Ten years, one month, and thirty-four days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-five years, one month, and thirty-four days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Eight months and nineteen days since the Arrival.)
Bossk's approval was no reason to relax and consider the job done.
Just like the fact that Sergius and several other pilots had been given a "responsible task."
This was nothing more than a test.
As a specialist in infiltration and counter-intelligence against criminal organizations, Sergius understood this perfectly.
He also knew that hundreds of his clones were embedded in various groups across the galaxy, gathering information and destroying those structures from within.
The Empire, had it wanted to, could have easily wiped out every single pirate and their gangs in the years Palpatine was at the height of his power.
But it hadn't.
Why?
No, not because it couldn't — a significant portion of pirate bands were just scum who didn't even know the meaning of safety protocols.
The Empire, or rather its local representatives, might have wanted to get rid of the annoying criminals, but it was extremely impractical.
Because until the Rebel Alliance appeared, Moffs and Governors could summon the forces of the Imperial Starfleet to fight them, which would obediently carry out any task assigned.
And at the same time, they could make a tidy profit on the side by running illegal schemes — something Imperial Governors had become quite adept at.
Covering up criminal activity, especially piracy, brought in considerable dividends for those involved.
And little by little, it destabilized the Empire from within.
But that was all a digression, having nothing to do with the task set before Sergius and the eleven other pilots recruited by Bossk.
Probably nothing.
Because none of the pilots knew a single thing about their mission, except the final coordinates.
A trust test — if fewer ships emerged than started the jump, it meant not all the recruited pilots were ready to blindly obey command.
And those who survived the mission would be admitted to the core business of the gang Bossk controlled.
Unlike ground units, a pilot had a chance to evade combat and desert.
A foot soldier could always be easily and simply "wasted" for trying to ignore an order.
The hyperspace tunnel shattered into pieces, and on his console, Sergius noted only seven friendly markers besides his own Headhunter.
So four ships had decided to desert.
Clear enough.
They were in an uninhabited star system somewhere within the Tamarin sector.
Exactly where they were supposed to be.
"Well, we're here. What now?" the dissatisfied voice of one pilot rang out.
No need to comment.
Talking in this situation was an attempt to show bravado or indifference in the face of rising panic.
Every single pilot Sergius had reached the target with was flying a Headhunter.
True — different models and years.
A couple, judging by their appearance, had even seen combat during the Clone Wars, if not earlier.
A short click in his helmet's earpiece indicated a new user had joined the common channel for the eight pilots.
Considering Bossk's people had given them the frequency, it was no surprise someone even knew they were here.
"So you made it," a Trandoshan hissed in the earpiece. "Excellent. A bit short-handed, though..."
"Not everyone likes being used in the dark," said the same voice that had complained about the lack of prospects.
Sergius remained silent again.
If he wanted to get to the bottom of things, he had to walk a fine line.
Knowing when to show a rebellious streak and when to keep his mouth shut.
Criminals, by definition, knew nothing of discipline.
But crime bosses loved two things (aside from women and valuables): unquestioning obedience, and subordinates who had a head on their shoulders with brains inside.
"That's their problem," Bossk stated categorically. "Your task is to attack and disable a ship that will appear in the system shortly."
"What kind of ship?"
"Is it armed?"
"What about escort?"
"How will we know it's the one we're after?"
Questions came one after another.
Bossk was silent, which didn't fit his authoritarian nature as a pirate leader and bounty hunter.
And this was a good chance to stand out.
"Shut your mouths," Sergius said in a bored but firm tone. "We were ordered to attack the ship and keep it here. So we wait, attack, and don't let it go. Keep everything else to yourselves."
Based on the pleased hissing from the Trandoshan he heard in his earpiece, Bossk was extremely happy with that reaction.
Which meant Sergius had caught his attention again.
That was good.
The more "right" moves he made from the Trandoshan's perspective, the faster he'd rise from common pilot to "officer."
As every working stiff knew, even in pirate gangs, you don't trust or confide plans to the rank and file.
But the bosses and commanders — big and small — knew a little more.
The higher the position, the closer you were to command — the easier it became to get access to the enemy's secrets.
"You should shut your own mouth," the same restless pirate snapped back at him. "Who appointed you commander here, huh? Who asked you to stick your nose in? Who the hell are you, anyway?"
It took Sergius less than a minute to pinpoint the source of the trouble.
A good commander had to know not only how to shut up the loudmouths in the unit, but also how to instantly crush any attempt to challenge his authority or orders.
Two missiles and a burst from the Headhunter's laser cannons — and the troublesome pilot turned into a fireball.
He never even had a chance to react to the attack.
"What... was that?" one of the pilots asked.
Sergius saw the remaining six pilots keeping their distance, suspecting they might be the next victims of this inexplicable reprisal.
"I can't stand having panickers around," Sergius said. "Bossk, any further instructions?"
Laughter from the Trandoshan came through the earpiece.
"You're the squadron leader now," the bounty hunter said, and a pause hung in the air for a moment. "I've sent the target's vector."
The instrument panel blinked, confirming receipt of the data packets.
Immediately after that, all contact with the Trandoshan ceased.
They were on their own now.
"Just great," another pilot's voice sounded.
"Friendly fire — and a promotion?" another wondered.
"If anyone's got a problem, they can try to shoot me down," Sergius offered. "If not, we get the target vector, shut down the systems a few units from the target's exit point, and wait."
No one wanted to challenge his leadership.
It took the seven Headhunters half an hour to prepare for the unknown.
Even now, it was clear that Bossk's pilots were nothing more than expendable material.
Slightly more valuable than foot soldiers, but not by much.
How else could you explain being used with no information?
No preparation, no data on the type of ship they were about to face.
From all this, it was safe to conclude they would continue to be used as extras, whose life and death were worth nothing.
Which made it all the more important to climb the gang's hierarchy as fast as possible and find out why one of the Zann Consortium's lieutenants was wasting his time here, on the galactic fringe.
Either Bossk, never truly loyal to Zann, was acting on his own, or this was part of something bigger.
There was no finding the answer here and now.
He had to keep working.
Sergius gave the pilots only a general outline of the attack, knowing he had neither the time nor the opportunity to plan details — there was no universal tactic for attacking any type of starship.
To minimize losses and increase the chance of success, you needed to know at least what the ship was armed with or what class it belonged to.
But they had none of that — Bossk had thrown them into the water and demanded they swim across the river.
Those who made it might become something more than just executors of another's will, but the pilots had a slim chance of that.
Not for Sergius, though.
The target appeared suddenly, even though they were waiting for it.
A CR90 Corellian corvette.
Quite an opponent.
For a professional squadron — not the hardest target.
For a mismatched rabble with no concept of combat coordination — practically an impossible task.
The ship's difference from those Sergius had encountered before was immediately apparent.
First and foremost, the ship was painted red — not something done en masse in any galactic fleet, except the Old Republic.
If Sergius remembered correctly, a red hull was a symbol of a starship's diplomatic status in pre-Imperial times.
Nobody did that kind of thing anymore — paint was expensive for those who liked to stand out.
The Empire didn't even bother painting unit emblems on its starships en masse, saving on such expenses.
Besides, ships of the Empire were transferred between units far too often.
Sergius and a pair of pilots charged at the corvette's stern, hammering its building deflectors with all their guns.
The other two pairs struck from the sides.
The first salvo managed to knock out the communications antennas, cutting off the target's ability to contact anyone.
But that first strike came at a considerable price.
"Four" exploded, taking a direct hit from the corvette's twin turbolaser cannon.
Green bursts turned its cockpit into an open bud, and the petals of that flower scattered into space.
Then the ion engine of fighter "Five" blew, and three "freaks" followed the debris of his wingman.
The computer identified them as hostile, so the five remaining Headhunters changed their targets.
Leaving two pilots — "Six" and "Seven" to harass the corvette's guns and keep it from accelerating for a jump, Sergius led "Two" and "Three" into battle with the "freaks."
The corvette's guns filled all the space around the target ship with energy clusters.
The two Headhunters worked to silence the enemy's artillery for good, but so far without success.
Sergius assessed the type of "freaks" they were facing.
A TIE fighter cockpit mounted on the fuselage and engines of the well-proven Rebel Alliance "wishbone."
This flying abomination had certainly earned its nickname "freak."
And it had plenty of drawbacks.
If the TIE fighter impressed with speed and maneuverability, and the "wishbone" with its power and shielding, this type of "freak" had inherited all the worst traits from its parents.
Clumsy and sluggish, they looked like wild nerfs attacked by a pack of taopari.
Its deflector shield was more of a misunderstanding than real protection.
Its greedy engines devoured enormous amounts of power, so the laser cannons couldn't compete in rate of fire even with the Headhunter's weapons.
They didn't last five minutes, though it could have ended much sooner.
Sergius, having claimed four of the "freak" pilots, noted that his hastily assembled squadron had shrunk by another two ships — "Two" and "Five" were lost.
Sergius barrel-rolled twice and dove toward the nearest "freak."
The last two opponents broke away from the corvette and came at him, trying to knock him down with suppressive fire.
Twisting his thumb on the weapon selector, Bravo Eleven weaved slightly from side to side, showing his flank to the other pilots, then leveled the Z-95 and pressed the trigger.
The missile hit the left engine plane of the lead "freak."
An orange flash confirmed the hit, and the next instant the little ship scattered into millions of fragments.
"Three" supported with cannon fire, and on the lead enemy's front shield, as it absorbed the impacts, flares appeared.
The shield wasn't breached, but the bright flash distracted — blinding the pilot and preventing him from aiming. His return shots flew far wide of "Three"'s fighter, and while he was blinking away the spots, another cumulative missile blew him to pieces, showering the Corellian corvette's hull with debris.
Meanwhile, "Four" was also knocked out of the fight — the corvette's guns first tore off his left wing, then caught the uncontrolled little ship.
The enemy's accurate fire left only two Headhunters on the battlefield.
Sergius, giving the order, fired his remaining missiles at the engines of the red-painted starship, destroying two and damaging three more mounts.
But that wasn't so important, considering the enemy had eleven engines on its stern.
"Three" desperately backed up the leader and emptied his launchers — half the corvette's engines went dark, the rest sputtered.
Sergius and "Three" switched to picking off the enemy's gun ports, taking out one or two guns on each pass.
Several times the agent came within a hair's breadth of death, but his piloting skills proved superior to the enemy gunners' aim.
A few minutes later, the enemy ship, trailing a plume of smoke from its aft section, unable to fight back, began ejecting escape pods into space.
No orders had been given to destroy them, so Sergius simply marked them as secondary targets so the onboard computer wouldn't lose track of the little craft in the heat of battle.
"Three" worked on finally putting the enemy's engines out of commission.
Sergius found a simpler way to solve the problem.
He breached the main reactor, forcing the crew to shut it down in order to survive.
The corvette's crew requested a truce, asking for the attackers' demands — which Sergius didn't know. So he simply ordered them to drift and await further instructions.
He didn't have Bossk's comlink frequency, nor any instructions on that matter.
He just had to wait, because the agent had no doubt about one thing: whatever was happening in the system, his employer was certainly watching everything remotely.
And if that was the case, if this really was a test, then things should become clear soon and...
"Uh... boss," "Three" stammered, addressing him. "I'm getting some weird readings on vector six."
Sergius turned his sensors in the indicated direction and felt his mouth go dry.
Exactly along the same vector the unknown Corellian corvette had arrived from, another starship was entering the system.
And no matter how confident Sergius and "Three" were in their abilities, they couldn't win.
They had no chance.
Bearing down on them, launching TIE fighters, came an Imperial I-class Star Destroyer.
The Headhunter's onboard computer helpfully announced that it had been locked onto by heavy turbolasers.
* * *
A hologram materialized above the projector panel.
It flickered several times due to objective circumstances before stabilizing into the form of the party with whom I was communicating for the first time via encrypted channels.
Operating under a cloaking field presented certain problems for all systems.
Hyperspace communications in particular — the foundation for transmitting data across thousands of light-years of the galaxy.
I don't know what the Chimaera's comm technicians had to come up with, but despite all the signal problems caused by transmitting through a drone positioned outside the cloaking field and then relaying via fiber-optic cable to my flagship, the transmission finally overcame all interference.
"Master Clone-maker Zyix K'zzt," I addressed my contact. "Is the GeNod-Dominion project experiencing difficulties?"
The face of the former Stormtrooper, possessed of a geneticist's inquisitive mind, looked puzzled by my question.
The brief pause was enough for me to notice discrepancies between Zyix K'zzt's facial expressions now and during our meeting in the presence of Vice Admiral I-Gor.
Now there was none of the feigned sternness, the "blank stare," or other attributes of Stormtrooper compliance.
A broad face with sharp cheekbones, straight features, a short regulation haircut...
A solid build, but no longer encased in a stormtrooper undersuit and armor — instead, dressed in a simple uniform without rank insignia, but with military-medical service patches.
A lab coat over it made him look like an ordinary doctor, but this "doctor" was far more important to the Dominion than all the others.
"I wouldn't say that, Grand Admiral," the clone-maker said. "But I think I should share my observations and perspective on the current state of the project."
"Have you already reviewed all the documentation and reports?" I asked, not allowing surprise to color my voice.
Only seven days had passed since our meeting, several of which were spent traveling to the central laboratory.
A standard week to get through the documents, files, and current status.
Excessively fast.
"Your medics are following the protocols of the GeNod and Spaarti programs, which I'm familiar with," Zyix K'zzt grimaced. "There's no point in rereading hundreds of data chips that haven't been updated since I was running the projects. I studied the current reports from the moment you launched the projects at Mount Tantiss. Besides, I don't sleep much due to the nature of my body and hybrid consciousness. Stormtroopers only need minimal recovery time — me included."
In that case, the time gap was plausible.
"Then report."
"I'll start with the positives, I suppose," the master clone-maker decided. "The team of Kaminoan geneticists is fairly competent; they know the Spaarti equipment. As I understand it, you haven't let them near the GeNod program yet?"
"Their job is to grow healthy bodies," I reminded him. "For other manipulations, I have you and Senior Geneticist Orun Va."
"Yes, I've already seen his bulk in a Kaminoan tank," Zyix K'zzt confirmed. "The clone's development is proceeding normally, but I'm afraid there will be certain problems with copying his memory. You only have a cloning setup, without the Kaminoan 'rapid learning' system. The Kaminoans developed it for all the species they worked with, including their own. The Spaarti imprint-program technology won't work for them. The chemistry and brain structure are so different that the memories can't be read correctly."
"We have experience creating my clone," I said. "The body was grown using the Kaminoan cloning program, the mind copied and edited via GeNod. I think you understand that my species isn't quite human."
"But at the same time, it has a lot in common," Zyix K'zzt countered. "That's what allowed partial success. The longer your clone functioned, the more cascading errors would have progressed. Of course, an autopsy would have given me far more information about your physiology..."
Zyix K'zzt stopped short, meeting my gaze.
"I meant the clone," he stammered, blinking in obvious panic. "Not your autopsy, the clone..."
"Granted," I agreed. "Which particular clone do you need?"
"Created under which program?" the geneticist perked up. "Kaminoan, without a doubt. Spaarti would produce an unstable clone."
"You have preliminary authorization to use the Kaminoan setup to create and study my clone," I said. "A complete study of my genome and all possible laboratory tests. I need to know exactly how my race's genetics differ from human ones, and how we can leverage that advantage."
"I u-understand," Zyix K'zzt stammered. "Differences... They're clearly evolutionary, because there's no doubt — we share a common ancestor..."
"It's highly unlikely that I was born from a cloning vat."
"Ah..." Zyix K'zzt's gaze shifted to something beside my hologram. "Right, yes..."
"Let's return to using GeNod to copy the Kaminoan mind," I suggested.
"That's a major problem. Unlike the human brain, Orun Va won't withstand multiple 'passes.' After the fifth, or at most the tenth, we'll damage his synapses and irreversible brain changes will begin. Two passes have already been made. As lab head, I've ordered the process suspended until I receive precise instructions from you."
And these are good news?
So we can't copy the Kaminoan's brain and implant it into a clone, as originally planned?
That's bad.
Very, very bad.
I need that Kaminoan geneticist like air if I intend to rebuild the ARC clone program and replenish the Assault Commando ranks with them.
"Does Orun Va know about this?" I asked.
Zyix K'zzt thought for a few seconds.
"Hardly," the geneticist declared. "As far as I know, the Kaminoans haven't worked with Spaarti cloning cylinders. So they could only know their specifics by hearsay. At least — from conversations with the group, I gathered that they'd only dealt with the first generation of Spaarti cylinders on Smarck, and those, though slightly, are still different from the ones you originally had."
An alarm bell sounded in my head.
"Explain," I demanded.
"Smarck had seven thousand two hundred first-generation Spaarti cloning cylinders; you have twenty thousand of the same units, but third-generation," Zyix K'zzt repeated. "I'm seeing these for the first time, but the differences are only in a few technical solutions for power and nutrient supply to the cylinders. Oh, right — technically, you have only sixteen thousand third-generation cylinders. Four thousand were repaired, but in a makeshift manner. Their technical part was simplified, and they essentially correspond more to the first or second generation, not the third."
New information for me.
Until now, I thought the cloning cylinders on Cartao were all of one make, and the factory producing them was destroyed afterward.
"How significant is the difference?"
"In terms of clone production?" Zyix K'zzt clarified. Receiving an affirmative, he explained:
"None, really. The changes only concerned technology for optimizing power consumption and nutrient expenditure. On first-generation cylinders, for example, the nutrient medium had to be changed more often than on the third."
The Kaminoan technicians had indicated something similar during interrogations before my conversation with Orun Va.
Four thousand cylinders repaired in a makeshift manner — those were the ones Colonel Celid fixed to restore the GeNod program when he was commandant of the Mount Tantiss facility.
"All Spaarti cloning cylinders were produced on Cartao," I said. "How did seven thousand two hundred first-generation units end up off-planet?"
"How should I know?" Zyix K'zzt's eyes widened. "I only worked with Arkanian tanks built on second-generation Spaarti cylinders. Until now, I didn't even know a third generation existed."
More and more interesting.
"The Arkanian tanks," I reminded him. "What condition are they in?"
"The consciousness-copying equipment is too damaged," Zyix K'zzt sighed. "Honestly, I wouldn't advise using it for its intended purpose. Whoever used it on Wookiees and other races is a real techno-fascist. In theory, of course, you could disassemble them and, by cannibalization, repair some units, but that's just a guess. I'm not a mechanic or an engineer... But I think the Kaminoan technicians could handle it."
"Are the Arkanian tanks themselves ready for use in copying humans?" I clarified.
"That's not all good either," Zyix K'zzt admitted. "Numerous damages, makeshift repairs, system errors. In theory, of course, you could disassemble them..."
He fell silent, looking at me.
"And from four thousand partially faulty cylinders, assemble a smaller number of functional ones?" I clarified.
"Yes," the geneticist-clone-maker confirmed. "Otherwise, these tanks are useless — you can't buy spare parts for them on the open market, only by special order. But it's specific equipment, characteristic only of this type of genetic technology. And even then, we're only talking about tanks with damaged Arkanian technology. The original mechanics and Spaarti systems can't be restored — only replaced. But the critically important parts of the cloning cylinders are precisely the Spaarti technology. If we tamper with them, we risk ruining the whole tank or a group of tanks."
In other words — if we acquire spare parts from those capable of making them, word will eventually get out.
And someone will realize that someone in the galaxy possesses cloning cylinders.
"You have technical units at your disposal," I reminded him. "Assign them to repair all possible tanks using the cannibalization method."
"And what about the ones we strip for parts?" the clone-maker clarified, clearly pleased by my words.
"That shouldn't concern you," I stated. "It would be far safer to destroy them."
"Yes, that kind of technology in the wrong hands is dangerous," the geneticist nodded. "I completely agree with you, Grand Admiral."
In reality, it's simple.
These units will be moved to a warehouse.
Then an enterprise will be created to produce the missing Arkanian-origin spare parts.
That way, we can secretly restore another portion of the cylinders and use them for additional purposes.
For example — a covert increase in the numbers of elite units or Guard divisions.
The only question is what will remain after the cannibalization.
But everything I've heard increasingly touches on the question of how, when, and under what circumstances the first-generation cloning cylinders from Cartao ended up in the hands of Makus Kaynif and his accomplices.
Which means one thing.
Astarion will have to tighten operations with key prisoners, including the Kaminoan scientist.
Thanks to Zyix K'zzt, I now even know how.
"What about the clones with 'non-native' consciousness matrices?" I asked.
"Now that's actually good news," the geneticist declared. "Otherwise, I said I'd start with good news..."
"Get to the point."
"Dementia in most clones is within reversible margins or margin of error," Zyix K'zzt explained. "According to the data, Stormtroopers were used as the base. The physique and individual characteristics of the organisms allow for erasure and loading of original matrices. Yes, they'll be slightly inferior to the clones you already have, but the difference is negligible."
"Are there prospects for such research?" I inquired.
After all, the clones initially showed good results, despite the consequences.
Perhaps there's a way to reverse or halt the dementia process — Zyix K'zzt himself is proof that a foreign body can accommodate an imprint of a non-"original" mind.
Not to mention that the GeNod program itself provides for the creation of a new, artificial personality, not just loading existing memories into a body.
"Research is necessary," the geneticist said. "In my case, I managed to compile minds, but it's more of a lottery than a pattern. If we use the method of superimposing one personality onto another, it could lead to a consciousness crisis. I prepared the host body and mind for my own transfer because I knew the hunt was on for me. The alterations cost a lot of money, and it's unlikely anyone would be willing to spend millions to create soldiers whose appearance differs from the information loaded into them. It would be much simpler to use the Kaminoan cloning method."
"It involves creating new personalities during the maturation process," I reminded him.
"Yes, but of all the cloning methods I know, Kaminoan clones show the best results," the geneticist admitted. "Currently, your adopted tactic — creating cloned bodies using the Spaarti method, shielded by ysalamiri, and editing their memories with the GeNod program while simultaneously imprinting loyalty to the fighters — is the best we have. Fifteen days and the clone is ready; you only need to train him, making him 'remember' everything he knew before. But aging is faster than with Kaminoan technology — that's the key drawback. If Jango Fett's copies and others aged twice as fast, then Spaarti..."
The geneticist hesitated.
"Depending on the individual characteristics of the original organism, the aging process can be three to five times faster than what human nature dictates."
In other words, in ten years I'll have an army of old men ranging from "mature" to "elderly."
"You have a sample of Kaminoan technology," I said. "What is needed to put it into production?"
"Kaminoan parts," the geneticist answered immediately. "I have Kaminoan technicians capable of assembling and maintaining the technology. And also equipment for 'rapid learning.' I'll repeat — it's not worth risking integrating a non-human mind with a 'template' using the GeNod program."
"The other question is whether you yourself are suitable for cloning," I observed, studying the geneticist's expression.
I have the opportunity to study my own genetic heritage and at least understand how long I've lived and how much remains.
But at the same time, I have a specialist geneticist with a broad outlook who could become part of the genetic program.
Creating clones of this kind would allow me to remove the need for further searches for genetic specialists.
"I haven't thought about it," Zyix K'zzt admitted. "A cloned body is, of course, my bane, and I understand that in a decade I'll already be in a state of complete old age... I'll conduct research in my free time on my compatibility with the GeNod apparatus. A body can be created in any tank — Kaminoan or Spaarti. The brain — that's what matters..."
"During my service to the Empire, rumors reached me that a certain group of clone deserters, with the help of Kaminoan technicians, managed to overcome premature aging," I paraphrased what I knew from the Republic Commando book series.
"Well, fighting clone aging is a well-known speculative story," Zyix K'zzt chuckled. "The Grand Army of the Republic clones were created using one technology, Spaarti — another. The Arkanian work from which my body came is a third altogether. I'm not sure that even if premature aging in Kaminoan-manufactured clones is overcome, that genetic 'patch' would be identical for Spaarti project clones."
"But work in this area is necessary," I noted. "If we don't solve this problem, our cloning labs will produce one generation of clones after another, and it will never stop, given the premature aging."
"We-e-ell... Yes, it's economically unviable to create armies of clones every few years on this equipment," Zyix K'zzt said thoughtfully. "No one has ever determined the durability limit of these cylinders, and there's no way to replace a number of key parts... I understand you, Grand Admiral; I'll assign several geneticists to study this problem. Kaminoan data would help us greatly. Of course, if the rumors that aging has been overcome aren't just wishful thinking."
"I'll take your wishes into account," I replied — but not until the current operation against the Zann Consortium is over. "Anything else?"
"Yes, sir," Zyix K'zzt nodded. "I would recommend conducting an audit of the genetic samples we have. Selecting the most optimal ones based on efficiency and longevity criteria. This would yield a genetic template, perhaps several for each direction — aviation, fleet, army, and so on — that have both service successes and longevity in terms of premature aging."
"That would extend the clones' service life," I nodded in agreement. "I support the initiative."
"Well, then..." The geneticist was silent for a few seconds, then said confidently: "That's all I have, Grand Admiral."
"Good," I said. "Then there's one more task for you."
"Yes, of course..."
"We have a clone of Jango Fett, the mercenary who became the genetic donor for the Grand Army of the Republic," I related. "You need to study him to determine the feasibility of using him to recreate the elite commando project. Competent military experts will arrive shortly."
"Sir, Jango Fett's clones are subject to accelerated aging, the genetic manipulations that ensured their obedience, and other interventions," Zyix K'zzt grimaced. "I'm afraid the age changes haven't affected them in the best way."
"This clone is unmodified," I said. "We're talking about Boba Fett."
"Well, shit..." The geneticist gasped. "An unmodified Fett clone! Of course I'll study him, Grand Admiral! I'll do everything in my power!"
Well, then... The prospects are defined.
As are the tasks for counterintelligence.
One of which will be to find out the reasons why my geneticist was so delighted at that possibility.
* * *
There's no point in dying in a battle that's doomed to fail.
But not when your capture threatens torture and the possible exposure of the "cover story."
"Trio," Sergius felt his voice tremble, "prepare to repel the attack."
"Boss, have you lost your mind?" his wingman was surprised. "They're about to..."
"Bossk ordered us to capture this ship," Sergius reminded him. "We'll do everything we can. If it gets really bad, we'll kick in the hyperdrives and get the hell out of here, anywhere. But I'm not giving up our prize without a fight."
"So it's going to get even worse?" said "Trio."
"They could have arrived with an interdictor cruiser," the Dominion agent reminded his wingman. "For now, we have a decent chance of bugging out whenever we want — TIE fighters don't have hyperdrives, and the 'Imperial' doesn't have gravity well generators. That's it. Stay behind me, cover the tail, and try not to die before your time."
The enemy fighters were already approaching weapons range on intercept courses.
Sergius steered his Headhunter toward the first Imperial squadron.
A series of questions brewed inside him.
Was the corvette connected to the "Imperial"?
If so, why was the former guarded by "freaks" and not TIE fighters or any other Imperial equipment?
Why weren't these ships moving in a single jump, if the corvette was being escorted by a destroyer?
How did "Impstar One" get here, since the corvette lost its communications systems immediately in the first attack?
Something didn't add up.
Why escort a corvette if everything valuable on it could be transferred to the destroyer under better protection?
Why such a large time gap between the corvette's and the Star Destroyer's arrival?
It's understandable that after Endor, especially in the backwater, discipline among Imperial splinter groups had fallen.
But this much?
If "Impstar One" was indeed an escort, why did they give their charge almost an hour and a half to become a target for a precision hunt?
Why didn't the destroyer's commander demand the attackers leave the system?
Were they that eager for a fight?
But then why were the guns silent?
Everything happening was too implausible.
As was the fact that upon entering firing range, the TIE fighters, though keeping them "in their sights," never opened fire.
"Don't shoot first," Sergius warned.
"Wait for them to get on our tail and chew us up?" "Trio" protested. "No, boss, that won't work."
"Twitch, and I'll shoot you myself," the Dominion agent warned, watching the first squadron fly past them without even scratching their hulls.
They reached the corvette, circled it from all sides, as if examining the results of the "Headhunters'" attack.
On the scanner monitor, it was already clear that "Impstar One" had launched all its fighters.
Five squadrons of TIE fighters, piloted by clearly inexperienced pilots — that was obvious from their erratic course, their inability to hold formation properly in each squadron...
So that was it!
Sergius felt his mouth go dry.
Why did "Impstar One" have five squadrons of TIE fighters?
They'd started replacing them with TIE Interceptors, and practically all starships had received a suitable air wing...
But not this Imperial.
It was all a bit strange...
As if this ship had been stationed on such a remote frontier for so long that its upgrade was deemed unnecessary.
The Empire had always tried to save on the combat effectiveness of remote units, supplying them with obsolete equipment, or "forgetting" to actually update it.
Because why would frontier fleets need modern small craft?
But the problem was precisely that among the Imperial Remnants that owned destroyers, the air wings were heterogeneous, not so perfectly matched...
A second wave of TIE fighters flashed past Sergius's Headhunter without even attempting to shoot him down.
What kind of escort was this, huh?
Right — none at all.
Because this wasn't an escort.
"Trio," the Dominion agent allowed, "you can relax. They're definitely not going to shoot us down."
"What makes you say that?" his wingman asked.
"Because I have a certain suspicion..."
The static crackled in his earpiece again.
"And you're m-m-made of duras-s-steel nerves, S-s-serg," he heard Bossk's laughing voice — the name the Dominion agent had given himself when they first met.
"Yeah, sometimes those sturdy parts of my body make it hard to walk," Sergius parried the jab as phlegmatically as possible. "So, mission accomplished, Commander?"
"Of course," the Trandoshan replied. "Let your s-s-snot-nosed kid fly around outs-s-side, and you head for the main hangar."
"Understood, Commander." Sergius sighed with relief, steering the ship toward the bottom of the One and relaying the order to his wingman.
* * *
"You really are good," Bossk praised him when the pair of thugs in black-and-red armor escorted Sergius into the compartment where the Trandoshan intended to receive him.
Sergius kept his composure, not allowing himself anything superfluous in the company of high command.
But he didn't act like a cowering womp-rat either.
Authority is earned through bold, daring actions.
And losing it is easy — just stay silent and take the jab.
But strangely enough, in this situation, that's exactly what he needed to do.
Right now, the most important thing was to keep quiet and listen.
"You trashed-s-shed the corvette pretty good," the Trandoshan praised him. "The Galactic Chance was captured with practically no damage. That's a good sign, and it does you cred-d-dit."
"Glad to hear it," Sergius replied, mentally trying to recall if the name of the captured ship meant anything to him.
Vaguely — but he still couldn't remember what was behind that ship's name.
Strangely enough — he couldn't.
Which meant that the Galactic Chance hadn't been connected to organized crime linked to major groups until recently.
"Heard-d-d anything about a group called 'Eyttyrmin Batiiv'?" the Trandoshan asked.
Without flinching, Sergius casually assured him that he hadn't.
Which was completely untrue.
"That group once had-d-d eight thousand fighters," Bossk told him what Sergius already knew well. "A year after the rebels-s-s blew up the Death S-s-star, the Empire wiped them out on Kiyyimine..."
No one could tell the story of that Imperial Starfleet and Ubiqtorate operation better than Sergius.
The Eyttyrmin Batiiv had emerged just weeks after the Galactic Republic was reorganized into the Galactic Empire.
They operated boldly, professionally, and it took a long time to destroy them.
Dozens of agents infiltrated the group, which operated extremely cautiously.
Its core consisted of Clone Wars veterans — former militiamen and their commanders who had started a war without rules.
Sergius had put in a great deal of effort to locate them and lead the fleet to the rebels.
That infiltration had taken considerable effort, but it eventually led to the inevitable result.
His greatest success, one that earned him a promotion and put him in charge of matters concerning the Zann Consortium.
Two Imperial Victory-class Star Destroyers — the Bombardier and the Crusader — had wiped out over ninety-seven percent of the pirates.
Although the Eyttyrmin Batiiv knew about the impending Imperial attack (which some idiot had reported on a news channel), they were confident in their ability to defeat a pair of Victories.
Instead of fleeing, the pirates decided to rally their forces and dig in on Kiyyimine.
The pirate armada numbered over a hundred and forty ships, including about half that number in starfighters, fifty rocket boats converted from yachts and other civilian vessels, several dozen freighters armed with homemade weapons, and nearly thirty stolen corvettes and patrol craft.
While the Crusader provided long-range fire support, the Bombardier's commander placed his Star Destroyer in the center of the enemy formation.
Unsurprisingly, that ship took heavy damage.
However, thanks to the Imperials' bold move, the tide of battle began to turn in their favor.
Using its tractor beam projectors, the Bombardier captured several corvettes.
The Star Destroyer's turbolaser fire stripped the corvettes of most of their weaponry, and the helpless ships were turned to protect the Victory from other pirate vessels.
Furthermore, jamming the communication channels caused panic among the pirates.
The pirates were faced with a choice: launch uncoordinated attacks against their comrades' captured ships, or destroy them, thereby losing their own capital ships.
This confusion allowed the Bombardier's commander to send stormtroopers onto the immobilized ships and capture them.
Artillerymen transferred to the Eyttyrmin Batiiv ships opened fire on the pirates, for whom this "trick" came as quite a surprise.
For most of them — a fatally surprising one.
Most pirates, faced with the strengthening of hostile forces, tried to leave the system, fleeing into hyperspace.
But they were easily intercepted by the Crusader, which had stayed at a distance precisely for that purpose.
Another group of pirates fled to their base on Kiyyimine's surface, where they prepared their defenses for a last stand.
The Eyttyrmin Batiiv who chose to continue fighting were destroyed by the Bombardier and the Crusader.
Quick thinking by a young pirate named Jacob Naiv saved some of the remaining pirates from certain death, but couldn't change the battle's outcome.
After finishing off the Eyttyrmin Batiiv fleet, the Crusader — while the Bombardier patched its holes — delivered the final blow against the pirate base on Kiyyimine.
A missile barrage shattered the base's shields and destroyed the pirates remaining there.
The Eyttyrmin Batiiv were completely annihilated.
Imperial losses amounted to only about ninety dead and less than two hundred and fifty wounded.
According to intelligence, about three hundred pirates had managed to escape, taking one CR90-type corvette and a few fighters with them.
The Eyttyrmin Batiiv lost seven thousand seven hundred fighters and their entire fleet, ceasing to be any kind of force whatsoever.
It was unlikely that the corvette Sergius and his pilots had attacked was that same survivor.
"S-s-several hundred pirates-s-s managed to survive," the Trandoshan continued. "They s-s-swore to take revenge on the commanders of thos-s-se ships..."
The Bombardier had fallen into Rebel Alliance hands shortly after Endor, and its crew was in one of the enemy's prison colonies, which Dominion scouts had yet to penetrate.
The Star Destroyer itself had been captured by Grand Admiral Thrawn at the Battle of Sluis Van and was now part of the Dominion's regular fleet.
The Crusader had been under Thrawn for a long time, but its commander was different — after the superb execution of the operation to destroy the Eyttyrmin Batiiv pirates, the Crusader's commander, Zleche Ounar, had been promoted, moved to staff work, and another man had taken his place.
Sergius knew nothing more about his fate.
The Bombardier's commander had taken command of an Imperial-class and was sent to the Elrood sector, where he and his entire crew were killed by Rebel Alliance agents.
."..And one of them, Captain Z-z-zleche Ounar, s-s-showed up aboard the Galactic Chance," the Trandoshan continued. "S-s-someone on the Chance figured that s-s-selling Ounar would net them a bigger jackpot than the bigges-s-st win in the Chance's-s-s shipboard casino..."
"So it's a flying casino?" Sergius clarified.
"Yes," Bossk confirmed. "A parody of Booster Terrik's Errant Venture. Even painted red to p-s-s-iss him off. Since Terrik dis-s-sappeared and his ship fell into Dominion hands, the Galactic Chance has been s-s-swamped with customers."
"Judging by the fact that I'm being briefed on this, there's some connection between us and all these affairs," Sergius surmised. "And I'm supposed to do something, since I've been told this tearjerker backstory. Am I right?"
"Clever man," the Trandoshan grinned. "Thos-s-se Eyttyrmin Batiiv who es-s-scaped are now running with Jacob Naiv..."
Too bad they're not running under me, Sergius thought.
He frankly didn't like the situation. It stank of burning tibanna gas.
Especially the repeated mention of Jacob Naiv's name, one of the most competent lieutenants of the Eyttyrmin Batiiv.
Jacob Naiv was the last person in the pirate world that Sergius ever wanted to meet.
"They call thems-s-selves the Kiyuimin S-s-survivors," Bossk continued. "They've holed up on the planet Corkrus-s-s in the neighboring s-s-sector of Kiyuimin. Along with other pirate gangs, they onc-c-ce served Leonia Tavira. Now they need to be brought under my thumb. Along with the Kiyuimin s-s-sector its-s-self. You will deliver Zleche Ounar to them in exx-xchange for their loyalty to my gang."
Bossk was continuing to build up his forces.
But this time he wasn't just recruiting "cannon fodder" he was absorbing established groups with their own equipment and commanders.
This could indicate one of two things: either in the two sectors — Tamarin and Rseik — they'd run out of people willing to risk their hides cheaply, or Bossk's appetites were growing.
The first was unlikely, because there was no shortage of scum on the Rim.
The second was more obvious.
Most likely, he was forming several combat units.
The first would be "expendable credits" that nobody would miss.
The rest — backup and insurance that the tasks would be completed.
Or maybe he intended to strike multiple targets simultaneously.
And in that case, recruiting already cohesive, combat-ready pirate units was the most sensible way to achieve the goal.
"It's probably not peaceful there," Sergius said indifferently. "Especially in a den of several gangs. Even with the best will in the world, I can't deliver a prisoner there in my Headhunter. But if I show the groups that we have an Imperial Star Destroyer with a full air wing..."
"The Vengeance has other tasks-s-s," Bossk hissed.
A familiar name.
The same as the flagship Star Destroyer of the late Moff Ressuin.
So the ship had been captured after all.
Judging by the full air wing of TIE fighters — with minimal losses for the attacking side.
Either Bossk's gang had access to military stockpiles left over from the Empire.
The question was just what had changed since Sergius had passed command information about crime recruitment in this part of the galaxy and the names of those behind it.
Actually, they now knew about two sectors that Bossk controlled.
If he subjugated the pirates from the Kiyuimin sector, it would be three.
There were probably even more in reality.
Just like the forces he had at his disposal.
He liked what was happening less and less.
"Well, since they're not giving me a cabin on the Star Destroyer," Sergius yawned, demonstrating his feigned calm, "I'll need something bigger. A freighter of some kind..."
"Can you handle an Imperial 'Lambda' s-s-shuttle?" Bossk asked, not taking his reptilian eyes off the human.
"I don't think the controls are overly complicated."
In reality, Sergius could do it with his eyes closed, but his interlocutor didn't need to know that.
"Then you'll get a s-s-shuttle," Bossk announced. "I'll give you a couple of guys-s-s to make s-s-sure Zleche Ounar doesn't cause any problems."
There was something about the way the Trandoshan spoke that Sergius didn't like, not one bit.
His lisping accent was a fairly common phenomenon, just like the Rodians' atrocious Basic.
But the fact that Bossk periodically "forgot" his accent was an entirely different matter.
As if the Trandoshan was deliberately trying to give the impression that he didn't understand Basic well.
But sometimes he slipped and spoke clearly.
A selective kind of speech impediment.
A showy attempt to misinform about having certain vulnerabilities.
It made an opponent think they'd gotten some important information about the Trandoshan, but it was actually done on purpose to grab attention and make them think about that nonsense instead of continuing to search for real weaknesses.
It would be fine, but this was an Imperial technique taught at the intelligence academy.
Had Bossk and those behind him obtained such important information, or something worse?
If so, there was no doubt that at least Bossk had his own secret agents.
Most likely, they were embedded in pirate gangs, doing exactly what Sergius himself did — finding their weak points.
But not to destroy the gang groups, but to merge them with what the Trandoshan already had.
"Excellent," Sergius said. With every new instruction, the situation worsened. "When the shuttle's ready, just whistle, and I'll be on my way. Can I at least get some rest before the flight?"
"You can," Bossk nodded. "Don't let me down, Serg. The punishment-s-s for failure is-s-s death..."
And someone had said it would be easy?
"Failure isn't my style," Sergius said with as much confidence as he could muster. "So let's talk about the reward. What do I get for bringing the 'survivors' and the other Corkrus gangs under your control?"
"Not long ago, Marg S-s-sonat vacated the pos-s-sition of my right hand," came that predatory grin again. "You pull this-s-s off — you take his-s-s place. You have a week to get there and do every-d-d-thing."
Perfect! Just perfect!
"Deal," Sergius said, his voice steady. "Get the XO's cabin ready for me."
The only response was another toothy grin.
Leaving the pilot briefing compartment, despite his feigned indifference, Sergius felt like banging his head against a wall.
With one mission that shouldn't have had any significant problems, he could vault over a dozen rungs on the ladder to the top of the criminal world in Bossk's organization.
But problems, as always, cropped up where nobody expected them.
If he failed — he'd be killed.
If he succeeded — a promotion.
The only problem was that he couldn't succeed at this task.
For one simple reason — both Captain Zleche Ounar and Jacob Naiv knew his face.
As the Imperial agent who had actively contributed to the infiltration, reconnaissance, and destruction of the Eyttyrmin Batiiv nine years ago.
And it was unlikely they'd keep quiet about it the moment they saw Sergius and realized who he was.