Ten years, two months, and seventeen days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, second month, and seventeenth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Nine months and two days since the Arrival.)
When the delegation of activists from the Karthakk Sector entered the negotiation hall, Captain Vivant tensed unconsciously.
Just three people, who would, one way or another, deliver their verdict on the proposal made.
And their decision would determine whether he had succeeded or not.
The ship commander glanced at Chief Engineer Nick Reyes sitting beside him.
The man was present aboard the Endurance solely as a technical consultant — to assess the condition of the starships of the Karthakk Sector Forces in terms of their professional suitability for further service to the Dominion.
Of course, only if the negotiations went as planned.
Otherwise, the Endurance, which had undergone emergency repairs and restored its combat effectiveness to ninety percent after the recent battle in the Monsoon system, would simply reduce those starships to space dust.
And an emerald-green rain of turbolasers would fall upon the surface of Ord Selbus.
Orbital bombardment would wipe any trace of planetary fortifications from the face of the world.
Then, stormtroopers would land on the surface of the Sector Forces base and finish what was started.
After that, it could be considered that organized resistance in the sector was over.
The remaining numerous groups of pirates, outlaws, adventurers, slavers, and other criminal scum would simply and flawlessly be destroyed.
Dominion intelligence has been operating in the sector for a long time — since the capture of the Karthakk system.
They already know most of the threats.
The rest will be caught by imposing a blockade of the sector.
For that, of course, sending a few Interdictors or Immobilizers here would be required, but the security of the base on Loka demands subjugating the sector at any cost.
"Captain Vivant, the Sector Forces command has studied the Dominion's proposal," a middle-aged man with the insignia of a colonel addressed the commander of the Endurance.
His appearance, posture, and mannerisms directly demonstrated a military past and present.
Vivant decided to call him that to himself — "Colonel."
Because these people's names are so long and convoluted you could break your tongue and tie it in a knot twice before you could pronounce them.
"I'm glad to hear it," Vivant said, trying to keep his voice calm. "What will your answer be?"
"First, we'd like to clarify a few things," the head of the delegation warned. "The demands you're making... they're rather unusual."
"Not demands," Vivant corrected. "It's a proposal."
"Nevertheless," the interlocutor grumbled. "They've been presented to us. And we'd like to understand what lies behind these words."
And Tavira said the text of the document on joining the Dominion was written in simple, clear language, Vivant winced mentally.
Conducting negotiations of this level was not his specialty.
He was more comfortable on a ship's bridge commanding a battle, instead of all this talking.
"Essentially, it's based on Imperial principles," the interlocutor stated. "But with significant changes. So... Listen, what exactly is your form of government? There's so much mixed up in it that our lieutenant political scientist almost broke his head before figuring it out."
I'd like to figure it out myself, Vivant admitted to himself.
But he said something completely different:
"What exactly is unclear to you?"
"Let's sort it out," the "Colonel" nodded to the officer sitting to his right. "Better let the Major..." again those long names — ."..explain it clearly. I don't understand a single hutt of it anyway."
Welcome to the club, Vivant thought.
"Alright, there are several forms of state structure that have developed historically," the "Major" began. "Many of them remain only nominally, but still retain in reality..."
"Cut to the chase, Major," the "Colonel" demanded.
"Based on the text of the provisions on the form of political structure, two mutually exclusive points can be identified in the Dominion," the "Major" continued. "The incorporation of new territories into the state on the basis of a corresponding treaty. This is a sign of a contractual federation. Federal features can also include the electiveness of local self-government bodies — heads of cities, districts, settlements — all the way up to planetary governors. But at the same time, you also have a sign of a unitary state — this is evident in the context of the appointment of sector moffs. I finished my political science courses a long time ago, of course, but combining two types of territorial structure like this is simply impossible. That makes it a relatively decentralized unitary state. But at the same time, it cannot be unitary, since you have divisions into administrative-territorial entities — sectors and systems. Those are again signs of federalism. One gets the impression that you gathered the most valuable elements from the experience of the Empire and the Old Republic into one crazy bottle, then somehow tied them together and presented it as a completely new form of territorial structure, which the galaxy has never seen. It's some kind of super-republic or sub-empire..."
"What exactly is the complaint?" asked Vivant, whose head was starting to hurt from this conversation.
"We're trying to grasp what doesn't fit in our heads," the "Colonel" explained.
"You can't just take 'something good' from one state, graft it onto another, implant something from a third, and so on!" the "Major" insisted heatedly.
"Why not?" Nick Reyes came to life. "You actually can."
"How so?" the "Major" threw up his hands. "That's not written in any history or political science textbook!"
"If you live only by the textbook, you won't live long," Vivant stated. "Whatever this system of state organization is called..."
"Form," the "Major" said.
"What?" Vivant didn't understand.
"Form of state organization," the "Major" repeated. "There's no such concept as 'system of state organization.' More precisely, you can say it, but it's illiterate and they'll just..."
"Major," the "Colonel" interrupted his subordinate's effusions.
"Yes, sir?"
"Shut your mouth," the senior officer ordered. "You'll open it only when you're addressed. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly, sir," the "Major" winced.
"So, I'll continue," Vivant stated. "Let the political scientists figure out the form of the Dominion's state organization. I have my own tasks. The main thing is that it works — the inhabitants of the planets choose for themselves those who will handle their local issues. The Triumvirate appoints moffs at their own discretion — those who are capable, one way or another, of controlling what happens in the subject and establishing order there, solving the problems of planetary governments, and building economic life. In all the time the Dominion has existed, there have been no problems with this. Everyone knows their part of the job and does it. And if someone doesn't do it with full dedication — then counterintelligence comes for them. And a new individual appears in the place of the one who slipped up."
"Yes, I also wanted to ask," the "Major" said. "The treaty states that the creation of national settlements, enclaves, for immigrants from various races is provided for. So, do you have national autonomies?"
"If by autonomies you mean signs of sovereignty or independent foreign policy — then no," stated the commander of the Star Destroyer Endurance. "National enclaves are at most limited to specific planets or systems, governed by elected planetary governors."
"Alright, but there's also a question about the form of government," the "Colonel" stated. "Major, the floor is yours."
"Thank you, sir. So, it turns out you have a highest-ranking official — a sentient holding the position of Grand Admiral of the Dominion. Simultaneously, they are the Supreme Commander, and the guarantor of the rights and freedoms of the Dominion's residents and citizens. But at the same time, there's a Triumvirate — composed of representatives of the executive branch: a Grand Moff, a representative of the intelligence services, and the commander of the Armed Forces. Or their deputies are appointed to these positions. Meanwhile, the Grand Admiral has something resembling unlimited power. But at the same time, the Triumvirate also handles a wide range of tasks. In effect, we're talking about something resembling a dualistic monarchy. But in the classical sense of that term, the head of state's power should be limited by a constitution or other laws — yours is unlimited. How does that even work?"
"Simply," Vivant said angrily. "It just works. The Grand Admiral sets the tasks for the Triumvirate — they carry them out."
"You meant 'set,'" "Colonel" declared.
Nick Reyes coughed into his fist.
Vivant, once again, mentally said everything he thought about his own dear self.
"Exactly," he agreed. "I think we all, as military men, should understand that the Dominion was born from the ruins of the Empire and was built from a standpoint of military efficiency. So it's foolish to look for any explicit political doctrines and terms here."
"I'll agree with that," "Colonel" said. "Well then, let's move on to the Armed Forces. As I understand it, you have a duality in the army and the navy?"
"That's correct," Vivant agreed. "There are the regular Armed Forces, and there are the Defense Forces. The former are formed exclusively on a voluntary contract basis. The latter, on a voluntary conscription basis."
"Why so complicated?" "Colonel" frowned. "The Empire conscripted everyone indiscriminately into the Armed Forces and never had any trouble forming what they needed."
"We don't have the capabilities and resources of the Empire," Captain Vivant stated. "That's precisely why military conscription happens exclusively on a voluntary basis. Conscripts who have served in the Defense Forces receive Dominion citizenship and, along with it, expanded rights and responsibilities. From the government's point of view, every state resident who is patriotically inclined to defend the borders and internal stability of the Dominion should have more advantages compared to those who wish to stay in the rear and not take up arms."
"The defense of the state is the sacred duty of every man," "Colonel" nodded with understanding. "We understand and accept that. But why not everyone? Why not total conscription? That would allow the creation of a multi-million strong army in the shortest possible time. Perhaps even a multi-billion one."
"That very statement contains the problem," Vivant declared. "In the Dominion, not only men can enlist for military service. Not only humans. Any sentient living within the state's territory can volunteer."
"Regardless of health classification category?" "Colonel" frowned.
"No restrictions," Vivant stated. "Service in our Armed Forces isn't just about frontline action. A sentient with poor health might be unfit for line duty, standing watch, or guard duty. But they could easily be a technician, a doctor, a nurse, a flight coordinator, a cargo transport driver, and so on. Possession of civilian professional qualifications is also taken into account during assignment. We have a large number of medical personnel who don't belong to the human race — almost seventy percent of the military-medical service. And they work excellently in their positions, providing treatment and rehabilitation for our fighters. A considerable number of non-humans have enlisted in the Dominion Intelligence Corps — they conduct surveys and mapping of planets within the Dominion, primarily those that weren't properly explored during the time of the Empire or the Old Republic. Quite a few non-humans unfamiliar with complex technology serve as guards on newly colonized planets. Or as builders. On each new planet, scout droids go in first, and then a sentient contingent lands to do the actual work. When they finish on one world, they move on to the next."
"From my side, I can add that quite a few civilians have signed contracts with the Dominion Engineering Corps and work at factories and shipyards, repairing ships and equipment far from the front lines," Reyes said. "Their lives aren't threatened. Many such civilian specialists choose alternative military service — in that case, they aren't sent to training-practical units, but to defense-industrial complex enterprises in their field. For the duration of service, they receive all guarantees afforded to 'conscripts,' and if they want to extend their service but now in the ranks of the 'regulars' and meet the requirements, they are transferred to enterprises under the control of the state's military sector as well. There, you definitely can't slack off — military acceptance inspections don't allow you to work carelessly. Even the requirements of civilian state standards in technical control departments — those are military specializations and, accordingly, military standards, requirements, and responsibility for non-compliance."
And those two had recently experienced all its "delights" firsthand.
And were continuing to experience them — the Dominion does not forgive missed deadlines for planned state objectives.
"Not to mention that it's the volunteer conscripts who serve as military personnel ensuring the uninterrupted operation of orbital defense and customs control stations," Vivant said. "As well as operating planetary anti-air and anti-space defense systems. Under the supervision of regular Armed Forces officers, of course."
"So what's the difference between the Defense Forces and the regular Armed Forces then?" "Colonel" looked at him in bewilderment. "Planets could be attacked."
"Layered defense of worlds is the Dominion's tactic," Vivant explained. "But for an enemy to reach our planets, they first have to get through the regular army and navy. And only those who fully understand what war is serve there. They have combat experience and corresponding service time on the front lines. The Defense Forces can't boast that — their training is mostly theoretical. They gain combat experience during service under the command of regular force officers. During patrols of Dominion systems, skirmishes periodically occur with various armed groups — pirates, slavers, criminals, and other such scum. Over time, after serving the minimum required term, receiving appropriate recommendations, or for other merits, a soldier earns the right to sign a contract with the regular Armed Forces. After that, they undergo in-depth theoretical and practical training at army and navy educational institutions within active units."
"If I understand correctly, the Defense Forces handle direct rear-area security, while the regular forces conduct combat operations on the borders and beyond the Dominion's territory?" "Colonel" clarified.
"In broad strokes, yes," Vivant confirmed.
"In that case, would the armed forces of annexed systems and sectors be assigned to the Defense Forces?" the man pressed on.
"If they have combat experience and meet the requirements, a request for transfer to the regular forces can be submitted," Vivant explained. "Almost all military personnel from annexed sectors use this right."
"And they go straight into the regular forces?" "Colonel" specified.
"If their qualifications are sufficient — yes; if not — into training-practical units and institutions."
"Why can't everyone just be trained the same?" "Colonel" wondered. "Right at the conscription stage, assign sentients to training-practical units of the regular forces and train them according to the regular army and navy model."
"The difference is in the training," Vivant explained. "For 'regulars,' it's much higher and more intensive. Not every yesterday's farmer can withstand twenty standard hours of continuous simulator training or exhausting drill. Not all of them are even fit by health standards for basic training."
"In broad terms, I understand," "Colonel" said after a moment's thought. "The system, though complex, does allow filtering out those motivated to serve on the front line from those who just want to defend their home and aren't interested in anything else. However, a differentiated approach based on health categories and professional skills — that's something new. The Empire simply discarded those who didn't meet fitness criteria."
"And as a result, people emerged who harbored a grudge against the Empire one way or another," Vivant reminded him. "Not everyone can serve on the front line. Not everyone can handle bouncing around the galaxy inside a Star Destroyer either. But if a sentient isn't suited for front-line service, they can take a position at headquarters, an operational-tactical center, or in rear services. Fill a vacancy that, under other circumstances, might have gone to someone fit for service on a destroyer or in armored forces. Simply because the assignment to headquarters happened faster than the assignment to an AT-AT regiment or artillery."
"Yes, military bureaucracy is just as imperfect as civilian," "Colonel" chuckled. "So, I take it those who serve in the regular forces get more perks than those who served in the Defense Forces?"
"Of course," Vivant agreed. "'Regulars' receive full medical insurance for life. 'Conscripts' only for injuries sustained during service. 'Regulars,' once they're 'civilians,' get priority over 'conscripts' when applying for jobs at state or public-private enterprises. Both during service and after its completion, they are exempt from paying all types of taxes — this is a differentiated category and depends on contract length, merits and wounds, rank, participation in combat actions, personal merits during service, and so on. 'Conscripts,' for the most part, are exempt from paying territorial and sectoral taxes imposed by local administrations."
"Not to mention that 'regulars' get paid more, right?" "Colonel" smirked.
"Naturally," the commander of the Endurance agreed. "A sentient who joins the regular Armed Forces doesn't just get a higher salary but also has full confidence that if they die, the state will take care of their loved ones. And even during service, they lack for nothing — they have the same unlimited insurance, their children get into schools and kindergartens faster. In fact, there are so many advantages to serving in the regular Armed Forces that we wouldn't have enough time in a day to discuss them all here and now. Honestly, I don't even remember or know more than half of them myself. When a 'regular' approaches any official government body, they just need to present their ID, which lists their merits, and the officials will tell them everything they're entitled to and help them choose the best option. Preferential bank loans, for example, are very popular among young officers. And mid-level and senior commanders don't shy away from them either. Though, the longer you serve, the more it turns into an interest-free installment plan. You pay back exactly what you took. Given the stability of the Dominion's currency, even inflation is barely discussed. The real sector of the economy allows us to keep it in check if it tries to raise its head above a hundredth of a percent."
"'Bank'?" "Colonel" clarified. "Does the Dominion only have one bank?"
"For state employees — yes," Vivant confirmed. "All state settlements with officials, military personnel, and social workers go through it. Civilian state employees also have their own tangible perks compared to the private sector, but that's dictated by the fact that they bear the responsibility for the functioning of the state apparatus and the implementation of state objectives. Naturally, there are dishonest officials — counterintelligence punishes them mercilessly. At best, they face long-term forced labor, confiscation of all property, and substantial fines."
"In other words, serving the Dominion is profitable," "Colonel" said dreamily.
"First and foremost — honorable," Vivant corrected. "The Dominion is above all else in this galaxy. That needs to be understood, accepted, and lived by as a motto in life. For military personnel, the honor and authority of the state are paramount. The truly lavish bonuses from good and proper service are a pleasant addition that gives you the understanding that you don't spend most of your time in space and kill the Dominion's enemies for nothing."
"And yet, I don't understand how, with this approach to manning the Armed Forces, you manage to operate dozens of ships so deftly," "Colonel" furrowed his brow. "It takes years for a raw recruit to turn into a real soldier."
"That's why I said not everyone can handle the 'regulars' training," Vivant explained. "Our training programs are grueling, lengthy, and extremely effective."
And we also have clones, he added mentally. That's why the Dominion will never have problems maintaining a combat-ready core for its forces. Clones don't see themselves anywhere except in military service. Perks and salaries are largely irrelevant to them — being fully supported by the state, they don't need anything else. Even if wounded, clones always strive to return to the Armed Forces — if not to front-line units, then at least to rear echelon ones.
"What about the economy?" "Colonel" asked.
"All major enterprises that can be used to produce dual-use — civilian and military — goods are in a public-private form of ownership with state apparatus control," Vivant explained.
"Including those involved in the production, maintenance, and repair of military equipment?" "Colonel" was surprised.
"No," Reyes stated. "Those are exclusively under state jurisdiction. Which, in turn, allows workers not to worry that their rights will be infringed upon in any way. Salaries at such enterprises are higher than in private ones. But only Dominion citizens are allowed to work there — that is, those who have completed either voluntary conscription service in the Defense Forces or its alternative variant. For example, 'Arakyd Industries,' which produces both civilian and military droids, landspeeders, and spare parts, operates entirely as a public-private partnership. And they're completely satisfied with it — the Dominion's QC requirements are high even in the civilian production sector, but this allows Kelada to sell very high-quality goods at high prices that are in demand across the galaxy. And having the Dominion as the sole customer for military equipment also allows them to make large profits without worrying about their employees being called up for military service, even in the hypothetical event of mobilizing the military-liable population, which could negatively impact production output and profit."
"Yes, mobilization issues — that's exactly what I wanted to discuss next," "Colonel" declared. "Those are a relic of the Empire. Is it even necessary?"
"At the moment, it's nothing more than a law that the government can only use when the state is on the verge of destruction," Vivant explained. "A backup plan should always exist. Nobody is eager to instantly conscript billions of men and women into the Armed Forces, only to watch victories on the battlefield and economic stagnation in the rear due to the recall of competent personnel. Qualified soldiers should fight, not civilians. But in conditions where the regular army could be destroyed or suffer excessively heavy losses, the mobilization option remains the only possible one for defending the state. You can rest assured — we have enough regular troops and Defense Forces to repel any threat without resorting to mobilizing the Dominion's population. There aren't any threats yet that we couldn't handle."
Vivant didn't say it out loud, but he perfectly assumed that if the threat of invasion from Palpatine's armada or the Yuuzhan Vong, which the Grand Admiral had spoken of, persisted and wasn't neutralized to an acceptable level, then mobilization issues would have to be addressed.
No matter how severe the consequences for the Dominion's economy might be.
Industry can be rebuilt.
With difficulty, slowly, but it's possible.
But creating a state from the ruins is much harder.
"The treaty has a clause stating that if worlds within the Dominion are unwilling to assist with conscription for service in the Defense Forces, taxes for those planets are increased manifold," "Colonel" stated.
"Correct," Vivant confirmed. "If the local government doesn't want to help with its own defense by sending citizens for military training, then they have another choice — to help fund the training of others, more conscientious residents, through financial contributions. These treaty clauses are mainly used by trade planets and economically developed worlds. Though, not all of them. For example, Makem Te has a large number of volunteers for service both in the Defense Forces and in the regular Armed Forces. At the same time, the government, to support the Dominion, which provides them with protection and the opportunity for active trade, allocates significant funds to the state budget. Much larger than required by legislative norms. Strange as it is to admit, the representatives of local self-government exploited loopholes and caveats in the tax legislation to slightly increase tax rates among the population and thereby increase tax contributions to the budget."
"A rather odd position for merchants," "Colonel" said suspiciously.
"More than odd," Vivant agreed. "But if you look into the matter and understand that Makem Te is one of the most remote planets on the Dominion's periphery, alongside Kelada, for example, then their initiative for larger contributions is understandable. Their governments fully understand that no one except the Dominion will support and protect them so actively. The more credits they send to the state budget, the stronger and more robust their defense will be."
Considering that some of the strongest defensive fortifications were built in the orbits of Kelada and Makem Te, and the largest and most combat-capable squadrons were on combat duty in those systems — the compromise was worth making with a clear conscience.
"It sounds too good to be true," "Colonel" said after a few minutes of contemplation, voicing what was on his mind. "The Empire never behaved like this. Concessions, promoting service, providing layered defense. All of that costs enormous resources!"
"From the Dominion government's perspective, it's quite reasonable," Vivant countered. "The population works for the benefit of the Dominion. The Dominion works for the favorable existence and protection of its population. The more you give to the Dominion, the more it gives you."
"And what happens to those who don't work for the Dominion?" "Major" blurted out, earning a disapproving look from "Colonel." "Your document states that labor is voluntary. What do those who don't want to work get? Unemployment benefits? Labor camps?"
"The latter are intended exclusively for criminals and prisoners of war," Vivant stated. "Yes, you're right. Completely right. There are always those who don't want to work honestly. Those who want to will always find a suitable option. If they can't find a job themselves, local authorities will help them. There's always plenty of work; they just need to find the one they like."
"And what do you do with persistent parasites?" "Major" persisted. "Career criminals, for instance, will never officially work. Especially not for the state."
"Of course they won't," Vivant agreed readily. "That's what law enforcement is for — to deprive various bandits of the opportunity for illegal and criminal earnings. And organized crime is tracked down and eliminated by counterintelligence. Sometimes with support from the regular Armed Forces."
"Even during the Empire's time, there were beggars who saw no other way to survive except by begging from more fortunate sentients," "Colonel" said. "Undoubtedly, they exist in the Dominion's sectors as well. There are quite a few in Karthakk too."
"In that case, they need to make a choice — either find a job, or hope they can feed themselves that way," Vivant said succinctly. "The state has never supported and will never support parasites and idlers. Those who work, eat. Those who don't want to — that's their choice."
"But some are so sick that they wouldn't meet any criteria, even for the lowest-paying jobs," "Major" wouldn't let up.
"If there's a will, there's a way," Vivant stated. "The Dominion meets those who want to work halfway. Getting health fixed, a prosthetic fitted, retraining, or traveling to another planet with a suitable vacancy is possible in any case — just contact the local self-government bodies. A loan for treatment will be provided, which the future worker will repay after employment. And the payments are so small that they can stretch for years, even decades. You just need to overcome your own laziness and ask an official what government employees can do to help."
"I would send such people forcibly to construction on newly colonized planets," "Colonel" admitted. "No need to litter the streets and spoil the view with beggary."
"The Triumvirate and the Grand Admiral have different views on this matter," Vivant said coldly. "I'll repeat what I already said: 'He who works, eats.' And that's not some throwaway line — it's Grand Admiral Thrawn's amendment to the bill on voluntary labor for the Dominion's population. No one will force you to do anything. Want to live? Then peel your backside off the pavement, go to the nearest broadcasting station, listen to information about the Dominion's population support and rehabilitation programs — and take a step toward changing your once-miserable life. But if you don't want to do that — then survive however you can. Why should the tax money of Dominion residents and citizens — people who work honestly and pay taxes — be spent supporting loafers who only want to leech off others?"
"Sounds logical," the "Colonel" admitted reluctantly. "Well... now for the most important question. The Sector Forces agree to become part of the Dominion. But we're not responsible for the entire sector — a significant portion of it is under the control of pirate or bandit groups. Spice smuggling has reached threatening proportions, and the money from its sale attracts a large number of mercenaries, adventurers, thugs, and other criminals here. Often they have ships and weaponry that match or even surpass ours. The Sector Forces, depleted after the battle in the Monsoon system, are clearly insufficient to deal with them. Even if we're reorganized into the Sector Defense Forces, it will take a large number of troops to get rid of them."
Captain Vivant sighed discreetly.
That the activists of the Karthakk sector would accept the offer of voluntary annexation was the most expected outcome of the negotiations.
But not an absolutely guaranteed one.
The activists had weakened; the bandits had grown bolder.
Arming themselves at their own expense, the Sector Forces had practically exhausted their resources.
If the New Republic had given them timely support, they would certainly have refused.
But now they were left to their own devices.
And they understood perfectly well that they were fighting against the wind — without outside help, they would never be able to improve the situation in their home sector.
The "Colonel" understood perfectly that a hopeless fight against crime would one day either lead to the destruction of his group — as had happened during the previous appearance of the "Zann Consortium" in the Karthakk sector — or they would desert, unwilling to engage in labor that yielded no visible results.
The leak of information and their appearance on the battlefield were clearly done so that the Karthakkites would join the Dominion, seeing the looming threats and realizing their own helplessness.
And also that no state except the Dominion itself cared about them at all.
"Take my word for it — this is the easiest part of the job," he said with a smile, rising from the table and extending his right palm to the "Colonel," who mirrored his movement. "Welcome to the Dominion. Take my word for it — neither you nor your people will regret this."
"We'll see about that in time," the "Colonel" said cautiously, returning the handshake. "So where do we start, gentlemen?"
"First," Nick Reyes spoke up, "I'd like to inspect your logistical base to understand just how deep the black hole of your supply and support is."
"And we'll also start putting your base on Ord Selbus in order," Vivant continued. "We need a secure rear now more than ever."
It was far too early to mention that the Dominion already had a base in this sector.
First, intelligence and counterintelligence should be allowed to properly study the loyalty of the Dominion's new members.
Then the time for revealing secrets would come.
If it came at all, of course.
* * *
Like most worlds located in the territories of the ancient Tion state, the planet Jaminere had a fairly rich history.
More than two and a half decades ago, it had been the capital of one of the ancient states of the Tion Cluster: the Kingdom of Jaminere.
Then came several transformations — both voluntary and forced — during which Jaminere became part of states such as the Three Allied Kingdoms, the Xera Empire, and later the empire of Zima the Despot.
Following the collapse of the latter, the planet became the capital of another interstellar state — the Jaminere Borderlands.
This was one of the warring states that emerged in the Tion Cluster from the ashes of Zima the Despot's empire a century after his death.
In the following centuries, Jaminere's rule extended from Emaryll and Desargorr to Amarin and Argai, and its influence over nearby systems persists to this day.
Many years ago, Jaminere and the entire Tion Cluster joined the Galactic Republic.
In the last years of the Old Republic's existence, the worlds of the Tion Cluster joined the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and were later conquered by the Galactic Empire.
In retaliation for their loyalty to the Separatists, the Empire divided the Tion Cluster — which local radical aristocrats called nothing less than the Tion Hegemony — into several insignificant sectoral states, whose governments bickered quietly among themselves, each trying to curry favor with the Emperor and gain the right to conquer their neighbors.
Palpatine, a seasoned schemer who didn't want to create problems from nothing right under his nose, accepted the tokens of attention and tribute from the local aristocracy of the divided territories, but had no intention of allowing any of them to strengthen themselves, either militarily or politically.
On the contrary, he did with the local governments exactly what he did with his own officials — he set them against each other, making them bogged down in petty squabbles and disputes, thereby preventing the restoration of the Tion Hegemony on a historical scale.
Thus, Jaminere became the capital of a sector.
Moff Gronn, once merely one of the administrators of the Allied Tion sector, had risen unexpectedly after Grand Admiral Thrawn began acting contrary to Orinda's wishes.
A staunch Imperial, he was clearly promoted solely to prevent the Grand Admiral from swaying Allied Tion to his side.
Well, it could be said that the Imperial Ruling Council had succeeded better than ever in that regard.
Moff Gronn commanded sufficient armed forces to control the sector's key systems.
His tacit agreement with Lianna — TIE series technology in exchange for protection and non-interference in the planet's affairs — was bearing fruit.
The bases in the sector held enough TIE fighters to maintain a nominal military presence.
Despite the industrial development of Janimere and several other planets within the Allied Tion sector, talk of sovereignty was overly optimistic.
Allied Tion could barely feed and supply itself — and even then, only thanks to shipments from Orinda.
Having separated from Imperial Space, the sector was inevitably facing economic and many other problems.
Problems that were already becoming apparent — now that it was widely known that most of Moff Gronn's fleet had vanished without a trace from the sector.
Various dealers, adventurers, and unscrupulous businessmen were diligently trying to find an approach to the corrupt officials in order to squeeze the maximum from the sector's visibly decaying economy.
Torin, holding out a piece of meat at arm's length, showed it to the little nexu.
The predator blinked all its eyes, noisily sniffing the air, trying to figure out if the treat its master was offering was tasty.
"Delicacy," Torin prompted. "You behaved well while I was away, so here's your reward. Now crawl out from under the table — I need to work."
The agent had no desire for the little one to start shredding his boots.
The kitten had clearly missed company while alone (the scratches on the walls and the torn upholstery on the sofas spoke for themselves) and intended to play with its master, who had deigned to come home.
Torin had to spend a lot of time traveling through the sector's systems to assess the real state of affairs.
The reports from Dominion Intelligence agents operating in Allied Tion territory were fine, of course.
But it was better to personally oversee the overall situation.
And the situation was unpleasant.
He heard the eager gurgling coming from the little nexu's mouth, knowing full well what would follow the predator's display of hunting instincts.
The kitten emerged from under the table's shadow for a moment.
But not to feast on its prey.
It had learned the trick Torin used to lure it out of hiding fairly quickly, and now it wouldn't simply resolve the dilemma between wanting a tasty dinner and staying in its shelter.
A sharp, whip-like strike from its thin tail hit his palm, knocking the meat out of it.
As soon as the treat hit the floor, the nexu lunged for its prize with a screech of claws scraping against the parquet.
Hunting instincts and the desire to spice up its meal with something more exciting had prevailed.
It was so fun — attacking its master, knocking the tasty morsel out of his hand, grabbing it, and retreating under the desk to devour it with pleasure.
Maybe the human was stupid or generous enough to repeat this intriguing trick again.
Or twice.
Or more.
Who among the two of them needed the kitten to come out from under the table?
Clearly the human — the nexu was perfectly comfortable there.
Dark, dry, close to the heating system radiators where it could sprawl out and doze.
The problem was precisely that Torin needed to work alone — that wouldn't happen with a bored nexu around.
Even if it was small, its claws were razor-sharp, and its tail whipped very, very painfully.
The fluffy little predator-scoundrel started sliding across the porcelain tile where the piece of meat had fallen.
Unable to stop, despite trying to brake with all its paws and claws, the little one skidded across the polished surface and inevitably ended up grabbed by the scruff of its neck.
Torin unceremoniously lifted the several-kilogram creature to eye level.
The nexulet hissed, cringing, and swung its paws a couple of times threateningly, trying to intimidate its larger opponent.
"And who were you trying to fool?" Torin asked rhetorically.
The nexu blinked all its eyes, baring its needle-sharp teeth.
Its tail lashed around, but the dense fabric of his uniform softened the unpleasant sensation.
"Rascal," Inek said, shaking his head as he picked up the dropped meat from the floor with his free hand.
Holding the kitten in one hand and the meat in the other, the agent headed for the stairs leading to the first floor.
Walking past the scratched and literally splintered double doors of his office — the work of the little miscreant — he calmly went downstairs.
The cage, where the nexu was supposed to spend most of its time when its master couldn't give it attention, gleamed temptingly with metal in the darkest corner of the living room.
The little pest hissed, understanding that it was being put back in its two-by-two-meter enclosure, meaning it could no longer run around, wrecking everything in sight and sharpening its claws on various vertical and horizontal objects.
The walls, for example, were an absolutely perfect place to sharpen its claws.
And stretching out to full length, standing on its hind legs, was incredibly comfortable.
There was no such space in the cage.
Just lie on a comfortable bedding, gnaw on bones and eat meat, and get bored — who would like that?
"Give me a couple of hours to work in peace," Torin asked, tossing the little rascal into the cage and locking the door. "Then we'll definitely play. Be a good boy — I'll let you out into the yard and let you hunt some critters."
The nexu hissed, both offended and excited, adding an irritated mew for emphasis.
In time, when it grew up, that "waaaaah" with its characteristically childish intonations would turn into a threatening roar that could make you wet your pants.
"Good one," Torin commented on the nexulet's actions.
Resigned to its fate as a prisoner, the creature stomped around its bedding in annoyance, then flopped down onto it, turning its back sulkily to its master's gaze.
"Now all you need to do is organize an unscheduled meeting to make me feel guilty," Torin smiled.
Strange as it was, this little creature evoked more emotion in him than any problems in life.
Even when those problems involved the emotions of other sentient beings.
With the predator, Inek didn't have to play any emotional games; he could just be himself.
The little one tried to copy his behavior, but did so with an animal innocence that couldn't help but be endearing.
Inek returned to the stairs, intending to go back to the second floor.
"Moff Gronn," who had returned from a "secret inspection," had introduced him as his adjutant — someone who handled most of the routine problems and delved into all the daily matters instead of the ruler himself.
The ruler, meanwhile, was doing who-knows-what, locked up in his palace.
Behavior more than consistent with the old Gronn, with the sole exception that previously he had granted personal audiences.
Now, Torin conducted all negotiations on his behalf.
They had to resort to this because "Moff Gronn" was merely the appearance of the sector's previous master.
A clone created in Dominion laboratories.
Given that his predecessor had also been a clone, the lack of data about his former behind-the-scenes life could seriously damage the entire operation.
The current "moff" knew absolutely nothing about what the real Gronn should have known.
Therefore, the adjutant's role served as an information absorber — to get something to the moff, you had to meet with Torin himself and tell him everything.
This allowed them to piece together the picture of what was happening in the sector step by step and gather information.
And now Torin intended to analyze data on the deployment of the new fifty-one legions purchased on Karide, across the planets of Allied Tion.
Some places required expanding old bases.
Others required restoring ancient ones.
Still others required building them from scratch.
Not to mention establishing logistical chains and so on.
While the "moff" racked his brains over deciphering and analyzing the vast library of information chips from his predecessor's personal collection, Torin took on all the current work.
But just as he set his foot on the first step of the stairs, the sound of a buzzer from the front door announced a new guest.
"Uninvited visitors at two in the morning," Torin said, glancing at the chronometer above the front door. "What could possibly go wrong?"
Checking the combat knife secured to the inside of his forearm and the blaster at his belt, the agent headed for the door.
He lived in the government quarter, in a small two-story mansion granted to him by the "moff."
His neighbors were all officials and wealthy people who had acquired their homes through one semi-legal means or another.
Once, aristocrats had lived here, people the previous moff had ruthlessly gotten rid of.
And visiting each other here was not customary.
Getting onto the territory of this exclusive gated community was even more unrealistic.
Inek opened the carved wooden door, ready for battle at any moment.
But what he saw before him made him pause in surprise.
More precisely, it wasn't so much what — not the cavalcade of speeders occupying all the parking spaces in front of the house.
Not the crowd of armed mercenaries cordoning off the approaches to the house.
Even the BX-series battle droids taking positions on either side of the front door interested him the least.
But the enormous mass, under whose weight even the permacrete steps and porch were creaking — yes.
"Finally," rumbled the owner of that mountain of muscle, fat, and foul breath in Huttese.
The Hutt impatiently pushed the door open and, with his full mass, shoved Inek aside, squeezing (if such an expression could be used for a mass of over two hundred kilos) into the living room.
Commando droids followed, but they didn't get far.
Torin drove a knife into the base of one's metallic neck, severing its power cables.
He shot the second one straight between its optical sensors with his blaster, leaving the pair lying on the doorstep.
The mercenaries tensed up considerably but didn't rush to do anything, preferring to listen to the Hutt's rumbling laughter.
"Master Mi-Ha wishes to say..." came the voice of a translator droid, appearing from behind the doorjamb.
"Get lost," Torin replied in Huttese, closing the door in the protocol droid's face.
Looked like it was starting.
The Hutt, with considerable nimbleness, made it into the living room and tried to climb onto the wide sofa.
But upon hearing it collapse under his weight, he acted as if that had been the plan all along.
"You're a sharp one, kid," said the crime lord. "I was told you'd piss yourself the moment you saw the commando droids. By the way, that'll be twenty thousand credits for destroying them."
Torin specialized in eliminations, assault operations, and sabotage, not infiltration into criminal organizations.
The latter required narrow specialization and an understanding of the laws by which the underworld lived.
Inek lacked the patience for undercover work in such vile organizations — it was much easier to blow them all to hell or pick them off one by one.
However, in his current situation, he had enough sense to realize that either agreeing with the claims or contradicting the Hutt would be a sign of weakness in the dialogue.
That absolutely could not be allowed.
Mi-Ha was the king of the underworld, controlling a significant portion of the black market, illegal deals, and crime in Allied Tion.
He and his shady dealings had provided the "moff's" predecessor with capital, which that predecessor had used as he saw fit.
The lack of bookkeeping made it practically impossible to trace the financial flows — both income and expenses — of the previous clone who had led the Allied Tion sector.
But it would also be foolish to immediately destroy or wipe out the criminal organization entirely.
If for no other reason than that, according to Imperial Intelligence data, Mi-Ha the Hutt had been connected to the "Black Sun" for a long time.
And where the latter was, so were the "ears" of the "Zann Consortium," which most likely had created the clone of Moff Gronn who had run the sector in the recent past.
Mi-Ha the Hutt.
Torin and "Moff Gronn" had been trying for some time to determine the extent of Mi-Ha's involvement in the sector's affairs, but so far they kept encountering traces of his extremely deep entrenchment.
"In that case, you owe me another five thousand," Torin said fearlessly, pointing to the ruins of the sofa.
"Ha!" the Hutt grunted.
With incredible speed, he whipped out a blaster, pointing it at Torin's chest.
There was nothing to fear — Mi-Ha, for all his power, wouldn't kill the moff's trusted man, even if that man was the "Zann Consortium's" trained puppy.
Because Torin was officially military.
And the sector's armed forces were the only thing not yet corrupted or influenced by crime.
The bandits had already regretted trying to eliminate several captains who interfered with the smuggling of contraband and weapons — destroyers had ground two dozen spice-laden ships to dust, causing significant harm to the criminals.
This was most likely why the moff had been replaced with a clone — the military, even if reluctantly, still obeyed him.
"Go ahead," Inek offered, switching to an informal tone. "You know the consequences."
"I know, little human," the Hutt rumbled, raising the blaster and using its muzzle to light a stinking cigar.
Where he hid all that on his enormous body was unknown.
Torin wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"What do I owe the pleasure?" the adjutant asked.
"Your master didn't approve the transport routes for two convoys carrying very expensive items," the Hutt explained in his native language. "And he started placing his little dolls on the planets. We had a different agreement."
"The stormtroopers won't bother you," Torin said cautiously, realizing he was receiving new information. "On the contrary, we're strengthening the sector's defenses."
"You'd be better off hauling in your destroyers, wherever you've hidden them, instead of causing a stir on the planets," the Hutt lamented. "Pull your troops out. They're in my way and making my partners nervous."
"No," Inek shook his head negatively. "The moff has decided to strengthen the planet's defenses. I've already discussed this with him — he refused. Our neighbors in the Tion Hegemony..."
"I'd take a bath in bantha poodoo before I bothered about your neighbors!" the Hutt declared, raising his voice. "Your patrols changed their schedules. Two of my ships were already stopped, searched, and their crews arrested."
So he was talking about those transports carrying disintegrators to the sector's periphery.
"I'm sorry, but until things calm down, we have to show strength to our rivals..."
"And you should be showing me submission," Mi-Ha snorted smoke into his face. "Your master is taking on too much. Doesn't answer calls. Doesn't want to meet. I have plenty of other things to do — meeting with some servant isn't on that list."
"Those are the moff's new rules," Inek stated calmly. "He's also up to his ears in work."
"I couldn't care less about his work," Mi-Ha declared menacingly. "Release my ships, my cargo, and my people. Immediately. And from now on — don't detain them! Ever!"
"I'm sorry, but according to our intelligence, the Tionites from the Hegemony intend to arm our radicals," Torin stated. "We can't allow free movement of ships through the sector..."
"I don't care what you can or can't do, little human," the Hutt twirled his blaster-lighter on a greasy finger. "Your master is taking on too much. And his security, which won't let my people in — that too. Tell him this: either he submits to my partners, or my boys will be playing ball with his head within a couple of weeks. Am I making myself clear?"
"It would be better to renegotiate the transport routes with me," Torin suggested. "The moff is busy with affairs, and I'm not going to bother him with such a trifle. I don't want his guards playing ball with my head."
"Gronn has been taking on too much lately," Mi-Ha thundered. "He used to be compliant, until he went off to save Lianna. And now he's dragged you from somewhere, his mercenary guards, new rules nobody likes, and a whole army. Where did all that come from?"
Hutts didn't bother with delicate conversations with those they neither respected nor feared.
They feared very few people in general.
And earning their respect was extremely difficult.
For a human, even more so.
For Hutts, there is only one law — Hutt law.
They don't even consider human laws as rules and consider it their duty to break them wherever possible.
A kind of special Olympics among the galaxy's underworld kings.
"That's not my secret," Torin shrugged. "Ask the Moff..."
"But I'm asking you," the Hutt said, moving closer with a threat.
"I don't have an answer," Inek said, spreading his hands, demonstratively testing the sharpness of his combat knife's blade. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you without the Moff's permission."
"Your Moff is my puppet," the Hutt breathed stench and smoke into his face. "I don't know what's wrong with his brain, but he's getting in the way of serious people he should be loyal to. Tell him that if everything doesn't return to normal — he's looking at a posthumous resignation. Black Sun doesn't joke with those who try to play their own game."
More than informative and clearly stated.
"I've heard the offer," Torin said without flinching, looking at the monstrous scar and the milky eye on the Hutt's left side.
For a moment, he considered whether he should give the Hutt another one just like it — for symmetry.
But he held back — the Dominion's interests came first.
And right now, they didn't include wiping out a boss who could be replaced in short order.
Until all the knots were untangled, it was better not to rush.
You don't tear a web of conspiracies — you burn it.
All at once, entirely.
"It's in your best interest, little man," the Hutt said, tossing an unextinguished cigar into his mouth. "You've got plenty of guts and nerve. But you'd better not get in my way and just do as you're told. I'm a sentient omnivore. And if you bore me, I'll eat you and leave no bones behind."
"I wouldn't," Torin advised. "I'm a bilious and vindictive man — you'll have heartburn until the end of your days."
The Hutt bored into him with a heavy gaze for several seconds, then chuckled and slowly crawled toward the exit, not forgetting to shove the adjutant with his bulk so hard that he nearly flew sideways.
"You have a nice house, little man," he said, turning at the threshold. "It'd be a shame if it burned down. Along with that tuft of clawed fur of yours. Though, roasted nexu does digest better. If you don't do what I said — your pet will be the appetizer before I eat you. Am I making myself clear?"
"Perfectly," Torin replied. "I hope you heard my words as well. We need to coordinate new schedules and routes."
And thereby find out where and from where you're shipping the disintegrators that the Zann Consortium has adopted.
"Don't get in my way, little man," Mi-Ha Hutt threatened. "I'll crush you. And eat you."
With those words, he threw his full weight against the entrance door, smashing it out together with the door frame.
Which only proved once again — quick-assembly mansions are total junk built from low-quality materials.
Without even stopping, the Hutt crawled forward, heading to his enormous speeder, where he barely managed to squeeze in and settle, taking up the entire rear section, including the cargo hold.
Torin watched the "guest" leave with a promising look.
He glanced at the subdued nexu kitten and sighed heavily.
Then he pulled out his comlink to contact the "Moff."
He'd have to change his place of residence.
The tangle of intrigue in this part of the galaxy had started to unravel, but it was already "starting to smell like something's burning."
* * *
Running his eyes over the reports from Karthakk and Allied Tion, he allowed himself the traditional few minutes of silence and brainstorming.
So, one sector was formally already theirs — and they needed to move a task force there to clear the territory.
In the second, shipments of Zann Consortium weapons and direct activity by their proxy forces had been detected.
Given Mi-Ha Hutt's actions, it could be assumed that the changed behavior of "Moff Gronn" didn't sit well with someone in the Zann Consortium.
Consequently, this was already a manifestation of a certain reaction that should have come earlier.
The enemy was waiting, pretending that their strikes weren't bothering him at all.
But at the same time, he was nervous about what was happening in another part of the galaxy.
The part closest to the eastern task force.
Which meant Tyber Zann's nerves were finally fraying.
And where "nerves" appear, mistakes are made too.
It was time to yank the rancor by its sensitive spots again and make it react.
Or else — weaken it on the future line of contact.
The holograph projector flickered with static as usual before the figure of Vice Admiral Shohashi fully materialized.
"Grand Admiral," he nodded respectfully and according to regulations.
"Vice Admiral," I addressed him. "The time has come. Proceed."
A shadow of a smile appeared on Shohashi's face.
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," he promised and cut the connection.
Well, enough combustible material had been added to the foundation.
It was time to set fire everywhere.
Next, I activated other recipients...