There are times when even the Hand of Thrawn can take a break from her boss's assignments.
Very short ones, actually, but they happen.
They usually coincide with sleep time.
But this time, Mara woke up in a cold sweat from a feeling of distant unease.
As if something was threatening her.
Something insignificant on a universal scale.
But something that affected her interests.
The girl sat up in bed, listening to her feelings.
The semi-darkness of the cabin on the Personal Luxury Yacht 3000-class vessel seemed to envelop her in its icy blanket.
Built in the yards of SoroSuub Corporation, this vessel was once called Lady Luck.
And it belonged to none other than the famous Alliance hero, Lando Calrissian.
Lady Luck.
Dominion Intelligence had stolen the ship during a raid on the Nomad at Nkllon.
It had been used several times by scouts for their purposes, after, of course, making sure the ship couldn't be tracked, identified, or otherwise have its past connected to its present.
And, apparently, during repairs, the techs had done something wrong — the heating in the living quarters kept cutting out.
Which was highly unpleasant.
It meant opening all the hatches in other parts of the fifty-meter ship to regulate the microclimate.
But Jade was already used to such feelings.
These sensations that had woken her were just another glitch in the cabin's heating system.
Fixing it in space during a hyperspace jump was impossible — it needed a dry dock and a ruthless gutting of the ship's internals.
Judging by the ship's condition, reasonably well-armed by its previous owner, it was clear Calrissian had intended to upgrade the yacht.
But he hadn't done it — probably busy with pressing matters.
Well, the engineers of Dominion Intelligence had done it for him.
But, for some reason, clumsily.
To be fair, the problems were only with the heating system.
Otherwise, this yacht was fast, sturdy, and well-armed.
Give it a couple of heavy turbolasers, and you could almost, with a stretch, consider it a very, very, very light cruiser.
So Mara limited herself to pulling an extra blanket over herself and wrapping herself up more tightly.
But sleep didn't return.
The feeling of unease, of radiating intentions of encroaching on something that belonged to her, wouldn't let go.
Again and again, Mara listened to the Force.
As Maul had taught her, she emptied her mind of all excess, concentrating on one significant thing after another.
But the Force gave no response.
There couldn't be a mistake in Maul's interpretation of the training records from the ancient Jedi holocron found on Ossus last year.
Mara had reviewed the records herself, for self-education purposes.
With her, the holocron's keeper — an imprint of an ancient Jedi's mind — had been more talkative.
Perhaps the long-dead Jedi had prejudices regarding the horned guy with Sith tattoos on his face.
Or maybe he just wasn't inclined to share wisdom with an overly temperamental Zabrak.
Mara, frankly, didn't care about the reasons.
She needed knowledge — and she was getting it.
For a solid hour, the girl tried to understand the reason for the signal from the Force but couldn't find the right answer.
All her few belongings that she treasured were with her and...
"And you said you weren't a fool," Mara sighed sadly, talking to herself as she flopped back onto the bed, staring at the mirrored surface of her cabin's ceiling.
Possessions.
She certainly treasured them.
So much so that she could even ignore them.
Sentient beings — that was the Force's message.
Someone close to her was in danger.
Or almost in danger.
Mara started her search anew.
She pictured before her those she, in one way or another, treasured.
Now and in the past.
Karrde? No, no reaction from the Force.
Ghent? Yes, Mara felt his agitation, but it was more like the thrill of an inventor and pioneer.
Ahsoka?
"Ow," Jade hissed when, in response to the thread of Force reaching out to the Togruta, she got a 'slap on the wrist.'
The Togruta was in no danger.
In the mortal sense.
She was just busy.
Very deeply engrossed in something and had unceremoniously blocked herself in the Force, cutting off contact with Mara.
Maul?
No, he was fine.
The horned fellow was living without the lower half of his body, no problems.
Flying where ordered, killing who ordered. Wasn't that an ideal life?
Honestly, Mara doubted there was anyone in the galaxy who could, in any way, compare to Darth Maul in a lightsaber duel.
Maybe only Palpatine...
Involuntarily, the girl pictured the Emperor, but, catching herself, threw the image out of her head in time.
The last thing she needed was to make contact with that monster out of old habit.
So, then, who?
'Last on the list is the right one?' Jade snorted, thinking of the Grand Admiral.
She had consciously placed him at the end of the list of those she could seriously worry about.
The Grand Admiral had already proven he could handle threats of various kinds.
And if something came along he couldn't handle, then...
As always, the image of Thrawn didn't resonate in the Force.
Just a black, impenetrable nothing.
Very similar to the reflection of the Force's reaction when thinking of a dead sentient — also darkness and no response.
Interesting, did Thrawn know about this trait?
Well, the Grand Admiral couldn't be 'checked,' so perhaps the danger threatened someone else?
Mara started thinking about who else she could picture when she felt the Force, as if, pull her back.
It wasn't hard to guess that Jade had to think directly about the last candidate in her search.
Which was Thrawn.
Obviously, the Force couldn't react to him directly because he traditionally stayed within the Force's field of rejection, stroking his ysalamiri.
Therefore, the 'pull back' was a kind of hint.
Sleep was gone completely.
So the danger threatened Thrawn directly.
This fact drove away the last remnants of sleep.
Mara threw aside the pile of blankets and slid down to the cabin's deck plating.
If she'd done it barefoot, she'd have definitely burned her feet on the cold metal.
But she hadn't been living in this world for just one day, had she?
Furry socks, essentially leg warmers, saved her from the cold.
The girl unceremoniously grabbed her neatly folded combat suit, lightsaber, belt with 'gadgets,' and headed for the yacht's bridge.
Once in relative warmth, the red-haired beast shed her silk pajamas (yes, she had the right and the means to afford it!), changed, and slid into the communications console.
A matter of minutes to contact the Guardian.
The duty communications systems operator answered.
Judging by his phlegmatic manner — a clone.
He requested an identifier.
Received it.
Checked it.
Confirmed its authenticity.
Then diplomatically advised her, if she so wished to speak with the Grand Admiral, to wait until he finished his business.
And no, he wouldn't give her the coordinates of the flagship's location.
No, he knew she had provided him with high-level access codes.
No, they wouldn't help her get information about the ship's location.
Why?
Because the data she was requesting had a higher priority than the codes she'd provided.
Mara didn't have any others.
And she suspected Thrawn had ordered the Guardian's location not to be disclosed by his own command.
So she wouldn't succeed this way.
"Then inform him immediately, as soon as he's free, about my call," the girl said. "It concerns his personal safety."
"Affirmative."
After saying goodbye to the imperturbable operator who had, in fact, done everything right, brushing her off according to all the confidentiality regulations and norms, Jade drummed her fingers on the control panel.
She couldn't reach Thrawn directly — at the moment, she wasn't on a mission, and therefore didn't have the communication codes for him.
Who knew that a vacation wasn't what she needed right now?
Okay, she didn't really want to do it this way, but...
Actually, she wasn't sure that the Force had been telling her the danger was specifically to Thrawn's life.
No, this was something that affected the connection between her and Thrawn...
Something personal...
So she had slightly 'embellished' her information.
Perfectly aware that the Regulations told the comm officer to get a move on and run headlong towards the Grand Admiral with the datapad, on whose screen Mara's warning would be displayed.
And maybe then...
The communications panel beeped, signaling an incoming holographic call.
From the Guardian.
Priority — the Grand Admiral's identifier.
"I highly doubt it's Thrawn himself," Mara said, activating the device.
If anything, the Grand Admiral was no coward.
And he wouldn't just drop everything to talk to her about vague warnings.
He wasn't that kind of... Chiss.
And she wasn't wrong.
On the hologram was the same comm operator from before.
"The Grand Admiral expects you on the Guardian at any time convenient for you," he reported. "Coordinates are being transmitted via encrypted channel 'Alpha.' Decryption codes via channel 'Sigma.' Confirm receipt."
Mara looked at the files and immediately sent both data documents to the decryptor.
"Received," she replied.
The decryptor's monitor displayed the spatial coordinates.
"I'll be there soon," the girl informed him.
"We await," the comm officer replied matter-of-factly.
And the hologram faded.
Mara, meanwhile, went to interrupt the current hyperspace jump and set a new course.
Well, she'd buy a little house in a quiet corner on Tragan a bit later — right now, the Force and her inner voice were telling her that the Hand of Thrawn needed to get to Thrawn himself as quickly as possible.
How? What? Why?
These questions would remain unanswered by the Force.
She'd have to find the answers herself.
And that was something Mara could do better than anyone in the galaxy.
And if not, she'd find someone who did it better than her and, after this meeting, would still become the best in her kind.
* * *
My first impulse, when I heard the Baroness's proposal, besides coughing, was to tell the lady that I'd already been married and had no desire to engage in further experiments on my psyche.
And to cut the connection.
In principle, that's exactly what I did in my past life...
But now the conditions were different, the realities were different, the circumstances were different.
And I was different.
Therefore, such replies would not only be insincere but would also raise additional questions about my 'surprised reaction.'
So I had to play my role through to the end, exactly as planned.
"I fail to see the connection between your marriage proposal and the guarantees of your personal safety," I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, as if commenting on an insignificant fact.
If there was logic in her words, it was practically imperceptible.
At least to me.
From Pellaeon's grimacing face, I could tell that he at least had an inkling of what she was getting at.
The Baroness raised a thin eyebrow.
"Well, now, Grand Admiral," she narrowed her eyes, evidently interpreting my reaction to her words as a first step toward capitulation. "From time immemorial, representatives of influential families — industrialists, aristocrats, monarchs — have entered into dynastic marriages dictated by political or other advantage. Such a marital union between two influential sentients is much stronger than legal documents. And in our troubled times, those are worth no more than the flimsi they're printed on."
The last part was a clear display of her knowledge in the field of philosophical thought.
But not far from the truth.
The behavior of the New Republic President regarding the agreement with 'Pellaeon' was a telling example.
And how quickly the Baroness had transformed from a 'victim of oppression' into a triumphant shrew suggested that everything happening now was the implementation of, if not the primary, then certainly a backup plan.
Which in turn suits her completely.
"An interesting proposal," I said, assessing the situation from every angle.
"More than that, Grand Admiral," the Baroness smiled.
Her smile carried the same pragmatic soullessness as an ice sculpture.
"Our union benefits both sides," the Baroness said, interpreting my silence as further capitulation. Seeing my hesitation, she pressed her advantage. "By destroying all aristocratic Families except mine, you automatically deprive the thinking beings in the sector of alternative courses for popular sentiment. The D'Asta family will become the forward line of the sector's development and, if you wish, the sector's governance. No one will even notice the small formalities of transitioning from aristocratic rule to the Dominion's state apparatus. After the war, people will have plenty to do — rebuilding the economy, industry. There will certainly be those who dislike the change of power — from aristocratic to… what you're offering. And a political union between us will be the formality that allows you to avoid wasting time pacifying the sector, while giving me a guarantee that I won't be disposed of when I'm no longer needed. The population will see that a political marriage has been arranged, understand that their traditions are being respected, and therefore won't expect any harshness from the Dominion. After all, Baroness D'Asta wouldn't allow her subjects to be mistreated. We have always cared for the sector we ruled. For its benefit, its population, its security. Centuries of rule have proven that. But what awaits the sector with the Dominion's arrival? Surely not an Imperial regime, inexplicably closed borders, total militarization, crushing war taxes, military conscription… Who knows what you have in mind after your policy of isolationism?"
The Baroness fluttered her eyes theatrically.
Well then.
I assessed that.
She certainly knows how to intrigue.
"And how exactly would marriage guarantee that you won't die from, say, choking on your lunch?" Pellaeon couldn't help asking.
"D'Astanites have lived under aristocratic rule for far too long," Fina said in a cooing tone. "And they've seen plenty of married couples trying to get rid of each other. Poisonings, contract killings, hits on the head with jewelry boxes, falls from heights, illnesses, unfortunate meals, or whatever else you can imagine — it's all happened before. And it's all part of our history. Just like the countless forensic examinations of corpses performed by the best doctors. They determine the cause of death in no time. So I think you understand it wouldn't be in your interest to get rid of me and replace me with a clone — that would be discovered during the DNA analysis at the autopsy."
The girl smiled.
She was triumphant.
"So, I am your best option," she said, feigning modesty. "Marry me — and your problems in the sector will be minimal. You'll achieve your plan — and spend an ocean of money, time, and resources. And those might come in handy in any other direction."
"Is that all?" I clarified.
"Yes," the Baroness said with feigned modesty. Then she put on an expression as if she had just remembered something. "I do hope, Grand Admiral Thrawn, that as a well-bred man and husband, you won't leave your wife without a wedding gift? For example, grant me the D'Astan sector as a small personal fief, where I, like a dutiful wife, will wait alone in my father's palace, longing for when my faithful husband returns from his next victory."
And what a beautiful song she sings.
You almost start to believe it.
Well, almost.
"Is that all this time?"
"Yes," the platinum-haired lady nodded with a sense of accomplishment. "If you have any questions, you don't have to wait for a copy of the marriage contract — you can ask me now. In fact, I can give the order right now, and we can be married on Nez-Piron within the hour…"
Tenacious.
Smart.
Driven.
A bitch.
It certainly won't be boring with her.
And just imagine how much china will be broken during discussions of where to spend the family vacation.
But that's all just lyricism.
The current situation is far more complex than it seems.
The Baroness has decided to strengthen her position not just in the sector, but in the state as a whole.
Realizing that I intended to put her in charge of the territory as a reporting figure for the Dominion precisely to neutralize potential problems with the local population, she went on the "offensive."
Laying out one trump card after another.
Undeniable trumps.
Under other circumstances.
Credit where it's due — this fragile lady has enough strength, skills, and knowledge to pull off, albeit rather simple, multi-step maneuvers.
Now it's clear that the entire conversation about sparing the aristocracy for the sake of condemnation was just a lead-in to the information I just heard.
She proposed a plan she deliberately considered unfeasible in order to get a reaction and figure out what we actually had in mind.
She got that information.
And decided to use her trump card — her aristocratic origin — as leverage.
I had no intention of leaving the local rebellious aristocracy alive under any circumstances.
It's a ticking time bomb.
And it's only a matter of time before it explodes.
The bloodlines of the rebellious aristocrats (which, in effect, means all the aristocrats of the D'Astan sector) will be cut short very soon.
Except for the Baroness's Family.
She is absolutely right.
A population accustomed to living under aristocratic rule will be at least suspicious when Dominion officials start governing them.
Allied or not, still…
That's why I wanted to make her a local equivalent of a Moff…
And in response, the Baroness actually gave me a more appropriate and productive proposal.
But there are nuances here that she overlooked while constructing a logical trap for me during her speech.
Well, those are exactly what I'm about to present to her now.
"Without a doubt, Baroness, your plan deserves a certain amount of attention," I said. "The person who devised it is quite intelligent. This is practically a military operation."
"A rather clever maneuver," Gilad Pellaeon grumbled. "You know we need order in the D'Astan sector. And you know we'll take measures to achieve that with minimal casualties."
He looked me in the eye.
"Sir, as a member of the Triumvirate, I think that while the Baroness's proposal is bold, it will help us achieve our goals."
The Baroness completely ignored the Vice Admiral's words, with an expression as if the furniture beside her had spoken, not a living person.
What… Strange chemistry between them.
Mutual irritation, demonstrative dislike…
Interesting.
"Thank you, Grand Admiral," the aristocrat replied with cold politeness. "A small reminder: don't treat me as mere appendage to the sector you actually need. I am a significant political figure on this holochess board. And not the weakest one."
A small challenge with a hint.
Noted.
"As you say, Baroness," I agreed. "However, there is a nuance regarding your proposal. Several, in fact."
Judging by how Pellaeon perked up, the Vice Admiral was clearly relieved that the Dominion at least had something to counter this unexpectedly formidable opponent.
"Really?" a smile appeared on the girl's face. "And what might they be? I'm sure they're not such critical aspects. Otherwise, I would have noticed them immediately."
No, you wouldn't have.
Because, unlike most thinking beings in the Dominion, you knew a little more.
And that very fact is what caused this "short-sightedness."
"Let's start with the fact that you've correctly assessed the possible political consequences," I said, hearing the door open behind me.
Turning my head, I saw a communications officer who, without unnecessary fuss, handed me a datapad with a text message on the screen.
Reading the report didn't take long.
Well, well.
A security threat.
"Arrange a meeting," I ordered, returning the device.
The signalman silently nodded in acknowledgment of the order and quickly left the control room.
Amusing…
Being informed of a threat to my personal safety during negotiations with a Baroness who's trying to marry me.
A coincidence?
I doubt it.
But, let's continue.
"Indeed, a political marriage between the Dominion's leadership and Baroness D'Asta would suit both sides," I added.
"Exactly what I was saying," the platinum blonde smiled. "So what's the problem then?"
"The problem is that you are not the Baroness D'Asta," I explained. "And any DNA analysis will prove it. Publicizing such information will completely strip you of substantial support among the local population of the sector, as we've already discussed. From liberator, you would become an invader."
The fact that the real Baroness obviously died during our attack on Smarck, when the captive originals of Imperial and Republic officials were being eliminated, is something it's prudent not to mention to the only clone of her I have at my disposal.
Or perhaps the only one in the galaxy entirely.
"Do that, and you'll lose the chance for a peaceful, bloodless subjugation of the sector to the Dominion," the woman said quickly.
"Perhaps," I agreed. "And perhaps not. Circumstances are not always as we would like them to be. Which, in fact, brings us to the second and third nuances."
"And what might they be?" the Baroness's clone smiled artificially, displaying her supposed composure.
Her actions are understandable — she's trying her hardest to appear calm, even though she knows that just the first point I mentioned is enough to make her a nobody in the sector.
And that's only the first nuance.
"For instance, the second nuance directly concerns the aristocratic practices of the Families in the D'Astan sector," I continued. "Specifically, I'm referring to the consummation of the marriage. I'm sure many thinking beings in the galaxy would be surprised that a member, albeit a former one, of the Imperial Ruling Council, Baroness Feena D'Asta, a pillar of the New Order in Imperial Space, has decided to marry a representative of a non-human race."
How… Charming.
It turns out that platinum blondes with pale skin (a cosmetic effect) can turn even paler.
Or is that a natural camouflage to blend her skin tone with her hair color?
"I'm sure this fact will raise many questions among the local population," I continued. "And among the Imperials. The HoloNet will be flooded with pseudo-analytical exposés commissioned by our ill-wishers. They'll drag all your dirty laundry out into the open, Baroness. And I'm afraid the only proof to refute the very fact of the marriage being a sham would be…"
"I will not submit to that barbaric custom!" the Baroness cried indignantly. "No public displays of bloody sheets from the marriage bed!"
Despite her attempt to control herself, she failed.
Her left eye twitched involuntarily.
Pellaeon's eyes went wide as he stared at the Baroness as if she were insane.
Clearly — not too far from the truth.
"Allow me to finish," I requested. "Studying the culture of your people, your sector, I have undoubtedly encountered this ancient custom. But I assure you, it was never my intention…"
"Good," the Baroness exhaled with relief.
"Especially since all such displays are not only offensive but also carry no objective proof," I continued. "The only thing that will unquestionably refute any talk or gossip about a sham marriage for political ends is the arrival of shared children."
Even Pellaeon's jaw dropped at this.
And the Baroness began to flush rapidly.
"My race is not widely represented in the known part of the galaxy," I continued. "So a couple of heirs, whom you would walk through the palace grounds, carefully wrapping their blue-skinned little bodies with glowing red eyes in diapers, would be the best proof…"
"Over my dead body!" the Baroness blurted out, losing control.
Gilad Pellaeon was now openly grinning.
"Speaking of which," I said, pulling a separate code cylinder from my pocket and placing it on the holo-projector.
Instantly, an expanded text file appeared before my interlocutors.
"What is this?" the Baroness frowned.
"A death certificate," I explained. "A small but very important legal formality that inevitably arose after Luke Skywalker worked with his lightsaber on the bridge of the Chimaera during the Battle of Sluis Van."
For the first few weeks of this year, a copy of this document, "accidentally appearing" in the HoloNet, was forwarded between users more often than holovideos of baby banthas.
"And what does that mean? You're alive!"
"As you've already noticed, Madam Baroness, legal nuances and actual circumstances sometimes diverge, even though they concern essentially the same thing."
"But, as I understand it, eventually you will step out of the shadows and…"
The Baroness fell silent.
Judging by her compressed lips, she had grasped the obvious.
"That will happen later than the D'Astan sector is, one way or another, annexed to the Dominion," I explained. "Since, in that case, the marriage would be pure farce, only one option remains for you to have us joined in matrimony as you desire."
"That's acceptable to me," the Baroness muttered, stubbornly pushing only her own point of view.
"As you wish," I shrugged. "But I consider it my duty to warn you that in that case, people will speak of you as nothing less than a madwoman inclined toward necrophilia."
This time, Pellaeon couldn't hold it in.
The Vice Admiral was literally torn apart by laughter, doubling over and stepping out of the holoprojector's capture field.
The Baroness's face changed — by the shades of white and blue on the hologram, you could tell how her complexion shifted.
Well, that and you can use your imagination and understand the reaction of a human body to have a full picture of what's happening to your opponent.
"Are you mocking me, Thrawn?" the Baroness hissed angrily, trying to pretend the Vice Admiral's unceasing guffaws in the background didn't faze her at all.
"I'm not in the habit of doing so, Baroness," I replied.
"The New Republic would disagree," she shot back.
"Because they are enemies," I parried brusquely. "And with them, I have a short conversation. If it would make you more comfortable, I can list you among my enemies. But I cannot guarantee you would live long enough to report that fact — which would haunt you for the rest of your life — to anyone."
"Stop threatening me, Thrawn," the Baroness hissed. "I want to rule my sector, and I will get what I want!"
"In that case, Baroness, I ask you to behave reasonably," I said in a calm tone. "And not forget the fact that the last time a ruler in this part of the galaxy tried to solve his problems at my expense and take what wasn't rightfully his, it ended with me becoming the ruler."
Feena D'Asta compressed her lips so tightly I could barely see them.
"I cannot lose control of the sector," she said. "At least in memory of Baron D'Asta! Even if I'm not his biological daughter, I am still his blood daughter. And I am defending his name, his Family's interests. Not to mention that it was he who advised me to marry you, to transfer the sector under the Dominion's protection on certain terms, to protect the population of D'Astan from Imperial and any other attacks."
That was a mistake.
"Don't hide behind the name of a man who didn't even know you weren't his daughter," I remarked dryly.
"You can always scan my memory and find the fragment of my conversation with him about the wedding," the Baroness sneered. "I can undergo a memory scan at any time convenient for you… Or will you ignore the last request of a man who supported you in a difficult moment, gave you ships, funding, provided everything necessary to continue your struggle?"
"That is precisely why I will ensure that nothing threatens the D'Astanites from other forces in the galaxy," I cut off. "As for the marriage… I'm sure that in his conversation, the Baron positioned me as your husband for one reason only — at that time, I was the sole ruler of the Dominion."
Pellaeon's laughter in the background died down on its own.
"I don't understand…"
How amusingly her doll-like face scrunches up…
"Currently, the Dominion is governed by the Triumvirate," I reminded her. "Grand Moff Felix Ferrus, Lieutenant Colonel Astarion, and Vice Admiral Pellaeon. Worthy men and professionals in their fields. Representatives of the human race — which removes most of the questions. Unmarried men. I think you should consider asking one of them for a sham marriage. Consider that you already have my approval as their commander. You only need to announce your chosen one."
Oh, and I even know what will happen next.
It's not that I, like any other man, would refuse to be the husband of a beautiful, if bitchy, woman from whom you can expect anything.
But there are circumstances under which even a sham marriage between us could be the last bright moment in the Baroness's life.
And as it happens, she is indeed necessary for the Dominion's bloodless annexation of the D'Astan sector.
"Sir," Vice Admiral Pellaeon's hologram appeared in frame, pleasing me with his bewildered expression. "I must point out that my marital status isn't so simple. I have a son…"
Whom you have never officially acknowledged, I thought. Just as you have never bound yourself in marriage to any woman. Having made a name for yourself in your time as a ladies' man, tied to no planet and content to be the commander of a warship.
"I'm sure," D'Asta said with a strained smile, casting a triumphant look at the grey-haired man, "I will make him a suitable stepmother."
"Sir," Pellaeon lost all traces of cheerfulness and stiffened as if on a parade ground. "Forgive me, but I am certainly not fit for this role — of a sham husband…"
Gilad fell silent as he saw the Baroness unceremoniously take his arm with an air of independence.
"Take it more simply, Vice Admiral," I advised. "It's just a successful maneuver. You know we need order in the D'Astan sector. And you know we'll take measures to achieve that with minimal casualties. As the Supreme Commander, I think that, while the Baroness's proposal is marked by an uncharacteristic directness in stating her interests, it will help us achieve our goals."
Gilad stared at me with a stone face.
Slowly digesting my words.
Which were an interpretation of his own words, spoken to me just minutes earlier.
"I think, as justification for our union, we could eventually declassify part of the operation to liberate the sector from the rebels," the Baroness suggested in a tone as if she were discussing choosing a dress for the evening. "After all, someday it could be said that Vice Admiral Pellaeon was behind the destruction of the rebel aristocrats and the pacification of the entire sector."
"Not the entire sector," Gilad said through his teeth, looking me straight in the eye. "My command of the operation ends before the capture of Serenno."
Pellaeon's entire demeanor suggested that the Vice Admiral hadn't spent years as the Grand Admiral's student for nothing.
Even if he hadn't pieced together all the circumstances, he had certainly guessed that the rotation of the General hadn't happened for no reason.
"Let's not go into details," the Baroness said with visible relief, obviously casting aside everything I had said to her earlier. "They interest few people, truth be told. Thank you, Grand Admiral, for being able to provide me with such immense assistance."
With these words, the woman stepped out of the projection zone.
Pellaeon followed her with his gaze, then looked back at me.
Judging by his question and tone, the Baroness had left the range of hearing.
"Sir!" Gilad addressed me with poorly concealed irritation. "Permission to speak freely?!"
"Permission granted, Vice Admiral."
"That woman is a royal pain in the ass," Pellaeon raged, not mincing words. "And marrying her, even formally, is… is… Not part of my plans!"
"Because it contradicts your habit of not getting attached to one woman for long?" I clarified.
"Yes," the Vice Admiral answered automatically.
Pellaeon choked when he realized what he'd said.
"Sir, I…" It's the first time I've seen him so flustered. "I'd strangle her with my bare hands after some stunt like this. My life is tied to the fleet, not digging around on Nez Peron, or reviewing reports from her transport company. Or whatever else aristocrats do on their weekdays. I'm a soldier, not all this."
"Take it more simply, Gilad," I advised, allowing Pellaeon to perceive my words more attentively. Yes, precisely because of the unconventional use of his first name. "The marriage is a sham, and no one is forcing you to spend all your free time with your young wife. After all, you are one of the Dominion's leaders. The brain of all its armed forces. Circumstances will require you to spend a lot of time on duty. And competent individuals — both from overt and covert security — will oversee the Baroness's behavior. However, I am confident she will not pose a serious threat to us in the future."
"Because she's a clone?" Pellaeon clarified.
"Yes," I replied. "Be that as it may, even in that status, she did everything to prevent the loss of her Family's power and authority. That is valuable from a certain perspective. The other thing is that she couldn't manage it without outside help. We will watch closely to see if she is following a program implanted in her by the Zann Consortium — and whether her actions will pose a danger."
"We will eliminate the threat."
"But then a forensic examination will discover she's a clone," Pellaeon reminded me. "And if we somehow manage to get another clone from her, that one will age and die even faster. Either way, sooner or later her body will end up on an autopsy table and the deception will be exposed."
"That's possible," I said, not denying this obvious flaw in my plan. "But there's a nuance."
"What is it, sir?" Pellaeon inquired.
"A forensic examiner needs a corpse to examine a corpse," I explained. "No body, no problem. After all, the Dominion might once again fail to rescue the baroness in time after she's kidnapped by cunning pirates or followers of the rebel aristocrats she'd defeated. In any case, you, as her inconsolable spouse, will have every right to bring the full might of the Dominion down upon the heads of those who committed the crime. But I repeat — only if the baroness acts against our interests. Only then will countermeasures be taken."
The stoic expression of a man resigned to marrying a young beauty vanished from Gilad's face.
A sly grin appeared on his lips.
"That's all," I ordered. "Begin the cleanup of Serenno. By the time I return, the D'Astan sector must already be part of the Dominion."
"It will be done, sir!"
* * *
President of the New Republic, Fey'lya, listened with satisfaction to Admiral Duplex's report.
"Enemy forces have been destroyed or forced to surrender," the Zeltron said wearily. "Ground forces are occupying the industrial planets and stations the enemy had placed in orbit around Humbarine. The sector is under our complete control."
"Consolidate your new positions, Admiral," the Bothan ordered. "And prepare to develop the offensive. We must liberate Coruscant as quickly as possible to show our citizens how strong we are."
"I'll do everything I can, sir," the Zeltron replied weakly. "Our ships have sustained significant damage, we've suffered heavy casualties... We need rest, repairs, and reinforcements."
"Don't slow the pace of the offensive, Admiral," Fey'lya ordered. "According to our intelligence, the enemy is beginning to regroup and pull some of their forces back from their current positions. Use this opportunity to finish off the retreating forces."
According to New Republic intelligence reports, the forces of the Pentastar Alignment, finding themselves in an unenviable position after the destruction of the Reaper squadron, had lost what remained of their initiative.
Bickering among the commanders had led several high-ranking officers, who had made their names back in the Imperial era, to decide to abandon some of their occupied territories in order to strengthen their positions closer to Coruscant and the more important Core Worlds.
This played right into the Republicans' hands — they could occupy the enemy's abandoned territories almost without a fight, claiming victories.
Such actions would increase public trust in the government and solidify Fey'lya's own position.
"Yes, sir." The Zeltron's hologram dissolved.
Well, it hadn't been immediate, but he'd understood that arguing with his president was pointless.
Fey'lya was turning to routine work when his secretary reminded him that the individual he'd summoned had been waiting in the president's office reception area for over an hour.
"Let him in," the Bothan said irritantly.
Honestly, he'd already forgotten that he'd invited this man and kept him waiting.
But then, it wouldn't kill him.
The man who entered wore simple clothes — a stark contrast to what he wore on duty.
And a stark contrast to what, according to historical records, Jedi Knights used to wear in the past.
Simple dark clothing that a peasant on Dantooine or a modest city-dweller somewhere in the Mid Rim might wear.
Long, light-brown hair down to his shoulders.
An unremarkable face...
And a lightsaber at his belt.
Fey'lya and his entourage sometimes felt that this individual, despite his loyalty to the New Republic, tried to mimic or match Luke Skywalker.
And, truth be told, they had a lot in common.
An ostentatious simplicity bordering on complete disregard for his own status and position.
Both understood technology.
Both piloted X-wings.
Both had become squadron leaders in their time and distinguished themselves on the battlefield.
Both had trained under mentors from the old Jedi Order...
Even their lightsabers were the same — both with blue blades.
Yes, Skywalker later got another one, with a green blade, but who cared about such details?
Fey'lya had given much to improve the New Republic's ratings and reputation.
Using, without the slightest pang of conscience, the tactics that had worked before.
A Jedi in the service of the New Republic was a serious asset for strengthening one's political standing.
Especially when that Jedi did what he was told.
"Come in, have a seat." Fey'lya put on a polite smile and gestured for the man to take a chair next to his desk. "First of all, allow me to congratulate you on your successful mission, Mr..."
"X2," the man replied in a calm voice, sitting down.
The Bothan winced.
"I thought we agreed on a more pleasant-sounding name," he said, smoothing down his fur which had ruffled with irritation.
"You asked me to think about it," the Jedi stated a more accurate version. "I said my designation is X2. That's what the Kaminoans gave me when I was created. I don't know another name. And I don't want to."
Jedi Knight X2.
Fey'lya mentally cursed his companion out.
"X2" was a number.
A call sign.
An operational code name.
Not a name suitable for the press.
If people heard it, they'd immediately start asking uncomfortable questions.
And a very inconvenient truth might surface.
X2 was a clone of the long-dead Jedi Knight Falon Grey, who had served in the old Jedi Order.
Shortly before the Clone Wars began, Grey was wounded, and his teacher, the Jedi Rahm Kota, took him for treatment to the Kaminoan world, which happened to be nearby.
Without the Jedi's knowledge, the Kaminoans created two clones from Grey's DNA — X1 and X2 — who were trained under the clone trooper program.
Both served in the Clone Wars, earning reputations as valuable and experienced soldiers. In the final days of the war, X2 fought at the Battle of Cato Neimoidia, where he was ordered to kill his commander, a Jedi Master, when Supreme Chancellor Palpatine issued Order 66.
X2 obeyed, killed the Jedi, and joined the Imperial stormtrooper ranks, serving the newly formed Galactic Empire. However, unlike X1, he wasn't certain of this choice.
After several months of serving the New Order, X2's doubts grew significantly during an assassination mission against a fugitive Jedi hiding among simple villagers on the planet Dantooine.
Learning that X1 planned to kill innocent people who were hiding Jedi, X2 deserted the Empire.
It later turned out that the Jedi X1 and X2 were hunting was the very same Falon Grey — their original.
The Jedi and X2 received fatal wounds from X1's hand, but Grey managed to save X2's life using his Jedi tricks.
For the next fifteen years, X2 lived on Dantooine, working as a simple farmer, until he was found by Grey's former teacher, Rahm Kota.
The Jedi recruited his student's clone into the Alliance to Restore the Republic.
Fighting on the Alliance's side, Grey took part in many major battles of that period.
He was part of one of the numerous sabotage teams that hindered the construction of the first Death Star.
He liberated captive Wookiees from Imperial imprisonment.
He freed a group of Rebel saboteurs on Geonosis, who later joined the Gray Squadron he formed — a pale imitation of the then-Rogue Squadron.
He fought on Yavin IV, opposing the Imperial ground assault during the Battle of Yavin.
He even took part in the attack on the first Death Star, trying to cover Skywalker from pursuing Imperials, but failed and was forced to retreat.
He fought on Hoth.
He fought against his brother, X1, who was also Force-sensitive but had become Palpatine's companion.
X2 considered it his duty to eliminate the threat X1 posed to the galaxy, but someone beat him to it — last year, Grand Admiral Thrawn had dealt with his brother at the Battle of Mustafar.
He fought at Endor, distinguishing himself with his heroism there...
And when the New Republic split and former Alliance fighters were weeded out from a truly democratic state, X2 and his squadron remained loyal to the legitimate government.
Even the news that Rahm Kota had resurfaced and was serving the Alliance didn't shake X2's conviction in the rightness of his actions serving the New Republic.
Wherever you looked — an iconic figure.
A cover story.
A hero of the holo-news.
If only he had a more euphonious name, not this stupid number.
If the press got hold of his past, there'd be a minor scandal — the Empire's clone troopers were notorious for their brutality, lack of principles, and willingness to carry out orders by any means necessary.
"Well," Fey'lya said. "Congratulations on your successful mission. Thanks to you and your squadron, the threats posed by Grand Moff Kaine and his strike force have been eliminated. We've captured a Super Star Destroyer and a large number of enemy ships. They will now become a symbol of our victory."
"That's good," the man said quietly. "But I didn't want to kill Grand Moff Kaine."
"I know, I sympathize that you had to do it, but it was either try to take him by force or risk the lives of thousands of our people and hundreds of thousands of Imperial soldiers who were aboard the Reaper at the time. The Empire doesn't care about losses — as long as they can throw a wrench in our plans. But you did well. You assessed the complex situation and acted accordingly."
In truth, there was nothing complex about it.
Bothan intelligence had determined with fair accuracy that Kaine's flagship had acquired an interesting feature in the form of a self-destruct system.
Fey'lya made sure that this particular pocket Republic Jedi handled the situation.
It was necessary for the evening show.
Which he wanted to feature a Jedi with a first and last name, not a number, damn it!
"Thank you," the man replied modestly. "May I ask why you summoned me?"
"Simple," Fey'lya replied. "A major broadcast is planned for this evening. We'll be broadcasting our victories across the galaxy. Furthermore, I want to announce to the galaxy that, despite what happened with Luke Skywalker, the New Republic intends to restore the Jedi Order. Like the Old Order, it will be subordinate to the Senate, but indirectly. The president will control it directly — so we don't experience the same crisis of Jedi independence that occurred under the old Republic."
"That's commendable," X2 acknowledged. "For a long time, I wasn't sure I was worthy of being a Jedi; I rejected Skywalker's tutelage. But after my brother's death, which I felt in the Force, I realized there are forces in the galaxy more terrible and dangerous than him. I must become a Jedi. And I will be grateful that you allow me to become part of the Order."
Fey'lya smiled benevolently and patronizingly.
"My dear friend," he said with feigned warmth. "You won't just become part of the Order. You will lead it!"
"Me?" the Jedi clone was taken aback. "But I know so little... I think other Jedi will volunteer..."
"And why would I want old stubborn fools in the leadership of the New Jedi Order who'll throw a wrench in the works?" Fey'lya thought. "Besides, this clone is the most suitable candidate I have — lacking independence and easily led. The other Jedi who were hanging around the Alliance or the New Republic have preferred to distance themselves from everything."
"I believe in you, my friend." Fey'lya used his most benevolent fake smile.
X2, as simple as a Tatooine weather forecast, bowed awkwardly in a gesture of respect and admiration for his president's wisdom.