Ten years, two months, and eleven days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, second month, and eleventh day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Eight months and thirty-first day since the Arrival.)
This diner was the only decent one in Foulan City — the largest city near the site where the factory known as the Spaarti Creation once stood.
Usually it was sparsely populated and even cozy.
Prices matched quality, and the staff showed no curiosity even toward rare guests — quite unusual for a backwater that anyone with money and hope of starting anew somewhere else fled.
The Spaarti Creation had once been an economic miracle, providing stable income to an entire sector of Parla, where the planet Cartao was located.
But after the complex was destroyed, things here became much worse.
As often happens, only those with nowhere else to go remained on the planet.
The young preferred to flee, raised on their parents' stories that life on this planet would never get better.
But today the diner was packed to the roof.
It seemed that representatives of all races and peoples inhabiting the galaxy had decided to visit this joint. And they belonged to nearly all social levels, starting from just below average.
"Popular spot," the remark was addressed to Reynar from Vex, who sat down next to her partner.
Next to — meaning, practically pressed against him.
"Harvest sale day today, forgot?" Obscuro explained, putting a small piece of stewed meat in his mouth. "The folks got paid by the buyers and are letting themselves relax a bit. I don't see anything wrong with it."
"So we came here for nothing, right?" Vex clarified, keeping her hands under the table. "A crowd."
"Don't worry," the Guard reassured her. "I don't sense any threat from them. Better tell me what you found out."
Vex scanned the crowd.
"Feed a girl first, then ask questions, huh? 'He who pays for the girl, dances with her.'"
"That sounds disgusting," the man shook his head, pulling his hood deeper. "Your order will be here in a couple of minutes."
Vex glanced at her employer.
"It's sweet that you ordered for me in advance. But you do remember I don't eat anything floury, right? If you forgot, you're in for big trouble," she warned. "Very big trouble. And actually, you should be supporting me and giving up all those calories yourself."
Her gaze fixed on the medium-sized meat pie sitting in the center of the table, only half-finished.
"The second half's mine too," Obscuro noted slyly. "After all, I have the right to indulge myself. And I need more calories than you anyway."
Vex demonstratively turned away, crossing her arms.
Her mood improved slightly when she saw a droid waiter hurrying toward her with a tray that smelled extremely appetizing, despite the closed dome-shaped lid.
However, as soon as the droid set the dish before her and tore away the veil of mystery, her mood turned utterly bleak.
"Fine," she said reluctantly, stirring the lettuce leaves in her bowl and estimating how long it would take to make and deliver a new order, considering the crowd literally tearing the droid waiter and both cooks apart. "Nothing wrong with flour. Especially since there's meat in it..."
"Oh, Vex. At it again!" Reynar teased, stroking her arm. "'Principles that aren't so principled when your stomach growls.' This is getting old."
"Exactly," the Twi'lek muttered, using her fork to snag and claim the biggest piece of meat from his plate. "The Force says we should share."
"Nothing of the sort," the former Inquisitor winced. "You don't even channel it to make such a claim."
"I assume the Jedi lived by that principle..."
"And I'm not a Jedi," Reynar deftly reclaimed the best part of his dish, but diplomatically divided it into two roughly equal halves, giving the larger to his partner. "But I won't keep you starving, I suppose."
"You try it," Vex flashed her straight teeth. "You'll see what happens when a geyser of boiling water appears in the ship's toilet."
"You're mean," Reynar sighed.
"I prefer to be called 'Unkind,'" the Twi'lek corrected him, putting the granted meat to proper use.
"Should I call you 'Unkindchka' now?" the former Inquisitor specified, amusement in his eyes as he watched the girl partake in eating the meat pie.
"Vewy funneh," she mumbled. "Tasty stuff, though. Anyway, we have a guest in two hours."
"Chew first," Obscuro advised, glancing in the direction his partner had indicated.
A few minutes later, a middle-aged man sat down at their table, his face hidden by a cloak's hood.
But those sitting across from him could see his delicate features.
A plain face, fine lines.
People say of such faces that it's "breeding."
"Must be at least thirty-five, but no more than forty-five," Reynar estimated the guest's age.
Dressed in unassuming but not cheap clothing.
Clear gaze, straight back, strong hands that clearly had not known much hard labor.
And hard labor on Cartao was the basis of survival and prosperity.
Whoever this man was, he was clearly above the common laborers who worked in the fields from dawn till dusk, growing crops that passing traders then bought for a pittance.
"Good day," the polite tone in his voice clearly confirmed what Reynar had already noticed.
"And may you avoid illness," Reynar wiped his mouth with his sleeve, playing the part of a rough but sharp trader. "I'm Bill Wo..."
"No names needed," the man requested. "Your partner said you're interested in extremely rare goods."
Reynar glanced at Vex, who was diligently working her jaws, chewing the meat pie.
The girl shrugged, as if to say, what do you want from me? I found someone who can tell you something — you handle the rest.
"That's right," he nodded to his companion. "I'm interested in valuable and rare technology samples. Preferably unique ones. I buy them for big money and resell. I heard that on your planet there's a complex that can retool in a day to produce anything."
The companion's face twitched.
"You're clearly from far away," he said.
"That's right," Reynar nodded. "How did you figure?"
"Your ship is extremely worn out," the guest explained. "And you're asking about something that hasn't existed for almost thirty years."
"Is that so?" Reynar feigned surprise. "What happened?"
"The Jedi," the man hissed through his teeth. "They and their damned Clone Wars came to Cartao and destroyed the Spaarti Creation. The Jedi crashed their ship into the complex, destroyed it. The catastrophe blew all the production shops to hell and killed most of the local workers. Without either, restoring the Spaarti Creation is impossible. So if you happened to hope you could order something here, you made your trip for nothing."
"Sorry to hear that," Reynar sighed. "I had big plans for this factory. Strange that there's nothing on the HoloNet about the misfortune that befell you, sir."
"Those Jedi took everything from me," the guest said with the same spite. "I worshipped them when I was younger. But after seeing how aggressive and barefaced they are, after their 'peacekeeping' cost my family its source of income and me my father, I hate them with all my heart. I'm genuinely sorry you came all this way. But your efforts are in vain. The factory is gone. The workers are gone. You've probably noticed we're barely getting by here..."
"Yes, it's bleak here," Obscuro agreed. "But... maybe something remains? Every factory has warehouses where they hide products before shipment. Or were those destroyed too? You didn't just come to this meeting for nothing — you could have said all that to my partner. I'm ready to pay good money for any leftover industrial units or items that, quite by chance, went unrecorded."
With those last words, he placed his palm on the center of the table, and when he removed it, a stack of high-denomination coins lay there.
Ten thousand credits in Hutt currency, which circulated more widely on neutral planets than the Empire's temporary currency, Republic credits, Dominion money, or any other currencies.
"A self-respecting, cultured person always pays for goods received in whatever form."
The man grinned, reached for the money... and found that Reynar had intercepted his hand.
"For goods received," the former Inquisitor repeated with emphasis; with his other hand, he pushed the coins aside. "And now," Obscuro released his fingers, "let's hear your story."
The companion leaned in confidingly.
"Understand, what I'm about to tell you is not for spreading around," he said quietly, looking Reynar straight in the eye. "No one but me knows about this. Especially not the people of Cartao."
"Right!" the Guard said in a tone that made it clear to everyone that he was not prone to gullibility. "As if it could be otherwise."
The man quickly looked around and moved closer.
"It concerns the Binali family," he said mysteriously. "They ruled the planet and controlled the Spaarti Creation. Besides the factory, as you rightly said, there were several warehouses — they called them branches. Finished products were moved there before shipment for sale or direct delivery to the customer."
"And how is the Binali family connected to some branches?" Reynar wondered, carefully probing his companion with the Force.
His intentions were unclear.
As if he was studying them.
That was already suspicious.
"Well, think about it," the man grinned. "An aristocrat runs a factory that produces any kind of goods and can be retooled in just one night to manufacture a completely different type of product. And yet — the planet never had an army or a fleet, and still doesn't. But no one ever tried to seize control of the enterprise. Why do you think?"
Reynar shrugged.
"Did Lord Binali have good connections with those who could protect him?"
"Something like that," the man chuckled. "As I learned after my father's death, he knew how to make deals that benefited him. One of those helped him maintain control of the Spaarti Creation."
"I still don't understand..."
"There were three fully built branches on the planet and a fourth under construction," the companion patiently explained. "Lord Binali shipped part of the goods, using the branches to make unaccounted equipment 'disappear'. Then he passed it to those who somehow solved his problems with the right to own the factory. Considering that only Lord Binali managed to establish normal relations with the race that built the Spaarti Creation, replacing him would have been foolish. There's profit, the manager doesn't break agreements — everyone's happy."
"A fairly simple but effective scheme," Vex remarked, who had already finished off the remains of the pie.
Reynar appreciated the girl's ability — it had taken him over half an hour to manage half a pie.
The girl got through it three times faster.
"So there's some unique equipment left in the warehouses, produced by the Spaarti Creation?" Obscuro feigned interest.
"Yes," the companion agreed. "And quite a lot. Most of it was taken long ago by Black Sun operatives, but there's still plenty to be had."
The mention of the criminal organization was alarming.
"So Binali worked under Prince Xizor?" he inquired.
"Xizor came to power much later," the companion readily explained. "Completely different sentients were running the organization back then. As I understand, they had some kind of crisis, because by the end of the Clone Wars, they seemed to have forgotten about Cartao and never showed up again."
Reynar even knew exactly which one.
He wasn't in a hurry to show off his knowledge.
"And what's in the warehouses?" he continued playing his role. "And how much?"
"Not as much as I'd like," the man smirked. "Selling those goods allowed us to live comfortably for many years. But for a good price, I'm ready to show you the way to the warehouses and the full price list of what's available. I assure you, it's worth a look."
"I believe you," Reynar nodded, indicating with his eyes that the man could take his reward. "And in words, what's there?"
"Agricultural machines, equipment capable of working in difficult swampy terrain, mining equipment," the man said leisurely. "And several hundred items of the goods the Old Republic came to Cartao for. We hid them from everyone and even lost them for a while. But when we started cleaning up the old tunnels a few months ago, we dug them up. And it became clear that Black Sun hadn't taken everything the Republic was hunting for. I think you understand that this is extremely rare equipment worth a lot of money. A very lot of money, to be blunt."
'I wonder why you didn't sell them yourself then,' Reynar thought, a completely different idea spinning in his head.
The picture was starting to form.
Lord Binali owned a unique factory capable of building anything the customer wanted.
He had arrangements with Black Sun, according to which they provided him with protection and security, and in return he gave them a portion of the unaccounted but produced goods.
Given how unique and high-performance the mechanisms produced by the Spaarti Creation were, it was no wonder the gangsters chose this method of 'tribute' collection.
If they only received a sum of money from Binali, it would have been too simple and inefficient.
But products — unique, high-quality — they could be sold on the black market for exorbitant prices.
And in that case, Black Sun's profit from cooperation with Binali grew before their eyes.
Not to mention they didn't even need to show force or maintain combat squads on the planet.
It was enough to subtly hint that the planet was under their protection — and all questions would resolve themselves.
But there was a nuance that changed, and at the same time clarified, absolutely everything.
The Old Republic had come to Cartao with a single purpose — to produce Spaarti cloning cylinders.
According to this man, Black Sun had received part of this technology as well, from the total output.
That could explain why the Zann Consortium now had Spaarti cloning cylinders, which were located and actively functioning on the planet Smarck.
Furthermore, the companion claimed they had found another batch of cylinders in the abandoned tunnels.
Of course, if Reynar understood him correctly.
This information needed to be verified in person.
"I think before we decide whether we need some rare technology that might not even be in demand, we need to take a look at it first," the Guard said.
"At any time convenient for you," the man beamed. "I assure you, you won't be disappointed by what you see. Times are unsettled, so if you or your clients feel the urge to acquire your own army, you'll snatch the goods from us with both hands."
"Well, let's have a look," Reynar sensed a ripple in the Force and understood that the most interesting part of his mission had begun.
"Please follow me," the man offered courteously, rising from the table.
* * *
The holographic communication method crackled with interference as usual when the connection with the desired subscriber was established.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn," Darth Maul addressed me in a thoughtful, deep bass, offering a slight half-bow. "Your assignment is complete."
Good news.
"Details," I demanded.
"We found the older boy and extracted him from the Imperial Space cadet school on Orinda," the Zabrak reported. "We had to knock him unconscious to take him off the grounds without unnecessary problems."
"And the younger one?" I inquired.
"Aurra Sing kidnapped him from the Orinda cadet school," the former instructor of Mara Jade reported. "The boy is sedated and will soon be delivered to Dominion territory. We split up to avoid drawing attention."
"Sensible move," I assessed. "Deliver the children to my residence on Ciutric IV and hand them over to the Jensaarai protectors."
Before handing the offspring over to Zyix K'zzt, I should make sure they don't pose any threat.
Given that the children of a man considered dead but still an enemy of the Empire were placed in military institutions by that very Empire, it would be highly suspicious if their young minds hadn't been brainwashed.
Reuniting the family under the threat that possible ideological followers of the New Order might stab him in the back or slit the throat of my only cloning specialist so far would be at least reckless.
Let the protectors first examine them for "hidden danger."
Of course, it's unlikely anyone cloned the children to pass a "loaded weapon" to Zyix K'zzt.
But there's an unbreakable rule for crossing Dominion borders — one way or another, they go through an encounter with the Jensaarai.
This has already helped us identify enemy agents, saboteurs, mere ill-wishers, and hidden enemies.
Not to mention that it was thanks to the Jensaarai and the Force that we learned about the Zann Consortium's programmed clones.
Reasonable caution has never failed.
As my classmate Slava used to say: "Just because you sense trouble but don't see its precursors doesn't mean a brick isn't falling on your head straight from the dorm roof."
One doesn't need to look far for examples of when healthy paranoia in this galaxy could solve many problems.
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," the Zabrak ground out, letting me understand that he was literally bursting with displeasure.
"Obviously you have something to say to me, Darth Maul," I said.
"Yes," his lips curled into a hard smile. "I would like to return to hunting Palpatine's servants. I'm sure he has a few more Force-sensitive sentients who could fall to my blade."
"Beyond any doubt, the Emperor has Force-sensitive servants," I agreed.
Denying it would be foolish.
At least a couple of members of the Dark Side Elite are still not eliminated.
Intelligence in key worlds is trying to find them, but so far no traces.
Luring them out with "bait" by spreading rumors about Luke Skywalker being on some planet, as we did last year, won't work either — everything points to Darth Vader's son being on Byss.
And if history still matches what I know and remember, then Luke Skywalker's fall to the Dark Side of the Force has begun.
Given this family's predisposition for close contact with the Force, one needn't guess which of the two — Maul or Skywalker — would win if they met.
I still need Maul — I don't have that many lightsaber combat instructors.
Reynar Obscuro, Mara Jade, Asajj Ventress, Bre'ano Umakk, the Jensaarai they trained, and Ahsoka Tano certainly have some knowledge, but none of them can compare to Maul.
"You will resume the hunt, Darth Maul," I promised. "As soon as intelligence finds those sentients. Not before."
Through the interference came the Zabrak's irritated growl.
"Devote more attention to training your apprentice," I advised. "As I recall, you said Stryn has unique abilities in controlling elemental forces."
"That's true," Maul grimaced. "And he's not well suited for the role of a Shadow Guard. Too soft. Too much compassion. He's closer to Jedi philosophy than to Sith. He's not a fighter — the Force interests him more than lightsaber combat. I'm sure he's not ready and will never be ready to carry out orders and make critical decisions. His place is in defense, not offense, Grand Admiral. I was wrong about him, deciding to train him. He should be transferred to the Jensaarai Order."
"And allow information about Shadow Guard activities to leak?" I clarified.
The Zabrak's mouth twitched.
"No, Darth Maul, your proposal is rejected," I declared. "And so is its premise — getting rid of an apprentice, a burden, to focus more on hunting down Dark Side Elite adepts. I agreed to spare your life for one purpose only — so that you would oppose Palpatine."
"That's true," the Zabrak grinned. "I am capable of killing him."
"I would take you at your word, but I suspect that's not the case," I countered, which greatly displeased the Zabrak. "Darth Sidious is one of the best swordsmen and Dark Side adepts, as far as I know. Defeating him with lightsabers alone will be impossible. That's why I agreed to let you train Stryn. If I understood you correctly, Stryn could be the complement that helps you defeat Darth Sidious. You are a specialist in lightsaber combat. Thanks to the holocron and other records from Ossus and Dantuin, you can prepare Stryn so that Palpatine's Force attacks don't have the upper hand."
"The subtle matters of the Force — that's not what a warrior needs."
"As you rightly noted, and I tend to trust your opinion as a specialist, Stryn is not a warrior," I reminded. "You have the knowledge, you have the time — prepare him for battle. For victory in that battle."
The emphasis clearly angered the Zabrak.
Well, that's his right.
Enough that he didn't contradict me.
"I understand you, Grand Admiral," the man said.
Or would it be more accurate to call him "half-man," considering his cybernetic lower half?
"That's all, Darth Maul," I said, disconnecting the holographic terminal.
I think, despite being a strong lightsaber duelist — possibly the strongest alive — deep down he still understands that Palpatine's power is not just about skilled fencing.
His skills with the Force are an order of magnitude above all living Sith and Dark Side adherents.
Approaching his elimination without an alliance with the Skywalkers or Marek can only be done by the rules of big game hunting.
Beaters are needed to weaken the beast before the final, fatal shot is fired.
That's why I try to preserve and in every way contribute to the qualitative improvement of my Jensaarai and Guardians.
I'm afraid we'll have to become the beaters first, and then the "shooters" who finish the target off.
We simply have no other options.
There aren't that many experienced Jedi or Sith on the Dominion's side who can fight someone capable of burying a nineteen-kilometer Super Star Destroyer in the middle of Coruscant without anyone noticing.
That's why I'm placing a lot of hope on Ahsoka Tano's training with the ghost of Darth Vectivus.
According to spy droid data, the Togruta is still on the asteroid and hasn't left it for a single moment.
I definitely won't interfere with her learning the Dark Side, because I understand that for both Jedi and Sith, training doesn't happen in just a few months or days.
We have a "counterexample."
There's already a half-trained Jedi in the galaxy who learned the tricks "on the fly."
What came of that, how many of his students turned to the Dark Side of the Force and became threats on a galactic scale, isn't much of a secret for those who know the history of the Expanded Universe of this galaxy.
I'm not claiming omniscience, but even what I know is enough to understand what's what.
Palpatine isn't sending parts of his underlings "to the slaughter" for nothing.
He doesn't just intend to wear them out and get rid of traitors, but he's also focusing his attention on breaking Skywalker's will and training him.
I'm afraid the debut of the resurrected Darth Sidious is being delayed because he's putting maximum effort into purging his ranks of traitors and training Skywalker.
In that case, there's no guarantee that Vader's son will still return to the Light Side and be involved in destroying Darth Sidious.
It could also happen that he eventually breaks and replaces his deceased parent as the Emperor's right hand.
And consequently, I have to account for that development too.
The risk grows greater every time.
Unfortunately, you can't win in Star Wars based solely on military force.
At least not when your enemies have people capable of dropping Star Destroyers onto a planet or turning out to be Darth Vader's children.
I need trump cards.
And hopefully, I'll have them soon.
Otherwise, such a mess will brew in the galaxy that the events I know will seem like mere child's play compared to what I've done.
But there's no other way — fight fire with fire.
Well, the moment of philosophizing is over.
Time to get down to business.
For example, remind one brilliant "Slicer" that people are actually expecting results from him.
* * *
On the landspeeder of their still-unnamed companion, they covered several kilometers toward a massive structure.
It looked like a ruined warehouse that had survived fires and a clear collision of the roof with something heavy.
"Doesn't look impressive," Reynar admitted.
"Don't judge by appearance," the companion chuckled. "We keep all the best things in the tunnels. They were built in the past so as not to upset the workers of the 'Spaarti Creation' they had a quirk we never understood about the grass surrounding the production complex not being invaded by anyone."
"Couldn't walk on the grass?" Vex asked, surprised, sitting in the back seat of the speeder.
"Those were the rules," the driver explained. "It wasn't for us to break them."
"Well, I suppose so," Vex agreed.
"But how did it happen that neither the Republic, nor the CIS, nor the Empire came here to deal with the remains of the 'Spaarti Creation'?" Reynar inquired. "The technology is unique, but we live in an age of the impossible — it could clearly have been restored and used at their discretion."
"That's the problem — it can't," the companion explained. "Only a small portion of the population that once built this complex actually understood how it all worked. And even then, mostly on an intuitive level. The complex's destruction happened, as I said, with the death of most of the workers. No one remained who could restore or manage a restored facility, if such a miracle occurred."
"Well, the Republic I can understand," Reynar stated. "But the Empire was outright obsessed with elaborate projects they could dump a huge pile of money into. It's unlikely they just left everything that happened unattended..."
"Ha, that's for sure!" the man declared, pulling the speeder up to the crooked central gates. "They came, of course they came. Studied the ruins of the 'Spaarti Creation.' Collected what was left of the cargo that was in production when the Jedi ship crashed." He grew serious again. "Took everything they could from us. Then abandoned and forgot us. We had to survive on our own."
"Touching story," Reynar thought. "I don't think I should show him how little I care."
"But you managed to preserve some of what was produced in the complex," he redirected the conversation.
"We had to work hard for it," he declared with a hint of pride. "At first, as soon as the battle ended and the 'Spaarti Creation' was destroyed, we thought the goods were gone too. Then it turned out that in one of the branch warehouses, the last batch of Republic cargo was preserved. They, of course, hauled it away before we figured out what was what. But later we decided to check what was left. That's how we found my father's stocks. By the way, we've arrived."
He spoke the last sentences as their transport came to a stop.
It took a few minutes to get out of the speeder and walk through a small door next to the gates.
"They've been out of order for a long time," their companion explained. "Of course, if you buy our goods, we'll clear them and help load everything onto the ship. But it seems to me it'll be easier to bring your 'Lambda' straight into the warehouse — thankfully, the roof has long since rotted and collapsed."
And indeed, you could see the sky through the ceiling.
With a trained eye, Reynar understood there had been a fire inside the warehouse — as evidenced by the traces outside.
That was probably exactly why the roof had caved in.
But it clearly hadn't happened after the partners arrived on Cartao.
Despite the breeze blowing through the warehouse, not a gram of construction debris was visible inside.
So, the aftermath of the fire had been cleaned up, and a long time ago.
"Come," the companion waved his hand, pointing to an impressively sized door in a small utility room against the far wall.
The dimensions of the doorway suggested this passage was clearly intended and used for transporting something with large dimensions.
A couple of guards were found near the utility room, who, upon seeing their superiors, began pretending to be actively on duty, only confirming the assumption that they were doing anything but what they were supposed to be doing.
Behind the utility room door was an equally wide corridor, clearly dug underground, sloping gently beneath the surface.
"It was dug by the workers of the 'Spaarti Creation,'" the escort explained. "To make it easier to deliver finished products to storage areas."
That was obvious enough.
Especially since it had already been mentioned.
Reynar sensed no hostility from either the guards or the man himself.
But something still bothered him.
Judging by the fact that Vex wasn't chattering away, it bothered her too.
Numerous but low-power lighting lamps burned under the tunnel's arches, providing just enough light to see the path.
"Lining a tunnel with permacrete is an expensive pleasure," Vex suddenly broke her silence.
"It's not permacrete," the man stated. "When the workers dug the tunnels, they processed the soil into a material stronger than any building compound known to us. Unfortunately, it can only be produced by processing it through the crancocs — those who built this. But almost all of them died in the disaster, so these swirls and squiggles," he pointed to barely discernible patterns on the wall, "are all that remains from those eras. We studied the material, but it's impossible to synthesize — there are a number of substances we couldn't even create artificially."
"A great loss," Reynar said. "With building material like that, market demand would be insane."
"Yes, but we have what we have," the man spread his hands. "This way."
He pointed to one of the barely noticeable arched decorations stretching from floor to ceiling.
Its width reached nearly half the corridor's, and its height was no less than five meters.
Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a hidden door that slid aside as their companion approached.
Thus, they found themselves in a spacious room, no smaller than the warehouse on the surface.
The lighting here was slightly better, so Obscuro could make out dozens of rows of non-standard transport containers, their height reaching almost that of the arched passage they'd entered through.
"And what's inside?" Reynar asked.
"Open it," the companion offered, approaching the nearest crate. "I prefer to let the client see for himself what he intends to buy. The first impression effect."
And also — it's easy to see from the outside whether the client understands what's being shown to them or is a complete novice.
Obscuro opened the locks on one side of the transport container without much trouble and slid aside the thin but sturdy metal panel of the container's front.
Looking at the four-meter transparisteel cylinder, wrapped at the top and bottom in a web of instruments and wires, he demonstratively scratched the back of his head and looked at their companion.
"And why did the Republic need these incubators? To breed animals for butchering?"
The man was smiling — and in the dim light, his smile looked more like a villain's grin.
"I can see you've never seen anything like this before," he said, approaching the container. "This is one of eight hundred Spaarti cloning cylinders, produced according to Old Republic blueprints. The Old Republic wanted to produce these new-generation cloning cylinders on Cartao. They provided our workers with the blueprints and specifications; we reconfigured the equipment and started manufacturing them. There were three generations of these cylinders. The first — created entirely according to Republic blueprints. The second — with minor technical revisions by our specialists. And the third... Unfortunately, I don't know what was changed there, as the third generation was on the territory of the 'Spaarti Creation' when the factory was destroyed."
"You said the Republic managed to ship a batch," Vex reminded him.
"That's right," the man nodded in agreement. "There were several thousand first and second generation cylinders on the factory grounds — the first and second batches. The Republic decided to take only the third generation, so these were stored here. In total, about twenty thousand units of first and second generation cloning cylinders were produced. The same amount — of the third. Most of the first batch were destroyed, and the second — Kinman Doriana, then-assistant to Chancellor Palpatine, secretly smuggled off the planet."
So — forty thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders!
But only about half of them survived.
The entire third generation, if this man's words were to be believed, was now in Grand Admiral Thrawn's possession, after passing through the pipeline of Doriana, Palpatine, and the Empire.
But what about the first twenty thousand?
Reynar voiced that question.
"As I said, most of them were destroyed," the man reminded him. "After the destruction of the 'Spaarti Creation,' the Republic sent scientists and soldiers here who hauled away everything they could. The Empire did the same. But because the tunnels were collapsed, they found nothing. However, we excavated. And now we can make a good profit from it. Here," he pointed to the rows of containers, "are eight hundred cloning cylinders. Unlike Kaminoan technology, these cylinders, according to Old Republic specifications, can produce a clone not in ten years, as the Kaminoans did, but in just one year. Just one year — and you can create an entire army sufficient to conquer some distant world. In my opinion, quite valuable equipment."
"I agree," Reynar was thinking fast. "I recall you mentioned that 'Black Sun' worked with Lord Binali. And received part of the output. This," he nodded toward the cloning cylinders, "did they get some too?"
Sending them on this mission, the Grand Admiral had told him that seven thousand two hundred units of the same cloning cylinders had been found on Smarck.
Another twenty thousand had been at the Dominion's disposal for a long time.
An extra eight hundred incubators wouldn't hurt.
Twenty-eight thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders — versus twenty-seven thousand two hundred.
A valuable prize.
Yes, they'd have to pay, but still.
"Of course," the man answered. "Seven thousand two hundred cloning cylinders from the first batch. Lord Binali hid them in underground storages as soon as Doriana learned there was a chance to improve the technology. And he wanted to get the best of the best."
"More likely — he was just stalling for time," Reynar thought, familiar with the situation Palpatine's henchman had orchestrated here.
Kinman Doriana was officially sent here to establish cloning cylinder production.
In reality, he served not the Republic's interests, but Darth Sidious's.
And so he did everything to ensure the Separatists attacked the planet, providing official deliveries of cloning cylinders for the Republic's benefit.
He probably thought he could take all the cylinders Binali had hidden.
But Binali, it seemed, had outsmarted the Supreme Chancellor's assistant.
And saved the goods for his patrons.
Which they then collected.
Interesting, why weren't these eight hundred evacuated?
"And how much do you want for them?"
"A hundred thousand each," the man said.
"Credits?" Vex inquired.
"Peggats," he smiled at her. "Governments that use credits as currency change them lately like gloves. But peggats have been in circulation across the galaxy for thousands of years and are always accepted in any part of it."
A truth hard to argue with.
"Eighty million peggats is a large sum," Vex said. "Converted to credits, that's the cost of a good star cruiser or a used destroyer."
"So what? The goods are worth the money," the man declared.
Reynar sensed the man was clearly uneasy and wary.
He was radiating hints of hostility.
"I don't doubt it," Obscuro said. "But first we need to verify the equipment is functional. And gather the entire sum — it's no small amount of money. I take it you're interested in cash, right?"
"You'll also need transport to haul it all out," Vex continued. "Freighting that costs money too."
"Not to mention the specialists needed to operate this equipment," Reynar continued driving down the price. "Quite a few problems to consider... Seventy thousand each."
"A hundred," the man smiled. "And not a yupi-yupi less."
A yupi-yupi was a small coin, a fraction of a peggat.
A clear indication that no one was going to haggle with them.
Reynar could have bought the whole batch outright, but he understood that wasn't how traders and adventurers did business.
"Eighty."
"A hundred," their new, nameless acquaintance insisted.
"Then the equipment inspection is on your tab."
The Force howled in warning as the doors screeched shut behind the man and the warehouse was sealed.
"Looks like we'll have to get out on our own," Vex said, not taking her eyes off the silently laughing man.
"I think," came a voice from the darkness of the even rows of equipment, "you won't need to."
Reynar and Vex reacted instantly, readying for battle.
The Twi'lek grabbed her blasters; Reynar didn't rush to use his lightsaber yet.
Not the time to show his ability to wield the Force.
Because the woman now walking through the darkness toward them had literally appeared out of thin air.
A former Inquisitor could have detected her earlier — he couldn't.
He didn't sense any living organisms nearby, except for the two the man had seen with his own eyes — the man who'd led them into the trap, and Vex.
Hiding from the Force is difficult, but possible.
Thrawn used ysalamiri for it.
But that trick won't work with someone who's ever felt the zone of Force negation those lizards create.
Optical camouflage — expensive, but useless against those who wield the Force.
You can hide yourself from sensors, eyes, detectors — but not from the Force.
It always reveals where a sentient is.
But there was another option.
The most disgusting one of all.
"What hesitant agents," the Zabrak woman said caustically, appearing before Reynar's eyes, who still couldn't sense her in the Force. "Spent so much time on the planet, and only now walked into the trap. You did well, Lord Binali."
"And here I thought someone said this man was dead," Vex hissed, glancing at the man.
The young man laughed.
"My father died," he explained. "I am Korf Binali. The son of a man used by the Jedi, the Republic, Palpatine, the Empire — for their own purposes. And today, thanks to my patrons from 'Black Sun,' I will finally avenge my father! Die, Imperial agents!"
Explaining anything to this sentient was pointless.
The woman hiding in the warehouse was clearly an elite enforcer of 'Black Sun,' deciding to fight one against two.
Or more precisely — the 'Zann Consortium.'
And more precisely still — she was an extremely dangerous opponent, if Reynar's assumption was correct.
And there was no room for sentimentality now — whether they worked for the Empire or the Dominion.
If they weren't killed, then...
With a hiss and a crimson flash, a rotating scarlet bolt of lightning flew over their heads.
With a characteristic sound, it entered the upper part of Korf Binali's body, severing his head.
The mutilated corpse collapsed onto the smooth, sturdy floor.
The head, with a mouth twisted in a silent scream and eyes full of surprise, terror, and rage, rolled at their feet.
"What a nuisance," the Zabrak woman said with a vengeful smirk, catching her weapon with her hand. "The decoy played his part — the agents arrived. Now — let's have some fun."
With a characteristic hiss, another short lightsaber appeared in her hands.
Now she had two signature weapons, eliminating Reynar's last doubts.
The Zabrak was Force-sensitive.
And she worked for the 'Zann Consortium.'
"Surrender," she said. "You can't defeat me anyway. I trained under the best masters in the trade. I fought against the very fiends of the Abyss — and survived. Your resistance will be nothing more than an amusing, but brief, game. And I have completely different plans for the evening."
Vex fired at the Zabrak, but she parried the blaster bolts with ease, deflecting them into an open container.
Two white-blue charges passed through the transparent shell of the cylinder, leaving through melted holes.
"Well, damn it!" the Twi'lek cursed, looking around to find a better position.
"Scummy worms," the Zabrak sneered, dropping all pretense of familiarity. "I'm ordered to take the agents alive. But no one said you have to keep your arms and legs attached."
"You're wrong," Reynar sighed, revealing a lightsaber hilt that jumped into his hand. "I'm telling you — we disagree."
With a hiss and a crackle, a crimson blade emerged in the semidarkness — one that had slain many Jedi.
Growling with rage, the wielder of the paired light-shoto charged into the attack, filling the underground storage with a furious cry.
* * *
."..And I'm telling you, it's a pointless waste of time," Pent declared, looking reproachfully at his double.
But, if we're being technical, he himself was Ghent's double.
"I don't think there are any better alternatives," the unique (in his boyish simplicity) original shook his head. "We've tried everything technically possible."
"So you decided the problem could be solved by pinging?" Pent looked at him skeptically.
"The only alternative left is to ask for a whole lot of reconnaissance droids and send them across the entire galaxy, hoping they'll find the target," Ghent turned away, embarrassed.
"You're ignoring several details with your proposal!" Pent grimaced, almost like a child.
"Someone's calling us," the original said.
"First, for that we'd have to send a signal across the entire galaxy and wait to see if they deign..." Pent fell silent as the meaning of the last sentence sank in. "Interesting. And who might need us?"
"How many options do you think you have?" Ghent winced.
"Not many," Pent mirrored his movements. "No, purely logically, he's right. We've blown every deadline. So..."
From the holoterminal came a persistent incoming transmission tone, accompanied by an energetic blinking of the call indicator.
So obvious that even the most dim-witted would get it.
"It's blinking like it's angry," Ghent admitted.
"I'd be angry too in their place," Pent sided with the caller. "What do we do?"
"We could not answer," Ghent blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Like, we're not here."
"Right, just stepped out for a walk," Pent said sarcastically. "Need I remind you that guards are outside the door? I think if we don't answer, they'll come in here. Possibly even through the wall."
"Hate to lose the server," Ghent looked at the boundaries of the operations room, festooned with technical devices. "Better to answer..."
Without a word, Pent walked over to the communication device and, after a brief hesitation, activated it.
For a few seconds, the projector displayed nothing but static noise.
Then the broken lines and interference vanished — the smart equipment adjusted itself to the distortions on the comm line and compensated for the noise.
"Mr. Ghent, Mr. Pent," a blue-skinned sentient with crimson eyes addressed them in a non-trivial greeting.
No, the eyes were the same color as the entire hologram, but somehow in Ghent's imagination, they blazed so brightly that compared to them, a supernova explosion would have seemed like a small flash.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn," Pent began with an affected smile. "We're so glad to see you. How are you? How is your health?"
"The Eye of Palpatine," the ruler of the Dominion said, not falling for the pleasantries. "I need an update."
The clone and the original exchanged glances, then hung their heads guiltily.
"No progress," Thrawn said, understanding everything correctly.
"Sir, we've worked through over a hundred theories on how to find that piece of rock, but they've all remained just theories," Pent admitted. "We're at a dead end. I'm afraid it's simply impossible to locate that ship with what we have."
"You mean, having a nearly complete description of the ship, the principles of its construction, its armament, the markings of the equipment installed on it, the best Slicer in the galaxy and his clone are declaring themselves powerless?" the Grand Admiral clarified.
He hadn't changed his tone, but somehow a bone-chilling cold swept through the air.
"It appears so," Ghent said quietly. "It's like looking for a specific bolt in an asteroid field."
"Well, actually, there is a proposal," Ghent said with sudden enthusiasm.
He had only one chance to test the most desperate and dangerous of his hypotheses.
"Oh, fool," Pent grimaced.
"That's actually offensive," Ghent frowned.
"I'm listening," Thrawn said, as if he hadn't even noticed their verbal sparring. He fixed his gaze on the original, as the instigator of the idea, and stared at him unabashedly. "Do you have something to say, Mr. Ghent?"
"Sir, this is a wild proposal," Pent hastened to say.
"Your opinion will be noted," Thrawn assured him. "Mr. Ghent. Don't ask me to repeat the same question twice."
The Slicer flinched.
"Well, there is a way," he licked his dry lips. "We know a lot about the equipment installed on the Eye of Palpatine. Including the unique identifiers of the communication equipment the ship uses to communicate..."
"I know what communication equipment is for, Mr. Ghent," Thrawn assured him. "Go on."
"Well, there's a theory that by connecting to the HoloNet servers, we could initiate a ping of those systems," a frightened Ghent blurted out.
Thrawn was silent for a few seconds.
"Elaborate."
"Pinging, among other things, is also a method of location between computers," Pent explained. "A data packet is sent from one computer to the unique identifier. Knowing the identifier, we can be certain the data will arrive. But as that packet travels through the HoloNet, we'll learn which Mass Relays it passed through, what the opening angle of the communication arrays was..."
"In other words, we'll understand which sector the Eye of Palpatine is in and in what direction from the relay we should look for it," Ghent continued. "From the time delays, the fluctuations in the packet transmission, we'll also understand how long it took for the data to travel from the relay to the Eye of Palpatine's communication device. Knowing the characteristics of the wireless transmission channel on the final relay, and getting the time delay, we can calculate the distance from the relay to the receiving device. Then we can send a command there and board the ship."
"An interesting proposal," Thrawn said. "Mr. Pent, do you have any objections to what's been said?"
"Of course," the clone snorted. "First of all, you have to understand that the equipment on that piece of rock was unique. And the communication frequencies are also unique. If someone is still monitoring the use of all that, our ping will be detected. You don't have to be a genius to set up a reverse ping and trace the signal source."
"And also—to track the final destination," Thrawn added.
"Yes," Pent nodded. "So we'd not only expose ourselves, but also help someone else find that damned dreadnought."
"Is that your only objection?" the Grand Admiral inquired.
"No, of course not," Pent declared. "Let's say we successfully mask the signal source—that's difficult, but possible. But the problem is that we'd need to either send a single test signal—which would wander through the relays until it finds the target. Or else—send data packets to all relays at once."
"Didn't the Empire do something like that?"
"They did, of course," Pent agreed. "And they failed. They used a mass launch of search programs. Because sending a 'wandering packet' would waste an enormous amount of time. But the equipment didn't respond anyway. That could point to two problems. First—mechanical damage to the dreadnought's communication systems. The signal simply doesn't reach. Second—and equally likely as the first—the ship's computer 'swallows' the search packets and doesn't send them back."
"In other words, the sought-after response won't be found," Grand Admiral Thrawn said.
"Exactly, sir," Ghent replied quietly.
"But, as I said—for the most optimal ping variant, we'd need access to the greatest computing power. No single state has that—only the HoloNet headquarters. But naturally, they won't let us interfere with their systems. Because we won't let them check the contents of the information packet. At the very least, they'll refuse us out of fear that we'll launch some kind of virus attack. The Empire probably sent them a couple of Star Destroyers to the planet..."
"Any other ideas?" Thrawn inquired.
"No," Pent shook his head.
"We could send millions of scout drones across the galaxy," Ghent cautiously suggested. "It'd be expensive, of course..."
"Of course," Thrawn agreed. "It's not rational to search for a ship whose cost is less than the resources invested in finding it."
"I hear you, Mr. Ghent—pack your things." The words sounded almost like a death sentence.
The original looked anxiously at his double.
"Mr. Pent—you'll stay and continue handling the search for the Eye of Palpatine," Thrawn summarized. "Mr. Ghent—a ship is already prepared for you."
"I understand, I let you down," Zakarisz drooped. "Can I at least choose which black hole you send me to?"
"Undoubtedly, you have the right to choose your method of death," Thrawn agreed, saddening the Slicers even more. "But we'll talk about that later. You have another assignment."
"Really?" Ghent nearly jumped. "Wow! And what do I need to do?"
"Nothing complicated," the Grand Admiral replied. "You'll simply fly on a ship into the center of a minefield."
The last thing Zakarisz heard before collapsing in a faint was a suspicious, drawn-out hissing and gurgling sound emitted by his own clone.