Serenno…
So much in that word.
And yet nothing particularly supernatural about it.
A planet in the D'Astan sector, easily found in any astronavigation guide in quadrant R-5.
Easy to reach via hyperlanes like the Hydian Way and the Selanost Spur.
This place could be called a paradise due to its mild climate.
Tropical forests, pristine and vast oceans, savannas intersected by picturesque mountains…
Beautiful cities designed in exquisite styles.
No narrow streets, no back alleys.
A world that seemed to have no problems.
Perhaps it was because of this — the gentle living conditions — that the local Great Houses, the aristocracy, considered themselves entitled to do whatever they wished and whatever their resources allowed.
They'd already paid for their treachery more than once, but history had taught them nothing.
About a thousand years ago, someone almost shot the then Supreme Chancellor of the Old Republic on Serenno.
During the Clone Wars, the Great Houses supported Count Dooku and the Separatists. But after the Clone Wars, Palpatine sent Darth Vader to Serenno to exact the Galactic Empire's vengeance on the six ruling Houses that had sided with the Separatists during the war.
During the so-called Purge of Serenno, the five counts — except for the new Count Dooku, who had been in exile during the Clone Wars — were given a choice: be killed by their eldest sons or be killed by the Sith Lord and his soldiers.
"The representative of House Borjinn killed his father first, followed by the rest…"
Hedge Spar took off his helmet and set it aside.
Along with the datapad he'd been studying a short while before.
"Interesting history this lousy place has," he said, looking up at the high domed ceiling of the Grand Convocation Chamber.
Grand Convocation Chamber (planet Serenno).
It was here that the members of the Great Houses of Serenno — the six main noble families — had gathered to discuss matters of planetary importance.
Members of the lesser aristocratic houses also took part in the parliament's work, though they served purely in an advisory capacity.
Again, if the history written by the locals was to be believed.
Spar could only boast of what he'd studied shortly before dropping his troops onto the planet.
Namely, that Serenno was a rather dirty place.
Rotten, to be precise.
Even after the defeat of the Confederacy of Independent Systems and the formal end of the Clone Wars nearly thirty years ago, the local aristocrats (secretly, of course) continued to support those who disagreed with the Separatists' defeat in the conflict.
During the local Imperial campaign to purge sectors of Confederate revanchists, Separatist forces that had fled from Muunilinst and Mygeeto into the Ciutric sector were financed by Serenno, while Serennian mercenaries helped break the Imperial siege of Binquarosa and aided the Separatist evacuation.
After the Battle of Endor, Warlord Zsinj established a base on Serenno and used the planet as the capital of his empire.
Now it was the capital of anti-government forces that were slowly being strangled.
One by one.
"Isn't it a little early to be sitting down to rest, Spar?"
The voice was sharp, agitated, and familiar.
The commander of the Mandalorian unit turned his head toward the source.
Captain Anilex, commanding the "Kavil's Corsairs" mercenaries, was moving toward him from the entrance to the Chamber. He stepped nimbly over the bodies of fallen fighters littering the space inside the domed Grand Convocation Chamber, as if dancing through a party of death.
"Do you have something to say to me, Anilex?" Hedge asked, rising from his chair and putting his helmet back on.
"Banta poodoo, yes!" the furious captain didn't mince words. "What the hell happened? Why didn't your Mandalorians suppress the planetary defense cannons right away? My forces took losses!"
"Is that so," Spar snorted, glancing through the stained-glass window, punctured by blaster bolts in dozens of places.
A storm was gathering in the distance. Each flash of lightning illuminating the sky momentarily silhouetted the grand structures on the horizon.
The cities of Serenno rose above the bleak horizon, turned into a mass grave over several days of fighting.
Thousands of soldiers from "Kavil's Corsairs" and nearly a hundred Mandalorians had given their lives to capture the Grand Convocation Chamber.
Many times more enemy soldiers and mercenaries had died trying to stop them.
Of course, they lost.
"I lost every ship in orbit!" Anilex roared in his face, stepping close and grabbing him by the chest plate. "My fleet is destroyed!"
Smiling, Spar punched his ally in the face, forcing him back several steps.
Tripping over a corpse, the captain fell on his backside.
"Your face is destroyed too," the Mandalorian commented, offering his hand. "And ninety-seven of my best men are dead too. And your 'former Imperials' can't fight for shit, so we had to do their job ourselves. Take control of the planetary turbolasers, cover the Grand Convocation Chamber. And you tripped over the body of one of my good comrades. I grew up in the same settlement with him, and with every single one of those who died today, yesterday, the day before, a week ago, and from the very moment we started fighting for the Dominion. I knew every one of them. And now I'm alive. And they're dead. They're almost like family to me. And your mercenaries… I doubt you knew a single one of them by name. So stop hysterics and cut the whining, alright? This battle was hard for everyone — both your forces and mine. But we secured a beachhead on the surface. It'll get a bit easier from here. So let's chalk it up to nerves, shake hands, and figure out how to deal with the remaining enemies. Deal?"
Anilex looked at the offered hand, then shifted his gaze to the bodies around him.
Then he grabbed the armored gauntlet and pulled himself to his feet, wiping the blood from his face.
"Deal," he said.
"Well, that's great," Hedge snorted.
He himself had long since come down from the adrenaline of battle.
Mandalorians don't take losses in battle as emotionally as Anilex.
To die in battle with a weapon in hand is the highest honor a Mandalorian man can earn.
Too bad all the other soldiers don't understand that.
Anilex probably could understand.
And it wasn't the dead mercenaries that bothered him as much as the ships of his organization turned to scrap.
Mercenaries could be easily recruited again and in plenty — they were expendable.
"Kavil's Corsairs" fought for money.
Mandalorians — by calling.
For the sake of their new homeland, the Dominion, which had given them a chance to prove themselves.
To restore the glory of their ancestors.
Anilex just wasn't used to losing so many people in one battle.
No matter, war would teach him.
"Now I've got a broken nose too," the Aksilian said without malice, touching the indicated body part.
Judging by his tone — the irritation from the losses was gradually fading.
Good.
"Better than a broken spine," Hedge commented, nodding toward the datapad. "Did you know the local aristocratic sons killed their fathers here on Darth Vader's orders? During the Purge of Serenno."
"I know there was some kind of meat grinder here, but not the details," Anilex admitted.
"Well, it turns out that patricides have been gathering here for nearly thirty years," Spar snorted, sweeping his hand around the Grand Convocation Chamber. "And most of the Great Families of Serenno ended here too. We killed plenty of people in fancy armor. I think by tomorrow morning half the local aristocratic families will find out they're left without their heads."
"Who exactly?" Anilex asked.
"How the hell should I know?" Hedge shrugged. "My job is to kill, not identify bodies. Let Pellaeon and his lackeys handle that."
"He's securing orbit," Anilex said. "Preparing to drop my men to the surface."
"If they fight as well as the ones you sent to help us, there'll be a lot more corpses," Spar lamented.
"My personnel have already been stripped for operations in other sectors," Anilex snapped back without malice. "I had to throw former Imperials from Kessel into the fight. Not the best, but I scraped up every reserve of anyone who's at least familiar with a weapon."
"I thought you had ten million people standing behind blaster rifles," Spar remarked.
"If only," Anilex winced. "That's exactly what would have happened, if Thrawn hadn't allowed free migration between sectors. A lot of people from the lower levels of Axxila realized that instead of becoming cutthroats, they could just take up farming, or train as a technician, a pilot, take out credits and buy freighters, get into shipping... The population outflow is significant. And it makes sense — if there's a chance not to pick up a blaster, then why not take that chance at a 'normal life'?"
"And why would they?" Hedge asked in surprise. "War is men's work. At least, that's how it is with Mandalorians."
"We are not Mandalorians," Anilex reminded him.
Both commanders were silent for a moment.
"The death of even a few aristocrats, supporters of the rebels, is already a big victory," Anilex said. "The rest will soon realize that the games are over and start thinking about how to save their own skins."
Spar snorted.
"If what Pellaeon said is true, then fat chance they'll come to surrender," he voiced his thoughts. "They're something like fanatics. Clones with washed brains who command their own armies. They'll fall back to their territories, their castles, their cities, dig in there. And we'll have to starve each and every one of them out, storm their positions."
"No, capturing the Great Dome of Assemblies means a lot to them," the mercenary commander said confidently. "That place is a symbol of power for the local aristocracy. And when power and its symbols are in the hands of the enemy, when there's no way out, the moment of understanding comes. And thoughts about the future. I think some of the aristocratic families will still surrender. Or, at least, part of their forces. If they want to live, of course."
He placed a reassuring hand on the Mandalorian's shoulder.
"This is an important victory for all of us," he said. "I understand how deeply you take such heavy losses among your own. Unlike us, you don't have that many soldiers in reserve. But I believe your assault on the Great Dome of Assemblies broke the back of the rebel leadership. So, soon we'll be able to enrich ourselves handsomely from the bonus pay. I think it's probably worth celebrating the capture of the beachhead. By tomorrow, the locals will be running to us on bent knees to surrender and tell us how best to conquer them."
Oh, no.
It's unpleasant to admit, but Spar was still wrong about people.
Anilex measures a military campaign by entirely different criteria than the Mandalorian leader.
That's the difference between them and simple mercenaries.
Hence the contempt for those of his kin who became headhunters or joined similar organizations.
Mandalorians fight first and foremost for glory, for the defense of their home — plundering wealth is the second item on the list.
For mercenaries, glory is far from the top priority.
He shrugged off the mercenary's hand and headed for the exit.
"Celebrate if you want," he said over his shoulder as he left. "We'll be licking our wounds and preparing for the next battles. Mark my words: the real war for possession of Serenno has only just begun."
* * *
."..Do you even understand what you've done?"
"I've got vacuum in my holds! Tell me this isn't true!"
"Where was your head when you made that decision?"
As one political officer used to say: "Instead of fighting and suffering, it's better to just wait."
And right now, the full beauty of this profound wisdom is unfolding before me.
It applied directly to relationships between men and women.
The political officer, after a few drinks, would sometimes drift into philosophy.
And for us, young conscripts at the time, most of whom hadn't yet dipped into the world beyond platonic love before their service, it was a chance to become listeners to his strictly pragmatic life philosophy.
The political officer, at his age, had incomparably more experience with the opposite sex.
And he clearly knew what he was talking about.
Not believing the political officer in the army in my time wasn't just a sin.
It was synonymous with wasting your years of service.
Because the political officer teaches you not only to love the Motherland and, in simple terms, explains to yesterday's schoolboy, the shepherd, and the college dropout who the Motherland's enemy is and why.
The political officer is a fount of knowledge.
An unquestionable authority.
And on some matters, the final word of truth.
So, when the political officer tells you: "Men are from Mars, women are from Venus," you shouldn't ask questions about how both of them got to Earth when your homeland's space technology, the most powerful nation on Earth, hadn't yet reached the level of ensuring mass interplanetary migration.
You just believe it.
Because, if you don't just listen to the political officer, but actually HEAR him, then through the prism of his words, you can make out the echoes of personal experience.
By the end of my compulsory service, for example, I understood perfectly well that the political officer had been in love twice in his life.
Once in school, and he carried that love through his army service and his college studies.
It shattered against the first weeks of hardship in the garrisons, which began right after he finished his specialized education, a hastily arranged wedding, and the end of his first deployment.
Marking the beginning of a life in conditions that the class's first beauty, the daughter of a regional-level intellectual, considered basic.
That's when the political officer realized that he loved not the woman he saw before him every day.
But the one he imagined, the one he dreamed of, the one he idolized.
Unfortunately, reality and imagination are completely different things.
Which the young lieutenant learned when his new wife left their cramped room in the officers' dormitory during his time on duty.
His second chosen one was already an experienced woman in matters of relationships with men.
And with her, the young officer learned what mercantilism, disguised as so-called 'love,' really was.
Here, everything turned out more prosaically.
As quietly as they met, they parted.
But he was grateful to each of these women for the life experience he gained.
To us, young and uneducated, it seemed like the old officer was just complaining and grumbling about a life that hadn't worked out for him.
Enlightenment began to dawn later — when letters from home started arriving, written in a young girl's hand and calligraphic script.
After reading such missives from home, there was no need to say or ask anything.
Everything was written on your face.
"She didn't wait."
The first to notice this, after the soldiers themselves, was the political officer.
And he had the right word for each of us.
Strangely enough, he never told any of us that "Women are fools, bitches" or "She'll be sorry she let such a good guy get away."
The political officer spoke from the soul, with feeling, taking the pain of each defender of the Motherland as his own.
And most importantly, sitting there with him, your feelings all tangled up, you understood that the man was speaking from the heart, not with official phrases you couldn't believe.
For many of us, this officer was probably the very trigger that brought us into the Armed Forces.
I clearly remembered his advice when, sniveling and crying, I told him my story.
How I carried her bag in school, how I took her to the circus and the movies, how we sat at the same desk, how I spent my last money on a bus ticket for her while I walked halfway across the city at night and got a scolding for my 'gallivanting.'
I told him a lot.
And in response, I heard that very phrase which is now running through my thoughts.
"The age of knights is over, and noble maidens have long since ceased to be noble, and often aren't even maidens anymore."
Noble deeds won't be appreciated.
Stepping over yourself and your principles will invariably be perceived as weakness and a submissive position.
A girl shouldn't be liked because of her appearance or the beauty of her figure — that's just a shell that will change with age.
A girl should be perceived by the heart as more than a friend, less than an ideal.
Just as they judge us by our actions, not just our words, so we must understand what they are really like.
She who is with you when you're in trouble — that's the right choice.
She who supports you in a difficult moment — that's the right choice.
She who descends on you with criticism and abandons you when you're in trouble — that was the wrong choice.
."..How many brains does a person need to pull a stunt like that?"
"I knew you were a complete idiot, but not this much!"
Listening to all this, I remained silent.
The voices frankly made not just my ears ache, but my very brain.
But it's too early to stop.
We need the right condition.
And, oddly enough, listening to all this, I came to the conclusion that psychology, at least human psychology, is universal for both worlds.
Both the one I lived in and the one I live in now.
But, despite these wild outbursts, I have to note that...
I'm doing fine.
I made the right choice.
Not in favor of beauty, status, or momentary gain.
But in favor of women who are close in spirit.
I won't say my behavior is correct.
I don't even have an excuse.
And all this 'Well, there were no promises,' that's just the position of a weakling who wants to shift responsibility for what they've done.
"Oh, what a worthless piece of trash you are, huh? What did I even see in you?"
"I've had plenty of idiots in my life, but you hold the crown among them! Isn't that crown too tight?"
I have to realize that I'll still have to make things clear.
Honestly, openly, looking them in the eye.
Half-truths, excuses, justifications — none of that is right.
There are two facts, two women...
And one position.
Which clearly goes beyond the bounds of decency.
"What are you silent for, you wretch? Who am I talking to?"
Interesting.
Can anything on the floor of a compartment be interesting enough to stare at for a good half hour?
However, I shouldn't kid myself.
It's just focusing attention to detach from what's happening around me.
"I gave you all of myself, all my tenderness, care, attention! I... I fell in love with you, you son of a bitch! And you... You got involved with her? With all of this?"
I have no idea what the upcoming conversation will turn into, but the fact remains.
One is ice.
The other is fire.
And they have something in common.
Not just the man they serve.
An independent character.
Possessiveness.
A desire for dominance, leadership, self-affirmation.
Both are capable of making a STAND.
Each within the limits of her own strength and competence.
Comparing them to each other is wrong.
This isn't a market and not a choice among the tastiest product that's unappealing due to its flaws, just to lower the price.
Each is good in her own way, and you can't take that away from them.
"You were asked a question! Why are you silent?"
"Got nothing to say, huh? No, only such an idiot with an atrophied brain could do something like this!"
But there's nothing to add either.
Just as there's no way to solve this problem right now.
I can't bring clarity.
Because any decision made by two out of three automatically infringes on the position of someone involved in the situation.
Involved because of my fault.
Why because of mine?
Because, as it turned out, the weak link in this chain is me.
In both cases, I was the one who lacked endurance.
Probably because both their psychological types are exactly the ones that attract me.
And I have to realize that what happened is directly my fault, if you can call it that.
"Silent? Oh, I'm so hoping you've swallowed your tongue and choked on it already. I just can't see it from here."
"Yeah, you'd better bite off that tongue you used to tell me all those beautiful words, pour your sayings into my ears about how righteous you are, that duty comes first and all that nonsense! You'd better have died then, and I wouldn't have had to waste my time understanding and accepting you, you damn liar and traitor!"
"Give me the chance — I'll personally rip his head off and shove it up his ass! He doesn't use the one on his shoulders for thinking anyway! You dumb eopie!"
"Why are you sitting there like you've lost your tongue? Nothing to say?"
"Let him be silent, the wretch! I have no intention of even seeing him near me anymore anyway!"
"Same here! What you did trampled all the opinion I had of you! The opinion I fell madly in love with! You'd better have died!"
Decision made.
When the time comes, the conversation won't be one-on-one, but with both.
At once.
So that each hears what I will say to the other.
That will be honest.
That will be right.
At least in my old-fashioned way.
But the situation needs to be clarified.
If only I knew how to start such a conversation...
Hmm...
Silence.
Unusual.
Has the torrent of filth that makes your ears curl up finally stopped on its own?
Have they run out of steam completely, or are they preparing for the next round?
I looked at the ship's chronometer.
Two hours and fifteen minutes.
That's how long the psychological attack lasted, an attack capable of destroying the confidence and masculinity of any member of the stronger sex.
Even though I only caught part of it, lost in my own thoughts, even what I heard was extremely unpleasant.
It becomes many times more unpleasant when you hear humiliation and being dragged through the mud from those who are dear to you.
And what becomes an absolute knockout is exactly that you're being mixed with dirt for doing something out of the best intentions.
In your understanding, of course.
"Guard," I addressed the stormtroopers, not taking my eyes off the man lying opposite me, whose pale face was swollen from tears. "Disable the intercom to the adjacent cells."
As soon as silence fell, the man lying before me, trembling, took his hands away from his ears and looked at me as if I were his savior.
"So then, Captain Horn," I crossed my legs. "I see you're now ready to talk. I'll repeat my question. But this time, only you will hear it, not Mrs. Terrik and your father-in-law. If you think about being evasive, I'll start asking questions so that they can hear them too. Is that clear?"
Humbled, broken, and crushed, Corran Horn nodded vigorously.
Naturally demonstrating his agreement to cooperate.
"Excellent," I allowed myself a smile. "I repeat the first question. What assignment did you receive from the head of the criminal organization controlling the government of the New Republic, known as the faction that split from the 'Zann Consortium,' the 'Silri Syndicate,' in exchange for a disguised ship?"
Swallowing the lump in his throat, his voice trembling, Corran Horn began to speak.
* * *
When you've already crossed the path of a very specific individual, your style of communication with them has to change.
Considering everything that connected me and Captain Horn in the past — particularly, manipulating his relatives for a subsequent series of operational combinations, like destroying the idealized image of the elite squadron under Wedge Antilles's command, demonstrating to Skywalker a solution to problems in the form of killing the 'absolute evil,' and some others, like disrupting his father-in-law's activities, the death of his grandfather, acquiring Jedi knowledge, and so on — starting a conversation with a gloomy Horn, who had clearly improved his mastery of the Force and his lightsaber, had to begin with a psychological breaking of the interrogated subject.
Hence, the idea of morally destroying his self-confidence, his cooperation with Silri to save his wife and father-in-law, found its realization.
There is no greater pain than the reproach of those for whom you've crossed the line you swore you never would.
No, I suspected even before the first battle of Kessel that Horn would turn to criminals for help.
But I thought it would be someone from the remaining allies or partners of his father-in-law.
Karrde, at worst.
But Silri...
Well, I think he deserved what he heard.
"How did you make contact with the 'Silri Syndicate'?"
"Marg Sonat approached me," Horn answered quickly, glancing fearfully at the walls of his cell, beyond which were his relatives. "He said he knew about my desertion from 'Rogue Squadron.' About my relatives' disappearance. That they are with you. He offered help. He said I would need to help him and his comrades get rid of Morut Dul on Kessel, by recruiting his gang. And with the help of that gang, get rid of the Dominion ships."
"Go on."
"Then I was supposed to contact him and report that the mission was complete. I wasn't told anything further."
"What else?"
"Marg assumed there was a possibility of failure in destroying the Dominion forces. In that case, I was to disguise the ship and stay in the system, observing the ships."
"Target?"
"Sonat was interested in the ships' travels near black holes or along unknown routes within the system."
In other words, the guess that Silri didn't just mention money laundering in the Empire, the late Grand Moff Tarkin, the criminals of the Outer Rim, and her lack of desire to capture Kessel as the goal itself of attacking the system, is no longer just taking the shape of an axiom; it's confirmed.
Horn's words about travels near black holes or unknown routes out of the system are direct proof that Silri at least knows about Tarkin's activities in creating a secret research laboratory.
"Were you told why the interest was specifically in those criteria?" I inquired.
"No," Horn swallowed, glancing at the wall to his right.
Thuds could be heard from it: Booster Terrik had worked himself into a real rage and was trying to get to his foolish son-in-law.
"Did you ask about the reason for such an interest in Kessel?"
"No. I wanted to destroy the Dominion and save my family."
How interestingly the priorities are set.
First — destroy, punish, kill.
And then save the family that had been in captivity for several months.
An exemplary husband and son-in-law, I must say.
And I should note that Horn's turn to the Dark Side seems to have not just begun.
It has fully blossomed.
"Who else did you meet besides Marg Sonat?"
"No one else."
"Were you promised a meeting with anyone capable of teaching you Force techniques?"
"Yes."
"With whom?"
"With Silri herself."
"Do you know who she is?"
"Yes. 'Rogue Squadron' took part in operations against the 'Zann Consortium.' I knew she was one of Zann's former henchmen."
"Lovely, just lovely."
"Where did the meeting take place?"
"On Nar Shaddaa. I flew there looking for Booster's contacts."
"Looking for help?"
"Yes, among his associates."
"Did you find any?"
"No."
"Reason?"
"Almost all either died at Rugos, or subsequently in various parts of the galaxy. Some went to Karrde."
"Why didn't you ask for help from the 'Claw'?"
A shadow passed over Horn's face.
"Obviously, I should repeat the question in the presence of your wife," I raised my hand to get the guard stormtrooper's attention.
"Karrde paid her attention in the past," Corran rattled off. "I was jealous of her towards him before the wedding."
"And after it?"
"Also!"
"Why didn't you turn to him for help?"
"I didn't want her to see him as a helper," Corran flinched.
Well, egocentrism is evident.
Substituting the very fact of rescuing the family from captivity with the figure of who exactly would save his wife and father-in-law.
Corran Horn is broken.
This is no longer a selfless hero.
This is an egoist, putting personal gain above the situation.
"Why did the 'Syndicate' allow for the possibility of the operation to destroy Dominion forces at Kessel failing?"
"I wasn't told."
"Did you ask?"
"No."
In other words, the thirst for personal revenge drowned out his CorSec operative's intuition.
And even his Jedi instincts.
Incredible, but a fact.
Of all people, I would have expected this from Horn last.
"Does anyone have copies of your transcriptions of your grandfather's work?"
Corran Horn hadn't wasted time during his time 'undercover.'
He was transcribing and studying the Jedi knowledge of his grandfather, which his other 'adoptive grandfather' had encrypted in the genetic code of plants.
"No."
"Why didn't you pass this data to the New Republic, Skywalker, or the Solo family?"
"I don't trust any of them."
Interesting.
I would even say disgustingly 'wonderful.'
Of course, all his words need to be verified.
I don't really believe that Horn broke so easily.
Yes, he might have been shocked that I wasn't dead, as reported on the 'HoloNet.'
Yes, he might have experienced emotional turmoil from the accusations, insults, and humiliations that rained down on him from his family and close ones.
But that he has turned into a harmless 'rabbit' obediently handing out information...
No, I don't believe that.
However, it's quite easy to check.
"Why did you meet with Marg Sonat, and not with Bossk?"
Horn's eyes began to dart, his face twitched involuntarily, his shoulder tilt changed, and his posture straightened.
"I didn't know he was cooperating with the 'Silri Syndicate.'"
"And I didn't say that he was. You gave yourself away, Captain Horn."
The calm with which I stated the insincerity of the former CorSec operative, the former pilot of 'Rogue Squadron,' the former hero of the Rebellion and the New Republic, made him flinch.
His expression changed — from distracted to embittered.
Focused.
His lips were pursed, his hands tensed, his fingers clenched into fists of powerless rage and anger.
His face twisted into a grimace of disgust.
"I didn't think I'd be seen through so easily," he said with contempt, rolling his neck. "You're good, Grand Admiral Thrawn. Ever thought of becoming an Imperial interrogator? It would suit you."
Maybe I am good.
Or maybe it's just that over my years of service, I've encountered a considerable number of officers who provided 'not entirely correct' data and then twisted and turned to avoid the consequences.
"I didn't 'see through' you, Captain Horn," the calm observation made him narrow his eyes and look at me suspiciously. "You deliberately reacted to the name Bossk, your father's killer, to observe my reaction. While I'm checking you, you're checking me."
Horn's lips, and the features of his generally noble face, twisted into a contemptuous expression.
"And here I was wondering how you could have screwed up so badly and died at Skywalker's hands," he said. "So I wasn't wrong. Set up someone in your place, having calculated everything in advance? As always — one step ahead of the enemy?"
More like several steps.
Even ahead of you, 'CorSec.'
But you don't need to know that.
"And now what?" Horn stretched with a satisfied grunt, finally demonstrating his complete disregard for what was happening outside his cell walls. "Going to send someone else over to spin me a story about how all this is the 'evil New Republic' deciding to catch me, and also steal the Jedi secrets?"
Well, this was expected.
A hardened detective like Horn couldn't fall for the simple trick that Mara Jade used on Corellia.
"Silence," he said with a smirk. "And I sensed your tame little mock-Jedi in the Force the moment she got close. You know, it's hard to forget the one who killed a man dear to you... And putting the pieces together wasn't that difficult. Who else knew about the Jedi legacy? No one but you. And your redhead's acting was pretty lousy."
She simply wasn't trying to seduce you and wasn't operating seriously.
"Well, I suppose denying the obvious is pointless," I said, spreading my hands as I calmly regarded the man.
"You weren't going to anyway," Horn snorted. "You were just waiting for me to say it to your face. And I never doubted we'd meet. That 'Captain Tschel' of yours was far too elegant in his work at Kessel. And you figured me out on that disguised ship pretty quickly too. So deftly... Using a half-Jedi to find a Jedi... An elegant solution. Very much in the style of the Imperial punitive machine."
A pity it wasn't psychiatry.
It seemed I had overestimated Horn.
Instead of becoming a rational threat to the New Republic as a rationalist Jedi, opposing the good-natured milksop Skywalker, he had turned into a tyrant reveling in his own power.
"Well," Horn continued with a satisfied smile, "and what will you do now, Grand Admiral? After I've found out you're alive. After I've uncovered your trick of suppressing the Force with those little brown lizards," he jabbed a finger toward the cage placed opposite his cell. "I even figured out how ships vanished from the Corellian Engineering Corporation shipyards — you used Niles Ferrier. Only, you somehow replicated his trick dozens of times... Which reminded me of a historical event. Thirty years ago, for the Republic and then the Empire, an entire army of identical beings was created. Clones. Who could do everything the originals could... Spill it, Grand Admiral," he grinned. "Where's your clone factory? How many did you manage to crank out? And why are you so protective of your cloning secret, yet don't bother cleaning up your battlefields as thoroughly? If you look hard enough, you can always find one or two identical faces in the vacuum..."
This was exactly what I respected Horn for in all the Expanded Universe works.
Smart, cunning, sharp.
But not in this case.
"Well, there you go," I said, putting on a smile. "And you said you hadn't spoken to anyone from the 'Silri Syndicate' except Sonat. Lying doesn't suit you, Captain Horn. And your Corellian luck won't help you either. Not with me, at least."
The smile vanished from Horn's face.
"What...?" he frowned. "How?"
"The more a Force-sensitive being learns about the Force, the more they consider themselves above others," I said. "And the more arrogant and contemptuous they become toward those around them. Especially those who follow the so-called 'Dark Side.' That's where they burn out. When overconfidence comes at the expense of logical thinking. The desire to show off their power and superiority tramples rationality and foresight."
Horn remained silent, glowering.
"You didn't discover anything on your own," I concluded. "Silri did it for you. Unlike you, she had time to comb through our battlefields after us. Back when galactic expansion and the solar wind hadn't yet carried away the wreckage and corpses our salvage crews missed. After Corellia, you didn't even have the opportunity to investigate our battlefields — you were wanted everywhere. So only she could have told you about the clones. In fact, after seeing our clones, she conceived the operation to destroy the cloning cylinders by setting a trap on Cartao. And you couldn't possibly have fallen to the Dark that deeply on your own so quickly. After all, the restraint — the legacy of the Halcyons and Horns — wouldn't just snap. You were helped, turned into a dark Jedi. Whether it was Silri herself and her Dathomirian magic, Palpatine's agents — Namman Cha and Kyrisa — posing as her subordinates, or some other subjects of the same ilk from her circle — the point is irrelevant. You are but a pale shadow of yourself. A man who stepped over his own principles..."
Horn snorted.
"As if I'm the only one," he said, feigning interest in something on the ceiling of his cell. "Everyone stumbles sooner or later. Even Jedi. Look, Skywalker's father carved up an entire Order. And the son — big hero of the Rebellion. Though now he's groveling at Palpatine's feet..."
Now that was quite interesting.
"Saw it yourself?" I inquired.
"Silri showed me," Horn admitted reluctantly. "She can do a lot. It's no wonder even on Dathomir they feared and respected her. But the fact that you survived — that she couldn't see. Probably," he looked at the ysalamiri cage, "because of those things. What do they do to the Force?"
"You don't need that information," I said calmly, summoning a stormtrooper.
The 501st Legion soldier silently approached and handed me a small remote control.
"What, decided to execute me?" Horn smirked.
"No," I admitted. "You will remain in captivity until I find a suitable solution for you. Maybe my scientists will dissect you for DNA strands — your genetic mutation is far too interesting, allowing you to absorb all kinds of energy. Perhaps it would be best to clone you, implant the necessary memories, and train you as a counter-intelligence officer. Natural brainwashing, of course, and absolute loyalty to the Dominion programmed in. Potentially, you could make a decent Jedi investigator. And a decent pilot, they say. Not Luke Skywalker, of course..."
Horn flinched as if struck.
"This Horn, he's a decent pilot overall, but not Luke Skywalker."
That was exactly how Wedge Antilles had characterized Corran Horn when he was still training to become a pilot for Rogue Squadron.
Judging by Horn's words, the comparison with Skywalker had stung and still stung.
And the remark that even Luke hadn't resisted the temptations of the Dark Side of the Force seemed to amuse Horn.
The hero was broken.
The galaxy didn't need such people.
Former heroes made the most hardened villains.
"There are plenty of options for a solution," I continued, clicking the first switch. "You were looking at the ceiling quite accurately, Captain Horn. See anything interesting up there? Or perhaps on the floor? You weren't staring at the floor for nothing while Mirax Terrik Horn and Booster Terrik were tearing you apart for cooperating with the renegades of the Zann Consortium."
"Closed vents," Horn licked his lips. "Which just opened... What is that?"
"Come now," I raised an eyebrow. "You're an operative, even if not on active duty. Can't you guess?"
"They don't look like shocker outputs," Horn studied the openings in the ceiling and floor with interest. "A gas chamber? Decided to gas me?"
"Why would I destroy something that could be useful?" I inquired. "No. And setting up an execution site in the middle of a prisoner holding area isn't the best idea. Too costly in planning."
"Interesting holding area you've got," Horn snorted. "Only three cells... For VIPs?"
"Something like that," I agreed. "My experience opposing Ysanne Isard taught me that sometimes, to avoid potential danger, you don't need to kill an enemy or a potential saboteur, even if they want you to. You freeze them. To avoid harmful consequences and find a solution. If one exists. If not — dissolving carbonite in acid is far less painful than killing."
"A carbonite chamber," Horn snorted. "You know, Thrawn, I've outplayed you. From the very first moment your troops with those lizards boarded my ship, I knew you'd capture me. You'd try to break me, recruit me, turn me into the same tame toy as that redheaded bitch who killed my grandfather. But no, Thrawn, you miscalculated..."
My attention was drawn to the second stormtrooper.
He entered the holding area, clutching a datapad.
"Sir, urgent report from the medical bay."
The portable device was placed in my hand.
My eyes quickly scanned the lines of the report.
After that, I nodded to the stormtrooper toward the cell I needed.
The soldier immediately headed for the door.
"Well, well," I said, looking at Horn. "Today is full of surprises, Captain."
"More than you know," he snorted. "Freeze me all your heart desires. But the fact remains. Whatever you try, however much you want to use me, any clone of mine will secretly hate you. The Force won't let you use my legacy for your own ends — it's written in my grandfather Nejaa Halcyon's notes. I win, Grand Admiral Thrawn. You're left with nothing! You've been shown up! But you won't accept it! You'll freeze me and look for a way to exploit me! But Ysanne Isard herself couldn't break me! And you won't break me either! I'll wait a year, two, ten — and I'll find a way to escape. And then — your entire Dominion will wash itself in blood."
"Amusing that you think so," I smiled, showing him the brought datapad. "Do you know what this is?"
"Do you take me for an idiot?" Corran Horn was taken aback. "A datapad. With an 'urgent report from the medical center.'"
He said the last phrase in a mocking tone.
"Correct," I confirmed. "Interesting... Honestly, I expected this a few years later. But... we have what we have. The medical test data indicates that you were, after all, glad to see your wife, Captain Horn. Obviously, the long separation and the desire for her to leave you alone quickly spurred you on to this feat. Thank you. Everything is developing strictly according to my plan for populating my own Jedi Order."
Horn frowned.
"What are you talking about?"
"About your wife's pregnancy," I said calmly, turning toward Mirax Horn's cell.
As expected, she had been standing outside her cell for some time, guarded by her escort.
"Forward," the clone commanded.
The woman, pursing her lips, silently approached me, looking toward Horn.
"Mirax," Corran jumped to his feet. "Is it true? We're having a child?"
The girl tried to hide her eyes, which were glistening with tears.
"Yes," she answered quietly.
"Let me out of here, you bastard!" Horn roared. "Let my wife and daughter go! If you need me — do what you want with me, but don't you dare touch them! Do you hear me, Thrawn! I'll find you if you so much as lay a finger on them! You have no right..."
"Right, Captain Horn?" I stared intently at the Corellian.
Our eyes met.
Mine — calm and confident.
His — furious and bewildered.
"I have no right?" I repeated, handing the datapad to the woman. "On the contrary, Captain Horn. As the ruler of the Dominion, I have every right to show attention and care to this child. I would even say — maximum attention. To him and his mother. Since she is here by my orders. Object Four, you may stop playing the role of the devoted wife."
The "Mirax Terrik" standing next to me instantly stopped acting like the meek little thing embarrassed about hiding her pregnancy from her "husband."
Just a woman's gaze, meeting the donor of genetic material for her offspring.
Horn looked at me in confusion.
Then he looked at her.
"No," he shook his head. "No, no, no! I would have sensed she was a clone! I would have... I would have known! I sensed clones on Kamino! I know their radiation! I would have sensed it from Booster and Mirax!"
"That's exactly why I only cloned Mrs. Horn," the explanation knocked Corran Horn's legs out from under him. "Your brother-in-law is a difficult target for cloning himself. Back then, we didn't understand that — because of his eye prosthesis, he can't be cloned without remembering it. Your wife has no irremovable augmentations. So yes, you didn't recognize the clone because you hadn't seen another source of that same radiation nearby. And when you last saw her, you didn't yet possess sufficient Force abilities."
"You're a monster, Thrawn!" Horn ground his teeth.
"Perhaps," I shrugged. "But at least I don't hide it behind a mask of virtue, calling mass murder of legitimate authorities 'fighting for a just cause.' I needed agents of influence among my enemies — so I created them. And inserted them. Mrs. Horn was one of them."
"What happened to the real Mirax?" Horn asked weakly.
"She, like her father, became a tester for a new type of prison," I said, trying not to betray myself. "Unfortunately, your wife is less mentally stable than her father. Irreparable psychological damage, the correction of which in the clone required significant time. We had to create the clone from an earlier sample — obtained right before she was placed in the cell. And then — we had to make up the difference between the clone's memory and the original's. That's actually why the exchange and meetings were always postponed until the last moment. But don't worry. Your wife passed into the next world without suffering or nightmares — my medics saw to that. And the new Miss Terrik Horn," I looked at the clone, "is far more composed. She will raise a fine son, Captain Horn. Don't worry about that. I think you should know that, based on indirect signs, the fetus is showing elevated midi-chlorian counts compared to the mother. Even higher than yours..."
"You've infected my child with something?!"
"I? Nothing. It simply means the child could potentially become a Jedi stronger than you yourself," I explained. "It's a good thing your megalomania is acquired, not an actual mental diagnosis. Otherwise, I'd feel sorry for the little one. Or the little girl. In any case, he and his mother will receive proper care and attention. This child will become a good citizen of the Dominion."
"Thrawn, I will take my child from you..."
I didn't bother listening to the rest of the Corellian's self-deluded hysterics.
I simply pressed the center (of three) red button on the remote control all the way down.
But instead of thick cortosis vapor from above and below, pillars of flame appeared, turning Horn's body into a pile of ash in seconds.
I slowly turned my head toward the guard stormtrooper.
"It was supposed to be carbonite," I reminded him.
"Sir, carbonite is the far-left red button," he explained. "The center one is cremation. Far right is tranquilizer gas. I conducted the briefing before the interrogation began."
And my mind had been far away from here...
"Well," I said, rising from my chair and looking at the charred pile of ash, "it seems the Force itself willed it."
Mirax Terrik looked indifferently at the remains of the genetic material donor.
Then she looked at me.
And indifferently headed for the exit.
I wonder, will she ever utter a single word about the fact that she isn't a clone, but voluntarily agreed to cooperate with us when she found out what her dear husband had done?
Not without the help of an Isard duplicate, of course, she agreed.
And she even thought it was all a deception...
Hmm... An interesting slip happened.
The real Object Four is also a woman.
But the complete opposite of Mrs. Terrik Horn.
Though, the donor there is different too.