Ten years, one month, and thirty-five days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-fifth year, one month, and thirty-five days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Eight months and twenty days since the Arrival.)
The shuttle was waiting for him on the flight deck of the main hangar.
Sergius took one last look around, noting any possible signs of trouble.
Finding nothing, he approached the boarding ramp, where two thugs were already waiting.
The weapons casually slung over their bodies, their baggy uniforms — it all indicated that these fighters were clearly not top-tier.
Simple expendable material, sent along on missions more for show.
In a real fight, they were useless for anything except maybe catching a few blaster bolts, and nothing more.
"What took you so long, huh, flyboy?" one of the thugs growled without real malice, measuring him with a contemptuous look.
"Was taking a shower," the agent snorted. "You could use one too."
The guard muttered something in response.
"Quit your sniveling," the Dominion agent said sharply and loudly, drawing the attention of the deck crew, and fixed the fighter with a withering stare. "If you've got something to say — say it so I can hear you. If you can't say it to my face — shut your mouth before I decide to kick your verbal vomit back down your throat. Got it?"
The thugs nodded, but their vicious glares didn't go unnoticed by those around them.
Well, as expected — a conflict was established, and there were witnesses.
So, regardless of what happened next, he had at least minimal confirmation of the "ill will" of the companions Bossk had foisted on him.
"Yeah," the thug exhaled, reeking of alcohol. "Got it. Don't get your panties in a twist."
"Save your orders for the medical droid who'll be feeding you through a tube," Sergius said.
"And why would I need that?" the "clueless" gangster blinked, looking around.
The surrounding techs were already snickering at the loser who'd wanted to put the cocky pilot — whose reputation was undoubtedly already spreading through the ship — in his place, but had clearly overestimated his own strength.
"Because I'll break your jaw if you, you crooked, useless hunk of biomass, try to say another word to me," Sergius declared. "Neither you nor your pal matter to me. The mission Bossk gave me is always the priority. Even over your lives. Got it?"
"Yeah, boss," the thug said dejectedly.
"And you?" Sergius looked at his partner.
The man silently nodded.
"Well done. Go get yourselves a lollipop," he said. Mocking someone you've managed to "crush" with your authority was a demonstration of superiority in the criminal world.
A display of power and the right to command others.
If you can make someone "scurry under their bunk" that is, retreat and abandon their initial stance — with a single word, then you're a heavier, more authoritative figure in the criminal underworld than those you've managed to "crush" with your authority.
Both thugs, catching the subtext and double meaning of his words, started puffing like ancient steam engines.
"Button your lips and follow me," Sergius said, openly demonstrating his ability to humiliate and dominate his temporary subordinates with impunity — which was part of the plan.
The thugs followed him without question.
As Sergius had predicted, the "assault" from the more authoritative of the pair hadn't gone according to his plan.
And he didn't have the brains to turn the situation to his advantage.
In these matters, reaction speed in a verbal sparring match was more important than the meaning behind your words.
Whoever wasn't fast enough to react in time — got buried under the rubble of the internal criminal hierarchy.
But there was another side to it.
And that was exactly what Sergius intended to use in the current situation, just to somehow complete the task command had given him.
"Prisoner on board?" Sergius asked the thugs when they reached the passenger deck of the shuttle and the ramp closed, cutting them off from the Star Destroyer's hangar.
"Yeah," the second thug seemed practically mute — could only nod.
Well, he'd be called "Quiet."
And the first one, the one Sergius had just put in his place, got the name "Loudmouth."
This one could talk.
The passenger compartment was habitually quiet.
Sergius followed behind the thugs as they moved through the shuttle's cabin, flexing his hands before the culmination began.
The thugs stopped on either side of the opening leading to the ship's bow section.
"Make sure everything's fine," Sergius warned, heading into the cockpit.
It was a passenger modification of the Lambda, built for transporting sentients.
Too luxurious a choice for a flight to a neighboring sector by a group of bandits and one prisoner.
And certainly not standard equipment for an Imperial Star Destroyer.
Zleche Ounar was sitting with his back to the ship's entrance.
The shackled man was strapped tightly to a passenger seat.
And that solved the problem for a few dozen minutes.
Sergius walked past the prisoner, caught a glimpse of him about to lift his head, and turned his own so that only the back of his head was visible.
At the same time, this gesture allowed him to "not see" the prisoner and ask the questions he had worked out in his mind in the cabin they'd given him for rest.
The same cabin where he had placed a portable hyper-speed "beacon" in the ventilation, disguised as a bottle of shampoo lying in his travel bag.
It would activate under certain conditions.
And Sergius's task was to make sure those conditions were met.
Sitting down in the pilot's seat, he looked at the control panel.
Standard, familiar, easily recognizable.
No signs of repair or tampering.
Good.
Either nobody had messed with the ship, or they'd done it so subtly that only a professional could spot the changes.
"So, are we flying?"
Loudmouth sat down in the adjacent seat.
Guards didn't behave like that.
So these two were also meant to "keep an eye" on him.
Well, expecting complete trust from Bossk would have been foolish.
But now, these weren't the kind of problems worth fearing.
A shower is good not just because you can relax and wash the dirt off, but also because nothing there prevents you from thinking through the situation and finding a way out, even if you don't see one.
Of course, he was taking a risk by leaving his own personal beacon on the Star Destroyer — standard equipment for any Bravo-class agent.
It was activated only in case of failure, to inform command that evacuation was required.
In practice, Imperial agents never used them, understanding it was a fool's errand — you were just letting the coordinator know you'd failed and could be "written off."
On one hand of a humanoid, you could count the reasons Imperial Intelligence would "step in" to rescue its active agents who'd gotten into trouble.
Most of the time, they were killed before help arrived.
"Hey, Serg, are we flying or not?" Loudmouth repeated his question.
"I already told you not to open your filthy mouth without my permission," Sergius snarled at him. "Be glad I let you sit here and enjoy the view."
Nevertheless, demonstrating the slowness characteristic of someone dealing with unfamiliar or half-forgotten things, he started up all the Lambda's systems.
Nearly clipping the hangar doors with the shuttle's wingtips, he brought the ship outside, noting that unlike the Imperials, Bossk's gang didn't use tractor beams for landing and launching ships from the hangar.
Wonderful.
More proof that he "wasn't all that good."
A known problem with Imperial agents — they unconsciously demonstrated muscle memory.
And during inspections — disassemble and reassemble an E-11, pilot a TIE fighter or something similar — an incident would occur.
There are uniquely Imperial training methods that involve a thorough understanding of the technical aspects of one's own equipment and weapons, which someone who isn't a professional operator of that system cannot replicate.
On an E-11 blaster rifle, this "quirk" is the way to hold the weapon in one hand at such an angle that the ejected gas cartridge and power cell don't fly off to the side.
You can't figure this out on your own — not unless you've received a recommendation from BlasTech Industries.
And "ordinary mortals" are naturally not told this.
The Lambda slid forward as Sergius activated the hyperdrive, having already entered the coordinates of the planet Courkrus in the Kuimin sector into the navigation computer.
Anyone observing their jump would note it was the correct course.
Sergius leaned back against the rigid seat and laced his fingers behind his head.
"That's it, we'll be there soon," he announced.
"Not 'soon,' but in a couple of days," Borzyi predictably countered.
"Then go check that the carbonite slab is working properly," Sergius ordered languidly.
"What slab, Serg?" the bandit stared at him, bewildered.
"The one our prisoner is in, you idiot," the Dominion agent tossed back disdainfully.
"But he's tied up in a chair," Borzyi waved a hand behind him. "Who's going to freeze him? We have a short..."
"What did you say?" Now it was Bravo Eleven's turn to employ his acting skills.
The pilot looked at the thug with an extremely astonished expression.
"You're telling me we're flying through two unstable sectors with a prisoner who knows he's being taken to the slaughter, and he isn't in carbonite?" Sergius clarified, boring into his interlocutor with his gaze.
"Well, it's just..." Borzyi's eyes darted around. "We're here..."
"You're two bags of organic fertilizer, useful only for ballast," Sergius defined his companions' life credo. "Let's go. Show me where he is and what he's doing. I don't even want to think about the prisoner somehow escaping and killing us all. Move it!"
Borzyi immediately jumped out of his seat and headed for the cockpit exit.
Zleche Ounar, with an expression of someone resigned to death, stared straight ahead.
Borzyi's appearance snapped him out of his stupor, and he looked at the men approaching him.
And while he recognized Borzyi immediately and felt nothing but disgust, he didn't immediately discern Sergius's disguise.
"Well, here, Serg, everything's fine," Borzyi grunted, walking forward and stopping by Zleche Ounar's seat.
He turned to face his "boss" directly.
"I see," Sergius met Captain Zleche Ounar's gaze. "Well then, Imperial, time to pay your old debts, eh?"
The former commander of the Crusader frowned, but the tone of the voice seemed familiar to him.
"Haven't we met before?" As always, Zleche Ounar could think tactically, but not comprehensively.
Sergius acted preemptively.
Leaning his right hand on the back of the seat where Tikhiy sat, he delivered a kick with both feet to Borzyi's face, sending him tumbling backward down the corridor between two rows of passenger seats.
Simultaneously, he drove his left fist into Tikhiy's throat, forcing the man to clutch at the injured area in a desperate attempt to restore airflow to his body.
An instinctive reaction, but one that wouldn't change a thing.
Sergius had no intention of merely incapacitating this thug — he was fundamentally useless.
Borzyi was clearly more informative regarding command plans — which is why he acted that way, provocatively.
Or maybe he was just an insolent, brutish rancor with that kind of behavior.
So Tikhiy was to be "eliminated."
He was already doomed — the force with which Sergius struck was characteristic of teras kasi techniques.
Such a throat injury is often complex, complicated by fractures of the laryngeal cartilages, ruptured vocal cords and tendons, and profuse internal bleeding.
But the opponent can still act for a while — until the brain begins to agonize from lack of oxygen.
So Sergius, with one precise motion, snapped Tikhiy's neck and lunged at Borzyi.
The latter had barely managed to get to his feet and, at that very moment, received a kick to the side of his knee, which shattered any hope Borzyi had of his right leg functioning as evolution intended.
The enemy howled in pain, not even managing to draw his blaster from its holster — Sergius broke his wrist.
Then he struck him on the back of the head, knocking the prisoner out.
"Hey!" Zleche Ounar shouted, trying to look behind himself. "What's going on back there?! Agent! Answer me! I am an Imperial soldier!"
Sergius silently searched and disarmed his prisoner, paying special attention to his oral cavity.
No false teeth with a poison capsule.
A simple foot soldier.
Silently uncuffing Zleche Ounar, who kept demanding to know what was happening, but leaving him restrained, Sergius immobilized the prisoner, gagging him so he couldn't close his mouth to bite something off and die from internal bleeding.
Then, as a precaution, he moved the unconscious body to one of the rows of seats and fastened it with seat belts, positioning it face down so it couldn't turn its head or hit it.
That way, even if the prisoner somehow managed to bite through or sever something important in his mouth, the blood would drain downward.
"I know you!" Zleche Ounar blurted out when Sergius stood before him and shoved Tikhiy's body out of the seat, sitting down opposite the Imperial. "You're an Imperial agent! I don't remember where we crossed paths, but you're going to help me! You were sent to free me, weren't you?"
"Eyttyrmin Batiiv, nine years ago," Sergius reminded him. "I was embedded in that gang for several months and led two Imperial Navy Star Destroyers to their main base."
"That's right!" Zleche Ounar's eyes lit up.
Judging by his relaxed posture, he was starting to calm down.
Meaning he'd drawn the wrong conclusions.
"Free me, agent," he demanded. "I don't know why the pirates want me, but..."
"Eyttyrmin Batiiv wasn't completely destroyed," Sergius continued. "My task is to deliver you to them."
The former Imperial's eyes widened.
He didn't panic, didn't cower, didn't plead.
The shock seemed to have passed, and he was now engaging with the situation.
"So you're a turncoat," he said with contempt. "You fell in with criminal scum as soon as things started going less well for the Empire than before! You're a disgrace to the Empire!"
Sergius didn't comment on the statement.
He simply delivered a slap, not even noticing the tooth that flew out of Zleche Ounar's mouth.
"I work for the Dominion," he said without preamble. "And I'm doing my job."
"Thrawn's Remnant?" the former Imperial clarified with a slight whistle. "What does Pellaeon care about local squabbles?"
"The gang I've infiltrated intends to hand you over for execution to the remnants of Eyttyrmin Batiiv," Sergius shared the information. "They're recruiting an army of mercenaries, and they also have an intact, combat-ready Imperial Star Destroyer, a Mark I."
The Imperial, though he'd been away from drills and regulations for a long time, hadn't lost all his talents.
"What exactly do you need my help with?" he inquired, probing his split lip and the missing tooth with his tongue.
A good question.
If only he himself understood the depth of the black hole the agent was apparently ready to jump into.
Bravo-class agents have the right to make independent decisions during a mission.
But this was so tangled...
And there was no guarantee any of it would work.
"You have a unique opportunity," Sergius continued to expound his position in a mentor-like tone. "I can give you a chance to survive. In exchange for your loyalty, Captain Ounar."
"Loyalty to what?" the Imperial tensed.
"The Dominion," Bravo Eleven declared.
"I've already sworn an oath to the Empire," the man grimaced.
"And you left service, preferring to pursue your own interests rather than fulfill your duty," Sergius noted reasonably.
"Don't lecture me about life, agent," Zleche Ounar snapped. "I was written off and thrown away like expendable material because I couldn't destroy that group of pirates you just mentioned."
"You were transferred to a staff position," Sergius reminded him. "That's a career promotion."
"An inspector of fleet arsenals?" the Imperial laughed nervously. "That was a polite hint for me to stay out of the way. So don't talk to me about duty to the Empire. You don't serve the Empire either. So we're alike in that, agent."
More than you think, Sergius assessed the irony.
He had been used and discarded by the Ubiqtorate.
Zleche Ounar had suffered roughly the same fate, but at the hands of fleet officials.
That kind of treatment makes you reconsider your patriotic stance toward the Oath.
If the state abandons you when you're no longer useful, why should you keep butting your head against walls to get back into the "rotation" for the state's new interests?
"An arsenal inspector," Sergius narrowed his eyes, putting something together. "Now I understand where you got the money to spend your time carefree on the Galactic Chance. Selling off second-line arsenals?"
"Everyone survives as best they can, agent," the Imperial cut him off. "Enough with the lectures and hypocritical high-minded speeches."
"I'm assessing your usefulness, Captain," Sergius explained. "During the operation against Eyttyrmin Batiiv, you acted talentedly and competently; half the success of destroying their fleet was your doing. The Empire may not suit you, but the Dominion is something different. The best of the Empire that can be carried into the future..."
"Here's what I'll tell you, agent," the former Star Destroyer commander leaned forward. "I've heard these stories from dozens of leaders of various Remnants. In practice, the difference is minimal. I have no desire to fight again for the interests of those who'll kick me out the door. But your Dominion clearly has an interest in experienced Star Destroyer commanders with combat experience. Don't think that on the Galactic Chance I hadn't heard about Grand Admiral Thrawn's return, the stir he caused in the galaxy, splitting the New Republic and practically destroying two of its four military fleets, contributing to the secession of several hundred sectors and systems. I pity him, of course — death at the hands of a Jedi, quite an adventure, an unworthy end to a magnificent career. But I also have no desire to risk my own head, to sign up with you and become an enemy of both the Empire and the New Republic. If the Butcher of Atoa were at the head of the Dominion right now, I'd think about it. Maybe I'd even recall a few old warehouses where stocks of anti-ship missiles for the Victory-class and shipboard proton torpedoes for the Acclamators are still stored. But Pellaeon... That guy disgraced us at Endor. He's a lousy tactician. But retreating, knowing when the battle is lost and you need to save people — yes, that's what your new leader does best."
Sergius remained silent, not commenting.
He was spinning the cylinder of his comlink in his hands, which only looked outdated.
"Don't act like you're clamming up, agent," the Imperial snorted. "Those two," he nodded toward the corpses, "you didn't kill them for nothing. Since your undercover assignment is to deliver me for execution, Eyttyrmin Batiiv will recognize you just as surely as they'll recognize me. Just like I recognized you. I doubt they've forgotten the man who cut down their command with his bare hands and led the Bombardier to their ground base, raining fire from the skies with rockets the size of airspeeders. But they already have a firing squad ready for me. As for you, they might not find out anything. Until you show your face to them. And you will show up — otherwise you wouldn't be here. So don't put on a brave face with a losing hand in this pot, agent. I've seen the 'I save your life, and you'll serve my government' game dozens of times."
Sergius remained silent.
So did Zleche Ounar.
He had completely recovered from the shock of his capture, the agent's appearance, and the accompanying deaths.
Now he was waiting for a better offer.
The comlink beeped, and a chain of green lights ran along its side.
"What's that?" the former Imperial officer cast a distrustful glance at the device in the agent's hands.
"The ship has no active tracking devices," Sergius explained, without much regret tearing a fancy buckle from his belt.
Under Captain Zleche Ounar's wary gaze, he pried off the buckle's back plate, exposing thin wires.
With practiced movements, he connected them to the comlink.
Checked the device's functionality.
Then he activated the emergency communication channel, fully aware that this conversation could cost him not only his career but also his life.
As the connection established, he finalized the framework of the plan he intended to propose in his mind...
"Grand Admiral Thrawn, sir," he addressed the hologram that appeared before him. "Bravo Eleven. Emergency situation. The operation is in jeopardy."
"The emergency beacon's data doesn't match the emergency transmitter's coordinates, Agent," meaning the 'surprise' left aboard the Vengeance had worked. "What prompted you to resort to this method of communication?"
Sergius glanced at Zleche Ounar, who was staring wide-eyed, slowly shifting his gaze between the agent and his "patron."
"The situation in the Tamarin sector is spiraling out of control," Sergius explained. "The criminals possess an Imperial Star Destroyer. Additionally, I've been tasked with delivering an experienced Imperial naval officer for execution, thereby ensuring the loyalty of several more stable pirate groups to the gang. Completing this mission is impossible. The original objective is in jeopardy."
"Interesting," Thrawn stroked his chin. "What time do we have?"
"Six and a half standard days," Sergius replied. "After that deadline, my assignment must be completed, and the prisoner executed."
"Well then," Thrawn looked away, examining something beyond Sergius's field of vision. "A full report will clarify the situation."
"Yes, sir," Sergius turned the projector toward his prisoner. "This is former Imperial Starfleet Captain Zleche Ounar. Nine years ago, he commanded the Star Destroyer Crusader and, acting on my tip, together with the destroyer Bombardier, practically annihilated the pirate gang known as Eyttyrmin Batiiv..."
* * *
Agent Sergius's account of the circumstances surrounding the destruction of the Eyttyrmin Batiiv group took half an hour.
Another half hour was spent on clarifying questions and accepting as fact that the mission to reconnoiter mercenary and pilot recruitment targets under the guise of the Nar Shaddaa Shipping company was in jeopardy.
Hell, let's call it what it was — doomed to fail.
At the head of the group operating in the Tamarin and Rseik sectors was a Trandoshan named Bossk.
A bounty hunter, a former disgraced underling of the head of the Zann Consortium.
Or possibly an active one.
At his disposal was a maximally combat-ready Imperial Star Destroyer, a Mark I.
Infantry and pilot recruitment was underway across two sectors.
And now it had spread to a third.
And there was a dilemma.
If Sergius continued the assignment and delivered Zleche Ounar to the Kuimin Survivors, the latter would be killed.
And the leader of the "Survivors," Jacob Naiv, knew Sergius personally, which meant the agent's demise.
There was no time to arrange a substitution.
Continuing the operation in this form meant the death of two men, the exposure of Dominion involvement.
And the end of tracking Bossk's group's activities across three sectors simultaneously.
A breach in strategic intelligence concerning the connection between Nar Shaddaa Shipping and Hoersch-Kessel, and the construction of the Lucrehulk-class vessels.
Aborting the operation now would signal to the enemy that part of their plans were known to a third party, leading to unpredictable actions from them in this region.
"Sir, if I may, I'd like to express my admiration for how cleverly you've pulled the wool over everyone's eyes," Zleche Ounar's voice, clearly trying to play up his deserter persona, pulled me from my thoughts. "If permitted, I would like to join the Dominion and..."
Personnel shortages are a difficult problem.
They force you to take risks by delegating recruitment authority for commanders to intelligence officers.
"Agent Bravo Eleven," I addressed Sergius. "Your assessment of recruiting Captain Ounar?"
The deserter cast a frightened glance at the man to whom, according to Sergius's own account, he had recently expressed his 'disgust' regarding the Dominion.
Simply because he hadn't expected the agent's decision to actually matter.
"Captain Ounar was once a talented tactician and capable commander," Sergius reported calmly, without a hint of gloating or vindictiveness. "Nine years ago, I would have recommended his recruitment without hesitation."
The Imperial grunted.
"Does your assessment in the current reality differ from the past?" I clarified, more for formality and to ramp up the tension than for the outcome.
If the intelligence officer hadn't considered Ounar worthy of recruitment, he wouldn't have shown him to me.
But simple recruitment wasn't the issue here.
Sergius was playing a double game with the deserter, clearly hoping to get something from him that wasn't mentioned in his report.
"This man spent a long time in a staff position, inspecting fleet arsenals," the agent continued. "After which he deserted and went into hiding, selling off Imperial property. He responded to none of the Dominion's recruitment offers."
"That's all in the past!" the deserter spoke up. "I thought the Dominion was just like all the other Remnants, but I was wrong. Now I see the difference, so I'm ready to cooperate, since Grand Admiral Thrawn is in charge, not Pellaeon..."
So that was it.
"On what terms would you recommend recruiting this man, Agent Sergius?" I inquired.
"The Imperial Navy had a number of secret arsenals intended for the needs of specific operational units like Darth Vader's Death Squadron," Sergius continued. "My opinion is — if Captain Ounar intends to save his life and avoid falling into the hands of the Kuimin Survivors, he must tell us about all of them. As a gesture of goodwill and a demonstrative desire to aid the Dominion cause."
I looked at the deserter's hologram.
"Inclined to agree with Agent Bravo Eleven's proposal," the deserter's hologram shot a heavy look at the intelligence officer. "Your loyalty to our forces must be confirmed by something substantial, not just words, Captain Ounar."
"Yes, of course," he smiled tightly. "I think I can recall a few secret depots where military cargo and supplies worth millions of credits are waiting their turn. And I would be delighted to transfer them to your disposal, Grand Admiral Thrawn."
"In that case, we'll consider the matter of your loyalty to the Dominion settled," I said. "As soon as the opportunity arises, you will be transported to the nearest Dominion base."
"Glad to hear it, Grand Admiral," the officer perked up. "I always considered you the best commander in the Imperial Starfleet."
"Thank you for the compliment, Captain Ounar," I said indifferently, shifting my gaze to the agent's hologram. "Your assignment remains unchanged, Bravo Eleven. Proceed to Courkrus."
Seeing how the face of the former Crusader commander contorted with fear and anger, I added:
"The Dominion will ensure that you and your companion remain alive following your arrival on the planet. You will receive further instructions on Courkrus."
"Yes, sir. Continuing the mission."
When the holograms dissolved into the air, marking the end of the communication session, I sat in complete silence for several minutes.
Then I made a few queries to the ship's database and leaned back in my chair, admiring the holograms of Trandoshan works of art that bathed the twilight in my quarters in a golden light.
There weren't very many of them in the galaxy, given the aggressive and warlike nature of that race.
They preferred creating far less than fighting and destroying.
Consequently, my workstation's monitor also contained records of Trandoshan military campaigns and history.
Art could be not only material but also action.
However, before moving on to studying another race, I needed to give a few instructions.
Concerning our new "recruit."
"Rukh," I addressed the dark corner near the cabin's airlock. "Contact the Noghri Overclan on Suarbi 7. Two squads of death commandos are to depart for Courkrus immediately. Their task is to retrieve Captain Ounar from Agent Bravo Eleven and deliver him to the homeworld."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," the darkness mewled. "What is the specific destination?"
"Seventeenth donor collection point," I ordered. "I need this man for the GeNod-Dominion Project."
"Executing, Grand Admiral."
By the faint current of air, I knew the bodyguard had slipped out of the quarters.
Of course, no one intended to allow a deserter into the regular fleet or the Dominion Defense Forces.
No matter how brave he might have been in the past, he was now a coward and a traitor, worthy of no respect whatsoever.
If he had responded to the call to join the Dominion himself — that would have been the act of a man.
Even if he had fought against the Dominion, I would have respected and understood him.
But he was a coward and a traitor who had fled with secret information and used it for personal comfort.
In that, he was no better than the late Octavian Grant.
He, in his time, had sided with the New Republic and betrayed many secrets that allowed the former rebels to actively act against the Empire in various ways.
Captain Ounar, however, had agreed to be recruited only because he had no other choice.
Refuse — and he'd be delivered to the Kuimin Survivors one way or another.
He won't remain alive, if only because he knows too much and has seen too much.
And the agreement gave him the mistaken impression that he would be welcomed here with open arms.
His speech — his desire to swear allegiance to me, rather than the Dominion — is nothing more than sycophancy.
He had no interest in and was not concerned with the needs of his new homeland — he considered himself entitled to condemn those he disliked purely on personal grounds.
It's no coincidence that Sergius contacted me specifically — this only confirmed the duplicity of Ounar's position.
He's ready to follow only someone who wins.
As soon as the situation gets complicated or the leader changes — he'll desert, just as he did during a difficult time for the Empire.
The question of unwillingness to serve a leader you dislike is nothing more than a philosophical one.
The Armed Forces are not a kindergarten where you can disobey the teacher and simply be put in the corner for not wanting to eat your porridge.
Discipline is the foundation of everything.
Whether you want to or not, an order must be carried out for the sake of protecting not personal interests, but state interests.
A scan and study of his biography will show whether he is truly such a good commander.
If he is, then his clones will find a place on the bridges of the Dominion's numerous ships.
If not…
Well, at least we'll know where to look for the arsenals he hasn't managed to loot and sell yet.
However, Captain Ounar's fate is a small, incidental part of the overall narrative of our campaign against the Zann Consortium.
Right now, the most important thing is to understand what Bossk and his leadership are planning.
And why did Tyber Zann send Bossk himself to the Tamarin sector, and not any of his other subordinates?
Why not any of the Vultures?
Does this Trandoshan possess some unique data or personal characteristics that would make him irreplaceable in an operation in this part of the galaxy?
Based on the intelligence the Imperial Intelligence has on him, Bossk is nothing more than a run-of-the-mill headhunter who made a name for himself at a young age.
His operations had tactical success but strategic failure.
He could win, capture a target, fight it successfully, but completing the contract as the client required — not always.
Touchy, vindictive, and vengeful, he was in long-standing conflict with almost all the "celebrities" of this galaxy.
Chewbacca and Han Solo, Boba Fett and Luke Skywalker…
Rumor has it that he killed Hal Horn, Corran Horn's father.
The latter had actually captured Bossk to bring him to justice, but he was freed by an imperial agent, who was later brought close to the Iceheart shortly before the fall of Coruscant.
While working for the Zann Consortium, Bossk had a very unsavory reputation as a traitor, since there was an instance — a particularly odious one — of Bossk stealing a holocron from Zann and selling it to the Empire.
After that incident, even the Ubiqtorate and the ISB believed that Bossk had stopped working for the Zann Consortium and never again showed himself in that organization's operations, returning to work as a headhunter.
And now we see a supply chain of goods that are connected, on one hand, to the Zann Consortium, because that's where the ore caravans destined for the Nar Shaddaa Shipping Company originate; and on the other hand — Bossk, who is recruiting mercenaries for the same company.
And with all this — Nar Shaddaa Shipping is a customer for a large number of Lucrehulk-class ships, which by default implies their use in military transport.
Too cumbersome a structure for this to be part of just one plan.
And especially one that a Trandoshan could be behind.
Consequently, only two options are possible.
The theft of the holocron and Bossk's disappearance are the work and planning of Tyber Zann, intended to remove Bossk from the "official" members of the Zann Consortium for subsequent covert operations. Possible, but implausible.
Several intermediate links in what happened are missing for the "picture" to become whole.
Furthermore, Zann subsequently had to carry out a very dangerous raid on the Imperial vault on Coruscant, which is an extremely unjustified risk.
Another option — Bossk is now acting independently and either doesn't know that Tyber Zann is behind the Corporate Sector, or is using the latter for his own purposes.
This option is also implausible.
Simply because Bossk alone has no capability for planning strategic operations.
This quality is, in principle, atrophied in his race.
Trandoshans are humanoid reptiles from the planet Trandosha.
Or Dosha, as it's called in some sources.
Biologically, the race has a special eye structure capable of vision in the infrared range.
It's also important to highlight the ability to regenerate lost limbs — albeit slowly.
They do this until reaching middle age, after which the ability does not manifest due to age-related changes in the body.
Anatomically, they have a strong and heavy skeleton, developed musculature, which gives them a physiological advantage over most humanoids, including humans.
Like terrestrial snakes, they are able to shed their skin, which has extraordinary durability.
Their three-fingered limbs had sharp and strong claws, which they used when necessary.
Unlike some other known reptilian humanoids, such as the Barabels and the Ssi-Ruuk, Trandoshans did not have tails.
They are well known in the galaxy as headhunters, slavers, soldiers, hired killers, and other professions related to violence, cruelty, and murder.
The Empire was fine with an alliance with the Trandoshans, as it allowed the reptiles to continue their national pastime without official sanction — hunting Wookiees living in the same star system.
Trandoshans, like Wookiees, like the Noghri, and many other representatives of the galaxy, hold the life debt in special regard.
Their society is characterized by a class system, whose gradation is based on religious worship of a goddess called the Account Keeper.
A rather unusual deity, which Trandoshans believe exists outside of time and space and keeps track of so-called "Jagannath points," awarded for each kill.
As surprising as it was for me, continuing to immerse myself in the depths of the unknown, there is a perfectly explainable connection between the hostility of Wookiees and Trandoshans.
The origins of this conflict between the latter and the former have… a religious origin.
"Jagannath points" are the cornerstone for all warlike Trandoshans.
The more prestigious or rare the killed target, the higher its value in "points."
The condition of the hide had no bearing on the awarding of "points."
Only the difficulty in destroying the target.
At some stage of their development, the Trandoshans ultimatively recognized Wookiees as targets that yield the highest number of "points."
And at the same time, Trandoshans knew that adult and warlike Wookiees are dangerous opponents.
Therefore, in recent years, hunting children and teenagers from Kashyyyk had gained popularity.
It wasn't entirely about cowardice.
Hunting Wookiee children was conditioned by the fact that if a Trandoshan took on a dangerous target but failed to capture or kill it, his "Jagannath points" would be reset.
In the eyes of his kin, such a Trandoshan was "zeroed out" and had to earn his reputation from the very beginning.
There was an exception — in the case of killing a coveted target, the failure of which had cost him his "points," the "zeroed" individual would regain everything lost, including respect in society.
Now the reason why Bossk is so maniacally trying to finish off Chewbacca and Han Solo becomes clear.
And it explains one episode from the time of the war with the Yuuzhan Vong.
Han Solo and Bossk met, and the Trandoshan learned that Chewbacca had died at the hands of the Yuuzhan Vong.
Since his long-time enemy was not killed by Bossk's own hands, he could no longer restore his authority.
A large part of his life had been wasted…
Well, now it's clear why the Trandoshan, at that meeting, tried to settle the score with Solo.
But again, he lost.
All the "Jagannath points" earned over two-thirds of his existence, the Trandoshan could no longer get back.
And now, Bossk is forming an entire army.
Undoubtedly, besides that one Star Destroyer, he has other warships.
Having gathered a maximum of untrained and unorganized military force, he decided to take control himself (or on orders from above) of more organized groups that had long since undergone some semblance of combat coordination.
With a certain degree of assumption, one could say that Bossk is building ships to transport this armed mob.
Pilots are being recruited to operate small aircraft and the Lucrehulk-class ships.
The only question is what the target of this attack will be.
Has the Zann Consortium decided to attack Kessel?
Or are they preparing a counter-offensive in the D'Astan sector?
Are they strengthening their positions to avenge my incursion on Smarck, to which no one ever came to investigate why the base stopped responding?
Or is something happening that escapes my perception?
Either way, the breaking of Orun Va and Makus Kaynif will begin soon and may clarify many points.
But I also have no — primarily moral — right to simply watch as a massive criminal war machine gathers strength a couple of sectors away from the homeland of the Jensaarai and the Noghri.
Bossk mentioned that he intends to recruit groups of pirates who have collaborated with Tavira in the past.
It's unlikely they know about Suarbi 7 and the Jensaarai, but it's not worth risking and allowing their reinforcement.
After all, besides Suarbi 7, our rear base in the Karthakk system is also located in the same region.
And one shouldn't forget that the Zann Consortium has already tried to start an uprising there.
There are too many possible strike options for Bossk's group.
And they cannot be allowed to realize them.
I activated the holographic projector and waited until a volumetric image formed above the projector plate.
"Commodore Brandei," I addressed the military commander of the regular fleet in the Karthakk system. "What is the status of the forces under your command?"
"Grand Admiral, the ships have been brought into proper condition," Brandei reported. "The military inspection board is satisfied with the quality of the work. We are ready to begin the task assigned to us."
"Excellent," I said. "In that case, it's time to begin. But another offensive front has opened up for you and your men."
"We are ready to execute any order, sir," Brandei assured me.
Well then, it was time to move from control checks to poking the rancor in its sensitive spots.
I activated several additional subscribers.
As soon as all the holograms of the regular fleet officers, auxiliary forces, and Defense Forces responded to the call, I said:
"Let us begin, gentlemen. Let the galaxy burn a little brighter."