"Moff Harsh, the recon commander reports..."
"Get to the point, stormtrooper," the commander of the Star Destroyer "Cauldron" replied impatiently.
"Sir, we've discovered a storage facility of cloning cylinders," came the reply from the second satellite of Tiraggi. "Several hundred. They were serviced by droids."
"Condition?"
Triumph sounded in Harsh's voice.
Cloning technology!
What luck!
Splendid!
All losses have justified themselves!
"Sir, the technicians say it's just scrap metal..."
Dreams shattered.
"Are they repairable?" hope, as always, came last, replacing elation and backed by disappointment.
"Unknown, sir, this technology is unfamiliar to them."
"Incompetents," Harsh cursed, looking away from the holographic transmitter. "Found anything else interesting?"
"A large number of empty containers from medical equipment and supplies..."
"Anything functioning?!"
"A few maintenance droids, sir..."
In fury, Harsh struck the projection plate, shattering it at the point of impact.
With a terrible crunch, cracks spread from the impact point to the periphery.
He cursed for several minutes before running out of steam.
"Five squadrons, four shuttles, two companies of stormtroopers lost to get through that Hutt minefield around the planet, and all of that — just to find out there's nothing working here?!" he shouted in utter helplessness. "Why the Hutt did they even guard this blasted moon in the first place!?"
He was shaking with fury and fits of rage.
The man and woman standing a couple of meters from him exchanged glances, as if each wanted to verify that the Force adept standing next to him was thinking roughly the same thing.
Judging by what they could sense from each other — yes, their thoughts converged, being completely identical.
"They played me like the Neimoidians played some Gungan," Harsh hissed through clenched teeth.
He stared straight ahead, then turned his gaze toward the man and woman.
"So you could guide my navigators to precise jumps so they could emerge and blow up the enemy destroyers, but understanding that there's absolutely nothing here — you couldn't?" From his accusatory speech, it was clear he was looking for someone to blame for his failure.
"We warned you that the Force speaks of the satellite..." the woman began quietly.
"Shall I tell you where I've seen your Force?" Harsh asked. "You claimed your abilities were unmatched!"
"We are warriors first, not trackers," the man said firmly, his tone making it clear he wouldn't allow his companion to be spoken to harshly. "The Force doesn't always give its hints clearly and unambiguously. Sometimes they're just clues..."
"Clues?" Harsh repeated. "Betraying Zann because of your words about my power — those were clues? Disobeying orders and filling the 'Supertransports' not with soldiers and equipment but with explosives, deceiving Sykes-Six and forcing him to eliminate the threat to the 'Cauldron', using him as a kamikaze — those are clues?"
"I wouldn't advise speaking to us like that," the man said sharply, placing his hand on his lightsaber. "You were warned that the Dominion is not an ordinary enemy. They somehow shield the Force on some decks of their ships. Only thanks to our skill were you able to blow up their destroyers and even reach the planet!"
"To what end?" From his changed tone, it was clear that the Moff was somewhat backing down before the Force-sensitive man. "To run into another minefield, lose almost the entire air wing, half the landing assets, and stormtroopers — of which I have barely more than a regiment left anyway?"
"On the other hand," the woman said in a conciliatory tone, "you achieved the greatest victory over the Dominion. Even the rebels couldn't destroy that many destroyers at Sluis Van..."
"I've seen those destroyers in a black hole, you understand?" Harsh clarified, regaining his composure. "You apparently don't grasp the scale of the problem. Zann sent me with a transport convoy to haul everything out of the Dominion's secret base. I made sure his fleet was destroyed. And my transports also got destroyed. If Sykes-Six told Zann that I betrayed him — then that's it, every bounty hunter from Sernpidal to Endor, from Yaga Minor to Tatooine will be after my ass!"
"There's no need to exaggerate the problem," the woman advised. "Sykes-Six didn't have much time to report you — his fleet was being torn apart by Dominion mines."
"And besides, who knows what difficulties might arise on the way to that coveted system?" the man supported his comrade. "The crew is loyal to you. Zann's fighters are dead. Who's going to tell him about what happened here?"
"So your advice now is to return with our tails between our legs, is it?" the former Moff snapped. "He has his own man — the Moff of this sector! He'll definitely tell his master what happened here!"
"Our advice is patience," the man clarified. "Since there's nothing worthwhile there, recall your people and retreat."
"The Dominion will certainly not forgive the destruction of its fleet, and soon its ships will be here," the woman continued.
"We need to withdraw to the Rift and regroup," the man declared. "There, you'll be unreachable for anyone."
"Only with the Force can both paths into the Chiloon Rift be navigated," the woman added. "We navigated them for you."
"Not for Zann," the man confirmed.
"It's just that he poured tens of billions into setting it all up," Harsh grimaced. "And there's a Hutt mountain of his fighters there — on my facilities! And only a regiment of stormtroopers loyal to me!"
"And there's also us," the woman replied calmly. "Each of us is an army incarnate."
"If the fighters of the 'Zann Consortium' won't obey you, we'll make them," the man promised.
"Or destroy them," the woman added.
Harsh wiped his hand over his face and bald head.
"You sing well together," he declared. "But with one destroyer, I can't stand against Zann."
"You won't be alone, Moff," the man reassured him.
"We are with you," the woman supported him.
"And all the resources of the Chiloon Rift," Harsh reluctantly agreed.
For several seconds he stared straight ahead, then waved his hand in resignation.
"Sometimes there are defeats," the traitor intoned, resigning himself. "They make us stronger. Watch officer!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Recall the groups from the surface!" Harsh ordered. "I don't want to be here when the Dominion ships show up. And I certainly don't want to risk my technicians by keeping them on the planet longer than necessary. As soon as everyone is on board — we retreat to the base!"
"As you command, sir!"
The man and woman, when the twice-traitor Moff turned his back to them, exchanged glances.
They knew how to draw conclusions.
As well as how to listen to the Force.
* * *
When Major Tierce finished his report regarding what had happened on the second moon of Tiraggi, Captain Tschel clenched his fists so hard that his knuckles turned white.
Absolute silence reigned on the bridge of the "Chimaera," through which the operation of ventilation and cooling systems of the crew workstations could be clearly heard.
"Was the information transmitted by spy droids?" I asked quietly.
"Yes, sir," Grodin confirmed. "The Shadow Guard has already moved to capture Moff Brinkkan."
And consequently Darth Maul and Stryn would find a reason to practice their training sessions.
"Agent Steben has already begun work on capturing Moff Nivers," Grodin continued.
Well, the clones of the "Zann Consortium" played their role in those manipulations for which they were ultimately not sent to slaughter.
Now, it would seem, they could be turned inside out, studying all their past.
Let Astarion handle that — he will be working against Makus Kaynif captured on Smarck.
But another problem arises.
Mieru'kar remained open to enemy attacks.
Brinkkan pulled the Defense Forces back to the southern borders so that the movements of Moff Harsh's fleet would remain secret.
Unaware of the surveillance stations and listening posts, he did everything to leave our forces and the second moon of Tiraggi without protection.
"Good," I replied. "We proceed as planned, Major."
"Yes, sir," Tierce stepped aside.
"Sir," Tschel's voice rang with anger. "You can't... You can't just leave our secret facility on the second moon of Tiraggi like that? Something has to be done about that butcher Harsh! We lost twenty ships in one battle! Twenty trained crews! And we lost control of our base, and Hutt knows what else. We need to send troops there immediately and kill that traitor and his entire crew!"
I turned my head toward the officer.
Yes, he was still young.
And impulsive.
At his age, Anakin Skywalker had already slaughtered younglings in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.
Obviously, the galaxy has a special demand and plan for lack of common sense at such ages.
"Our losses are known to me, Captain Tschel," I said in an icy voice, which clearly pushed his confidence in his impulsiveness to the background.
"You correctly noted that control over the second moon of Tiraggi has been lost to us, and the enemy can begin landing on the planet at any time."
"Sir, forgive my heat, but how can you be so calm knowing the enemy is about to get to our secrets?" Tschel asked, having regained control of his voice.
"Moff Harsh is a cruel and determined man," I continued as if nothing had happened. "Without a doubt, he will land his ground forces on the second satellite. It was even assumed that they would be stormtroopers. But whoever lands on the planet, vengeance will catch up with them."
"Assumed?" Tschel was somewhat taken aback, realizing the essence of what I said. "Sir, are you saying that you planned for the enemy to capture our secret base in the Mieru'kar sector? That you allowed an entire sector fleet to be destroyed for that?!"
"Captain," I addressed my flagship commander calmly, "when playing combinations involving the integration of enemy spies into government positions, I without a doubt not only allowed but hoped that they would land on it. And even — that they would find the equipment there. And also — that they would return to their ships one way or another, after which — fearing our reaction — they would head back to the Chiloon Rift."
"That's... That's a provocation?!" Tschel's eyes widened.
"Yes, it is," I agreed. "Ruthless and merciless."
"But at what cost...?!"
"The defense protocol for the Tiraggi system called for the destruction of a significant part of the enemy fleet and a fighting retreat," I continued. "Rear Admiral I-Gor destroyed all ships that entered the system, having received information that the enemy had not deployed part of its forces. Our losses in that battle were not planned, but they happened. Let's be honest with ourselves, Captain — the enemy also has commanders who can calculate the situation in their own interests. And that is good."
"Good?" Tschel asked in a completely bewildered voice.
"Yes," I said firmly. "Our enemies show us our mistakes. We show them theirs. We learn from mistakes — that's how the process of gaining experience happens. Military command is not the end goal, Captain. It is a lifelong journey. And throughout it, challenges are thrown at an officer. Every challenge is an opportunity to assert oneself, overcome new obstacles, surpass one's own capabilities. Satisfaction from victory over an enemy should certainly be present, but one must not forget that the absence of new problems and challenges means complacency. Every officer must understand that intelligent enemies have always existed, exist now, and will continue to appear. They need to be detected, they must be fought, and destroyed. For the latter, we need experience. And, as already said, intelligent opponents."
"Sir, but from your words it follows that we need to destroy Harsh!" Tschel perked up. "We have forces nearby, we can attack them and avenge the fallen. After all, the 'Chimaera' can be there in two days! We'll follow them, since they only have one Star Destroyer left! With your genius, we'll destroy them in one battle!"
We can.
Of course we can.
But why limit ourselves to momentary revenge, cutting off the top of a weed, when there is an excellent opportunity to make him destroy himself with his own hands?
"Do you know the difference between a tactical commander and a strategic commander, Captain?" I asked.
"Um..." Tschel hesitated. "They command operations. But each at their own level."
"A fairly correct personal interpretation," I said, looking again at the blue-white tunnel through which the 'Chimaera' was breaking through the solar years to the Galaanus system in the Korva sector. "But there is a nuance."
An awkward silence hung.
"A good tactician understands how solid the plan is that was provided to him for execution," I said slowly. "A decent tactician should predict how the given plan will work before its execution begins. Sentients lacking tactical knowledge do not understand and do not accept the plan at all, because it conflicts with their criteria of acceptability..."
Tschel looked at me intently.
On his face settled again that expression he had when he tried to hover around me and Pellaeon to hear as much as possible from our discussions.
"However," I continued. "There also exist great tacticians. They are the ones who create plans for good, decent tacticians, as well as those devoid of tactical thinking."
"And... strategists, sir?" he asked. "Where in this conclusion do the strategists fit?"
"Every great tactician can become a strategist, Captain," I explained, stroking the ysalamiri behind the head of its tiny skull. "But only when they ensure victory in the entire campaign. Even if throughout it they know only the bitterness of defeat."
The silence that continued on the bridge is usually described by writers as "deathly."
Given that I haven't had the chance to lie in a coffin, it was not possible to determine if that was accurate.
"The victory over Rear Admiral I-Gor and the capture of our resources on the second moon of Tiraggi will undoubtedly be avenged," I said. "In the cruelest way, Captain. And when the enemy bleeds out in his final minutes, knows despair, the complete and utter collapse of his hopes and dreams, we will be there. So that he knows for certain that the end of his days came by our will."
"Yes, sir," Tschel said quietly.
Of course, he didn't understand a word of what was said to him regarding revenge on Moff Harsh.
But that would not change the outcome.
Harsh and all his subordinates would die, drowning in their own blood.
It wouldn't be long to wait.
"We arrive in the Galaanus system in twenty minutes, Captain," I reminded. "Prepare my flagship for battle."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral."
Tschel's voice sounded more confident and decisive.
The momentary weakness had passed.
The captain's future professional suitability would depend entirely on his actions at Galaanus.
A commander may share details of his strategic plan with subordinates.
But most often — no.
There is only a small group of trusted individuals who may be granted access to top-level information.
But in any case, a subordinate's obedience to a commander must be absolute, immediate, and not depend on the situation or the subordinate's conclusions.
This depends on the degree of trust between the superior commander and his subordinates.
This trust can be earned only one way — through confident and victorious command, whereby the success of an operation is achieved with minimal losses among those one commands.
Loyalty cannot be cultivated through threats of punishment, spreading an aura of fear, or destroying those who voice justified criticism of the commander.
Captain Tschel has every right to express his dissatisfaction with my actions, to condemn them, to disagree with them.
That is his right as a subordinate.
But if he stops executing them, regardless of whether he understands the end result or thinks he understands it, the question of trust can no longer be a matter for discussion.
And, consequently, there are no more victories.
The absence of victories destroys the remnants of trust.
History shows that one soldier can win a battle.
But statistically, he will never win the war.
Behind those who immortalized their names, recorded them in the historical chronicles, always stand thousands who remained nameless.
I looked slightly to the side, my gaze landing on the chassis of my astromech, R2-D2, standing peacefully by the auxiliary instrument panel.
He had immortalized himself serving the Skywalker family, as well as other beings, performing actions that any other droid simply could not have executed.
Reprogramming, wiping all information carriers without exception, and loading a new personality into him had done their job.
He is loyal to me, he obeys me, and he has become the bearer of important secrets that I previously held in my memory.
But this did not make him my friend and comrade, as it had been in his past life.
He's merely a multi-functional service mechanism that obeys me.
One programmed to trust and obey me under any circumstances.
Like the clones we create.
That's the difference between command and ownership.
"Sir," Major Tierce approached me. "The spy droids report that resistance from our ships in the Galaanus system has been broken. Patrol ships destroyed along with their droid crews; previously captured vessels have been boarded. The enemy is beginning a planetary landing, ignoring the minefield surrounding it. Losses don't concern them."
"All the better," I replied. "For the plan, it hardly matters in the end whether they lose their assault units to mines or on Galaanus's surface. We'll arrive there soon enough and put a final end to this faction's existence."
* * *
The Zann Consortium fighters rejoiced like children as they effortlessly destroyed the droids defending the structures on planet Glaanus.
They had already captured starships once lost by their organization at Smarck and during the failed attack on the "Red Star" at least the vessels' names indicated they'd come from there.
Now a true feast and shooting gallery awaited them.
B-1 droids, those metal mannequins ineffective both during the Clone Wars and afterward, were clearly used due to their cheapness to guard tunnels and caves sealed within the mountain depths — visible on the organization's ship scanners, though only with great difficulty.
But now the Zann Consortium troops attacked them with whooping and cheerful laughter.
They'd expected automated turbolasers, legions of stormtroopers, armored vehicles…
Instead they found a barren surface, literally devoid of life and the slightest vegetation, on planet Korva — without the slightest opposition from the system's masters.
Of course, apart from that orbital minefield, but that's a headache for whoever's unlucky enough to blow up in it.
That's about a third of all landing forces.
The rest got lucky.
And per the organization's longstanding rule, they can freely take much of what they find.
Except for things too valuable.
As the commanders say — inside those huge caves and tunnels, sealed behind armored doors, lies what the Dominion's "army and fleet cannot do without."
Which almost certainly means weapons and equipment.
Likely this is where the old weapons stockpiled by the Grand Army of the Republic are stored — known now to be plentiful in the Dominion.
And also known to be well upgraded.
When the droids were wiped out, the fighters — practically whimpering from the combat stimulants flooding their veins — didn't bother thinking about opening the gates properly.
How long would it take to open every gate on the massive mountains, literally riddled with caves?
Far easier to blow them up.
And so they did.
One after another, the heavy metal doors fell to the ground, thundering across the surroundings.
Inside was dark.
So dark that even daylight didn't penetrate deeper than a couple dozen meters into each entrance to the mountain's depths.
But when had that ever stopped Zann Consortium fighters?
Delighted, they equipped flashlights and illuminating devices and rushed forward, intent on a proper looting.
They stopped only when they heard indistinct cries from the darkness — cries that only birds could make.
"Birds in caves?" the fighters wondered.
"Something strange is going on here…"
"You know, I'm from Naboo originally, and those cries remind me of something. Something familiar, native…"
"You're just high on spice!"
Such and similar conversations occurred everywhere, but nothing terrible happened, so the fighters on many fronts continued deeper into the caves…
They advanced only a few meters when their front ranks were knocked off their feet, trampled and torn to pieces by the caves' inhabitants — creatures that, by the Dominion's will, had spent long months in the dark, forced to feed on each other.
The second ranks couldn't mount any defense against the true tsunami of enraged flightless birds.
The birds, having pounced on the invaders, knocked them down and burst into the freedom from which they'd been driven many months ago.
The fighters' field camps turned into battle arenas drenched in blood and torn body parts, which the freed clodhoppers eagerly devoured.
Clodhoppers.
Exactly what the Zann Consortium fighters had counted on when landing on planet Korva in the Galaanus system had occurred.
With one critically important exception.
They were not the reapers of the bloody harvest.
* * *
The assault on Moff Nivers's residence began with the first rays of the local star's sunset.
No special units from the Grand Admiral or the Dominion Security Bureau participated in the attack.
Only him — the operative.
And a squad of stormtroopers who had blocked all escape routes from the residence.
Everything else — closing roads, routes out of the city, communications, and the rest — wasn't needed.
Thanks to his nasty, quarrelsome nature, the moff had earned neither respect, nor gratitude, nor allies among the local population and bureaucracy.
He was alone — and only a few hired bodyguards protected his reception area.
Steben had no quarrel with them — a simple private security firm with a government license for such activities on Dominion territory.
There was no point in killing them.
For now, at least.
"Sir," one of the guards stopped him. "Visiting hours for the moff are over."
"It's nighttime," the second reminded him. "Come back with your petition in the morning. Office hours…"
"Captain Steben, DSB," the man showed his ID card.
"Sir," both snapped to attention as if on a parade ground. "Forgive us, but we can't let you pass — by the moff's order."
The "friendly approach" hadn't worked.
A pity.
"You have two minutes to leave this floor," Steben said. "Otherwise you'll also be arrested on suspicion of aiding a state traitor."
The guards exchanged surprised glances.
"Sir, this is some misunderstanding," the first guard said.
The captain didn't miss that the second guard tilted his head inside his helmet, as if speaking over a comlink.
Which was exactly the case.
In Defense Force helmets, the communication device was positioned somewhat awkwardly, so activating it required tilting the head slightly forward.
This had been fixed in later models not long ago, but these men had clearly served the Dominion long before this month began.
And obviously, this armor was modeled after what conscripts wore in the Defense Forces.
"I'm offering you one last time to get out of my way," Steben ordered, returning the card to his vest's breast pocket.
Code cylinders certainly looked more impressive, but they were used only for official events, as was the uniform.
For "everyday wear" to avoid displaying affiliation with law enforcement and not to blow cover during document checks — DSB operatives used personal identifiers identical to standard civilian ones but with additional markings.
Outwardly, they were indistinguishable from ordinary civilian documents, except for certain extra recognition and identification criteria.
Similar "documents" were also issued to territorial law enforcement officers engaged in operational work.
"Sir," he heard distinct clicks of safeties being disengaged, "come back in the morning. The moff ordered no one let in…"
Without the slightest warning, Steben sprang into motion.
With his right hand, he shoved the first guard's blaster upward, simultaneously shifting his body aside and imparting momentum to his opponent so he'd stand between him and the second guard.
The latter, reacting to something out of the ordinary in his limited brain, fired, intending to kill the intruder.
But only punched holes through his partner's light cuirass.
The hands holding the first guard's upward-fired blaster went limp with his dying breath, and Steben yanked the weapon away.
The second guard froze for a moment, stunned by the result of his own actions.
Without a moment's hesitation, the operative shot the last opponent through the neck.
Simultaneously with the second body's thudding fall, two more guard figures appeared at the far end of the reception area, where stairs led to the lower floor.
"Hey, you, hands up! You're under arrest!"
Pointless to explain anything in this situation.
There might have been a miscalculation, and the moff had somehow managed to secure their loyalty.
The newly arrived guards were clearly summoned by the second dead man.
So there was neither the slightest opportunity nor desire to waste time on explanations.
Steben forced them back around the corridor corner with suppressing fire.
Meanwhile, he slipped inside the moff's office.
Sealing the armored bulkhead behind him, he turned and leveled his blaster at the office's owner.
"In the name of the Dominion, you are under arrest, Moff Nivers."
The now-former administrator of Korva Sector took the cigar from his mouth and released fragrant smoke into the air.
Only now did Steben notice that the moff's desk was empty, and the workstation monitor was full of interference.
The latter was impossible by definition if the unit was operational.
His gaze found the transparent basket for the document and data-chip shredder.
It was full.
"You took your time, Captain," the former moff stated.
"Your private guards delayed me," Steben explained. "If it's not a secret, how did you win them over?"
"Only those two guarding me," Nivers smirked. "I traded their loyalty for expediting a building permit for a house."
"That's impossible," Steben countered. "That's handled by a computer system, and you have no access to its databases or the petition processing algorithm."
"You know that," Nivers smiled. "I know that. Those two don't. Don't underestimate the scale of human stupidity, Captain. Those people lived under the Empire and know — either firsthand or from their parents' stories — that you can bypass the system by dealing with the right people. That, by the way, is your oversight, Dominionites. You created systems independent of sentient beings but forgot to explain to citizens how they work. Speaking of those two. I take it from the sounds of gunfire that they're already dead?"
"Unfortunately."
Nivers's demeanor didn't match his usual style of conversation, behavior…
Something was wrong.
"His hand's under the table," Steben realized, noticing he'd only been seeing the moff's left upper limb.
"Stand up," he ordered, shifting aside so he couldn't be hit by a shot from under the desktop. "Hands on the table."
From behind the partition between the desk's two support sections — which concealed the moff's legs and body below the waist — the operative couldn't tell exactly what was there or what threat it posed.
"Sorry, Captain, but I won't do that," Nivers replied. Steben didn't repeat the demand — he fully understood something extraordinary was happening. Nivers wasn't one for bluffing. Which meant he had something under that desk the operative wouldn't like. "You see, I've long suspected things weren't happening by chance. Including your assignment. You're too good an operative to be stuck on 'desk work.'"
"You did some digging?" the counter-intelligence officer clarified.
"I'm not the only one with friends in high places," the moff stated. "Don't strain yourself so much. I have a contact detonator in my right hand, set for break contact. So I wouldn't advise shooting me…"
"Banta puudu!"
A contact detonator — a spring-loaded clamp that was squeezed and held by hand.
Two types existed.
The first: make-contact type, where detonation occurred when contacts on two opposite plates touched, compressed by hand.
The second, accordingly, break-contact type — detonation would occur when the contacts separated from each other.
Should Nivers — alive or dead — relax his grip even slightly — and the bomb would go off successfully.
The door — the only entrance and exit — opened in just one and a half seconds.
But escape was impossible — the shockwave and blast would catch him faster.
Jumping from the twentieth-floor window of the residence — certain death.
Especially if Nivers was telling the truth about having a bomb.
Most likely it was rigged to blow the entire building to pieces if activated.
Well then…
Time to do the only thing he could in this situation.
The operative pressed his blaster hand against the right side of his belt, pushing as hard as he could on the activation button of the concealed comlink built into it.
The call went straight to his secure server, accessible only to Colonel Astarion.
At least that much…
"How powerful?" Steben asked.
"Enough to atomize you, me, and the whole residence," the former moff stated.
Curse that bantha that left this pile and keeps adding more on top.
"How did you manage to bring it in here?" he asked.
"Made it myself," Nivers revealed. "With the right knowledge of chemistry and physics plus standard technology, it's no problem. The key is not rushing to pick out components, buying them alongside unremarkable products — then even a trained eye can't figure it out. Looks like I'm renovating my home, doesn't it, Operative?"
That's exactly what Steben had thought when tracking Nivers's purchases.
"Won't you even spare the guards?" the operative continued trying to buy time.
"I don't care about them," Nivers stated. "Or you, or anyone else. My desire is elsewhere."
"Your program," the counter-intelligence officer corrected.
The moff's lips twitched.
"So you know," he grimaced.
"That you're a clone of the real Moff Nivers, programmed for infiltration into the Dominion to cause maximum damage?" Steben clarified.
The clone nodded affirmatively.
"No, of course not, first I've heard of it."
The moff laughed, then took a deep drag.
"Do you know what it's like to be torn apart by contradictions you can't fight?" he asked unexpectedly.
"No," Steben admitted.
"You're lucky," the clone sighed. "You know… I thought I was him all this time…"
"The real Nivers?"
"Yes. Looked down on everyone, sneered at fraternizing with exots and all that. Then I got drawn into all this moff business. It was even kind of engaging. I genuinely liked it."
"So let's call in sappers and continue in a more comfortable setting?" Steben suggested.
"Sorry, Captain, I can't," an apologetic smile appeared on the face of the rude human-supremacist. "The program won't allow it. I tried to fight. I thought about how useful I am as a moff. How I don't want to do this… Useless. You just stop being yourself. Like you're locked in a dark room, you see what's happening around you, you know you're opening your mouth, speaking, doing things. But you realize it's not you, but that other…"
"A second personality?"
"Who the hell knows what it is," Nivers admitted. "I just woke up one day and realized there were two of us. And he's driving me, not the other way around. He knows we're a clone. He doesn't give a damn about anything — he does what he has to do."
"What exactly?" Steben asked.
"Find the location of your secrets, the covert routes into the Dominion," the clone explained. "Pull troops away from the targets that will be designated when the time comes."
"The target is Galaanus?" the counter-intelligence officer clarified.
"Yes," the moff nodded. "I'm sorry… They must have realized you'd want to arrest me and learn secrets… You should have just shot me, Captain… It's… I'm sorry…"
Sweat began to stream down his face, notes of panic in his voice.
It seemed to be dawning on him too.
He looked into the operative's eyes — eyes that still held hope of cheating fate.
Giving up wasn't in counter-intelligence's nature.
"There's something there that they need, Captain," his voice began to tremble. "I… I couldn't find out what. That's probably why I was ordered to destroy myself after it started…"
"Who gave the order?" Steben asked.
"I-I don't know," the clone was starting to speak with difficulty. "A voice…"
"Comlink? Messages? Broadcast over the holovid?" the operative listed. "How were you activated, Nivers?"
"A voice," he said. "I heard a voice in my head. And it was like someone turned off the lights."
"Before or after our conversations about Galaanus?"
"After. Just a few days ago."
"What were you ordered to do?"
"Move the Defense Force ships away. Destroy all documents and traces of my existence. All DNA samples. All records. I… I didn't want to, Steben. But he did… I… I'm sorry…"
"It's okay," Steben replied.
"I, the real me, wanted so badly to help people, but I changed when I got power. Only enrichment, only self-serving. When I started handling Dominion affairs, I remembered again how as a youth I dreamed of happiness for all citizens of the empire… Here, now…"
The enemy had ordered the clone to self-destruct, realizing that alive, he could lead back to his handlers.
Who — judging by the fact they transmitted orders directly into the moff's brain — weren't so simple.
"Were you able to fight this second one in your head?" Steben asked.
"I won a little ground," tears streamed from the man's eyes. "I'm talking to you, but my hands are controlled by him… I want to scream for help, but he's laughing and howling in my head…"
"The second one?"
In this situation, every extra phrase could prove valuable.
Because never before had Steben even suspected this method of control existed.
It had been assumed that Brinkkan and Nivers were pre-programmed saboteurs who knew exactly what they wanted.
But here…
"Yes," Nivers swallowed. "He's laughing, and it feels like the owner of the voice is laughing… I don't understand anything anymore, Captain. I'm very scared… I… I don't want to die… I'm alone… I'm in the dark… I'm like a spectator…"
"No one's going to die," the operative assured him. "I'm going to come over to you now…"
"And I'll let go," Nivers said frankly. "Any attempt to help me — and my hands will open. If you try to run — same thing. I… I want… to say… he won't let me… Scanners…"
They'd covered themselves, the unknown bastards.
"Fight!"
"I'd gladly," the clone sobbed. "I'm trying! God dammit, I can't even wipe my tears! My lungs are burning from cigars, and I can't even cough! What's happening?!"
"You don't like tobacco?" Steben was surprised.
"I never smoked!" Nivers replied through tears. "Why are they doing this, Captain? Why not just blow me up? They've already started the attack on Galaanus, haven't they?"
"They have," the operative agreed. "Destroyed the patrol ships at the system's entrance, blew up the Dreadnaught guarding planet Korva, started the planetary landing…"
"Thousands dead," tears streamed from Nivers's eyes in a torrent, but his right hand inexorably brought the cigar to his face, and his mouth made an unnatural drag. "Because of me! Because of me!"
A herd of icy goosebumps ran down Steben's body, each the size of a rancor.
Seeing before you a man — though not personally, someone who'd endured plenty of shit — helpless, sobbing while his body calmly took a drag on an expensive cigar…
The captain wanted to say the patrol ships had droid crews, and that on Korva things weren't so clear-cut…
But he stayed silent.
Because a suspicion had formed about the reasons for everything happening before his eyes.
"Nivers," he said quietly, addressing the moff clone. "I know what they're up to."
The man who wanted to live silently watched him.
His lips trembled and were clamped shut as if in an epileptic seizure.
His eyes didn't blink, and the tears and burst capillaries in them spoke of his being controlled.
"Bastards," Steben grabbed a chair by its back, walked to the desk, turned it around and sat down facing Nivers's dilated pupils. "I understand what you're doing, you scum…"
Nivers's lips tried to part but failed.
"Intimidating," Steben said with a cold stare, noting the bomb still hadn't exploded despite his sitting a meter from Nivers. "Showing how powerful you are — controlling a clone who did nothing to you and dreamed of living for others' good. Showing we're no better than puppets to you. Playing with him, with me, with the Dominion, to show we're nothing?! I don't give a damn about you and your games! If not me, then others — we'll find you and kill you. One by one! We'll die ourselves, but you won't get the Dominion!"
"And what will you do, Captain?" the mouth of the sobbing Nivers twisted into an arrogant smirk.
But the voice wasn't his.
Low, commanding, sepulchral.
As if a risen corpse was speaking to Steben.
"Who will defeat us?" the unknown continued. "Thrawn — dead. Good riddance to the exot. He played his part. Did even less than expected of him. Pellaeon — a nonentity afraid of losses and risk, only capable of washing himself in the shame of retreats and defeats. His subordinates — each worse than the last. The Alderaanian rulebook-follower, pining for the dead Iran Ryad. A traitor who watched the Ubiqtorate execute every family member of his crew and couldn't even avenge them. The Nez Peronese who fancies himself a master of ambush. Former prisoners, broken in rebel captivity. The Belkadonean with grabby hands, snatching everything portable. A circus, not a military force. You'll all die in terrible agony when the time comes. You'll all be my puppets and beg for death as release!"
"At least we live, rather than parasitize," Steben jumped up, indignantly pushing the chair away. "We don't turn sentient beings into puppets!"
"Which is why you're dirt under my feet," evidently out of habit, the speaker laughed, leaning Nivers's body slightly back and tilting his head so his laughter would roll through the spacious office.
The operative knew there wouldn't be a better moment.
Like a diver, he lunged across the desk, arms outstretched to intercept the device he'd seen a couple of seconds earlier.
His fingers closed around the contact terminals a fraction of a second before the controller of Nivers's clone, realizing what was happening, released his grip.
"No hard feelings," Steben stated, kicking the clone away from him.
Rolling to the floor, he glanced at the bomb.
"He wasn't lying," the operative realized instantly.
Not only had he not lied, but the dimensions...
The explosive device was built into the table and occupied the entire space beneath it.
That was roughly one and a half cubic meters, counting the internal walls that had been broken out from the inside.
"Not bad," Nivers said, rising from the floor.
But his voice, as before, didn't belong to the clone.
"Intelligence has had plenty of capable agents," the clone said. "You could have had a good career, Captain."
"I told you — no offense, but you can go to hell, you cowardly bastard," Steben stated, calculating what to do if the clone, under someone else's influence, lunged at him. "You're too afraid to even give your own name."
Defusing this in a couple of seconds was impossible — even the wiring scheme wasn't clear at first glance.
The clone burst out laughing again.
"I was wrong," he said. "You're an idiot. People like you are meant to die for my greatness."
After these words, Nivers' body collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Moff, are you alive?" Steben shouted, seeing the man begin to shake as if from electric shocks. "If you can, crawl to me."
Only a couple of meters separated them, and the captain couldn't see the clone's face.
"Mi... nu... te..." the captain barely made out the syllables coming from the clone's wheezing mouth. "Fin... gers..."
With a sickening squelch, the clone's eyeballs burst, and his body began to writhe like a piece of flimsi thrown into a fire.
"Ru... n..."
The syllables in the operative's head formed into words.
The words into thoughts.
Steben looked at the terminal contacts.
He laughed when he saw that fingerprint scanners were inserted into them.
He looked at his wristwatch.
Forty seconds had passed since he'd torn them from the moff's hands.
He'd need at least a minute to escape — but he himself had locked the control panel of the armored door.
Now it could only be opened by a laser cannon shot.
And breaking through the transparisteel windows would take even longer.
"So that's how it is," his eyes stung, but he wiped the tears with his forearm. "Nivers, are you still here?"
"Yes," wheezed the contorting, pain-wracked, eyeless, deformed, and mutilated body — twisted by an unknown force, its mangled face turned toward him through convulsions. "Ru... n..."
The most humane and v-e-e-ery approximate sketch of what Steben saw when looking at Nivers during the described events.
"No," Steben replied without elaborating.
"Sca... ary..."
"I'm scared too," Steben said, his voice trembling. "I always knew it would happen someday. But like this... Let's not be afraid together?"
"O... kay..." the mutilated man breathed out.
"So we're friends now," the counter-intelligence officer smiled through the strain, trying to keep his constricted throat from wavering in his voice and adding more fear to the dying man. "Now — we breathe out and close our eyes. We'll fall asleep, and tomorrow will be a new day. Better than today..."
"Be-e-etter... friend..."
The clone who wanted to live right didn't argue.
He too wanted to think about good things at the end.
Steben, looking at the mutilated man, burst into silent tears.
The minute was up.
And tomorrow never came for them.
But they would never know that.