panel.
"I'll ask you to pause," Shohashi said, pulling back from the holographic terminal and, leaning on his cane, tilted his head to look behind the Dathomirian woman standing opposite him.
"Vice Admiral Shohashi, sir!" came a familiar voice, vigorous but still with notes of weakness. "Captain Brandei reporting for further service!"
"What a good boy," Ventress shook her short snow-white hair, turning toward the newcomer. "Could've shouted even louder. It won't hurt operational planning at all."
"Stand down, General Ventress," Shohashi commanded, seeing Brandei wince at such a 'warm' welcome.
Walking around the holoterminal, he approached his comrade, who, as if parodying the senior officer, was leaning on a cane.
True, a simple metal one, usually given in hospitals to convalescents with musculoskeletal issues.
"Glad to see you, Captain Brandei," Eric said, not hiding his restrained joy, shaking the hand of the commander of the 'Judicator'.
"As am I, sir," the officer assured.
Glancing sideways at the Dathomirian witch, who stood leaning her rear on the edge of the holoprojector and watched both men with a sour face, arms crossed, he gave a barely noticeable nod.
"I am also glad to see you, ma'am."
Ventress made something like a figurative salute, then turned to the hologram, pretending that what was happening between the two colleagues and friends did not interest her at all.
"The hospital didn't report that you came out of a coma," Shohashi noted cautiously.
"If you knew how much effort it cost me to keep it secret," Brandei chuckled. "Two days in a bacta tank, cognitive and physical tests to get a discharge sheet. And now, with the first available ship, I headed to the flagship. Decided to surprise you."
"It worked," Shohashi agreed. "A lot has happened during your absence."
"Yes, I've heard already," Brandei nodded. "Thrawn died and came back..."
"You weren't supposed to know that," Shohashi squinted. "That information was delivered personally."
"And it was delivered," Brandei agreed. "To Stormaer. We left the Central Military Hospital on Ciutric IV together."
The best military medical institution, where the best of the best medical specialists of the Dominion worked, provided centralized treatment, recovery, and rehabilitation for all servicemen of the Dominion Armed Forces.
Eric tried to recall from memory whether the commander of the 'Abyssal Fury' had been present at that meeting.
Yes, he had been present.
Fourth row, seventh seat.
"I didn't know Stormaer was also undergoing treatment."
"He wasn't there," Brandei declared. "He said the Dominion Medical Corps requisitioned his MC80 'Home One,' which he captured during the Battle of Sluis Van. The ship is heavily damaged; fleet headquarters considered its restoration as a combat unit too expensive. But the military medics got busy and ensured that this Mon Calamari freak was turned into a hospital ship. Stormaer personally delivered it to Ciutric IV — they'll be refitting the star cruiser right at the orbital repair yard. We crossed paths with the captain at the hospital, where he was visiting some of his specialists who were unlucky enough to be injured. Well, he gave me a lift to fleet headquarters. Good thing all my clearances were restored and I was reinstated in my previous position."
"Happy for you," Eric clapped his comrade on the shoulder.
Brandei winced, squeezed his eyes shut, and noisily sucked in air, reflexively covering his shoulder with his good hand.
"How did they discharge you if you have pain reflexes?" Eric wondered.
"The skin healed, the bones were fused, the organs were stitched up, even the eyes were saved," Shohashi smiled. "And the hypersensitivity of the nerve endings will go away with time. A couple of weeks, maybe a month. It doesn't affect work, just need to avoid banging into door frames, cabinets, leaning against bulkheads, and so on..."
"Sir, if you'll permit," Ventress said, "we have a discussion of the upcoming operation."
"The operation is in development," Shohashi reminded. "It can wait a couple of minutes. And what, all nerves react like that?" he asked Brandei.
"About one in ten," the other tried to put on a brave face. "But it's fine. Just let me get back to work and you'll see I'll be back on my feet in no time. I've been lying on a hospital bed too long. Got a little rusty..."
With these words, he handed Shohashi a flimsi sheet with the characteristic form of the Military Medical Service, containing all the data that Captain Brandei was completely healthy.
And no notes about 'one in ten'.
Eric quickly calculated how many nerve endings were in the human body.
It turned out... a lot.
"This won't do," the Vice Admiral declared. "With all due respect, but a Star Destroyer commander in constant pain is not what is needed on a combat campaign. We both know how many guys with such or similar symptoms have gotten hooked on spice to numb the pain. I cannot accept your discharge paper."
And most likely Brandei had somehow arranged with the doctors, probably even deceived them, to get out of the hospital room as soon as possible.
Hoping that Shohashi, understanding his friend's desire to 'get back in the game', would turn a blind eye to the obvious.
The commander of the 'Judicator' was walking on the edge once again.
Just like back then, with his infatuation with the medic.
This is starting to become a pattern.
"No," Shohashi answered categorically. "I cannot accept this document. Captain, you are clearly not healthy."
"Eric," Brandei hissed through his teeth. "Stop it. I almost lost my mind when I learned that the 'Judicator' almost died during the Tanian campaign."
"It was nothing more than a massed proton torpedo strike on the solar ionization reactor," Eric stated. "The damage was not critical."
"They wouldn't have been there at all if I had been on the bridge," Brandei declared. "The first officer did a good job, saved the ship. But he's not ready to command starships on his own yet. Stormaer already told me what a personnel shortage there is in the regular forces. Sign this Hutt-damned paper! Don't let me waste away on a hospital bed! In all the time I lay there, I've lost my shape and nearly went brain-dead! Eric!"
"It's not up for discussion," Shohashi said categorically. "I cannot take such a risk. What happens if a pain syndrome grips you in the middle of battle? Or shock from excessive pain while you're sitting in the chair? The crews on the Star Destroyers are diluted with recruits from the Defense Forces. These are no longer the same beasts we fought side by side with. If something happens to you, they'll panic and lose the ship."
"It'll all be fine!" Brandei assured, biting his lip from obvious pain. "Eric, please, for the last time..."
"No, Captain, I cannot..."
For all the joy that his friend and comrade had survived, Eric still (and always) prioritized the rules.
And the proportionality of the threat.
A ship commander who becomes incapacitated during battle in the sight of the entire watch — that's a demoralizing factor that can directly turn into a catastrophe.
"How much longer can this go on!" he heard the irritated voice of General Ventress.
Turning his head to annihilate the unruly Dathomirian witch with a look, Eric involuntarily recoiled from the short snow-white-haired woman, whose hands were wreathed in green flame.
"General, what...?" he only had time to utter, when both of Ventress's hands slapped onto the head of the terrified Brandei.
And in the next instant, a wall of green-white flame engulfed them both, reeking of corpse-cold.
"Guards!" Shohashi barked.
But the BX droids and the four MagnaGuards were already there.
Their vibroblades and electrostaffs readied to strike the witch, when suddenly it was all over.
Ventress, no longer the source of repelling flames, lowered her hands from the head of the terrified Brandei — who had perhaps even gone a bit gray — trembling like a dry leaf in the wind, staring at one point ahead.
"What did you do to him, General?" Shohashi demanded, mentally cursing the moment he'd agreed to trust that witch even a little. He should have kept those damned ysalamiri with him at all times! "What happened to him?"
"He wet himself," Ventress snorted, slapping that same shoulder with full force. "Tough officer. Usually it's a myocardial infarction."
Repeating Shohashi's action.
But instead of a grimace of pain, Brandei just flinched and dropped the metal cane from his hands.
"Don't come near me, witch!" He took two steps back, pointing at Ventress. "W-what did you do to me?"
"I interrupted your pathetic whining," Ventress said indifferently, looking at the droids surrounding her. "I'm tired of watching you erode the Rear Admiral's morale. If it were up to me, I'd have kicked you out of the squadron and demoted you to cabin boy long ago."
"How?!" Shohashi demanded. "What did you do to his nerves?"
"I accelerated his body's regeneration," Ventress explained, critically examining Brandei standing before her, hiding behind a MagnaGuard. "And I also restored a missing piece of his tibia, which was causing his limp — but he never mentioned it."
"Jedi tricks," muttered the Judicator's commander, patting himself. "Eric... It's true, the pain is gone."
Another slap landed on the lower torso of the Star Destroyer's commander.
"And... where's my belly fat?" inquired the captain of the Judicator.
"It burned off as fuel for the accelerated regeneration," Ventress said. "I'm not Mother Talzin to conjure things out of nothing. Be glad you're still alive. Last time I tried this, my partner dropped dead from a heart attack."
"Will Brandei live at all?" Shohashi asked cautiously.
"If he doesn't plan to shoot himself with a blaster or hit the detonator of a proton torpedo, then yes, why not?" Ventress shrugged. "If that's all, Rear Admiral, maybe you'll call off your tin dogs before I start thinking you keep droids here so I can stretch my legs right in this compartment instead of the training bay. And I dare to remind you that we had an operation briefing going before you decided to put on a two-man holodrama here."
"Guards — stand down," Shohashi said.
When the droids had returned to their positions and Ventress had gone back to boredly examining the holomap, unambiguously hinting that she was waiting for the squadron commander to join her, Brandei shoved his hands into the slit pockets of his uniform trousers to keep them from falling to the deckplates and approached the silently observing Shohashi, who was simultaneously in a state of utter stupefaction.
"You know, I'll drop by later."
"Mm-hmm," was all Eric could manage, still trying to process everything said and seen.
"And the General's not bad," Brandei tried to joke with a nervous laugh. "With hair, you could even say she's pretty."
"Brandei," Eric shook his head, breaking through the flow of images and associations.
"Yes, Rear Admiral?"
"Dry up like a wroshyr tree in the Dune Sea of Tatooine with your innuendos," Shohashi growled, glancing at General Ventress, who was impatiently tapping her nails on the holoprojector panel.
"Of course, of course," Brandei grinned. "I'm running so fast my pants are falling off. You thank her for me, okay? Because I'm starting to be afraid of her. Good thing my pants are wet — at least the second shame isn't visible. And you're like beskar, didn't even flinch. Watch out — soon she'll be making eyes at you. I know that type of woman..."
"Brandei," Shohashi addressed his comrade and colleague again.
"Yes, Rear Admiral?"
"Get off my bridge before I have you called out."
"With pleasure, sir," instantly losing his feigned bravado under the gaze of Ventress, who looked his way, Brandei practically ran out of the tactical compartment.
Letting out a breath, calming his more rapidly beating heart, Eric returned to the holoterminal.
"Let's continue, General Ventress," he said, trying not to look at the crookedly smiling Dathomirian, who was fixing him with an appraising and clearly interested gaze.
* * *
There was a knock on the wooden door of a small, strictly functional office.
A rare thing in times when metal is used instead of wood, and control panels instead of doorknobs.
"Chief, may I?" Captain Steben's head appeared in the slightly opened door.
Lieutenant Colonel Astarion, looking up from reading yet another report on his datapad screen, minimized the document and gestured with his hand, summoning his subordinate.
The Operative crossed the small space between the entrance door and a few simple chairs against the wall to the right of the Dominion Counterintelligence Chief's desk, and took a seat close to the office's owner.
"Report," Astarion ordered.
"It's done," Steben replied. "Grappa cracked. And his underlings, captured on Genon, did too."
Good news, if so.
"Tell me. In detail and thoroughly."
"Well, the general picture is this," Steben began. "Five years ago, Grappa, from his palace on Genon, was exclusively involved in racketeering and profiting from illegal business. All standard, nothing outstanding. He threw subordinates who failed him into a cage with a monster and watched them die. He hired various smugglers, bounty hunters, and pirates. One such group at his disposal was Sol Mon's pirate crew, which hijacked ships, stole valuables and wealth from various parts of the galaxy for Grappa. They left no witnesses, sold the ships on the black market after replacing engine numbers and identification data..."
"Is this prelude connected to the case under investigation?" Astarion asked his subordinate.
"Directly, sir," he confirmed. "During one of those raids, Sol Mon's group ran into a representative of Black Sun. I think you understand the weight class didn't match. But instead of grinding Grappa into dust, Black Sun established contact with him and continued working, using that captured representative as a liaison. From that point, about three or four years ago, Grappa became part of Black Sun."
"Which is just a cover for the remnants of the then-destroyed Zann Consortium," Astarion stated the known fact.
"That's where the interest lies," Steben smiled. "Grappa worked directly through Black Sun's channels. He didn't know it was a cover. But according to his accounts, that liaison, Makus Kaynif, conducted active business negotiations with Sol Mon's group. It's doubly interesting that Sol Mon's name and ship identifiers also appeared on Maramere — right around the height of the Zann Consortium's influence."
"Is that so," Astarion narrowed his eyes. "From which we can conclude that Sol Mon in the past either worked for Black Sun or the Zann Consortium."
"I'm inclined to believe the latter," Steben said. "Consulting the data from our colleagues at Ghost Island on Maramere, we have evidence that extensive stygium mining was conducted on the planet — no more than ten years ago. Before that time, Sol Mon hadn't appeared on Maramere."
"So he acted in the interests of the same superiors as Kaynif on Maramere, mining or delivering stygium," Astarion drummed his fingers on the desk. "Add to that the fact that some time after Zann's escape from Kessel and the founding of the Consortium, the latter began fielding ships with superior cloaking technology."
"Imperial Intelligence assumed it was stygium," Captain Steben agreed. "But someone in the middle ranks of the Ubiqtorate blocked the report from going up, stating that this couldn't be, because stygium is scarce in the galaxy and its cost is such that producing cloaking from it would make an ordinary ship as expensive as a Super Star Destroyer."
"You don't even need to be a Jedi to understand that the Zann Consortium found a way to those who were supposed to destroy them in their infancy," Astarion grimaced.
"The more we dig, the more we realize how deeply the Consortium infiltrated the Empire," Steben agreed. "I wouldn't be surprised if ISB operatives were also on their payroll."
"Well, alright," Astarion declared. "We found what half the Empire's military was interested in — where the Zann Consortium got the resources for a working cloaking system. How does Grappa tie into this?"
"Grappa's story is a later adventure," Steben noted. "I'd guess that the Zann Consortium didn't send their man to Sol Mon for nothing — they wanted to recruit Grappa from the very start."
"And what interested them in a simple gangster?" the Lieutenant Colonel wondered.
"Grappa, it turns out, has a connection to the Zanibar," Steben explained.
"Bantha poodoo," Astarion swore. "That's all we needed."
The Zanibar were tall, lean humanoids with gray-blue skin and three-fingered hands. They were bald, with long skull-like faces and small black eyes.
Exactly where they came from was unknown, but scientists assumed that somewhere in the galactic north was their homeworld, reachable only by those who knew the precise hyperspace route.
No, there were other scientists who claimed that the Zanibar homeworld was actually long known to the galaxy's peoples, and had been visited many times, including by humans and older races, but by now the route was forgotten, and the Zanibar themselves weren't eager to bring outsiders to their homeworld.
Allegedly, this contradicted their religious rites, worldview, and other philosophical nonsense that only an idiot would believe.
And those stupid enough to head to the Zanibar homeworld.
The thing was, unlike the scholarly men jabbering in vain, Imperial special services had already encountered the Zanibar.
And had an idea of who they were and how repulsive these creatures were.
Something on the level of the infamous Tofs, who emerged into the galaxy about five years ago.
Except that while the Tofs are filthy bastards, pirates and thugs, the Zanibar — though outwardly dissimilar — have an "advantage" over the Tofs.
They eat their captives.
Before the Clone Wars, the cannibals of Zanibar were involved in an incident in the Corporate Sector, where their ability and desire to gut sapients for sustenance and religious rites was exposed to the galaxy.
Of course, the Old Republic hushed up the scandal, ordering the Zanibar back to their homeworld.
And conveniently forgot about them.
But the Zanibar didn't forget about the galaxy.
The ISB was rounding up Zanibar who became bounty hunters and hired killers across the galaxy.
There was an unofficial order — don't take them alive.
Under torture they still stay silent, even if you cut them to ribbons.
They carry no compromising data regarding their planet's location.
They leave no traces.
They know, the bastards, that one misstep and Star Destroyers will come to their homeworld, turning its entire surface into molten slag.
"I was thinking about the same thing, sir," Steben admitted. "Grappa cooperated with the Zanibar, handing over his enemies to them."
"And in return?"
"They worked for him as bounty hunters."
"Let's say that's so," Astarion agreed. "Black Sun decided to enrich its ranks with the Zanibar?"
"Grappa didn't ask questions," Steben shook his head. "A few months ago, Black Sun gave him an order — hand over control of the Zanibar to them. He obediently agreed."
"When was that?" Astarion frowned.
"Almost immediately after we struck the Consortium at Shola, Saleucami, Hypori..."
The Lieutenant Colonel closed his eyes and sighed in resignation.
So, right after the Grand Admiral attacked the Zann Consortium's planets, the latter began gathering all available forces into a single fist.
Stopped at nothing, even carnivorous scum.
Strange that the Mandalorians are still out of the picture.
"Is that the extent of Grappa's role in all this?" the Dominion's Chief Counterintelligence officer clarified.
"Just the tip of the iceberg," Steben warned. "Grappa organized the Baroness's cloning operation in Black Sun's interests. He supplied the operatives with the necessary chemicals to render her unconscious, after which the woman was cloned on Genon."
"What equipment was used?" Astarion queried.
"Grappa doesn't know. Makus Kaynif controlled the cloning process. He also procured the equipment. He also moved it out of the cave where our scouts captured Grappa's support staff. Where the baroness original and the equipment are now, Grappa doesn't know, but he assumes Black Sun has them... in the Corporate Sector."
"One must assume that the Baroness was useful to Grappa so that the Zann Consortium would know in advance about Imperial encroachments in their direction," Astarion speculated.
"That's logical, given that under the New Republic, Coruscant didn't have enough military strength for total control of its territory as under the Empire. The Pentastar Alignment until recently didn't stick its nose beyond its borders, and only Orinda caused concern for its neighbors. From an intelligence perspective, Zann correctly placed his man in the Imperial Ruling Council. The clone, controlled by a Hutt who is actually a small-time racketeer, thinks he works for Black Sun, whose leader is the Zann Consortium."
"Remove any link — the baroness clone, Grappa, Makus Kaynif, or the nominal leader of Black Sun — Asib — and reaching the true leadership becomes completely impossible," Astarion concluded. "A rather dangerous structure, I must say."
"I suspect that's why Sol Mon was kept with Grappa — he was a backup information source in Grappa's gang, effectively his right hand. Since Hutts are known for their paranoia, few would even think that Sol knew anything," Steben theorized. "Sir, frankly, based on the data intelligence obtained from the terminals in Grappa's palace, it seems that Sol Mon wasn't just robbing random wealthy starships. Those ships belonged to both Imperial and Republican rich people with connections to the ruling circles."
Astarion grew thoughtful.
Something serious was brewing.
Very serious.
"So, we already have one thread of influence on Orinda," the Lieutenant Colonel concluded. "Since Zann found it so important to control the Imperial Ruling Council, and given the ease with which he created a clone of a prominent individual, aren't Sol Mon's raids not just robbery but also the capture of genetic material and knowledge of the originals to create clones?"
Steben was silent for a while, pondering his superior's words.
"To abduct, clone, and return Baroness D'Asta to where she was taken, Grappa and Black Sun didn't have much time. So, they used something that allows fast cloning of sapients without issues with memory integration."
"We know that Fina D'Asta — the clone, of course — did business with the Hutts, passing them Imperial information in exchange for funding her activities. Now she's gone out of control and in her sector, naturally, completely by coincidence, an anti-government rebellion has sprung up. With Hutt tails sticking out of it. Have you ever heard of GeNod program clones acting against their masters' directives?"
"Never," Astarion shook his head. "They are strictly programmed for obedience. No program failures have been observed."
"Then we can assume that Fina D'Asta's clone was not created using GeNod."
"That's just a hypothesis for now," Astarion countered.
"Yes, an investigative lead," the Operative agreed. "But we don't have any others yet. I think we need to unravel this tangle of intrigues further. Perhaps if we can capture Sol Mon, we'll learn a bit more."
"Sol Mon, for all his involvement, might be just another pawn in this game," Astarion stated. "Yes, he undoubtedly knows more than Grappa himself, but Makus Kaynif certainly possesses far more attractive information than those two. We need to know where he got the cloning cylinders, who did the cloning, where the equipment is now, and if there's more."
The Captain nodded silently.
The overwork of the Dominion's cloning laboratories was known to counterintelligence like no other.
The clone factory was the Dominion's secret, preserved by any means.
It was what allowed a significant increase in the combat capability of the fleet and army and assault units, without resorting to Imperial recruitment methods like: anyone of appropriate age — to the draft office.
But if before, twenty thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders were enough to crew a slowly growing fleet, now...
There are so many ships, fighters, armored vehicles that in some positions the ratio reaches a hundred machines per crew.
And that's a big problem.
One that can't be covered even by the transfer program for veterans of the Dominion Defense Forces, who are given priority rights to sign contracts with the regular fleet.
The flow of Imperials with combat experience capable of serving in frontline troops dropped after news of Grand Admiral Thrawn's death spread across the galaxy.
Yes, within the metropole it was known (to those who needed to know) that this wasn't true, but that only increased the number of volunteers among the population who wanted to immediately join the regular fleet or the stormtroopers.
Without experience, without necessary knowledge and practice, such fighters would cause so much trouble in their first battle that they'd need to "clean up" for a very long time.
Unfortunately, even redirecting them to the Defense Forces with the subsequent release of trained personnel for the regular army doesn't play a big role in filling the fleet and army.
All experienced specialists and officers suitable for service under the Grand Admiral on the battlefield had long been transferred to the regular fleet.
The fleet of the Ciutric Hegemony, which forms the core of the metropole, had already renewed its personnel twice — the first batch was almost entirely in the regular army, the second was at four-fifths.
The increase in recruits doesn't provide the number of contract soldiers — the current composition of the Defense Forces doesn't have enough experience or service qualifications to line up alongside the Dominion's main forces.
That's why the cloning cylinders non-stop churn out clones of already fighting specialists.
Today, according to schedule, the second batch of clones was supposed to begin verification of the knowledge loaded via the imprint machine. If lucky, they would be able to fully crew and return to service the Star Destroyer "Death's Head."
And the few remaining clones from the second batch would transfer aboard one of the captured at Sluis Van Star Destroyers of the Imperial I type, named "Commander Darren" in honor of the commander of the Star Destroyer "Captain Rensen," who died in that battle.
However, it was rumored that the names "Captain Rensen," "The Resolute," and "Moon Shadow" (the names of the destroyers the Dominion lost in the final battle of last year's campaign) would be returned to the fleet and assigned to captured destroyers.
Because, again — there are too many of them.
So, access to even a couple of new cloning cylinders would be a significant contribution to the Dominion's cause.
If only specialists could figure out those makeshift incubators from Mustafar.
Supposedly cloning cylinders, but assembled and thus functioning... Unfamiliar.
Then again, what's "familiar" for those who don't know a Hutt about cloning and rely only on written research left from the Empire?
Intelligence was supposedly working on finding the right specialists across the galaxy, but nothing new came to light among the Dominion's special services.
"I'll discuss a cross-departmental operation with the leadership," Astarion informed. "For now, keep working with Grappa — I want to know everything he knows. I'm more than certain that the gangster has good connections in the criminal underworld. Especially since the Hutts, until recently, had their own interests in the inhabitants of several Dominion worlds. Surely Grappa knows something about which Hutts and why hired literally thousands of fighters from underdeveloped worlds as cheap military force about a year ago."
Steben nodded slowly.
His thoughtful gaze indicated that the man was turning over options in his head, comparing them with the information already at hand.
"Could it be that for the sake of a droid factory on Hypori we've stumbled into an upcoming clash between criminal organizations?" he asked. "The Zann Consortium is recruiting thugs by all possible means. The Hutts are recruiting 'meat'. Zann builds ships, I'm sure the Hutts do too..."
"Yes, but the Zann Consortium controls the Corporate Sector, and those have a fleet — though motley, still substantial," Astarion reminded. "The Hutts have about the same situation. Only they have Hoersch-Kessel right next door and connections across the galaxy. I very much doubt that if these two organizations — the Hutts and the Zann Consortium — meet on the battlefield, the ones we can continue dialogue with will win."
"Not to mention the high chance they work together..."
"Yes, to our great regret, it would be a catastrophe then," Astarion grew serious.
The Hutts and the Zann Consortium didn't touch each other as long as Jabba the Hutt was alive, having made peace with Tyber Zann.
And they only fought because of those two's exceptional dislike for each other.
And if Tyber Zann truly is behind the revival of his "Zann Consortium," who knows what delicate strings of the Hutt soul he might have plucked.
After all, he ships his cargo into Hutt Space.
Whether he's using them as pawns, as Fleet Command believes, or paying the Hutts with resources for their support, remains to be determined.
For Dominion Intelligence.
Counter-intelligence officers can only do their job and ensure that nothing extraordinary happens within the young state.
And things are brewing in nearly every sector — in just the last thirty days, Counter-intelligence has processed over a dozen rebellious separatist groups inside the metropole and a dozen more on peripheral worlds, mainly on Chasin.
And every single one was controlled and funded from abroad.
The Imperial Remnant, the New Republic, the Corporate Sector, even the Tapani nobles — each tried to get a hand in carving up the Dominion created by Grand Admiral Thrawn.
And this is just the beginning.
Some of them might back off, realizing their first attempt failed and that testing the Dominion's structure is a foolish idea, but the most stubborn will continue working along the same vector.
And Counter-intelligence's job is to make sure they don't succeed.
Not now, not ever.
"One way or another, we continue our work," declared the chief counter-intelligence officer of the Dominion.
"As always, sir," Captain Steben echoed, and with the office owner's permission, headed for the exit.
There was a lot of work ahead.
Astarion, meanwhile, began compiling interim results for the upcoming report to Grand Admiral Thrawn.
* * *
Captain Anilex, leader of the "Kavil's Corsairs" group operating in the Dominion's interests, stood at the decorative railing and watched for several minutes as reinforcements delivered for his organization were being distributed on the parade ground.
After that, he returned to a small table on the rooftop terrace and lowered himself into the wicker chair opposite me.
Picking up his cup of caf, he took a few sips.
Then he couldn't hold back and asked a direct question:
"Sir, you do realize that a good portion of them, at the first opportunity, will either defect to the enemy or open fire on their own to desert?"
"That's precisely why I delivered the freed prisoners from Kessel straight to the 'Kavil's Corsairs,'" I explained, causing some surprise on the captain's part. "Your men are the only unit where any destructive tendencies among the former prisoners will show up long before they reach the front lines."
"So you're betting that a semi-legal group made up of former pirates and corsairs will become a haven where they'll relax and start 'testing the waters'?" Anilex clarified.
"Exactly, Captain," I confirmed. "Lately, despite the abundance of conflicts across the galaxy, certain forces have decided they can somehow destabilize the Dominion, tear it apart, and divide it into pieces. Dominion Security Bureau, our counter-intelligence, managed to outplay our opponents. And obtain some very valuable information that will help us launch a retaliatory strike against certain ill-wishers. While they're busy dealing with new problems, we'll finish preparations for a full-scale strike with all our might. But until then, no one must know that we are the ones acting against them. As you understand, for that I need fighters who have no direct connection to the Dominion. And my choice fell on you, especially since your organization trains recruits using the stormtrooper program."
"Which you generously shared with us," Anilex reminded.
Not fully, of course.
Only what knocks the nonsense out of them and leads to obedience of orders.
Long drills and conditioning for automatic combat actions.
Sending these sentients to Captain Irv or to Tyberos would be stupid and pointless.
Anilex is the only one of the three leaders of the Dominion's auxiliary units who doesn't exclusively have space forces but also infantry.
And it's the latter I'll need in the near future.
Those not directly tied to the Dominion, not operating under their own flag, and connected to the D'Astan sector, part of which is Axxila, where I currently was.
"One way or another, by the time you're done with these cowards and traitors, we'll know who among them can integrate into your organization and who should have stayed on Kessel," I continued. "I've already informed them of your organization's general rules, but I think it wouldn't hurt to remind them again. And keep at it until they remember it as clearly as their combat skills."
"My sergeants will start training tomorrow morning," the commander of the "Kavil's Corsairs" assured me. "Today the medics will get them back on their feet, and tomorrow we'll start distributing them among the units. But I must warn you — we won't be able to turn them into fighters quickly."
"Excellent," I approved. "Better to spend more time on preparation and training, which they neglected in the past, than to litter battlefields with thousands of corpses. Returning to what I said. I'll need some of your units to light a fire under the seats of my enemies."
"So, we have a mission lined up, sir?" Captain Anilex clarified, asking with the shrewd squint of an interested businessman.
"That's right," I nodded. "Rally your men, Captain. The 'Kavil's Corsairs' are going to war. Let's start with the D'Astan sector, since you're neighbors with them. Because lately, the Baroness's forces have been disappointing me greatly with their lack of victories on the battlefield."