Ten years, one month, and eighteen days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, first month, and eighteenth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Eight months and three days since the Arrival.)
Aveka Dunn adjusted her tool belt so the wrench tapped against her right thigh as it swung, rather than against...
Well, let's call that part of her body the "place where Vex usually preferred to sit."
Belt, tools, duraplast helmet, and an unremarkable dirty-yellow jumpsuit with numerous pockets from which tools protruded, with the disguise completed by bright red-orange hair gathered into a tight braid.
The corporation's time-worn logos on her shoulder and right side of her chest caught the eye — a white circle with three red four-pointed stars inside.
And all of it — with a patina of less-than-freshness.
Combined with emerald-green eyes, a couple of streaks from technical fluids on her face, and several synthflesh freckles on her nose, this whole masquerade perfectly underscored her affiliation with the technical service of the building housing the Hoersch-Kessel Corporation's office.
An image far too ordinary for anyone to pay close attention to her.
Rederick, for his part, had acquired exactly the same set of clothing and gear, except his face bore several aged scars made of the same synthflesh, his contact lenses had a brown tint, and his hair was dyed a dirty-gray color reminiscent of multi-day grease on light-blond hair.
Vex kept stopping, examining something on her datapad's screen, then pointing with an authoritative air first one way, then another, giving the impression of a supervisor issuing such valuable instructions to her dull subordinate that he was completely ignoring their meaning.
The expression of universal suffering from the torrent of words the "supervisor" was unleashing on him drew sympathetic glances from passing employees of the numerous offices and organizations who were leaving the building at the end of the workday.
But the moment anyone approached this old pair, they abruptly reconsidered their desire to ask about the reasons for the presence of two technicians from maintenance staff on the office floor.
Because both reeked of such unmistakable sewer smells that every passerby preferred to give them a wide berth.
"I'm telling you, the liquid waste drain pipe runs right here," Vex said, tapping her nail — painted with cheap chipped polish — on the datapad, knowingly pointing at the building's load-bearing wall, concealed behind a decorative panel. "And it's about three hundred years old..."
"The material it's made from will last another three hundred," Rederick said wearily, grimacing bitterly as his eyes met those of a pretty middle-aged Twi'lek who shot a glance at the young technician.
A minor office clerk, someone the agent had crossed paths with several times during his undercover work.
Nothing special about her, but that face, that figure squeezed into that strict office...
Rederick turned his head, watching the familiar woman with a smile as she glanced back at him over her shoulder.
But she immediately looked away and scurried off on her long legs, her heels clicking on the floor tiles, without looking back.
Rederick, however, did.
And met Aveka's gaze, whose posture radiated both condemnation and impatience.
"Look at her again, and I'll gouge your eyes out," Vex said in the same tone she'd used about the sewer pipes.
Rederick shook his head dejectedly.
"One day this nightmare of working with you will end," he said dreamily, forcing a smile as Aveka looked at him.
"Kid — I'm the best thing that's ever happened or ever will happen in your life," the agentess batted her long eyelashes, turning her back to him and continuing to wander along the wall. "So don't waste yourself on second-rate easy-access ladies whose beds have been visited by every first clerk in the office where she works the reception desk and delivers caf to her boss every hour."
"So you're spying on me too," Rederick snorted, noting that the second arriving turbolift in the building's lobby was only half full. "Making contacts in the office was my responsibility."
"Trust a girl who has a trained eye for that type of personnel — the only thing you can acquire in her company is something you'll have to get treated for a very long time by a doctor people try not to look in the eye," Vex said.
"I don't even want to know how you gained that experience," Rederick shook his head in dismay.
"That's right, kid," Aveka nodded in agreement. "Sometimes there's knowledge that, once you're filled with it, you can never be the same again."
"Where did I sin so badly that I have to work with you?" Rederick raised his eyes to the ceiling, recalling that in one religion, people believed that certain divine forces lived in heaven.
Superstition, of course.
That thesis could easily be refuted by pilots who rose above the cloud layer in their flying machines.
But you couldn't reason with religious cults using facts...
"I wonder the same thing myself," Vex said. "But wipe your tears — we're only at the beginning. I think the pipes are a red herring — we need to get to the mechanical floor, check the distribution and pump stations. Maybe they gave too much pressure, which is why all that foul swamp ended up in the basement."
That was Vex for you — she wove both work and personal matters into her conversation so skillfully that your head started hurting from the thought that somewhere in her words there was a double meaning.
Or even a triple.
"It's not too late to file a transfer request to the fleet special forces," Rederick thought.
But he dismissed the thought with the rationale that even if he started piloting a single-seat scout ship, Vex would still not leave him alone.
"Then we'll have to work on the roof," he sighed, catching sight of a guard approaching them out of the corner of his eye. "Hey!"
He forced a friendly, if exhausted, smile.
"Something wrong?" the Zabrak inquired, glancing at Vex's form-fitting jumpsuit but pretending to be interested in whatever her partner was about to say.
"The communications burst in the basement," Rederick reported. "We patched the hole in the sewer," having first helped create it — "now we need to check why it burst in the first place. We need to go up to the mechanical floor."
Questions about why all the critical communications were located above the building's top floor should be directed at anyone who understood Hutt architecture at all.
Rederick was not among such specialists.
"Everyone's already gone," the guard said, continuing to devour Vex with his eyes while she pretended to be engrossed in reading her datapad's screen.
"Maybe they're the lucky ones then," Rederick smiled sadly. "They won't have to smell what we'll have to dig through while taking the equipment apart. By morning, all the unpleasant odor will have aired out anyway."
"Actually, it's not permitted to do work in the building during evening hours," the guard declared. "You need an escort."
Of course they did.
That was always the case on regular workdays.
But Vex and Rederick hadn't come here at the last hours of the workweek for nothing.
An hour before the end of the shift on the last day, only one guard came on duty, who then stayed here through the weekend, staring at the surveillance monitors and browsing the HoloNet on his datapad.
"And would it be better if the pump failed and instead of flushing toilet contents, it blasted back in the opposite direction under pressure?" Vex clarified. "I'm no art expert, but I suspect the staff won't be too thrilled by the characteristic smell and yellow-brown streaks on the walls, floor, and ceiling in that fashionable new Republican style..."
"Alright, alright, alright," the guard waved his hands. "I'll let you in, check it, fix it. Just be quick!"
"One foot here, the other there," Rederick promised.
"You watch yourselves," the Zabrak said, pretending to make a warning. "I don't want to catch hell because the stench bothers the office workers. They'll shake every last bit of soul out of me for that!"
"They won't," Vex assured him with a charming smile. "We'll do everything clean — no one but you will even know we were there."
Vex, having been drenched in the guard's greasy gaze once more, calmly called the turbolift.
Rederick, putting on an expression of absolute unwillingness to work, looked down guiltily, earning a glance from his "supervisor," and followed her into the arriving turbolift car; the doors closed behind them.
They selected the top floor, from which they'd have to reach the mechanical level exclusively on foot via the utility stairs.
The girl ran her palm over the cabin's paneling.
"Real wroshyr wood from Kashyyyk, not some fiberplast or empty metal panels. Very stylish and costs insane credits."
"This is Hoersch-Kessel," Rederick reminded her. "With their annual turnover, they could have shipped half the trees on Kashyyyk to Nar Shaddaa or any other regional office."
"Given that their main office security service on Nimban employs exclusively Trandoshans, I wouldn't be surprised if that's exactly the case," Vex declared. "I suspect they exported the trees along with the Wookiees, whom Trandoshans absolutely love using as game for their hunts. And also as slaves, who fetch insane prices at any slave market in our universally beloved disgusting galaxy."
Rederick snorted.
"And I thought you had nothing sacred at all," he said. "But no — look at you, with such disgust for Trandoshans and slavers."
"Show me the sentient who burns with great love for them, and I'll personally arrange a spectacular funeral for the bastard."
"By dressing stormtroopers as gravediggers and gunning down everyone who comes to the funeral?" Rederick clarified.
"Pfft," Aveka grimaced. "What a low opinion you have of me! Of course I'd never shoot the funeral attendees..."
Rederick thought he'd misheard.
."..I'd stuff rhydonium into the corpse and blow it up during the farewell ceremony," Vex finished.
"Must remember that," Rederick muttered. "And make sure no one tells you if I happen to die. I don't want a crater the size of a skyscraper where my grave should be."
Dunn twisted a fiery lock of hair around her finger, making a funny face.
"Don't die, kid," she batted her eyes. "If you leave this mortal world, my heart will be broken, and I'll wither away after you, like a flower left without life-giving moisture and natural light."
"Sometimes it even frightens me that everything you say and do isn't actually pretense, but what you genuinely think and intend to do," Rederick said cautiously.
Aveka forced a smile.
"It's called 'character accentuation,' kid."
"And that's a mental disorder, isn't it?" the Dominion agent tensed, realizing he was working with a crazy mercenary.
"We women call it a 'certain something' that gives us piquancy and helps us stand out from the gray mass of similar individuals to attract male attention," Aveka rattled off as if she'd just hammered an enemy bunker with a burst from a heavy repeater. "You see, in a galaxy where quite a number of races are considered beautiful, like the Zeltron or the same easy-access Twi'leks, human women have to take radical steps to fulfill their biological need and produce offspring. It's built into our genes, and by about thirty, every girl is already itching that it's time to expel a couple of little bandits from her intrauterine concentration camp. And for that, you need a suitable partner. Strong, capable of protecting and providing, helping and supporting. But those usually get snapped up by easy-access ladies, and we're left with only one option — either beat the enemy with their own weapons, meaning adopt the methods our biological competitors use to deprive the human gene pool of the most promising males, or settle for what's left. From experience, I'll tell you — all strong-willed and powerful men primarily notice accentuated behavior. So that's how we live — fighting for the preservation of the human race."
Rederick blinked.
Then again.
And again.
"Where did you even get that from?!" he burst out. "I haven't heard such eugenic theory since studying the historical chronicles of the Pius Dea Crusades. When humans were exterminating non-humans."
"From there," Aveka yawned. "Or did you think that because I'm beautiful and attractive, all I can do is fight and kill? No, I'm also trained to read and pursue self-development."
"Tell me you were joking about all that fighting for the future of the human race and everything," Rederick winced. "It sounds disgusting and far-fetched, especially since humans and near-human races outnumber all the aliens in the galaxy combined."
"Kid," Aveka approached her partner and ran her palm over his face. "I just revealed the biggest female secret to you. Yes, I couldn't resist and veiled it with tinsel from the racist theories of the Pius Dea crusaders and human feminists, generously dusted it with my own inventions, but the rest — pure truth."
"What 'rest'?!" Rederick was taken aback. "I didn't understand at all what you said was true!"
"That girls act provocatively to attract the man who interests them," Vex winked, playfully nudging her partner with her hip against his groin. "You know, there's a button here — we could stop the cabin..."
"Why does she do this on a mission?!" Rederick fumed. "Why not before or after? Verbal diarrhea is the simplest way to release tension and the tremor of danger, and..."
And, suddenly to his own surprise, he understood what was happening.
"You're scared," he blurted out.
Aveka threw him a look.
But not a playful one.
Not a seductive one.
A wary and suspicious one.
Even somewhat bewildered.
"All your games and flirting — it's venting stress from what's happening," Rederick continued. "Now I'm sure of it. You don't take what's happening seriously, so you won't be afraid of the coming dangers and possible consequences. All your behavior is aimed at lowering the danger level for your brain and drowning out fear."
Aveka stepped back a couple of paces and looked at her partner with undisguised interest.
"And when did you become a behavioral psychologist?" she inquired with a forced smile.
"A couple of minutes ago," Rederick didn't lie.
"So there's not even a coffee cup ring on your diploma yet," Aveka pursed her lips. "Well... Good for you, you're growing. Not fast, but you're making progress. Understanding your partner is the first step to becoming a full-fledged team, where you can understand each other without words."
She spoke in a calm, didactic tone, like a teacher giving a boring but mandatory lecture.
Which was completely unlike Vex's usual behavior.
"So everything you were doing — was another stage of my training?" Rederick groaned in horror.
"We-ll-l-l," Aveka drawled. The turbolift stopped at their floor. "It's not exactly what Cross asked me to teach you, but better I share what I know myself than not share at all, right?"
"I'm not sure I want to know even half of your personal experience," Rederick cut her off, leaving the cabin.
The corridor was quiet, so aside from Aveka, he was the only living creature who could observe the aurodium inlays on the wooden doors.
The corporation's logo and its name in Aurebesh.
And in Basic.
"Snobs," Aveka declaimed, examining the latter inscription. "But we need to go the opposite way."
"Uh-huh," Rederick grunted, following Vex to the far end of the corridor where the utility stairs were located.
Both behaved as if they were unaware of the three hidden surveillance cameras in the office lobby.
Unlocking the hatch to the mechanical floor, both, bickering, climbed up, closing the passage behind them.
From a pocket on his belt, Rederick extracted a flat square box about the size of a man's palm.
Vex, looking around, positioned herself to shield his manipulations from any possible surveillance devices.
"Clean," the agent replied, putting away the detector.
"Let's work," Aveka became serious. "Alarm devices first."
Together they installed several simple beacons that would signal if anything larger than a womp rat appeared at the entrance to the mechanical floor.
The building where Hoersch-Kessel had equipped their office (and a good hundred front intermediary companies) had been built almost in the last millennium, so ventilation windows could be found here.
Which they intended to use, especially since the builders on Nar Shaddaa apparently believed that even the Hutts themselves would crawl out of the building through such openings.
Five minutes' work — checking the outer part of the structure for sensors, confirming their absence, rigging and securing ropes and safety lines for the descent.
Another three minutes — shedding the workers' jumpsuits and remaining in loose-fitting combat gear with light fabric armor, their faces hidden behind balaclavas.
Another minute — climbing out the ventilation window and descending to the desired floor in the shadow of protruding bas-reliefs.
Thirty seconds — checking again for sensors, but inside the room this time.
Rederick had been in this office before during working hours — that's where his acquaintance with the receptionist came from.
He knew the layout of the surveillance equipment systems, but it was unclear whether the staff applied additional security measures when leaving for the weekend.
One minute — cutting through the transparisteel and gaining access to the building on the required floor.
Ten seconds — securing the polarized window in place so as not to raise questions from passing arospeeder pilots or residents of other buildings.
They found themselves in a conference room located precisely in the center of the top floor.
Nothing interesting here — a simple meeting room.
The pair moved into the corridor.
On either side, wooden columns rose from floor to the polished, silver-shimmering ceiling.
Numerous closed wooden doors leading to personal offices.
Against the opposite wall sat a coffee table and cozy, even to the eye, soft leather armchairs.
They oriented themselves fairly quickly and found the archive room, which they intended to raid first.
"All the invoices for metal shipments from the Corporate Sector should be here," Vex said, expertly using an electronic lockpick. "Voila, let's go check our professional aptitude in archival work. If they kick us out of intelligence, at least we'll have something to earn a living with."
Rederick didn't comment.
It had taken too much time to figure out how and where CorpSec was routing its transport ships.
Considering that the "corporates" themselves had decent shipyards, the recipient "Hoersch-Kessel" clearly concealed something very interesting behind it.
Doubly interesting was the reason why a regional office was used as a "buffer" rather than directly going to headquarters.
Inside the windowless room, it was pitch black, which they could only penetrate using night-vision goggles.
Vex, closing the archive door behind her, looked around.
They were surrounded by endless shelves and drawers, packed to the top with information chips.
"Looks like we're going to have to sweat," she pouted, realizing the amount of work ahead.
Given the tight timeframe — they couldn't spend the whole weekend on the mechanical floor — they needed to work selectively.
"Their filing system is in order," Roderick declared, examining the labels on the boxes. "I think we need something pointing to CorpSec or 'Black Sun.'"
"Oh, you're a regular detective genius," came Vex's voice from behind the neighboring shelving unit. "Found it. Come to me, my dear."
"Can we skip the demonstrative sarcasm, yeah?" the agent winced, walking over to his partner.
"I'm as serious as Boba Fett on a job," Vex announced. "If you only knew how much they pay me for your internship and training..."
"Got it." Roderick fished an infochip out of a drawer labeled "Corporate Sector Operations" and skimmed the title. "Take a look — ore shipments from the 'Corporates'!"
The chip went into a portable datapad.
It took some time to crack the encryption, but what they saw...
"The algorithm looks familiar," Vex commented. "Metal from CorpSec gets shipped to Zygerria, where its original documents are destroyed by a shell company. Wait a minute..."
Seeing the corporation name the shipments were being made to, Aveka found its chip too.
"Mhm-hm," she concluded after they'd studied the documents together. "Old scheme, but it works."
"Etti IV mines metal and other resources, sends them to Zygerria to a company that supposedly owns the deposit, that company books the goods, alters the documents, and then the Zygerrians supposedly ship them to Nal Shaddaa," Roderick recited.
"Where Hoersch-Kessel's office changes the invoices again and sends the thoroughly 'laundered' resources to headquarters and their own shipyards," Vex finished.
Roderick winced.
"Too convoluted. I really don't like this. Why go through all this trouble, changing invoices twice, if the 'Corporates' are working with the Hutts?"
"Which means they're not working together," Aveka concluded. "At least not openly. You know... I have an idea."
"Who'd have guessed?" Roderick grimaced. "And what is it?"
Aveka, meanwhile, was moving along another shelving unit, but not finding the box she needed, kept searching.
Five minutes later, she returned with another chip.
"Over the last few years — and the shipments started after Zsinj's destruction — the 'Corporates' have shipped Hoersch-Kessel enough metal this way to build a good hundred warships of Star Destroyer class," Vex said. "Doesn't that raise any questions about why the hell they'd do that?"
"Money laundering from sales?"
"Oh, please. In the Corporate Sector, you can just turn a corner, stop the first grim-looking guy in a crowd, and ask him to launder 'black cash.'" Vex snorted, decoding the third chip. "All he'll ask you is: 'What's my cut?'"
"Then why?" Roderick pressed.
"When was the last time you saw Hoersch-Kessel advertising their products?" Aveka asked. "I don't recall seeing their promotional brochures floating around the HoloNet urging people to order their goods."
"If they're working directly for the Hutts, why would they need outside clients?" Roderick asked.
"Well, that's where you're wrong," Vex declared. "After the Clone Wars, Hoersch-Kessel went through a lot of crises. Management chopped the company into pieces, hoping to squeeze out more profit and shed the stigma of being Separatist supporters. They've got a new client — and they clearly do, given how many resources they needed. So, I think I found it. 'Nar Shaddaa Shipping' ordered about a hundred ships from this Hoersch-Kessel office."
"Never heard of that company," Roderick admitted.
"It's a transport enterprise based in the Dravian spaceport of the Tamarin sector. They recruited transport ships with crews a few years ago, as I recall... Oh." Vex drew the word out. "Well, it's those very ships that carry the shipments from CorpSec."
"The company hired private contractors to haul 'laundered' metal to build their own ships?" Roderick clarified. "Now I'm completely lost."
"I'm the opposite, actually," Vex said, collecting the infocrystals she'd found. "About two hundred fifty years ago, that area and the neighboring Rseik sector were a real pirate haven. The Trade Federation tried to establish order, but apparently, after the Empire fell, everything went back to how it was. Though I've heard some moff still holds power there, I can't say for sure it's still the case. And yes, I don't think you'll be surprised which ships 'Nar Shaddaa Shipping' ordered."
"Go on."
"Lucrehulks." Roderick's face fell. "Yes, yes, yes — the old Trade Federation battleship-freighters. Enormous cargo capacity, able to carry a whole invasion army in their holds. And very expensive to maintain. And, if what I read is correct, they're ordering them in fully combat-ready condition, with modern weaponry and technology. How many guesses do you need to figure out who needs ships like that, in that configuration, obtained that way?"
"This is definitely not for nothing," Roderick said, not even bothering to speculate. "We go back and report to command."
"No objections there," Vex said.
It took them a couple of minutes to cover their tracks and exit the archive room.
"I was starting to think you'd moved in," the security guard from earlier said, training a disintegrator on both of them. "Let's go, spies. And no funny business."
Once in the corridor, Roderick spotted at least five fighters in the room.
Every single one — armed, clad in sealed armor...
Very recognizable armor.
So recognizable that both agents' teeth ground in unison.
"Move it," ordered what seemed to be the leader of the "Vultures" from the "Zann Consortium."
"You've got a very unpleasant trip ahead," the Zabrak guard giggled, walking behind Vex.
But before anyone from the Dominion could get a word out, the Vulture nearest the guard drove a combat knife into his temple with lightning speed.
The force of the blow was so great that the weapon punched through the tough skull without resistance and embedded itself in the brain.
The body hit the floor with a crash.
"Incompetence is punished," the killer said with almost mundane calm, pulling his weapon from the victim's body and sheathing the combat knife. "Move. Don't linger."
* * *
When Mara stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a massive bath towel with a second one twisted into a "turban" on her head for drying her hair, she felt much better.
Only after so many days of non-stop scrubbing, scouring, soaking, and rubbing with every product imaginable had she managed to wash off all the grime, all the revolting smell, and stop feeling like she was coated in dried crusts of clone blood and gore.
The girl padded barefoot across the deck of her assigned quarters, collapsed onto the couch, and stretched with pleasure.
How wonderful it was to finally have days off and not have to constantly call upon the Force to know who was around you.
Sometimes she was even starting to enjoy the silence of the Force-repelling ysalamiri bubbles that currently shrouded the superstructure and aft section of the Chimaera.
On the Grand Admiral's flagship, a luxurious cabin — the kind usually occupied by high-ranking Imperial dignitaries — was always ready for her.
Any cabin on the "guest deck" of the Star Destroyer's superstructure.
That was precisely what this particular deck was built for — so that the Empire's most precious posteriors could feel their accustomed comfort and luxury without dwelling on the fact that they'd traded the Imperial Palace for a warship.
No, the Flame was a fine ship, but a Star Destroyer offered more comfort.
That was exactly why she'd turned down her own Super Star Destroyer — she was afraid she wouldn't be able to resist never leaving her quarters.
The girl, immensely pleased with life and herself, touched the control panel to activate the wall screen and enjoy the soothing sound of the ocean...
"Enjoy your bath, Mara Jade."
With a shriek, the Hand pushed off the floor, executed a backflip, and hid behind the back of the couch.
Her first move was to check the towel clips holding the towel that was her only garment.
Only then did she slowly raise her head from cover, not raising it above eye level.
"In that position, you remind me of an infantryman in a trench, observing enemy movement under fire," said the Grand Admiral, sitting on a snow-white couch placed to the left of the one she was cowardly hiding behind.
"This is my cabin!" Mara hissed.
"This is my ship," Thrawn countered, still watching the shifting images of ocean waves.
"Is that why you still keep ysalamiri on the Chimaera?" she asked caustically. "So young gifted women won't know you're coming?"
"Partly true." Mara's eye twitched. "They remain here so that Force-sensitive beings cannot harm the ship or crew," Thrawn explained.
"Do you realize how uncultured and low it is — sitting in the dark and staring at a girl who just came out of the shower wearing only a towel?" Mara fumed.
Thrawn finally deigned to tear his gaze from the monitor, and his fiery red eyes met her emerald gaze.
"First — you're wearing two of them," Thrawn said calmly. "Second, you turned the lights off yourself. Third, no one forces you to wander a military vessel in a state of undress. That was entirely and exclusively your choice. Which violates standing regulations, incidentally. Fourth, my eyes were closed."
Seriously?!
No, did he actually just say that?!
She was to blame for walking around her own quarters in a towel after visiting the refresher?!
Mara opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort...
And closed it.
Because Thrawn, damn him, was actually right — regulations required anyone on board leaving the refresher area to be in attire that precluded nudity.
Technically, a towel qualified, but...
"I hope nothing earth-shattering happens in the time it takes me to get dressed?" Jade asked, looking around.
Where was that little fuzzy menace?
"Rukh is standing outside the door," Thrawn said, making Mara blush. "No, my business can wait until you've made yourself presentable, Hand."
The girl clenched her fists, straightened proudly, and deliberately paraded into her bedroom with exaggerated slowness, thinking vengefully that his fiery gaze was surely drilling into her back...
Unable to resist, she turned around at the bedroom doorway.
Thrawn, leg crossed over leg, was looking at the screen of the datapad he'd brought.
He had his right hand demonstratively pressed to his forehead, blocking his line of sight.
So he'd known perfectly well that she'd try to catch him in a gaze natural to the male constitution...
And he'd made her suspicions look ridiculous.
"Oh, screw you!" she blurted, slapping the metal doorframe with all her might.
Thrawn didn't even react.
"I made it in two," Mara said, collapsing onto the same couch she'd hidden behind.
She simply ignored the fact that the living room lights were now on, dimmed.
But she noted that Thrawn was indeed alone.
Hmm... Was that a measure of how much he trusted her?!
Even Palpatine had never been alone with her, and she — even if she'd wanted to kill him — wasn't his equal even in her wildest dreams.
Now dressed in her usual combat jumpsuit (thankfully, the Chimaera and Flame had spares she could shamelessly exploit), she smoothed the towel "turban" on her head.
"How is your hand?" Thrawn asked, raising his eyes to her.
"Um..." The girl, instantly losing her belligerence, looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about, Grand Admiral."
Had he been watching after all?
"Very well," Thrawn said. "As you say. Have you rested enough, or do you intend to use your allotted leave in full?"
"I'm afraid I won't be able to relax on this ship anymore," she said.
Take that!
It wasn't an outright jab (she wouldn't be punished for her behavior before going to change, but openly hissing at the admiral wasn't smart), but it was a perfectly transparent hint.
Thrawn was smart.
He'd understand what she meant: that now she wouldn't be sure, even in her own cabin, that the Grand Admiral wasn't lurking somewhere in the dark, intending to hand her a new assignment.
Honestly, Palpatine had been easier in that regard — he rarely gave her orders personally during face-to-face meetings, keeping her incognito at the Imperial court.
She could always hear his feignedly caring voice, even at the farthest edge of the galaxy.
"I'm confident you'll survive," Thrawn said without blinking, sliding the datapad across the surface of the transparent coffee table toward the girl. "Your new assignment and accompanying information."
Mara caught the datapad deftly, scanning the lines.
She looked up at the Grand Admiral, hoping his expression would indicate that what was printed on the screen was nothing more than a joke...
Yeah, right — with the same success, she could have stared at Thrawn's stone face and figured out what he'd had for lunch or breakfast.
"This isn't a joke?" she asked.
"Not in the slightest," Thrawn replied. "The pattern of moffs being replaced by clones has been ongoing for quite some time. Tyber Zann is using this to subjugate Imperial Remnants, dismantling the Empire's central command structure. Afterward, he picks off the Remnants one by one. The clones are clearly programmed for such actions."
"But Baroness D'Asta went against the Consortium's will," Mara noted. "So she wasn't programmed?"
"That would be the logical conclusion," Thrawn agreed. "There is one interesting detail — Force-sensitive beings can detect an 'unclear threat' emanating from programmed clones."
Mara frowned.
"And Carnor Jax, the candidate for Emperor, as well as Lord Kvest himself, the Emperor's Hand — they're Force-sensitive," she murmured. "Fina D'Asta is part of their conspiracy."
Thrawn looked at her with interest.
Mara could practically feel him waiting for her to finish the logical chain she'd started.
"Zann didn't program her because Kvest and Jax might have sensed the threat to their plans and gotten rid of her," Thrawn's Hand said, meeting the Grand Admiral's eyes.
"I reached the same conclusion," he nodded. "He acts cautiously, over-insuring at every step. His combinations have double, even triple layers, which has allowed him to stay in the shadows all these years. Quite an interesting progression for someone who, not so long ago, was in the racketeering, piracy, and kidnapping business, like most criminal organizations in the galaxy. He's a very dangerous opponent, and he's set his sights on us."
"We accidentally picked at a scab, and it turned out there was an abscess half the size of a body underneath," Jade said slowly.
She understood herself that Thrawn's plan to purge the pirates, reclaim Imperial property from them, and secure the Outer Rim sectors (at least some of them) had been needed primarily so the sector populations would understand and embrace the Dominion.
And the gambit had paid off.
Excluding the rebellions nipped in the bud, the Dominion was, overall, decent.
Not the Empire at its peak, certainly, but much better than most Imperial Remnants.
"So, we've lost the clone originals, the documentation, and the Kaminoans don't know where the Spaarti cloning cylinders came from, who they replaced, what the probability is that Zann has established cloning on Kamino, or in what quantities," Mara said.
"In broad strokes," Thrawn replied dryly.
Mhm-hm...
Broad strokes.
This was a nightmare!
There was absolutely no way to know which of the remaining moffs governing their sectors across the galaxy could be trusted, and which couldn't!
Take Kaine — he might simply be a clone and not even know it.
Why even look that far?!
There was a whole list of names of moffs and grand moffs in the filtration camps who represented an "unclear threat."
And some had already been identified as clones!
How many more could there be throughout the Dominion?!
Everything could collapse overnight!
"You do have a plan, don't you?" Mara asked quietly. "This can't be left to chance."
"We won't leave it," Thrawn agreed. "The Zann Consortium will be eliminated. It is our direct adversary at the moment."
"Not even Palpatine..."
"We'll have to be flexible to avoid being caught between two fires," Thrawn said. "For now, the only thing saving the Dominion from an Imperial attack is that Palpatine is focused on finishing off the New Republic while it's weak. That gives us a small window of time — until the forces of Imperial Space and the Pentastar Alignment are completely exhausted. After that, Palpatine will undoubtedly join the operation and commit his own forces."
"And how much time do we have to deal with the Zann Consortium threat?" Mara asked.
That Thrawn intended to get rid of Tyber Zann first was correct, whichever way you looked at it.
You couldn't leave a force like that unchecked, especially with the Chiloon Rift at your back.
Criminals, clones, "Corporates."..
The shadow side of the galaxy, blended into a cocktail of industries and Imperial sectors secretly supporting Zann and apparently providing him certain services...
Yes, Zann, in a certain context, would be even scarier than Palpatine.
Compared to his intrigues, Zann looked like a model of strategic cunning.
And if he were allowed to do what he wanted — dismantle the Empire and subjugate it — he would truly be an unbeatable enemy.
An enemy whose extermination would require a fleet and army the Dominion didn't have and was unlikely ever to have.
Fighting half the galaxy with only about a dozen sectors and a few systems far from the home territory...
That was outright suicide.
But it would be absolute stupidity to just sit and wait for Zann to execute his plan and Palpatine to turn his attention to the Dominion.
Just like that, the enemies had swapped places.
From an external nuisance, Zann — who was already acting against the Dominion, trying to undermine it from within — had become the primary threat.
Getting into a confrontation with Palpatine without defeating Zann would mean the end of the Dominion.
A two-front war against powerful rivals was a guaranteed failure.
Mara, no tactician or strategist, understood this clearly.
Thrawn, even more so.
"Six months at most," Thrawn said. "Intelligence has provided materials on the mobilization resources of Imperial Space and the Pentastar Alignment. They'll last a maximum of five to six months, but the last two will certainly not be marked by victories. I've already taken measures to slow the Imperial offensive, redirecting it toward solving internal problems. That will occupy them for a while — while the first phase of consolidating conquered territories is underway. The Imperial Ruling Council and Grand Moff Kaine will soon launch a new offensive, but with limited success. As soon as they fall back to defending their conquered worlds, they'll be spent. Their forces won't be enough even to capture their currently planned objectives. Once Palpatine realizes this, he will intervene and finish what he started."
"Defeating Tyber Zann that way, in such a short time, will be practically impossible," Mara suggested.
"There are no unattainable goals," Thrawn declared. "This campaign will not be easy, but only victory over Zann will free our forces for a reliable defense of the Dominion. Consequently, I have already begun preparations for a combination that will allow us to inflict significant damage on the Zann Consortium's forces."
No one doubted that.
Nor did anyone doubt that Thrawn hadn't shared the depth of Tyber Zann's penetration into galactic reality for nothing.
It could only mean one thing — the Grand Admiral was leading her to realize a simple fact.
They intended to give her a suicide mission.
One whose outcome could determine the fate of the entire Dominion.
Her home, to which she had grown attached with all her soul.
And the Grand Admiral was gently but persistently making that mission not just an assignment, but a personal matter for her.
It couldn't be said that he had failed.
"And what am I supposed to do, Grand Admiral?" Mara asked quietly, feeling a chill run down her spine.
"You will have to stick your head into a rancor's mouth, lead me in after you, and survive," Thrawn replied.
Oh, was that all?
Mara swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
The Grand Admiral certainly knew how to inspire heroic deeds.
But right now, it felt terribly frightening.
"Now, to the details..."
* * *
Instead of a regular turbolift, the "Vultures" used a cargo lift, which delivered the whole company to the first floor.
Fighting armed, armored opponents who outnumbered them and clearly had no qualms about killing detainees — that was sheer madness.
Especially since the enemy had disarmed them, stripped them of their simple melee weapons and technical gear, and ingeniously bound their hands so tightly that within a few minutes, Roderick had lost all feeling in them.
They were led out into the courtyard behind the building, and Vex nearly vomited from the smell of rotting garbage.
Naturally, no one fell for that little trick — someone just shoved her in the back.
The "Vultures" quickly herded the prisoners into an alley, where an aircar was already waiting.
"I think it's time to mention that I get carsick," Vex said, making yet another attempt to provoke the Zann Consortium's elite fighters into something.
They reacted.
With a backhanded blow to the face.
"Ouch," Vex said, spitting a knocked-out tooth onto the pavement and, for some reason, crushing it under her foot. "You pway wiff defiwing — meet a duwf fate. You owe me a new dancher."
"Shut up and get inside," the "leader" ordered her.
Two more Consortium "Vultures" climbed out of the speeder's cabin, opening the doors.
Roderick looked around; the street was a long run away, past this new pair of problems.
He had to act now.
If they were put in the speeder, they'd be taken wherever their captors pleased, interrogated, and killed.
Rederick was desperately racking his brain for a plan when several Jawas appeared in the alley, chattering away in their own language.
The Vultures raised their weapons, but the Tatooine beggars kept moving forward as if they hadn't noticed the group.
"Freeze and get lost," the vocoder of the "leader" of the seven Vultures ordered.
Now both Jawas noticed them.
They started shrieking about something in their own tongue, bowing apologetically.
The Vultures tracked them with their weapons, never letting their guard down.
And honestly, Rederick missed the moment when the first of the Zann Consortium's elite fighters dropped to the ground.
It took the agent only an instant to recognize the hilt of a blade sticking out of one of their captors' visors.
After that, everything turned into a chaotic skirmish.
One of the Vultures aimed a disintegrator at Aveka, and her partner had no time to think.
Rederick rammed his body into the Vulture standing in front of him; the shot went wide of Dunn, while the agent himself took a kick to the groin, an elbow to the jaw, a fist to the nose, but he kept his opponent pinned with his whole body.
Vex lunged at the leader, tackling him to the ground.
From the darkness of the alley, both of the Jawas they'd already seen reappeared, moving with impossible speed. In a single leap they were beside the two downed Vulture agents, blasting them with stunners.
The Vultures who were still fighting went quiet.
As did the remaining four, cut down by invisible blaster bolts.
Rederick felt the plasticuffs fall from his wrists, and someone — Vex too — was helping him at least sit up.
A dose of painkiller was injected into his shoulder, and life became much easier.
"I'm not a droid," Rederick groaned, seeing a Jawa reaching for his face with a small gray hand.
A crack, pain — and his broken nose was set back in place.
"Better?" the Jawa mewed.
"Noghri," Vex breathed out, settling down next to Rederick. "And here I was wondering why the Jawas took the Vultures for garbage droids."
Meanwhile, another half-dozen Jawas appeared in the alley. They busily started hauling the Vultures' bodies into the speeder's cabin, focusing on the two unconscious ones, stripping and binding them simultaneously.
For a moment, Rederick thought both prisoners had female faces.
Very similar to each other...
But he didn't get a good look — the prisoners were fitted with black hoods, injected with a sedative, and had several teeth pulled from their mouths and tucked out of sight.
"You moved too early," Vex said to the Jawas. "You should have let them take us — we'd have found their coordinator."
"Our mission is to protect the agents' lives," the Noghri declared in a mewing tone. "We intervened because you would certainly have been interrogated and killed inside the speeder. Our master would not have forgiven such a risk."
"Could have put a tracker on the speeder and come for them later," Rederick grumbled, touching his broken, slowly swelling nose. "Risk is part of the job. If our deaths could uncover more than we already learned, then it's worth it."
"The speeder isn't registered, by the way," Vex said, studying the vehicle. "But it's automated. Maybe its memory has the destination coordinates."
"Or," Rederick glanced at the prisoners being shoved into the back seat of the speeder, "we might be able to talk to them. Which I personally doubt. No, still — we should've let them take us..."
But at the same time, he understood how unlikely their survival would have been in that scenario.
And tracking even a marked speeder through traffic like the Smugglers' Moon would take a genius of covert surveillance.
Chances were that the plan Vex and Rederick had proposed — let them go and find them — would have ended in their useless, inglorious death.
"Our master, Grand Admiral Thrawn, gave a clear order — protect the agents," the presumed Noghri squad leader said firmly. "His will is law for our people. You were in mortal danger — we intervened. There was no other way."
"Understood."
"It's nothing," Vex took his face in both hands, turning it this way and that. "Your cute mug will heal before the wedding. Besides — scars make a man look good."
"I'll keep that in mind." Rederick got to his feet, rubbing his hands, which had started tingling from the returning blood flow. "You never mentioned you had an implant beacon in your tooth."
"A girl should keep some little secrets," Vex winked at him. "Besides, when's the last time Noghri death commandos saved you? They're usually on a completely different job."
"Uh-huh," Rederick grunted. "I've heard. I'm familiar. And I still wonder — if these guys exist, why the hell do they need us at all?"
"Ask command when we file our report," Vex suggested, running her hand over her partner's battered face. "Anyway, you saved my life back there — you know that?"
"Honestly — it wasn't intentional," Rederick said. "Conscience got the better of me. I figured they'd finally get rid of you for me, and then..."
He didn't get to finish.
Vex silenced him with a hot, passionate kiss.
The most wonderful kiss he'd ever experienced in his life.
"And just try to weasel out of the rest of your reward, my hero," Aveka whispered temptingly in his ear. "Besides, you need help treating your battle wounds..."
Fine.
At least this would be a proposition of the "after-mission" variety.
Better to agree, or she'd never let it go.