The shuttle pilot glanced over his shoulder:
"We're exiting hyperspace, sir."
Olo didn't deem it necessary to respond.
He continued to sit motionless, eyes half-closed, immersed in the Force and his own thoughts.
"You alive in there?" the second pilot's voice reached him. "They won't pat us on the head if we deliver a dead body instead of a living Chief Inquisitor to Coruscant."
Annoying.
"This planet is called Imperial Center," the Chief Inquisitor remarked.
Putting as much threat into his voice as possible, he hoped the pilots would stop talking.
His expectations were disappointed.
"Y-yes, Lord Chief Inquisitor," the first one stammered. "Whatever you say, that's what we'll call it."
What else could he expect from a couple of conscripted yokels from some backwater system?
Anything, but certainly not professionalism.
Olo decisively rose from his seat and headed for the exit of the cockpit.
"I'll be in the passenger compartment," he explained for both slow-wits. "Inform me when we land."
"Of course, sir," the second one grunted. "Looks like his first time on Coruscant."
They didn't even notice their passenger was still there.
Brainless idiots.
The kinds of people they take as pilots these days.
Chief Inquisitor Olo Drast.
"Shut up and mind your own business," Drast ordered without looking back. "Or they'll find dead pilots' bodies in the shuttle upon landing."
"Yes, sir," they both replied in unison, losing all curiosity about him and focusing on their duties.
So much the better.
At least he could have a little time alone.
Settling into a passenger seat, Olo reclined the backrest, assuming a more comfortable position.
The pilot was right.
The Chief Inquisitor was seeing the gray sphere shrouded in clouds, ringed by defensive Golan platforms, for the first time.
In the past, not many people from the lower strata of society across the galaxy could afford to visit the capital planet.
Having become an Inquisitor after a brief stint in the Jedi Order as a youngling, the man had believed every path was open to him.
That, while hunting his former comrades, he would report every traitor he killed directly to the Emperor.
His hopes were not fulfilled.
From his very first day in the Inquisitorius, Olo was sent to and returned from only Prakith.
A world in the Deep Core, a planet where not everyone could survive.
But learning the limits of one's capabilities and finding one's place in the hierarchy — that, every Inquisitor could.
Yet he had never made it to the capital planet until now.
For some reason, he imagined Imperial Center as cold and dead, as if the city was supposed to perish with the death of the ruler.
But this city was more alive than the living.
Just like the Emperor.
There was probably some connection.
But Olo couldn't see it for the life of him.
With his inner vision, which only those sensitive to the Force possess, he reveled in the lights of millions of sentient beings on the planet and in its airless vicinity.
Through the porthole, he could observe dozens of starships — combat and transport — hanging in orbit around Imperial Center.
"Sir, we've received an identification code request," the pilot's voice came from the ship's intercom. "Please transmit it. Otherwise, we're in the weapons range of the orbital stations..."
Olo spotted two of the two dozen Golan-III platforms placed by the Pentastar Alignment in orbit around Imperial Center to protect the state's capital.
A necessary precaution in light of recent setbacks on the galactic front.
The Alignment was forced to abandon one sector after another, consolidating communications and armed forces scattered across hundreds of star systems from one direction to another.
All to defend at least the little they had managed to conquer under the leadership of Grand Moff Kaine.
"Transmitting the code," Drast said, using his personal communicator.
It would be utter foolishness to travel all this way, to achieve what he currently had, only to die from the fire of his own defensive installations.
Those stations carried so much armament that sometimes not even every Star Destroyer could overcome them.
And a typical Lambda-class shuttle was practically trivial for them.
"Permission to proceed granted," the pilot reported, obvious relief in his voice.
Fool.
Did he really think someone on the station would open fire to get rid of them over some access code?
The days when the Empire would blow up a shuttle to eliminate intruders, regardless of various technical aspects, were long gone.
Now the Empire couldn't afford to lose ships, pilots, and other personnel over trifles.
No matter how dense they were.
The nearest patrol pair would have been sent to them, and they'd be forced to land on one of the stations for inspection.
No military official would expose themselves like that.
Especially when they knew that the Chief Inquisitor himself, overseeing the Pentastar Alignment's activities, was supposed to arrive at Imperial Center.
"We're heading to Tower 78, Level 443, Platform Two," the first pilot spoke over the intercom again as the ship approached the edge of the protective field.
"And what does that mean?" Olo was beginning to lose patience.
"Sir," the pilot said with difficulty, "it's the Imperial Palace. The zone for very important guests."
It went quiet.
Seems the idiot finally realized he wasn't just doing routine transport duty.
That's the beauty of traveling incognito.
Everyone thinks you're some errand boy, dignitary, minor official, or someone of that ilk.
Telling every random pilot that you're the Chief Inquisitor is just stupid.
As is using a personal ship.
Too bright and obvious a target.
In these times, such miscalculations could cost you your life.
And in light of recent setbacks, it was hanging by a thread anyway.
Ahead, lightning discharges flared, then one thick, winding bolt stretched across the clouds, and in its light, Olo saw an octagon hanging above the storm front.
One of the many sectors of the planetary shield.
Olo used the holoprojector installed in the passenger cabin to observe what was happening, at least schematically.
He categorically didn't want to see the idiot pilots.
He could feel their cowardice even from here, the air literally saturated with the smell of fear.
A miniature model of the planet condensed above the console, then two spheres formed around it, composed of octagons.
Both spheres slowly rotated in opposite directions, constantly shuffling the moving sectors.
The absolute defense of Imperial Center, spoken of with admiration and genuine reverence.
Nowhere else in the galaxy was there another world whose undeniable importance could be assessed by the presence of two simultaneously active, counter-rotating planetary deflector shields.
The upper element shifted, but the lower layer remained completely motionless.
Presumably, when the shuttle passed inside, the upper segment would close the passage, and only then would the lower one open.
That's exactly what happened.
The Lambda-class shuttle headed toward the designated segment of the lower shield when Olo saw a flash of lightning through the porthole.
The next moment, the ship shook noticeably.
The lighting in the cabin flickered.
"Sir," that insufferable pilot again. "Situation under control. The air here is highly ionized because of the deflector fields. The discharge knocked down our shield and shorted out a few systems. But everything's fine."
Oh, really?
Since when is a ship malfunction considered "normal"?
There was nothing he wanted more than to return to Entralla.
A planet in the Pentastar Alignment, where, after Ardus Kaine's death, the state's temporary capital had been relocated.
Including all headquarters of the relevant key governing bodies.
Including Soul of Justice, as the part of the Inquisitorius that served the Alignment was officially called.
Now that they all knew of Emperor Palpatine's return, now that the Inquisitorius was reunited in its fortress on Prakith, Soul of Justice remained just a formality.
Everyone serving in it, officially called Interrogators, couldn't care less about these bureaucratic games.
They were, are, and always will be Inquisitors.
The shuttle passed the second shield, then, not without effort, broke through the cloud layer.
The fact that they were approaching the target from the planet's dark side didn't stop him from gazing at the world unfolding below.
Awe and delight — that was what everyone should feel upon seeing Imperial Center.
The unmistakable Imperial Palace was like a volcano rising in the midst of the metropolis that had spread across the entire planet.
If the planet had tangible boundaries, one could say the Palace stood at the very center of the Empire.
Giant towers thrust into the sky like the teeth of a colossal crown, countless illuminated windows resembling from afar the precious splendor of inlay work.
And you couldn't say that this complex was once the Presidential Palace, once occupied by the Supreme Chancellor.
No, nothing remained of the rotting, stuffy gloss of the Old Republic.
The building was rebuilt, improved — just like all of Imperial Center.
Olo hadn't seen the planet in the past, but he was sure everything here had been much worse before.
Knowing from stories and holovideos where to look, the Chief Inquisitor found the Senate building.
Semi-circular, like a scab grown over a wound, it was tiny compared to its menacing neighbor.
And there were visible traces of meteorite impacts, which Grand Admiral Thrawn had used.
Numerous breaches, damage...
Though now it was hard to tell which of these destructions was inflicted by the late Grand Admiral, and which by the Alignment's warriors during the assault on the planet.
Shifting his gaze slightly, he looked with a smirk at the huge pile of construction debris, towering like a mountain on the site of the Jedi Temple.
For some reason, he even felt a surge of amusement when he saw that the place that had stolen his childhood was gone.
The shuttle descended. Black chasms appeared between the neon threads — buildings.
The structures rose above the ground, and even artificial light couldn't penetrate the bottom of these man-made canyons.
His vivid imagination instantly populated the lower levels of the city with nightmarish and deadly dangerous creatures.
The pilots leveled the wind-buffeted craft.
The grandeur of this planet was mind-boggling...
The streets, which seemed like narrow slits, were wider than the mountain canyons on some planets he'd managed to visit.
The towers, thin as spokes, transformed into massive ziggurats, on each floor of which the population of a small town somewhere in the provinces could fit.
Layer upon layer, buildings covered the planet, dressing it in a peculiar armor of construction materials.
Interesting... probably no one had set foot on the surface of Imperial Center for centuries.
The shuttle shook again.
They were already approaching the Imperial Palace.
A narrow opening visible in the designated tower turned into a greedily gaping maw that swallowed the shuttle.
Hovering over a spacious landing platform, the transport folded its wings, hung for a moment, and descended onto its landing struts.
It was done sloppily — the ship listed, and only the shock absorbers managed to compensate for the pilots' blunder.
Without a word to the irritating pilots, he passed through the empty passenger cabin of the shuttle.
Descended the ramp.
Below, he was already awaited — four motionless figures in white stormtrooper armor.
Drast silently walked past them, allowing an honor guard to form behind him.
A guard that, should he give the order, would turn into a firing squad of executioners.
They would undoubtedly fail.
But they would certainly try.
If the order to eliminate Olo Drast was given.
For now, they served as his escorts and pathfinders, because in this web of corridors and passages, one could easily get lost and remain in the magnificent complex until the end of one's days.
Walking through the corridors of the Imperial Palace, the Chief Inquisitor encountered dozens of people of various professions.
Guards, officials, errand boys...
No one looked at him.
People turned away, flinching upon accidentally meeting his gaze.
They tried not to notice him and not to hinder his movement.
Some even swiftly shied away, as from someone suffering from an incurable disease or disfigurement.
The corridor stretched on and on; the floor springy beneath his feet.
Apparently, they were walking along a covered bridge between the tower and the Palace itself.
There were no windows, only bare walls.
Perhaps they were once decorated with something, but now they were empty, featureless, gray.
Some bore traces of blaster burns or shrapnel from exploded ordnance.
The aftermath of the battles for the Imperial Palace revealed itself to the observant onlooker.
No one concealed them, because there were more important matters to attend to.
If it were the Emperor's will, everything here would be licked clean by the tongues of thousands of slaves and machines.
But the Emperor doesn't care about this world.
He's comfortable on Byss, too.
The Imperial Center had become a political token, a symbol of power passed from hand to hand, not its true source.
Perhaps someday everything here would burst back into lush life — when the Emperor forgave this world for its betrayal.
For its anti-Imperial uprisings after the Lord's death.
Someday.
Perhaps.
But not now.
Stormtroopers led him down a corridor, then another corridor, and yet another — to doors flanked by two exact copies of themselves.
The stormtroopers stopped, signaling that the final stretch of the journey was his alone.
The massive doors slid open, ushering the Chief Inquisitor into an enormous room, almost a hall.
As soon as he entered, the way back was severed — the doors closed with an impressive crash of solemnity and monumentality.
The far wall was transparent, and beyond it, the sunset over the Imperial Center glowered a somber crimson.
At first, Drost thought he was alone in here.
Only by reaching out with the Force did he realize that assumption was fundamentally wrong.
"You've arrived," a strong male voice sounded.
Its owner materialized against the transparent wall, like a darkness that had separated itself from the shadows.
He wasn't asking.
He was stating.
Silhouetted against the setting sun, it seemed as if the speaker was hovering in the air above the once-overpopulated world.
"Exactly as you commanded," Olo's voice was calm, unruffled, focused.
No one could ever instill more fear in him than what he himself symbolized.
"I also commanded you to keep your mutts on a leash," the anger radiating from the speaker was almost tangible. "Are you aware of what your deranged little inquisitor did?"
A dismissive tone and the intent to assign blame.
This was the approach Inquisitors used when investigating cases of fugitive Jedi appearing in the galaxy.
"The transformation suits the planet."
The man turned to face him, positioning himself so that the blood-red glow of the sunset fell upon his sharp features.
It made Executor Sedriss's expression look surreally diabolical.
And damn dangerous.
"Do you have any idea what happened?"
"The Jedi Temple has been destroyed. It should have been done long ago."
"You idiot," the Emperor's underling hurled at him. "A whole legion of fighters was wiped out. Stormtroopers, soldiers, arsenals destroyed, barracks, equipment..."
Since when did this attract the personal attention of the Executor himself?
This happens on the front lines every day.
Perhaps even at this very minute.
"So what?" he managed to exhale.
"I should have had you all killed," the Executor clasped his hands behind his back, turning to face the city. "Jedi were involved."
A big deal.
And for this, he was pulled away from stabilizing the front?
"The Inquisitor informed me of this," Olo said calmly. "Obviously, he failed to destroy the Jedi. Well, there's no place for weaklings in the Inquisitorius."
Sedriss snorted.
He waved his hand, and a hologram of a human-sized being appeared between them.
A Mon Calamari.
In Jedi robes.
With a lightsaber on his belt.
"Do you know who this is?"
"Master Bre'ano Umakk, one of the Jedi who survived Order 66."
"One of your failures," Sedriss clarified. "He was the one at the Jedi Temple."
Oh, really?
He doesn't exactly seem like someone who could mow down an entire legion with armored vehicles to boot.
Although, the Inquisitor did say he sensed a strong opponent.
But even so...
That's beyond the capabilities of a single being.
Even a Jedi.
"Alone?"
"He had several accomplices. They're being searched for in the Lower Levels of the Center right now. The Jedi, by the way, is also dead. Along with your subordinate."
Understood.
So why was Olo pulled away?
Why was the Executor himself, the one who implements the Emperor's plan to restore control over the galaxy, personally handling the search for some saboteurs?
Doesn't he have anything better to do?
Maybe he should respond to the requests for reinforcements, without which the fronts are drowning in blood?
"Before his death, the Jedi managed to cause us considerable trouble," the Executor declared with a fresh surge of anger.
"In what way?" Drast inquired.
Instead of an answer, the hologram came to life.
"My fellow Jedi, brothers and sisters," the Mon Calamari's voice was soft, yet filled with strength and conviction. "I, Bre'ano Umakk, speak to you, a Jedi like yourselves. Thirty years ago, as a result of a treacherous attack by clones, deceived and used by the Sith against the Order, we were left bloodied, decimated, scattered across the galaxy. Some died, others surrendered to the victors' mercy, others actively fought the usurpers and perished. But the majority went into hiding, burrowing into the darkest holes of the galaxy. Our Order fell. It proved weak, unable to see the danger right before its eyes. Decades were given to us to reflect on our path. My reflections have come to an end. I have concluded that it is time for the Jedi to return to the fundamentals of studying the Force. To become warriors guarding the beings we hold dear. To stop using double-faced motivation, pretending to be peacekeepers. We were generals — and not the best ones. We failed to keep the peace. It's time to admit it — we are the ones responsible for the Emperor's victory. The deaths of all beings over the last thirty years are on our conscience. And if those of you who, upon hearing of the death of the Emperor and Darth Vader, of Anakin Skywalker who betrayed us, breathed a sigh of relief and returned to civilian life, then you did so too soon. The Sith are now stronger than ever before. In the Deep Core, Emperor Palpatine has returned to life. He is waiting for the galaxy to weaken in a fratricidal war so he can seize it. I call upon all of you to stop pretending that the war in the galaxy is none of our concern. Open your eyes and see clearly. Everyone who is dying now is a victim of our being too weak thirty years ago and before. I call upon all of you to return to the origins of studying the Force. Remember Lord Hoth and the Army of Light. Unite in a single impulse to defeat the Sith and fulfill your destiny. The Force is One. We were too foolish and arrogant to see it. Our orthodox masters didn't understand their mistakes and sent Anakin Skywalker's children to do the work they themselves couldn't. I accept responsibility for the failures and mistakes of the old Jedi Order. I am taking a step forward. I am changing. And I call upon all of you to do the same. There's no point in keeping the peace when only war lies ahead. Take up your weapons and join me. Together we will correct our mistakes. And do what we must. We forgave those who stumbled. And we decided to forgive ourselves. That won't do. I cannot accept that. It's time to put an end to the Jedi as we know them. The time has come for a new teaching — which is, in fact, a forgotten old one. The Force is one. Only our actions and intentions determine the good, separating it from malice. Join me and my allies. Together we will become what the Jedi were always meant to be."
The hologram froze again, indicating the end of the recording.
"More Jedi populism."
"Which was broadcast using the Temple's transmitter and reached everyone who still had Jedi communicators," Sedriss clarified. "Every former Jedi received this message."
"Right before the HoloNet went down?"
"An interesting coincidence, wouldn't you say? First, Fey'lya calls for restoring the Jedi Order. Now this Umakk crawls out with his 'truth.'"
"It's about as useful as nothing at all," Olo noted reasonably. "Only idiots kept their Jedi communicators all these years. The Inquisitorius tracked down Jedi partly through those devices. There'll be no effect..."
"Thirteen," Sedriss said unexpectedly.
"What does that number mean, Executor?"
"That's exactly how many Jedi have surfaced in the territories of the New Republic and the Empire after this message and the Bothan one. Our spies report that several Jedi have already joined the Republic order. Some others were detected by customs and engaged patrols in combat. Almost all of them have been killed. And the prisoners — they're silent."
"Do we know where they were headed?" Drask asked with interest.
"We couldn't get that from the prisoners. Everything on their ships' navicomputers was wiped too. It's like a madness. They're pouring out of every crack, as if this," the Executor pointed to the frozen hologram, "could actually motivate someone."
"The meeting coordinates are probably embedded in the message itself," Drast suggested.
"The best slicers and decryption specialists are working on it," Sedriss shared. "So far — no results."
And again, the question arises — so what next?!
Why was it necessary to pull the Chief Inquisitor off the front?!
"You will handle the search for the Mon Calamari's accomplices," the Executor ordered. "Let the military handle the front. I want all your minions thrown into hunting down the saboteurs. They are likely the only key to finding the meeting place. And to understanding who is behind this sudden Jedi gathering. I want to know where they're meeting, who's helping them."
And what will that give you?
"And afterward," Sedriss turned his back to the city drowning in darkness, his black figure flaring with the amber light of his eyes, "we will destroy them all. Once and for all. And the Sith's power will reign over the galaxy once more..."
* * *
I can't say Silri revealed America to me by using ysalamiri to accelerate the production of Kaminoan clones.
Not in the slightest.
That's exactly how my clone was created, the one who died during the Battle of Sluis Van.
Yes, the technology for rapid growth in a Kaminoan cylinder and ysalamiri was perfected on him.
And the memories were implanted using GeNod technology.
Yes, that was last year.
We played with genetics as much as we could.
And back then we didn't know that such experiments could spawn horrifying moral and inhuman psychopaths.
So, when I meet Luke Skywalker, I'll need to shake not his throat, but his artificial hand.
As a sign of gratitude for correcting my mistake and not letting a product of wild fantasy loose into the world.
What a mad clone of Mitth'raw'nuruodo could do to the galaxy, I knew from the books of the 'Hand of Thrawn' duology.
Although, in that story, the brooding Imperial genius was a hybrid of a Chiss and Grodin Tierce.
A symbiosis of talent and ruthlessness.
But if my clone had managed to survive, to back out, to stop obeying... I'm afraid to even imagine what my insane clone could have done with what's stored in my memory.
And my memory, by the way, was telling me quite pessimistically that some of Silri's points weren't just empty boasting.
"I don't need Kessel."
"Tarkin collaborated with criminals."
"The Dominion must leave Kessel, the Karthakk sector, and the planets in the south of the galaxy..."
A study of Dathomirian art, and particularly that of the Nightsisters, indicates they revel in the enjoyment of power.
And in dominating.
This cultural aspect is evident in their behavior.
For example, on Dathomir, besides the Nightsisters, there's also a settlement of Nightbrothers — Zabrak, whom the witches used as donors of genetic material to propagate their kind.
Hence the Dathomirians — hybrids of Zabrak and humans.
So, the Nightbrothers were completely dependent on the Nightsisters, essentially their slaves.
Furthermore, one shouldn't forget the fact of the Dathomirians using rancors as a means of transport.
Taming a multi-meter-long savage beast is no small feat — including in terms of personal authority.
I recall Silri has one of those, a 'pocket rancor,' which in that well-known game she would summon/teleport/create near herself using Dathomirian magic.
Either way, in her conversation with Sergius, Silri was demonstrating her superiority over him and the Dominion.
That's an indisputable fact.
But the fact that she wasn't planning to seize Kessel, mentioned Tarkin, his ability to contact criminals for his own gain, the 'casual' words about Karthakk — which we were conquering and she couldn't have known from primary sources — that speaks volumes.
Yes, Silri could and may well have agents in the Karthakk sector, or even within the system itself.
And information could be leaking not even through technical means, but through telepathic exchange via the Force or something else.
After all, Silri could have simply figured out that the groups from the Karthakk system weren't making contact for no reason.
At this point in time, what posed the greatest threat was Silri mentioning, aboard the Vengeance, the Empire's funding of 'its secret research centers.'
And then she mentioned Tarkin.
The semantic message is clear even to non-philologists.
Silri knows about Tarkin's secret research projects.
Add to that her words about Kessel...
My heart sinking, I thought about what would happen if someone like her got to Admiral Daala's base.
Where, besides four Star Destroyers, there was a weapon capable of changing all the power dynamics.
For example, the Death Star prototype.
Yes, it was just the station's framework, but armed with a functioning and effective superlaser.
I recall it had a calibration problem, but since when did a rhino's size and blindness become its problems?
Coming in at number two, but not in importance, inside the black holes is also the Sun Crusher.
A kind of ship with impenetrable armor and torpedoes that can turn stars into supernovae.
Why is that dangerous?
Because the local sun in any inhabited system explodes almost instantly, emitting a shockwave and various kinds of radiation that bring only death.
Something similar happened almost four thousand years ago when the fallen Jedi Exar Kun blew up the Cron star cluster.
Not far from the Jedi Order's then-residence on the planet Ossus.
The planet was scorched to the ground, and it took millennia for some semblance of an ecosystem to recover.
And even then, it's not certain that it happened without the help of the scant indigenous population, the Ysanne, descendants of ancient Jedi who survived Kun's attack in secluded places on the planet.
"Something needs to be done about this urgently," Mara Jade fidgeted in her chair, casting a waiting glance at me. "We cannot allow Silri to get her hands on those ysalamiri."
"And even more so, to get a fleet to transport her forces," Colonel Tierce supported.
"Ships without crews are just metal," the commander of my flagship noted.
"Exactly," I agreed. "At the moment, we can't do anything about the fact that Silri has shipbuilding and cloning facilities at her disposal."
"But you're not planning to ally with her, are you?" Jade asked with a pressuring tone.
"We cannot attack Silri's forces at this moment also because access to both Rothana and Kamino goes through hyperspace routes, parts of which are filled with minefields analogous to our 'Perimeter' system," I ignored the voiced question. "That technology is borrowed from Kuat Drive Yards."
What's the point of answering it when the decision has already been made and is the most optimal of all available ones?
"Mines, artificial gravity generators that activate if a ship is detected giving the wrong IFF response," Pellaeon nodded understandingly.
"The Vengeance probably has that kind of equipment too," Mara's initiative flared up.
"Unlikely," Tierce objected. "Based on what Agent Bravo-Eleven told us, the Star Destroyer operated outside Kamino. And didn't fly there."
"While the agent ended up on the ship," Mara reminded.
"I doubt Silri revealed her true location to pirates and mercenaries," Pellaeon stated. "That would be illogical if she saw them as 'cannon fodder.'"
"Even if we find something on any of the destroyed or captured ships, it's unlikely Silri or her minions won't change the IFF system's frequencies," I said.
That's elementary precaution.
And Silri has already shown she's not as stupid as one might think.
We shouldn't expect such a blunder from her.
But it still needs to be checked.
Especially since we're already working on the problem of overcoming the minefields around the Silri Syndicate's planets.
"Should we fear that, having obtained Kamino's cloning cylinders, Silri will decide to use the archive of genetic material in one way or another?" Mara asked quietly.
"As far as I remember, Jango Fett's DNA was completely used up during the Clone Wars," Pellaeon expressed. "So we shouldn't worry about her sending her clones under his likeness to us. Especially since she doesn't have the ysalamiri for accelerated growth."
"I'm not talking about regular DNA," Mara said, looking me in the eyes. "Kamino has already proven it can create something powerful."
"After many unsuccessful attempts," Tierce clarified.
"It's highly doubtful that after the Battle of Kamino, when Galen Marek's clone captured Darth Vader and the Rebel Alliance defeated the Empire, any stocks of Marek's genotype remained on the planet," I said. "We know the planet was under Imperial control afterward. And Darth Vader escaped the trap. The Sith Lord's character was not known for gentleness, nor his mind for forgetfulness."
The idea that he left stocks of Starkiller's DNA on the planet is a foolish assumption.
As is the idea that the Kaminoans could have 'kept some for themselves.'
Vader is not the kind of being who leaves unfinished business that could somehow harm him personally or his cause.
"Sir, one thing in the agent's story bothered me," Colonel Tierce said.
Just one?
Well, I know what he wants to ask.
"Yes, soldiers in unknown-design white-and-black armor, that's unusual," I agreed.
"Could they be mercenaries brought to a common uniform?" Jade voiced her thoughts.
"A mercenary is a different psychology," Tierce dismissed the idea. "They're effective because of their unconventional approach to combat tasks. None of them would put on standard armor. A mercenary gets used to working with individual gear. Expensive and often custom-made. They don't hide their faces under helmets, except for Mandalorians. But the latter's armor is easily recognizable by its specific texture. I didn't notice such features in the description. Standard kit, however, is created from considerations of cost-effectiveness and efficiency. With that approach, unification is a way to reduce production costs. So, from the indirect evidence, we can conclude that the soldiers the agent encountered were directly military units."
"So she does have regular troops," Captain Pellaeon said thoughtfully. "Obviously, not as many as she'd like..."
"If we believe her words, she had a reserve fleet for the attack on Kessel," Mara insisted.
"If we believe her," Pellaeon emphasized the possibility. "Analysis shows that her words are often just bravado. Wishful thinking."
"Maybe so," Mara admitted reluctantly. "But dragging out the solution to such a problem could backfire on us."
"The Silri Syndicate will be destroyed," I said. "Just like the Zann Consortium. We need their territories, resources, and production facilities. They won't give them up voluntarily. Therefore, conflict is inevitable."
Just as it's inevitable that I will have to intensify operations in this part of the galaxy.
But first, before planning work in the galactic east, I need to find out how things are in the north, near the borders of the home territory, and in the northwest, near the Perlemian Trade Route.
In the Thanium Worlds, Captain Astorias's operation should have just concluded, which would put a weapon of mass destruction in the form of a single being into the Dominion's hands.
Since there's no way to find his copy, we'll have to make do with handling a particularly dangerous asset.
If I had another option, I wouldn't take such a risky step, wouldn't capture Juno Eclipse just to force her partner, Galen Marek's clone, to carry out my orders.
But I have no other way to get such a powerful Force adept, one who has already faced Palpatine and defeated him.
Skywalker is possibly lost.
The Dark Apprentice, another Marek clone, is an unknown variable, whose existence in the current events is neither confirmed nor denied in principle.
He could be alive, could be dead, or might never have existed as a reality at all.
In any case, I need proven assets to oppose Palpatine.
With all due respect to the Shadow Guard and the Jensaarai — most of them will die before they can even harm Sidious.
So why waste my own personnel when there's a possibility and a high probability of recruiting an 'outside specialist' to my side?
"Like any organization, the Silri Syndicate will continue to exist as long as its leader is alive," Mara noted, glancing at me sideways with her emerald eyes.
It feels like there's something on my face that she wants to tell me but can't bring herself to.
"Silri, just like Tyber Zann, will be destroyed," I confirmed my intention to solve the problem of galactic-scale crime in the most correct, yet radical way.
"There's a big problem," Mara said, pursing her lips and casting a probing glance at Colonel Tierce. "I don't think we have anyone capable of defeating that witch. Again, we don't know what information she gleaned from the holocron and what she's capable of. However, the fact that, according to the agent, she could give orders to her subordinates on other ships simply by looking at a tactical hologram already gives an understanding that a one-on-one fight with her is beyond the capabilities of most of us."
I shifted my gaze to Tierce.
"I regret to state, sir, that practice in fighting the Force-sensitive indicates that Guard adepts like Namman Cha and Kyrisa are no match for her," regret sounded in Grodin's voice.
Mixed with anger at himself.
"Everyone has a breaking point," I stated neutrally. "This isn't a failure on your part or your subordinates', Grodin."
I needed to say something that wouldn't come across as tearful back-patting.
The image of Thrawn doesn't allow for sympathy or regret.
Only cold analysis of the situation.
And logic suggests that even the Guards do encounter tasks beyond their capabilities to solve.
The gifted should be hunted by beings of equal strength.
The only problem is that aside from Maul and Obscuro, I don't have many candidates for issuing such elimination assignments.
Stryn is still a student. Maul reluctantly admits he's strong, but still only at the beginning of his path.
Throwing him into battle against experienced fighters means condemning him to death.
Aurra Sing is nothing more than an excellent sniper, a hired killer virtuosic at eliminating difficult targets.
But not the gifted.
Obscuro's partner isn't even considered for such a role.
Mara Jade...
Possibly.
She's proving capable of stable results.
Master Bre'ano Umakk?
No, he's not a fighter, more of a teacher, a mentor.
Asajj Ventress?
Yes, she's an experienced liquidator.
But, as with Maul, she's from Dathomir.
Can any of them stand against one of their own kin?
Big doubts.
Especially since Jade made a valid point.
The gifted should be eliminated by the gifted.
Turning the Jensaarai into hunters of Jedi or Sith isn't the best idea possible.
At least for now.
The Noghri?
Absolutely not what's needed.
So, it seems there's only one option left.
Apparently, I'm in for a difficult conversation with the only one who can solve my personnel problem.
With Mara Jade.
Probably as a prelude to that, the red-haired beast had been giving me ambiguous looks the whole time.
"You're all dismissed," I ordered. "Captain Pellaeon, prepare the Guardian and our escort for departure. We're returning to the metropolis, to the Tangrene base. Lieutenant Colonel Tierce — return to the medical bay and finish the treatment as planned."
"Yes, sir. It will be done." Both men rose from their seats in unison and headed for the exit.
When the door closed behind them, Jade pretended to be interested in the front panel of my astromech.
"Did this droid previously belong to Skywalker?" the girl asked unexpectedly, still staring at the droid's dome.
"Both Skywalkers," I clarified. "Both father and son."
"Symbolic." A slight smirk appeared on her lips.
Then the girl looked me in the eyes and clarified:
"Apparently, you didn't keep me back just for nothing, sending the others away, Grand Admiral?"
Her voice sounded ordinary enough.
But still, somehow unusual.
As if something else was hiding beneath the inexpressiveness.
Something I couldn't yet comprehend or decipher.
"That's right," I agreed, shifting my gaze to the monitor in front of me. "There's a new mission for you, Mara."
I needed precise data to pass on to the executor.
Here's the necessary file.
I transferred it to a prepared chip.
Pulling the device from the slot, I squeezed it in my hand for a moment.
Time to get this over with...
Sound carries quite easily in large spaces.
The loud, distinct sound of a zipper being undone.
"You need to..."
I cut myself off mid-word when I looked away from the computer monitor and saw Jade's face.
Its crimson hue was visible even in the darkness of my quarters.
Even in the glow of the workstation's backlight.
Along with the thin strap of a snow-white top, visible between the two halves of the upper part of her combat suit, which had parted slightly as the zipper loosened.
Despite the complete idiocy of the situation, I couldn't find anything to say.
* * *
It's hard to maintain composure when a young, attractive woman starts undressing just a few meters away from you.
A woman who's practically bending over backwards to tell you she wants to stop being "just a subordinate."
Whose emotions are overstepping the bounds of what's permitted.
"Recruited myself into trouble."
And how to explain to Jade that the time, place, and circumstances are completely wrong?
Look, poor Rukh is standing a couple meters behind her with a bewildered look on his face, having shifted slightly to see my expression.
He simply doesn't understand what he's supposed to do.
Tackle the Hand and drag her off somewhere to cool her head?
Close his eyes and forget what he's seeing?
Discreetly leave?
Poor Noghri.
At this rate, he'll have a heart attack.
"Mara," I addressed the girl quietly. "You're forgetting yourself."
"You promised me a frank conversation," she said — can she possibly blush even more? "Isn't that why you kept me behind after the others?"
No!
No!
And no again!
I was going to give you another assignment!
Woman, what the hell is going on in your head?
Maybe she hasn't fully recovered from some injury?
How can the stars possibly align for someone to think of something like this in such a situation?
Kicking her out of here costs nothing.
Rukh can handle it.
But there's a nuance.
The women of this universe aren't much different from the ones I knew in my past life.
And there is no fiercer fury than a spurned lady love.
And right now, whatever I say will be perceived by her as a mortal insult.
If I let her know I'm not up for any romantic-love adventures, especially given the war — she'll be offended.
If I say I'm at least twice her age and that's not an age gap I'm comfortable with — she'll be offended.
If I claim it's not the right time yet — she'll be offended.
If I say she's special to me because I see her as a foolish, frivolous daughter — a lightsaber to the back and a few whispered parting words await me.
Postponing the promised conversation means even more problems.
I can't escalate the situation — that won't benefit anyone.
It's a stalemate.
No matter where I move, there's a threat everywhere.
I've already read the report on how she beat up two Inquisitors.
The lady has clearly grown beyond herself.
And if I understand correctly, she interpreted my "pardons" for her previous operation failures precisely as a sign of sympathy from a hardened military stick towards her charming self.
And not as a second chance for a potentially promising asset, towards whom I feel a shred of guilt for sending her to Vjun without an entire army and leaving her in captivity for a long time.
Where she was tortured and beaten.
Oh...
I've trapped myself.
In every sense.
But I can't stay silent either.
"Yes, a serious conversation was planned," a diplomatic phrase meant to cool her down a bit.
"I'm ready for the conversation, Grand Admiral."
Bloody hell!
How can you take off the tight, form-fitting fabric of a combat suit from your arms in just two movements?
Is this definitely not a hallucination?
Judging by the several scars on her body — it doesn't seem that way to me.
This really is Mara Jade.
The dream of teenagers and young men obsessed with this universe.
Well, one of them.
Bold, independent, freedom-loving...
No, I'm fond of this girl.
She truly is beautiful, but... she's my subordinate.
The complete opposite.
Nothing good will come of this.
What is happening at all?
I don't recall in the lore of the universe her behaving like this.
Then again, after ten years of knowing each other, her whole flightiness crumbled after Skywalker's awkward marriage proposal.
And all her polish kind of disappeared after that.
The Mara Jade crafted by Timothy Zahn vanished.
Turning into a dreary Jedi after marrying Luke Skywalker.
Dullness, like all the Jedi of the New Order except for a few names.
As if Vader's descendants literally suck the individuality out of those around them.
May Palpatine's lightning strike me!
What the hell am I even thinking about?
And how does one behave so as not to offend a woman?
In my past life, I never managed to find the answer to this universal riddle.
I don't like that I can't win this fight.
Interpersonal relationships are not a front I ever planned to open.
And certainly not to lose on it.
Twice!
And Isard would be fine — she matches my temperament.
No romance, a pragmatic relationship between two mutually respecting beings.
But what to expect from Jade?
The best thing would be to freeze her in carbonite for a couple of months, then explain everything afterwards!
Yes, that's exactly what I'll do.
Ru...
Grey-skinned traitor!!!
Mara Jade didn't even turn around at the soft hiss of the door through which Rukh had vanished.
Bastard!
"Do you have something to say, Grand Admiral?" purred the green-eyed fury, lowering herself onto her knees before me.
No, I don't!
And my mouth is open because I was going to call my bodyguard!
Jade, seeing my stupor, didn't even stop.
She wrapped her arms behind my head, kissed me on the lips, and rubbed her hips against me at the same time.
For crying out loud...
To hell with it.
We'll deal with the consequences later.
I have the right to rest.
My hands met at Jade's waist.
Our eyes locked...
Mitth'raw'nuruodo would never have done this.
Probably why he died, failing to foresee the betrayal right under his nose.
He didn't know how to relax.
"Looks like you're happy to see me, Grand Admiral," she said languidly, playful little devils dancing in her eyes. "Or am I misunderstanding something? It's just pressing in..."
Awkward situation.
"I can only confirm it's not a hand," I pulled the girl towards me and kissed her.
I couldn't think of anything better.
From the trembling of the deck, it became clear that the Guardian had crossed the lightspeed barrier.
* * *
Grodin's cabin door swung open and a grey-skinned whirlwind flew inside, freezing like a statue on one of the two chairs.
Tierce, standing by the entrance, looked with a frown at Rukh, who was trembling faintly, his eyes wide open to the point where you could probably see his optic nerve if you wanted.
"Brother of the knife..." the Noghri rasped, staring straight ahead. "There... There... There..."
"Did Jade go on the offensive?" asked Tierce, closing the cabin door and sitting opposite the bodyguard.
"I... I..."
"It's normal," said the Lieutenant Colonel with a serious expression, pulling open a drawer in the bedside table. "It was heading that way. Thrawn held out for a long time. Judging by the fact that I'm not being informed about a firefight in his quarters, the fortress has fallen."
Taking out a bottle of aged Vyrren, he poured its contents into two glasses.
Rukh downed one in a gulp.
Then a second.
The Guard refilled the glasses, but this time took one for himself.
Rukh continued staring straight ahead.
At least he'd stopped trembling.
"I... I ran..."
"It's normal," said Tierce, taking a sip. "When he charmed Isard back in the day, even I got a few grey hairs. But so far, everything's fine. And if she starts interfering with him — we'll get rid of the witch. I won't let her mess with his head."
"My eyes..." whispered Rukh, his teeth chattering against the rim of the glass. "Do you have any idea, she started undressing right in front of me... How am I supposed to live with that now?"
"Quietly," advised Tierce. "Speaking from experience. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn't forget something like that."