Ten years, two months, and twenty-one days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, second month, and twenty-first day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Nine months and six days since the Arrival.)
After listening to the president, Admiral Duplex, for the first time in his life, began to think his hearing was failing him.
"Is everything clear to you, Admiral?" the Bothan, puffed up with pride and obvious self-satisfaction, clarified.
"I understand the words you are using to convey the information to me, Mr. President," Argentis admitted. "But their overall meaning..."
Borsk Fey'lya, or rather his hologram, rolled his eyes as if he had to explain something elementary to a stupid animal.
"What exactly is unclear to you, Admiral?" a wave ran through his fur, which among Botans signified extreme irritation.
"You're saying we will receive two dozen new Mon Calamari star cruisers?" the commander of the First Fleet clarified.
"Yes, and what about that phrase confuses you, Admiral?"
"As far as I know, Dac is not cooperating with the New Republic," Argentis said. "Which raises the question of their origin..."
"That should not concern you at all, Admiral," the President raised his voice, flaunting the waves of his fur. "The main thing is that you have them now."
"I have them, but what kind of starships are they?"
"It seems to me your competence in military affairs allows for the fact that you are capable of understanding what 'Mon Calamari star cruisers of the MC80A and MC80b types' are," the Bothan said with poorly concealed mockery.
"I know the nomenclature and capabilities of those starships," Argentis replied calmly. "I also know that at the present moment, no unit of the New Republic is able to free up that volume of line ships to reinforce our positions at Balmorra."
"You have a rather poor knowledge of the composition of our fleet, Commander," Fey'lya shook his head with theatrical pretense. "We have several hundred ships of this type, so..."
"And they are all engaged," Argentis let ice creep into his voice. "Removing any of the groups from sectors of the front will weaken our defense and allow the enemy to break through the blockade. If you are transferring ships to reinforce the Balmorran position, then you are weakening us and leaving us open to attack from other directions! That is unacceptable! What point is there for me to hold Balmorra if you let Imperial Space ships through somewhere into my rear?!"
A threat appeared in the Bothan's voice:
"Don't get above yourself, Admiral Duplex," he said almost syllable by syllable. "You are merely the commander of one fleet. I am the head of state, the President and Supreme Commander! Kindly choose your tone and show respect when addressing me."
The brain of the First Fleet commander, tormented by long sleepless nights, painted a picture of him squeezing his fingers around a furry neck...
Shaking his head to banish the delusion, the Zeltron looked into his immediate commander's eyes.
He didn't care at all that Fey'lya had subordinated the military department as a whole and the New Republic Defense Fleet, substituting his position for that of the highest military official.
And he didn't care that the Bothan had neither a corresponding military education nor military experience.
Until now — he didn't care at all.
"Sir," he said a little more quietly. "The Balmorran position is impregnable. I stake my head on it. There is no need to pull ships from other sectors of the front and throw them in to reinforce us. We will hold out — even if the 'Reaper' itself comes here. Even if it comes with its escort group. We must not allow the front to be exposed on other frontiers!"
Argentis knew what he was talking about.
He was well aware of the position of each fleet of the New Republic—the fleet and squadron commanders hid nothing from each other.
Sharing experience allowed them, after long retreats, to implement the most successful defensive solutions in all places where Imperial Space or the Pentastar Alignment intended to strike.
Yes, they suffered losses.
Yes, they lost combat comrades.
Yes, starships died, aviation was insufficient, and reinforcements left much to be desired.
But they held on.
Held on, understanding that reserves were preparing in the rear.
Understanding that the workers at Rendili StarDrives and dozens of other small shipyards and assembly docks tirelessly repaired damaged ships through cannibalization, for which they couldn't find spare parts.
They were well aware that humans and other species stayed up nights, repairing damage to starships and other military equipment and returning it to war, into the hands of their defenders.
Just as they had a clear picture that the flywheel of military materiel production was spinning up, gaining momentum.
Republic-class Star Destroyers ceased to be something rare by the third month of the war with the Empire.
After the retreat from Coruscant, their prototypes were refined and placed at the disposal of the New Republic Defense Fleet.
They became fleet flagships, and at the beginning of this month the first production batch arrived.
The speed of production was astonishing—but it came at a tremendous cost.
Tens of thousands of new workers came to Rendili StarDrives, and now the entire planet worked in an endless production cycle.
The quality, of course, left much to be desired, but there was no other choice.
Mon Calamari star cruisers were failing too quickly to worry about new Star Destroyers having some minor defects.
The speed of arms reproduction—that was what mattered.
It was precisely thanks to the new destroyers, which became the backbone of the First Fleet under Argentis, that they managed to hold the enemy at Balmorra and prevent further advance.
Yes, Kuat was lost—but it hadn't been particularly loyal to the New Republic anyway.
However, it wasn't in a hurry to join the Imperials either, understanding its own strength and realizing that its own fleet could give a thrashing to any faction in that region of space.
That was why Grand Moff Kaine hadn't dared to repair his Reaper at Kuat, preferring to withdraw it deep into his territories.
The policy of inflated prices deterred even the invaders.
Who could do absolutely nothing about Kuat and its stance—they lacked the strength and resources to oppose a private company that had been arming itself for millennia.
"I can assure you that these ships were not taken from any section of the front," Fey'lya said.
"Starships don't just appear out of thin air either," Argentis reminded.
"Why such meticulousness, Admiral?" asked the Bothan.
"To the fact that in the army and among the fleet, there are rumors that Bothawui has begun secretly cooperating with the Dominion," Duplex said, not at all afraid of the president's reaction. "And that doesn't sit well with those who were still languishing in their captivity yesterday. Especially when there's an understanding—the Dominion too often set the New Republic up for a hit and pulled its dirty tricks behind our backs, slinging mud at us from holoreceiver screens and turbolasers in battle."
"Rumors are just rumors, Admiral," Fey'lya declared. "I dare to assure you—they have no basis other than the conjectures and slander of our enemies."
"Then where did the ships come from?"
What Argentis wanted least was to receive starships that had actually been in the hands of the Dominion in the past.
Yes, ships were needed like air—where there would be a surplus, they could try to go on the counteroffensive.
But knowing the Dominion's habit of equipping starships with all sorts of tracking devices, encountering that again was something he really didn't want.
Especially now, when the New Republic had an advantage—the newest Star Destroyers, whose tactical and technical specifications were unknown to the enemy.
As long as the Empire hadn't acquired and studied Mon Calamari star cruiser technology, they had been able to fight Imperial Star Destroyers on equal footing.
If due to the shortsightedness of the government the enemy obtained that information too, there would be big trouble.
"From the strategic reserve," the Bothan admitted reluctantly.
"He's lying," Duplex realized.
"Why did you hold that reserve for so long?"
"Aren't you asking too many questions of your Supreme Commander?" Fey'lya flared up.
"That is a logical question," Argentis reminded. "If I had had two dozen Mon Calamari star cruisers a month ago, I would not have withdrawn from the Humbarine sector. And that's exactly where a full-fledged forward base of the Pentastar Alignment is now deployed!"
"These ships were under repair," Fey'lya continued to hedge. "The Bothan people, tearing away their last credits, restored nearly destroyed starships, funneling tens of thousands, if not millions, of credits into the pockets of smugglers who profited from us by delivering equipment we no longer have direct access to. And now, when my people have made such a sacrifice, you dare to reproach us, Admiral?"
An emotional attack, intended to throw off course and make him feel embarrassed and guilty.
Bothans, as always, played on their interlocutors' emotions.
How tired he was of all this...
"I apologize, Supreme Commander," Argentis offered insincerely. "I am too exhausted to assess the situation clearly."
"I could tell that from one look," the Bothan snorted, preening again. "You should rest—the entire defense in this sector depends on you."
"Certainly, sir," the Zeltron nodded, lying again.
It wasn't so easy to carve out even an hour for sleep when you had to study reports from scouts, patrols, spies, coordinate the placement of minefields and defense stations, decide which starship was best to dismantle to get the maximum number of spare parts for the others, give advice and orders to subordinates whose units were bleeding out across the entire area of responsibility...
"Bothan crews have already been formed," Fey'lya continued. "And soon the starships will arrive to you. Fully crewed."
"It just keeps getting better," Argentis mentally slapped himself on the face. "A whole fleet of star cruisers crewed by Bothan officers and crews."
"So I understand, if the crews are Bothan, then they are also set a very responsible objective?" Argentis clarified.
"Of course," Fey'lya didn't even catch the sarcasm in the First Fleet commander's words. "According to our intelligence, Grand Moff Ardus Kaine intends to strike your position with the Reaper and its escort squadron. You are to give him battle and win..."
"We could have done that with our own forces," Duplex calculated.
"After which, you will need to go on the counteroffensive and drive the enemy out of the nearest sectors," the president of the New Republic continued, growing more inspired by his own words. "Your forces, according to the assessments of the Military Command, will be sufficient to liberate considerable territories."
"If that includes their cleanup, planetary operations, then in addition to the fleet of star cruisers I will need large ground forces," Argentis warned.
"Admiral," the Bothan looked at him with a condescending smile. "Even I, not a professional military man, know that without supply of provisions and weapons, garrisons on planets won't last long. Throw back their space forces all the way to Coruscant, or even further, and in a week, a month, six months, even the most stubborn Imperials, under blockade, will surrender to your mercy."
"Absurd," Duplex understood.
"Sir, we are not opposing a militia, but motivated soldiers who believe in the strength of their own state," he declared. "And they won't surrender so easily."
"Convince them with orbital bombardments," the president of the New Republic began to lose patience. "Our ground forces still need time to complete the training of the state's valiant defenders. Even if not all Imperials surrender—we'll smoke out the rest. Our goal is to retake Coruscant by the end of this year. The capital of the New Republic is no place for Imperials to march in their dirty boots. The entire galaxy is watching us, watching whether the New Republic lives up to the calls it made to the peoples of hundreds of thousands of worlds in the past."
"If you'll permit me, sir, but I would rather allocate these forces to strengthening the blockade of Carida," Argentis proposed. "Yes, the offensive initiative of the Commonwealth of Five Worlds is running out of steam—we are successfully grinding them down. But Imperial Space..."
"It's bogged down in battles with the Alliance," Fey'lya said disdainfully. "They don't concern us until we are ready to drive them out of our territories. Concentrate on countering the Pentastar Alignment."
How did he imagine this?!
If the Commonwealth was defeated, then other Imperials would simply carry out a rotation of forces and occupy the positions they left.
"Sir, with all due respect, but you need to understand that between Bastion and Orinda there is rivalry..."
"Do as you are ordered, Duplex!" Fey'lya growled. "We need victories! Only victories! The faster we throw the Empire back into their corners, the easier it will be for us to restore the territorial integrity of the New Republic! The sectors and systems that broke away from us are just waiting for signals of strength from our side!"
Ah, so that's what it's about...
Yet another political populism, for which tens, if not hundreds of thousands of New Republic servicemen would pay with blood.
"Sir, we need to reconsider..."
"Enough!" Fey'lya barked. "You are a military man, Admiral Duplex. I am your commander. You were given an order—you carry it out. It cannot be otherwise. Have I explained my point of view clearly enough?!"
"Perfectly, sir."
Fighting someone like that on his own field was useless.
Fey'lya didn't understand operational and tactical necessity.
He didn't understand that if they managed to defeat the Reaper and its squadron, the most likely outcome was that they would start fighting among themselves, thereby relieving pressure along the entire front.
"Well then, excellent," Fey'lya snorted. "And one more thing, Admiral. I have a secret assignment for you."
"I'm listening, Supreme Commander," Argentis said resignedly.
Such verbal preludes did not bode well.
Especially when orders were given to the military by politicians proceeding from their own selfish ephemeral notions of victory.
"I've been thinking," but from the Bothan's eyes and facial expression it was clear that he had long made this decision and, as they say, "had been bringing the interlocutor to the right condition." "Don't destroy the Reaper. Board it. And, preferably, capture Grand Moff Kaine himself."
"Capture a Super Star Destroyer that alone is worth a whole fleet," the Zeltron mentally translated the Bothan's demand. "And on top of that, not accidentally destroy the head of the Commonwealth as well. Oh yes, what could be simpler than that—capturing an Executor and its commander?"
"This decision could cost us greater losses. Including among your kin," he warned, thinking that maybe at least this argument would bring the Bothan to his senses.
"I will humbly accept this sacrifice, Admiral," Fey'lya stated coldly. "We need symbols of our victory. Democracy cannot exist without being watered with the blood of tyrants and patriots. With the capture of Grand Moff Kaine, we can knock the Pentastar Alignment out of the war."
Grandly said.
Strongly.
For someone who sends hundreds of thousands to their deaths—excessively strong.
But the order was not without logic.
Without a warlord and strong leader, the Imperials might indeed turn to flight.
At the very least, they would be demoralized.
As it was after Palpatine's death at the Battle of Endor.
The question was only how many ships and crew members would die just so Fey'lya could boast of a ship battered to its frame and a barely alive Grand Moff?
Because the commander of the First Fleet of the New Republic Defense Forces simply could not imagine any other way those two could end up in Republic captivity.
"Order understood, sir," he said dryly. "Permission to carry it out?"
"You're still here, Admiral?" Fey'lya expressed genuine bewilderment. "Immediately begin developing an operation to bring the New Republic to victory!"
* * *
The sharp slap of a palm momentarily plunged the operational headquarters of the Zann Consortium into deafening silence.
The operators, analysts, encoders and decoders gathered at work terminals, as well as the "slicers," almost synchronously turned their heads toward the source of the sound.
At the foot of the massive multi-functional chair, in which the organization's leader liked to sit, observing through a huge multicolored hologram everything happening in the galaxy from the reports of thousands of informants, there currently lay a fragile-looking woman in black form-fitting clothes with pale skin.
Her head bore an elaborate hairstyle of glossy black hair, braided into thin plaits and intertwined in an intricate coiffure alien to human perception.
It was by this hairstyle that Tyber Zann lifted the woman with his muscular hand, pulling her off the floor, and delivered another slap.
He didn't stand on ceremony, hitting backhanded, breaking her face, lips, tearing skin from her face and leaving ugly abrasions.
The woman did not resist, hanging like a limp doll in the boss's grip, receiving her deserved punishment.
The headquarters staff looked at the scene for only a few seconds, after which they all turned away and returned to work.
Perhaps from the outside it would seem strange that out of hundreds of women watching the beating of a being of the same gender as them, not one showed even a shred of sympathy.
But the few men working alongside them perfectly understood the reason why their analyst colleagues reacted that way.
And they preferred to keep their opinions strictly to themselves.
"Vile trash," Tyber Zann stopped beating his subordinate, at which Jerid Sykes, modestly standing in the corner, let out a slight sigh of relief. "Stubborn as Jabba the Hutt! I've bruised my whole hand!"
The man with snow-white hair and a hideous scar on his face looked with contempt and disgust at the woman wiping blood on the floor, then swung and kicked her in the stomach with his heavy boot as hard as he could.
The force of the blow was such that the battered owner of beautiful hair and pale skin was thrown a couple of meters back.
She tumbled down a short staircase, ending up on the main floor, where those who continued to work for the benefit of the Zann Consortium paid her no attention at all.
"Is this your best protégé, Sykes?" Tyber Zann asked with undisguised rage, collapsing into his chair.
The commander of the organization's combat wing understood that arguing was useless, as was trying to prove anything to the boss.
"Yes."
His answer was short, unambiguous, and left no room for double interpretation—strictly according to Regulations.
The provisions of which surfaced in his head every time the need arose.
Veteran military retirees speak the truth—"You can be shaken out of a uniform jacket, but the jacket can never be shaken out of you."
A saying that clearly demonstrates that reflexes implanted in the subconscious manifest even in civilian life.
"Then I have a simple question," Zann grabbed a crystal-clear glass of Corellian whiskey from the armrest of his chair and drained it in one gulp. "Is she that stupid, or have you lost your touch, that you decided to waste time on such a dolt?"
Sykes looked at the barely breathing young woman.
Many commanders had learned firsthand what Tyber Zann's heavy fists and boots were like.
For most of them, like a shot from a disintegrator, it was the last thing they saw before the end of their lives.
"A simple question deserves a simple answer, boss," Jerid noted. "But I can't give it until I hear her report."
"There's nothing to listen to there," Zann looked with hatred at the woman who began to stir. "This idiot was given a simple task! Blockade the Bosph sector until Harsh returns! Stay there and just guard that Hutt-blasted scrap of galaxy! Prepare for an attack! And keep your Hutt-damned eyes and ears open! Nothing more! Nothing beyond what her empty head could forget!"
"Boss, if she does tell the details, I will have more information," Sykes stated, not flinching under the icy and annihilating gaze of the organization's head. "And I will be able to make my decision."
"Your decision?" Zann growled at him.
"You invited me here clearly not to observe a disciplinary conversation," Jerid suggested.
"And that's true," Zann laughed quietly, which indicated that he had returned without much trouble to a state of mental calm. "Well then, ask your protégé questions. And I'll listen to how she justifies herself. And remember: her failure is your failure."
"Of course, boss," Sykes replied, heading toward the young woman who had barely managed to get to her knees.
Tyber was entirely right—this young woman's failure would be Sykes's own failure.
Because it was he who had convinced Zann, who had by then already experienced both betrayal and the collapse of his criminal empire, which he was now gathering piece by piece, and the trap that the Imperials had set for him and which had almost been his end.
All that was in the past.
And even this outburst of rage—it too had its shades in past events.
Zann had first snapped when he learned that his organization had come to an end.
And despite all his qualities, he had never been able to accept the fact that by uniting under the wing of the Zann Consortium all the largest and most important criminal organizations of the galaxy—both under direct and indirect control—he had achieved everything he had ever dreamed of.
And then they began to destroy him.
And traitors crawled out of every crevice.
The Zann Consortium shattered into fragments, almost all of which were destroyed either by the Empire or by the Rebel Alliance.
What he managed to preserve was only a pathetic semblance of the former glory obtained through hard work.
But now he was on the rise again.
That Zann had snapped, turning into a wild beast, only testified that the failure in the Bosph sector was something more than a simple breakthrough of the blockade in a region inhabited by miners incapable of fighting an armed enemy.
"How are you?" Sykes asked quietly, taking his protégé by the elbow and helping her up.
"It's been worse," she wiped blood from her split lips and smiled, showing bloody teeth. "I recall being thoroughly beaten once before. What I went through now is nothing in comparison."
"Then stop smiling like an idiot and give a full report," the commander of the organization's combat wing instantly became serious. "Not only your life depends on this, but mine as well."
"I understand," the smile vanished from her lips.
When they climbed the steps, Sykes's protégé knelt on one knee before Zann.
"I let you down, boss," she said softly, obsequiously. "The attack was unexpected..."
"I've already heard all this," Zann waved off her words.
"But I haven't, boss," Sykes objected. "Perhaps she will report something important that will help us understand the enemy's tactics."
"Well, let's see," a spark of excitement flared in Zann's eyes. "Let her tell you the same thing she told me. And then we'll compare our conclusions."
"That works for me," Jerid admitted, looking at his protégé. "Tell me. And don't even think about hedging. Your tricks won't work here."
"Well, of course," the woman smiled crookedly.
But she quickly realized that her jokes were of absolutely no interest to anyone here.
"I was following the commander's orders," she began. "I sent patrols to the smuggler routes. Divided the Picket Fleet into two detachments to strike and pin down the native forces. One minute after we were supposed to receive a general situational report from our scouts, but received nothing, my ships were attacked."
"By whom?" Sykes moved on to the interrogation.
"I assume it was the Dominion," the woman stated. "The formation was led into battle by a fast star dreadnought of the Bellator class. I know only one state that has it."
"Assume. Continue."
"They surrounded us using interdictor cruisers, and then, as soon as they deployed their gravity wells, the enemy's main forces emerged from hyperspace—a fast dreadnought, five Imperial-class Star Destroyers, and heavy cruisers of the Vindicator-class. They surrounded us and began attacking from all sides. A special place in their attack was the capture of our flagship."
"As a result, your forces were defeated," Zann summarized. "A weepy story about how you were fooled and cowardly fled far from the battle."
"It wasn't for nothing that I made the decision to retreat," the interrogated woman stated. "I sensed on board the enemy flagship a rather powerful being, a woman sensitive to the Force. But it happened so suddenly, why I couldn't detect her immediately or sense the threat emanating from her. As if she was hiding somewhere from me, and then decided that hiding was stupid and decided to attack me."
"And you decided to put a novice, your student, in her path," Tyber Zann continued for the woman. "A promising young man, by the way."
Sykes glanced at his boss.
Although he understood that the other was only being ironic, he wanted to verify it personally.
Despite Zann's serious expression, a mocking smile was frozen on his lips.
Yes, everything was fine.
The boss was just mocking the failure he had beaten.
Recently, he didn't trust beings sensitive to the Force with any serious operations, let alone individual assignments important for the future of the Zann Consortium.
But in the conditions of the galaxy, when the Empire had Inquisitors and the New Republic had Jedi, Sykes considered it necessary to have at least a few such fighters on hand.
Earning their loyalty was not difficult—just save their lives and find a common object of hatred.
After all, Urai Fen was also sensitive to the Force—and Tyber Zann had full trust in him.
In truth, he was effectively acting as the head of what remained of the Zann Consortium, while Tyber himself was "sunbathing" in the Kessel mines.
But the recent rout of the Zann Consortium at the hands of the Empire, the New Republic, and internal enemies had changed a great deal.
Including the criteria for trusting Force-sensitive beings.
"That's the way of the Dark Side," the woman declared. "The weak must fall so the strong can survive."
"Spare me that nonsense," Zann demanded. "What happened to him in the end?"
"What could happen to a bungler who wasn't even anything significant back in the days of the Jedi Order?" the woman shrugged. "His opponent was clearly stronger and more experienced — she finished him off without any trouble."
"She?" Zann asked, intrigued. "It was a woman?"
"Yes," the battered woman replied after a moment's thought. "I'd even venture she was a Dathomirian witch — the traces in the Force were too distinctive..."
"A witch!" Zann shouted. "Those filthy gizka from Dathomir are helping my enemies again!"
"Boss, we need to figure out what's going on..." Sykes ventured.
"Figure it out?" Zann shot him an angry glare. "What else do you want to figure out, Sykes? Who exactly it was?"
"That would be helpful," the organization's battle-wing commander noted. "We need to know how deeply the witches have integrated into the Dominion..."
"It's all simple," Zann said bitterly. "Thrawn opened the doors of his toy to anyone who wanted in. Plus, he solved our problems with those Imperial neighbors who served that half-crazy clone, whatever his name was?"
"X1," Jerid supplied.
"Yes," the organization's leader snapped his fingers. "That psychopath had plenty of Dathomirian women with him. Maybe Thrawn took them under his wing. Or maybe they're infiltrators from the Eastern faction."
"I don't see any problem," the battered woman declared. "Our Vultures handled killing witches just fine..."
"Except we lost our cloning facilities," Zann reminded her. "All of them. Completely. Just imagine for a minute what will happen if the Dominion gets access to Kamino? Given the hundreds of derelict starships just gathering dust there? They'll fill them all with clones at once!"
"I don't think the witches would agree to that kind of alliance," Jerid voiced his assumption after a moment's thought. "They're greedy and vindictive, but you still have to understand that Thrawn knew perfectly well, and he probably blabbed to some of his subordinates about how ysalamiri can block the Force. And vornskrs — hunt Force-sensitives. It's not for nothing they visited Myrkr."
"And now they've stopped," Tyber added. "Hutt, I'm starting to regret telling Thrawn at the Academy about Myrkr and the properties of ysalamiri. That blue-eyed bastard," he looked at the transparisteel panel, "got there after all..."
"Just like Karrde," Sykes reminded him.
"I'll have a separate conversation with that clown," Zann waved his hand, staring thoughtfully at the floor before him. "We need to act."
"Boss?" Sykes was surprised. "Weren't we going to wait until they all killed each other off?"
"And instead, we see our fleet was intercepted and destroyed at Karthakk, and there was a Dathomirian witch at Bosph," Zann reminded him. "It looks like I outplayed myself. Instead of destroying them, Pellaeon decided to form an alliance with the witches. They probably promised him Rothana and Kamino to restore the Empire... And the fool fell for that kind of story, believing it would let him fulfill his Imperial duty or something. Doesn't matter. Sykes," he looked at the organization's battle-wing commander. "Have you prepared the forces to attack the Dominion's northern sectors?"
"As ordered," the man agreed.
"Then we send them into battle," Zann declared decisively. "We can't risk losing the Dominion's spoils. I don't want the Eastern faction getting the Dominion's ships and factories! Those are our trophies! And our industry!"
"We could just wait until the end of the year, and then Harsh will start up the industry in the Chiloon Rift and..."
Zann shot Sykes an angry look.
"Don't you get it yet?" he asked. "Losing Bosph means losing the direct route to the Rift. It could be under our control a hundred or a thousand times over, but without logistics, the metal deposits there, the tibanna, the fuel refineries — none of it will matter to us. Consider the money invested in those factories — gone up in smoke. Unless we find a way to punch a corridor there. And right now is the right time."
"We need deep reconnaissance," Sykes insisted. "So far we only know about the large number of Dominion ships in the Karthakk sector, and the squadron in the Bosph sector, but the rest..."
"Take all the Consortium's active forces," Zann ordered. "Every last one. And attack the Dominion. I want you to subdue it before those Dathomirian bitches get their hands on the ships from Horsch & Kessel. Hunting that spawn across the entire galaxy will be incredibly difficult. Especially once the cloning process on Kamino is complete."
"You weren't concerned about that before," Sykes reminded him.
"I am now!" Zann snapped. "Now they have ships, an ally, transport — and now the clones from Kamino will become a huge thorn in our side. Yes, a couple of months ago it wasn't a problem! But now it is! Because the ships are almost ready! Not to mention Rothana."
"But Pellaeon took the bait with the Relentless," Sykes reminded him. "Their blockade-runner gadget is ready for use."
"Yes, but the witches have sped up too," Zann countered. "I wouldn't be surprised if Pellaeon is preparing a backup plan for the assault, but he clearly might not make it in time. We'll do everything now — fortunately, we know where their headquarters and fleet anchorage are. While their fleet is mass-'nightmaring' the Karthakk sector, we'll go in and take what we want. We'll deprive the Dominion of its home base, and Thrawn's survivors will have a tough time."
Zann cast another glance at the transparisteel panel, peering into the crimson eyes glowing from within the stuffed doll.
"I gutted your body myself, Thrawn," Zann said, addressing the remains of the sentient. "Working as a taxidermist was new to me, but I still did it with pleasure. And with that same pleasure, I will take from your worthless followers everything you left them."
The stuffed effigy of the late Grand Admiral, filled with special contents, fished out of space by the Vultures after a thorough kicking of the Republic forces at Sluis Van, continued to stare at the head of the Zann Consortium.
He'd had to work hard to implant miniature light sources exactly as the original had them.
"Begin the attack, Sykes," Tyber Zann ordered, tearing himself away from contemplating the effigy of the Grand Admiral's body. "Let them pay for everything. Our agents are in place and waiting for your requests."
"Alright, boss, we'll attack," the admiral agreed, understanding that a great deal of work lay ahead to capture such a tough nut as the Dominion. "If you don't mind, I'll take my charge..."
"Get her out of my sight," Zann grimaced in disgust. "If she doesn't kill every witch in the Dominion homeworld, you can feel free to hang her over the side of your flagship."
"I hear you, sir," Sykes replied quietly.
* * *
"And what do you intend to do?" The hologram of Orun Va looked serene, but one shouldn't be fooled.
Kaminoans were not an emotional race in principle.
Even if he felt something, he would never show it or let his interlocutor know through his facial expressions.
There weren't many works of art in the galaxy created by Kaminoans.
Even fewer were known to other peoples of the galaxy.
And a disgracefully small number were in the public domain and available for study.
But that was looking at art from the perspective of material, inanimate culture.
In a galaxy inhabited by thousands upon thousands of different races, each with their own 'quirks,' the concept of 'art' should be interpreted more broadly.
For humanity and races close to them, art was truly expressed in sculptures, music, painting, and so on.
For Mandalorians — art was war.
For Mon Calamari — it was water and everything connected to it.
Even material art for those from Dac was works created from the gifts of the sea.
For Kaminoans — art was science.
Genetics, first and foremost.
And in their craft, they had achieved unprecedented heights, creating masterpieces that other races couldn't replicate.
Their masterpieces walked, dug, served, fought, sang, and satisfied their masters' whims.
Yes, for Kaminoans, art was primarily their clones.
"You know perfectly well what that equipment is," the hologram of Colonel Astarion replied in the meantime.
"Yes, its functionality is known to me," Orun Va agreed. "Copying the donor's memory for subsequent transfer to clones."
"In that case, as a sentient who was associated with the cloning project under the 'Spaarti' program for a long time, you must understand that these installations were designed for cloning humans," Astarion continued.
"Yes, that is their narrow specialization," a note of mockery appeared in Orun Va's voice. "You caught on quickly. I assume it's because you couldn't map my brain. And when the images obtained from my mind appeared before you as blurry pictures and fragmentary information, it finally dawned on you that you couldn't clone me that way."
"In general terms, you're right," Astarion agreed.
"And you came to negotiate," Orun Va continued.
"That's also correct."
"So it turns out you only have a Kaminoan-manufactured cloning cylinder, but no learning system," Orun Va said thoughtfully, stroking one hand with the other. "And this once again increases my value to you... Well, you know my terms."
"And you know ours," Astarion countered. "You will not work independently. Only on our orders."
"Then we won't come to an agreement," Orun Va smiled. "You need me. You can't manage without me, without my knowledge."
"You can console yourself with that assumption," Astarion replied calmly. "but the situation is entirely different."
"That's what you think," Orun Va replied in a soft tone. "You have not the slightest alternative except to agree with me and my — let me note — quite modest demands."
"You'd better have listened to me when I said the Dominion's terms wouldn't change," Astarion remarked coldly.
"And what will you do?" A semblance of a human smirk appeared on the Kaminoan's face. "My team can maintain your product at an acceptable level. But working with genomes, improving them, making your clones stronger, smarter, more deadly — only I can do that. And people like me. But you can't clone me. And you can't get to Kamino either. I imagine there are Kaminoans somewhere in the galaxy who fled their homeworld, but not one of them is capable of creating something new at the same level as I am. Even in Kamino's best years, there weren't that many narrow-specialist geneticists."
"I'm telling you — you need to listen to me carefully, Orun Va," it was now Astarion's turn to smirk. "You see, there's something you didn't account for when you gave us your ultimatums."
"For example?" Orun Va inquired.
"Are you familiar with a cloning specialist named Zyix K'zzt?" asked the head of the Dominion Security Bureau.
"The name is familiar," he replied indifferently. "That man studied our work on Kamino for a while. Incompetent."
"Is that so," Astarion smiled triumphantly, continuing to bore into Orun Va with a heavy gaze. "We don't think so."
"Because you yourselves are short-sighted in matters of genetics," Orun Va said in the same phlegmatic tone.
And that was a mistake.
Like any artist, Kaminoan geneticists put something of themselves into their works.
Into their clones.
When creating the Grand Army of the Republic, they tried with all their might to destroy clones that acted independently, stood out from the crowd, or didn't meet the parameters of a 'good soldier' at all.
And in the Kaminoan understanding, a good soldier, ready to go on the offensive, should be calm, indifferent, unceremonious.
Phlegmatic.
Especially in moments of despair, when his fate no longer depended on any decision he made.
Exactly as Orun Va was behaving now.
The absence of his usual emotionality on the clondealer's face didn't make him vulnerable to physiognomic analysis.
He had shifted from attack, when his speech sounded more assertive, to defense — and now he was maintaining apparent calm.
But he had stopped rubbing his hands and gesturing with them — because he didn't feel in control of the situation.
The name Zyix K'zzt had put him on guard.
"If so, you'll surely be surprised that Zyix K'zzt managed to extract quite a bit of interesting information from the pieces of your memories," Astarion continued. "Yes, they're not the complete sequences of modified genes, but still fragments of knowledge that the Kaminoans hid from the Imperials. I think, if not now, then in a few years, whether we conquer Kamino or destroy it, we will subjugate your people. And your cloning facilities. And put Zyix K'zzt in charge of the cloning processes."
"You will need much more time to master our technologies," Orun Va declared.
"You keep making the same arguments, not understanding that they no longer work," Astarion chuckled. "We have an entire genetics team. We have Zyix K'zzt. We have plenty of promising scientists, and we're continuing our search. After all, we currently have thirty thousand fully operational Spaarti cloning cylinders, which, by dismantling the Arkanian knockoffs, have been brought to acceptable working condition..."
Not counting the two hundred cloning cylinders I have for personal use, as well as the eight hundred skillfully assembled, booby-trapped copies from Cartao, which don't have copying functions and essentially don't work properly — they only pump nutrient fluid.
They weren't supposed to work anyway.
They were supposed to explode when a dual-frequency signal from the transmitter in Magash Drashi's horns was activated.
One signal — for detonation.
The second — to report her location.
Considering that the 'cloning cylinders' we found were most optimally supposed to work in a cluster with the others — most likely with the ones we found on Smarck — this sabotage was meant to deprive us of the cloning capabilities we'd gained from the attack.
And then the authors of this venture, under assumed identities, would likely have stepped onto the stage, offering an alliance and providing their own cloning cylinders to create an army to destroy the Zann Consortium.
I had almost no doubt that this army would then turn against us, destroying the Dominion.
Just as I had no doubt that if Magash Drashi had managed to reach an agreement with the Dominion command, there would have been no detonations — up to a certain point.
And if she realized there would be no alliance, she was supposed to destroy both the Dominion command and our cloning capabilities.
And the numbers of fake cloning cylinders were perfectly chosen.
Seven thousand two hundred we got from Smarck.
And eight hundred from Cartao.
The human brain just wants to combine them to get a round number.
Well, we don't need that now.
Dismantling and repairing the Arkanian knockoffs, while reducing the number of available incubators to the point where my idea of a spare parts stockpile and their subsequent restoration found no path for development — all the Arkanian knockoffs were dismantled and turned into spare parts for the installations we had.
Completely.
As they say — 'from the bandage to the cotton wool.'
Nothing but the metal frames remained.
Everything was put to use.
Every pipe and wire.
But now we have thirty thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders, third model.
We lost a potential strategic advantage, but gained a tactical one.
Thirty thousand clones every fifteen days.
Over a year — that's about seven hundred and thirty thousand clones.
Not even a year had passed since I ended up in this galaxy, and already, by the first anniversary of my 'Grand Admiralty,' I received a gift in the form of nearly doubling clone production compared to the initial sixteen thousand we had access to before the repairs carried out by Colonel Selid.
"If you expect some reaction from me to your triumph, you won't get it," Orun Va declared.
"You think?" Astarion smiled. "Zyix K'zzt thought the same, that we had nothing to offer him as a clonedealer. That's why he wasn't in a hurry to show his true face. By the way, did you know that from his very first years working as a geneticist, he dreamed of working with the donor genotype for the Grand Army of the Republic?"
"That is of no concern to me."
"Oh, it's a fascinating story. At first, such initiative and obsession on the part of Zyix K'zzt put us on guard," Astarion confided. "We placed him under surveillance — after we returned his children to him. Just imagine — a man whose head contains knowledge of genetics intertwined with knowledge of methods for conducting suppressive fire and tactics for storming a settlement, turns out to be a caring father. And quite talkative too... Do you know why he never gave up working as a geneticist?"
"That is unnecessary information for me."
"He lived with the idea that working for the Empire, one day he would be able to get the project of working on the clones of Jango Fett and show the entire Empire that he was the best geneticist and could create clones — in particular, your favored 'Advanced Republic Commando' 'Alpha' and 'Null' type clones — without the flaws that made you consider your own work defective."
"I corrected those flaws in the last batch of 'Vulture' clones on Smarck," Orun Va reminded him. "You mindlessly destroyed them all."
"That doesn't mean we didn't collect genetic samples," Astarion declared. "Which are now at Zyix K'zzt's disposal. As are your fragmentary memories. And he will use them for the benefit of the Dominion."
"It is not so easy to replicate my research," Orun Va looked externally as impenetrable as stone. "Especially — if he wants to create the best clones of Jango Fett. He will not succeed without the necessary DNA."
"And here's the most interesting part," Astarion's hologram smiled. "We have a clone of Jango Fett."
"Good luck isolating and restoring the pure genes of the original specimen," triumph appeared in Orun Va's voice.
"We don't need to," Astarion said in an oily voice. "I didn't tell you the name of the Jango Fett clone we have."
"Products don't have names," Orun Va declared unexpectedly sharply. "Only serial numbers!"
"This one does have a name," Astarion assured him, showing a datapad with a holophoto. "I think you'll recognize this face, Senior Geneticist?"
"That face is well known throughout the galaxy," Orun Va replied phlegmatically. "People have already tried to convince me that you have an unaltered clone of Jango Fett. But no proof, only words..."
"Then look here," Astarion changed the picture on the datapad screen. "Recognize this nucleotide sequence?"
Orun Va's hologram was silent for a very long time.
His eyes slid across the lines, but not a single muscle on his face twitched, though nothing else was expected.
"Be bold, Senior Geneticist," Astarion advised. "You looked at these sequences for decades, making various changes and improving Jango Fett's genetics. You cannot fail to recognize it."
"Let's say I see before me a decoded, unaltered genome of Jango Fett," Orun Va said in a calm voice, tearing his gaze from reading the lines on the screen. "That still proves nothing."
"Really?" Astarion smiled. "For example, you think we could have gotten this decoded sequence from the Imperial Archives?"
"I don't rule it out."
"Then you must be curious to see the part of the decoded sequence responsible for the subject's age."
Another page flip.
Another careful study.
"Forty-two years," the Kaminoan said very slowly, looking at the Colonel.
"Forty-two," Astarion nodded. "Let me remind you that Jango Fett was born sixty-six years before the Battle of Yavin. He died — twenty-two years before it. And his genotype was stored on Kamino. Zyix K'zzt told us you used up all of Jango Fett's blood except for what was obtained in his last year before his death. Consequently, if we were talking about showing you the genetics of one of his modified clones, or the genetic code of Jango himself, then based on the telomere length data and other related indicators, you would understand that we were providing you with a fake, wouldn't you? And now for a little math. You hired Jango Fett thirty-two years before the Battle of Yavin IV. And you created an unaltered genetic version of himself for him — the child Boba, who is a complete genetic copy of Jango Fett. No alterations. And it's been forty-two years since then."
"That cannot be," Orun Va said firmly. "We already tried to clone him. And he destroyed the entire laboratory and all his clones. He would never have agreed to cooperate on cloning. And he died on Tatooine."
"Then where did we get his blood?" Astarion clarified. "We couldn't get to Kamino in any case to search your vaults. And Boba Fett knows the value of his blood well enough not to leave samples lying around. But even so, we have a sample of his DNA. So it turns out no one deceived you, Orun Va? And besides, notice the photo of the donor," Astarion returned the first picture on the datapad. "Don't you see the large number of chemical burns on his body? It's not all that pleasant being inside a sarlacc's stomach, as they say."
The Kaminoan geneticist was silent.
"And so, it turns out we have Boba Fett's genetic code, identical to Jango Fett's. We have tissue and blood samples from your improved 'Vulture' clones. We have Zyix K'zzt, who only dreams of working with such material. And we have you, who has a chance to truly create improved ARC clones, to combine your developments with the genetics that eluded you in the past. And to get a result that would satisfy you as the greatest geneticist of Kamino. What do you think, is such work worth the conditions the Dominion offers?"
"You demand that I do what you want," Orun Va reminded him.
"Well, it so happens that we have a need to produce ARC-pattern clones to replenish the losses of the Assault Commandos," Astarion said, his tone almost paternal now. "That's why we have two options going forward. Either we put you back in the 'centrifuge' and run the last 'pass' of your life, extract whatever we can after that, and hand everything over to Boba Fett and Zyix K'Zzt, or you work with Boba Fett's DNA yourself and create the samples we need. And perhaps, once Kamino comes under Dominion control, Grand Admiral Thrawn will allow you to take the position of planetary leader — on the scientific side. At your disposal will be all the geneticists of your race. The ones who didn't believe in your success. But you will demonstrate your achievements to them using Boba Fett's clones. And you will prove yourself right. I believe honor, respect, and recognized leadership among your people await you."
"Are you offering to make me a collaborator?" Orun Va clarified.
"I'm offering you a choice between continuing your career with a glorious finale, or an inglorious end followed by your future recycling," Colonel Astarion declared, a triumphant expression on his face. "However, there is one more option."
"Which is?"
"We'll finish cloning your body, then transfer your mind from this body into it," the colonel said, jabbing a finger at the Kaminoan's tiny head. "Fortunately, we have a relevant specialist from the monks of the B'omarr Order — one who very much enjoys eating and transplanting the brains of sentients into their cloned bodies. She almost always gets it right."
For the first time in the entire conversation, Orun Va flinched.
"So what will it be, Senior Geneticist?" Astarion inquired, nodding toward the memory-copying 'centrifuge.' "Death and obscurity, or life and glory? Let me remind you that hard work for the Dominion is rewarded. Think about what you could achieve if you fulfill our little requests. Perhaps you'll be allowed to pursue your own research? Or Kamino will be granted the right to commercial clone production again? Who knows, who knows…"
The senior geneticist looked into the eyes of the Dominion's chief counter-intelligence officer.
The answer was plain in his black eyes, readable even through the hologram.
"I agree," he replied. "Give me the equipment and Boba Fett's DNA — I'll create Assault Commandos so formidable that even the Mandalorians or the Ailon Nova Guard will want to learn from them."
End of recording.
A smile played on my lips.
Long preparation, meticulous handling, and undeniable success.
I'd have to keep an eye on him — until he realized his cherished project of the improved ARC.
And then, like all idealistic scientists, he wouldn't be able to stop.
A warning chime from my private comlink — a frequency known only to one living soul in the galaxy — pulled me from my thoughts.
Activating the device with its integrated portable holographic projector, I looked at the hologram of the young woman who was no longer destined to become Luke Skywalker's wife.
"Hand, what do I owe the pleasure?"
"They're beginning, Grand Admiral," Mara Jade said. "The Zann Consortium fleet is preparing to depart. Their target is the Dominion."
"Excellent," I said — the faint smile on my lips seemed to momentarily puzzle the Hand. "Let them come. We've been waiting for them. Continue your mission on Etti IV."
"That's just it, sir," the young woman said, her voice a little quieter. "There's a ti-i-iny problem…"