Ten years, six months, and five days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, sixth month, and fifth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year, second month, and twentieth day since the Arrival.)
Over millennia of exploring the galaxy, many jokes had been made about how to get to this planet.
For most of them, the locals could knock your teeth out and break your bones, so when you're undercover here for a long time, you start to understand what you can talk about and what you shouldn't.
Even the most harmless joke, like "To get to us, take a right off the Hydian Way," could get you in trouble with the locals, because that joke was born during the Imperial occupation.
And the Imperials made it up too, who had really made the locals' lives hell, so they're hated here.
As is everything associated with them.
Unlike personal strength and a love of weapons.
So you shouldn't joke here.
Well, of course, unless you're strong enough or armed enough to punch back properly.
Given the current realities, there's a good chance you might even manage it.
But that's not guaranteed.
Kadmis took a sip of Corellian whiskey, which graced his palate and throat with a noble velvet of flavors.
He caressed the Togruta waitress with his gaze, following the movement of her lovely hips all the way to the kitchen.
At least, that's how it should have looked to anyone watching.
Because every one of those silent, armored beings flooding the cantina could seriously ruin things.
They could, if Kadmis had come here alone.
However, despite his youth — he wasn't even forty yet — the agent had a pretty good grasp of operational work and knew how to cover his tracks during an operation.
Especially necessary when dealing with Mandalorians.
Actually, he was interested in one of the cantina's private booths, one of many, but nonetheless special in its own way.
Not only because two sentients of interest to him had been sitting there for an hour.
But also because a meeting was supposed to happen today that could significantly change the political landscape near the Hydian Way.
And so, Galactic Alliance intelligence agent Kadmis Fuon, sipping his Corellian whiskey and listening to his allies' voices, watched to see how the situation would unfold.
Galactic Alliance intelligence agent Kadmis Fuon.
The agent had no doubt that someone wasn't going to survive their visit to this cantina today.
And, just in case, it was better to get drunk beforehand — it would disinfect wounds from the inside.
"Kadmis," Jan Ors's voice sounded in his ear. "Observing speeders approaching with guests."
The agent yawned politely, leaned back on the couch, non-verbally signaling that she should await his signal.
What kind — Ors and Katarn knew.
But first, he needed to be sure that what was happening here was exactly what they had come for.
* * *
There aren't many planets in the galaxy like Mandalore.
Planet Mandalore.
Located in the fifth orbital position of its namesake star system, this planet became the birthplace of a multi-species, culturally and customarily unified, artificial race known as the Mandalorians.
Those who know the history of this race are well aware that "Mandalorians" are not representatives of a single species, gender, race, or anything else.
It's an idea that takes root in the minds of various sentients and guides them through life until death.
An idea of strength, superiority, violence, and a code of honor alien to the understanding of others.
This planet was once beautiful, covered in rich natural landscapes, largely untouched due to its sparse sentient population.
The world was covered in lush forests of veshok trees, dense jungles, sprawling hills and meadows well-suited for agriculture, inhospitable deserts with white sand, and numerous rivers, lakes, and seas.
It was also the only widely known world in the galaxy, besides its moon Concordia, that possessed unique, nearly indestructible iron ore known as beskar, an element capable of withstanding even lightsaber blows.
The history of Mandalore cannot be told in a few words.
Over the millennia, the Mandalorians had been allies and enemies of numerous galactic governments and interstellar alliances.
And today, Agent Bravo XI was bringing his work on this planet to a climax.
Whether he gained allies or enemies for the Dominion here depended entirely on him.
And on how he handled the situation.
He sat in a cantina booth, slowly sipping cold mineral water — not particularly beneficial, but quite expensive for certain reasons.
There weren't many willing to transport cargo to the Mandalorian Sector, given the current political realities and the expansion of neighbors like the Imperial Space or the Dominion.
Mandalorian Sector.
The door to the booth slid aside almost silently, admitting a sentient clad in sand-gold Mandalorian armor.
Sergius deliberately took another slow sip, noting that a comlink was built into one of the newcomer's gloves.
Otherwise, the guest's excessive armament (compared to patrons of any other galaxy cantina) was noticeable.
A Verpine shotgun, a clearly custom-made sniper rifle, a VESCAR-34 blaster pistol.
The agent's experienced eye didn't miss that the guest also carried a triangular blade hidden in a vambrace.
On his belt — a small, pointed chain of dura-steel, easily transformed from decorative ornament into a garrote.
All in all — a Mandalorian out for a stroll.
"Talk," the newcomer sat opposite him without asking, his faceless Mandalorian helmet's whole demeanor displaying a clear reluctance to be here, in this company.
"Interesting fact," Sergius set aside his empty glass and looked his interlocutor straight in the eye. "All Mandalorian conquest campaigns began on their home planet..."
"You decided to teach me the history of my own world?" the newcomer's voice was distorted by the armor, but annoyance couldn't be hidden even by a first-class helmet vocabulator.
"But, in addition, Mandalore has always been that quiet harbor to which its children returned," Sergius continued. "For example, it was home that the Mandalorian Neo-Crusaders returned to, licking their wounds after the Mandalorian Wars ended. It was from here that they scattered across the galaxy when the Jedi broke their spine..."
"Listen here, you punk," a blaster pistol appeared over the table with lightning speed, its cold muzzle staring at the Dominion agent's chest. "I came here for a specific reason. And if you think you can mess with my head..."
"Then... what?" Sergius clarified, pouring himself another glass of mineral water from the bottle. "Shoot me?"
"Or drag you out of here on a chain like a wild strill," the Mandalorian offered an alternative.
"Go on," Bravo XI said calmly. "This story actually intrigues me to some extent."
"It seems you don't understand who you're dealing with," the Mandalorian shook his helmet. "No matter, I'll pound it into your thick skull..."
"Will it work?" Sergius asked. "Just... Let's assess the prospects? We're in the very center of Keldabe, in a well-known Mandalorian eatery. 'Oyu'baat'," the agent clarified. "I hope my Mando'a pronunciation is correct?"
"Tolerable, but knowing our language won't save your bones if you keep feeding me vacuum."
"Nobody's doing that here," Sergius's voice grew harder. "You said you came for a specific reason," he slowly pulled a data chip from his breast pocket and slid it across the table into the Mandalorian's hand. "Here it is. As sorry as I am to report it, there's more than one reason you crawled out of Kyrimorut and actually showed up for this meeting. I'd even say there are about two dozen. Although, I suspect there are actually a lot more, given the help you gave the Altisian Jedi and the common soldiers who followed you, Sergeant, thirty years ago. And it's the fear that what you did all those years ago could now endanger your entire clan that made you respond to my offer, crawl out of your hideout, send your children and allies here ahead of time, Kal'buir, and stage a little performance."
The Mandalorian slowly put the chip into a pouch on his belt.
But he didn't remove the blaster from the table.
He just squeezed the trigger slack.
"Let's say you know what you're talking about," the Mandalorian said slowly. "That gives me even less reason to let you live."
"Oh, really?" Sergius asked.
"Got something to offer so I don't fill you full of tibanna, kid?" a voice came from under the helmet.
"Well, now," Sergius leaned back on his bench. "Let's think about the options. I could list a good dozen, but let's stick to the main ones. You consider them your children, Sergeant, don't you? Adopted children, as is the custom among Mandalorians."
"I'm starting to lose patience."
"I wonder, do your adopted children lose theirs when they find out that their genetic brothers, those who survived those accelerated thirty years of oblivion, are voluntarily returning to service? Passing on their knowledge and skills, picking up weapons, training, fighting, getting wounded, going through rehabilitation courses, and getting ready to fight on the front lines again? Especially given that they're now biologically eighty, while your adopted children are just over forty?"
"Fifty-two," the Mandalorian corrected him.
"Oh," Sergius smiled. "Thank you for the confirmation. So you did manage to halt aging almost immediately after the Clone Wars ended. Allow me to note that this is a truly scientific breakthrough..."
"You talk too much," the Mandalorian cut him off.
"It's the job. On the other hand, we could talk in the Mandalorian language," Sergius offered.
"It's unlikely you're one of us," the interlocutor snorted. "Just a poser feeding me propaganda slop to play on pity or something."
"I don't need your pity," Sergius said. "And you know that perfectly well. I need your adopted children, Sergeant Skirata."
The blaster muzzle rose just slightly, but now it pointed directly at the Dominion agent's head.
* * *
"We had to work considerably hard to combine the developments from the proton beam cannon prototype and the 'Twilight' project, what we obtained after the Battle of Mustafar, as well as from our scouts on the stationary superlaser installation on Dubrillion destroyed by rebels seven years ago," the young man licked his dry lips, trying to look straight ahead. "We had to work at the limit of what the schematics and technical capabilities could offer, partially recovering losses in equipment and circuits through inverse planning and..."
The blue-skinned man standing next to him, in a snow-white tunic with aureidium counter-rank insignia, looked with interest at the faltering youth who couldn't seem to find the right words.
"Reverse engineering?" Grand Admiral Thrawn prompted.
"Yes, sir, yes," Alexander rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, mentally cursing himself seven ways to Sunday.
To embarrass himself like that!
And right in front of Thrawn himself!
No, his nervousness was understandable — it's not every day a Grand Admiral walks into your lab, one who was supposedly dead six months ago.
Considering that the head of the advanced beam weapon development department, Captain Niclara Varnilian, hadn't even batted an eye when the Supreme Commander showed up, he must have known Thrawn wasn't a ghost or a hallucination.
He could have at least said something!
Well, no, probably he couldn't...
Such information was undoubtedly a state secret.
It wasn't for nothing that Thrawn had arrived accompanied by an entire fleet, plus three Executor-class Super Star Destroyers.
A subtle hint that the Grand Admiral's secret was guarded by thousands of heavy turbolasers.
"So, what is your verdict, Engineer Oni?" Thrawn's voice could almost be called fatherly.
Well, with a small stretch, if you're being politely spoken to by a father, beside whom a grey-skinned Noghri bristling with knives is grinning, behind him stands Colonel Grodin Tierce, whose exploits in the Karthakk system are known a little more than the laws of celestial mechanics, but after his assault on criminal stations, no one, like with a black hole, wants to cross paths with him — sheer self-preservation plays a trombone in the spot where one usually sits.
Engineer Alexander Oni.
Alexander scratched the back of his head.
"Sir... I... I'm not exactly a weapons engineer..."
"I am aware of that. You are a naval architect engineer, a native of Corellia, who worked at the Corellian Engineering Corporation shipyards for two months out of the required five-year obligatory contract under your educational sponsorship," the Grand Admiral displayed his knowledge. "You fled to the Dominion, offering your services in military shipbuilding, but due to lack of experience in your specialized field, you were assigned to the advanced beam weapon development department at the request of Engineer Reyes as a conscript engineer-trainee. However, this in no way affects the answer to the question I asked you moments ago. I hope I don't need to repeat it?"
It would have been better to just record it on a datapad screen, because his emotions were geysering.
And the desire not to embarrass himself before the Supreme Commander was as great as his passion for building warships.
"Sir, may I speak frankly?" Alexander took a deep breath, feeling everything inside him trembling.
"The regulations provide for nothing else," Thrawn noted.
"Sir, proton beam weapons are a dead-end path for developing compact superlaser technology," the young man exhaled.
Actually, he was only partly human, having a Sephi ancestor in the distant past.
What gave him away were his pointed ears — a subject of teasing and name-calling in childhood.
"Explain."
"We have an example of extremely inefficient beam technology," the young engineer explained. "The maximum range of the weapon we've achieved, using a solar ionization reactor as a power source, is twenty-five standard units. With the reactor at full load. In other words, using this technology as shipboard armament means that to accumulate the energy for a shot, the ship would have to go without power from the main energy plant for five standard minutes. This means that for five minutes, a Star Destroyer or any other platform with such a power source would exist only on power from backup reactors or batteries. Shield strength drops proportionally along a curve in direct relation to weapon recharge time. In other words, at close range to an enemy ship, the carrier vessel would have to remain on reduced power for five minutes to deliver a strike with the energy beam complex."
"Which can destroy an enemy vessel with a single shot," Thrawn reminded him.
"If the ship isn't larger than a heavy cruiser — yes," Alexander nodded. "And it also depends on the quality of the armor, the power of the enemy's shields, and so on. The original — the proton beam weapon — didn't have the same destructive power as our product; it only damaged the hull with virtually negligible behind-armor thermal effects. That's why only small resources from the main ship's plant were spent on it. We, in accordance with the technical specification, built a product with maximum continuous beam effectiveness... Sir, it's simply inefficient."
"Including when using the installation in a throttled mode?" Thrawn inquired.
"In that case, efficiency drops significantly. The beam's destructiveness is primarily based on the volume of plasma transferred continuously during the attack. A throttled beam type, like a giant turbolaser, would lead to creating... well, an ordinary planetary turbolaser like the W-165, but five times more powerful."
"In other words, instead of a working copy of the 'Death Star' superlaser, we got our own version of a planetary turbolaser?"
"Almost, sir. But I'd call it a 'planetary super-heavy laser', because with one shot, for example, it can strip a Corellian corvette of its shields, and with a second — pierce its hull. Lengthwise."
"And what about a ship not protected by a shield?" the Grand Admiral clarified.
"So its commander is an idiot," Alexander thought.
"A basic charge will inflict significant damage even on the strongest armor. But again, the nature of the damage depends primarily on the armor's quality, the ship's size, and the number of armored bulkheads, because the charge weakens exponentially. The formula is simple — the more obstacles, the more the charge is weakened."
"Lady Varnilian indicated in her report that you integrated a charge adjustment function into the device," Thrawn said, as if in passing.
"Yes, sir," Alexander said, faltering. "For the most part, it's a gimmick, but I thought, why not have the ability to regulate the charge's power? I was hoping to get better range out of it, but the dispersion effect is relentless, and the heat loss..."
"So our installation can fire both powerful and practically useless low-power charges?"
"Yes..."
"Would using them still require accumulating the full charge of the solar ionization reactor into the installation's buffer?"
"Um... No, sir. At minimum power, we could power the installation directly from the reactor."
"Which wouldn't leave our ships helpless in battle against an enemy. Tell me, would destroying asteroids, or matter with a similar structure, also require a full charge from the installation?"
He felt his heart ready to leap out of his chest and run away somewhere.
"No, sir. If we're talking about a rocky asteroid, without metallic impurities, then the density of the matter is much lower than that of the metal alloys used in armor."
"Consequently, it would be more profitable to use the installation to destroy asteroids rather than ships. The energy cost would still be the same — full reactor power?"
Wait, hold on!
The device was created to fight enemy capital ships — battleships and cruisers!
Where did this talk about asteroids even come from?
"Sir, I apologize, but I can only speak theoretically, as we didn't study this issue during the trials."
"With the budget that was allocated to the project, you didn't shoot up a few asteroids?" Thrawn inquired.
"We shot a few, of course, sir," Alexander said tightly. "But... only for calibrating the targeting systems and adjusting the output stream, to save target ships. However, those tests can't be considered a proper sample. But I dare to assure you, the developed mechanism, despite its uselessness, costs practically nothing. I worked with the technology from the Venator's cannons, upgrading them a bit and..."
The red eyes' gaze burned him down to the soles of his boots.
That was it.
Thrawn said nothing.
But no words were needed there.
Everyone present understood that the advanced beam weapon development department had spent six months of work and ten billion credits just to prove the obvious — a superlaser of this size was useless.
And building another Death Star was just stupid, because...
No, seriously, what kind of idiot spends that kind of money building a station whose purpose is to destroy planets?
Okay, built it, and then what?
It's alone.
As practice shows, even the destruction of such a behemoth shook the Empire's economy, not to mention the losses in personnel, equipment, and standard machinery.
All that scrap metal could have easily been melted down to make Star Destroyers, multiplying their numbers across the galaxy, thus increasing troop presence in dozens of regions.
Sure, Imperials love big guns and nothing else, but they could have at least asked the Corellians for advice before churning out useless junk...
"Excellent work," Thrawn said. "Your development of a cheap power regulation module for turbolasers has allowed the Dominion to advance in solving a strategic problem."
...because who else but the Corellians could share their experience in building a huge fleet of light forces, which...
Wait a minute!
How can a system that turns a turbolaser into a signal flare be useful? It won't inflict any real damage on an enemy shield!
"Against an energy shield — yes," oops, it seemed he'd said his thoughts aloud. "But now imagine an enemy using gravitational disturbance technology to protect their ships, based on the biological capabilities of specially bred animals to create gravitational distortions for defense."
Um... What?!
Alexander had fled Corellia because he believed the Dominion's cause was right, and the regime established by Thrawn was just and logical for the existence of hundreds and thousands of different intelligent species within one state.
And he had to admit, the propaganda hadn't lied.
Only...
What kind of idiot would create black hole-like defenses for their ships?
"You can take my word for it — the Yuuzhan Vong don't suffer from a lack of intelligence," Thrawn replied.
Alexander squeezed his eyes shut.
He'd said his thoughts aloud again!
Wait a minute!
"Yuuzhan Vong, sir?!" he tensed up.
Senior engineers sometimes discussed rumors about a race from beyond the galaxy that used organic technology.
He'd even heard the Dominion had some examples.
And for some reason, the Grand Admiral considered them the biggest threat to the galaxy, as if there weren't others...
"Exactly right, Engineer Oni," the Grand Admiral said. "You've noticed correctly. The device is useless against metal ships, as it puts our starships in a vulnerable position. However, for Yuuzhan Vong starships, such a device could prove to be an extremely unpleasant surprise. In fact, this is the result I was hoping for when I brought in young, unblinkered specialists to work on this project. And you have repaid the trust placed in you a hundredfold. Your probationary period is over. If you apply as much zeal to designing ships for the Dominion as you have to mastering knowledge in a field foreign to you — that of a weapons engineer — I will sleep a little more soundly, knowing the future of our fleet is in capable hands. So, allow me to indulge my curiosity — do you still wish to pursue a career as a shipbuilder, or would you prefer to continue your path as a weapons engineer?"
The near-human nervously twitched the tips of his pointed ears.
"Ah... Can I combine them?" he clarified, understanding that you have to grab luck by the tail when it comes to you willingly.
This was that exact moment.
Then the unimaginable happened.
Thrawn smiled.
And extended his right hand to him, having freed it from its white glove, which Alexander grasped like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver.
Who else, under the age of twenty-five, gets a handshake from the Supreme Commander of the Dominion — who, excuse the Corellian, bends half the galaxy over a barrel?
And who then declares:
"Welcome to a new level of professional audacity, Shipbuilder Oni. I'm certain I have at least one acquaintance who will not be pleased by the rising competition."
His joyful mood vanished as quickly as matter falling into a black hole.
"Don't tell me I'll have to work with Shipbuilder Zion?" the young near-human grimaced.
Thrawn's smile, combined with the blazing fire of his demonic eyes, could only be called sardonic.
* * *
"And more precisely — their blood, isn't that right?" voiced a retired sergeant of the Grand Army of the Republic, one of the clone soldier instructors, Kal Skirata, stating the obvious under the current circumstances.
Having lived nearly ninety years, this elderly man was still strong, in good shape, and ready to transition from words to violence at the first sign of need.
Despite being born not on Mandalore, but on Kuat, after being orphaned he got a foster father who gave the boy his surname.
From what Sergius knew about him, Kal was not the kind of man you could easily play word games with.
But he honored traditions and respected those Mandalorians who had once helped him.
Well, Sergius had executed his independent plan, which, as his companion had predicted, hadn't worked.
Obviously, he'd have to move to the backup plan.
And he really didn't want to think about what would happen if that one failed too.
In that case, a nuclear bombardment of Mandalore really would be the best way out of the current situation.
When a fight becomes inevitable, you have to strike first.
Mandalorians absorb this simple truth with their mother's milk.
Kal Skirata.
The old Mandalorian's voice was dry, stern, and categorical.
"Do you think only your adopted children deserve to live a normal life, instead of one that flashes by at double speed?" the Dominion agent clarified.
"I did what I did for the people close to me, not for some abstract guys with Jango Fett's DNA," Kal Skirata rasped. "And there's nothing to reproach me for here."
"Oh, no one's talking about hypocrisy, Sergeant Skirata," Sergius assured him. "Who am I to blame you for convincing the elite commando squads of the Grand Army of the Republic, the Null-class ARCs, to desert, for helping Jedi hide from the Empire's wrath — some of whom became members of your clan, like Bardan Jusik, or allies of Clan Skirata, like Arligan Zey, ARC Sull, or Spar..."
"Decided to show off your knowledge, Imperial?" Kal Skirata inquired.
"Oh, I mean no harm by it," Sergius assured him. "I'm just trying to solve a puzzle. And I hope, with your help, I'll succeed. So, shall we continue our conversation, or are you not confident enough in your adopted children — the ones inside the cantina and the ones surrounding it outside — that you'd rather hurry out of here without even thanking me for the information I've provided?"
"You're overly confident if you think that waving your logic around, unbacked by anything substantial, can interest me," said the Mandalorian in the gold-sand armor.
"But I'll try anyway," Sergius said. "If you want, you don't have to answer, Sergeant. I won't be offended."
"Thanks for the permission, you little runt."
"So, you and your people left the Republic before its collapse," Sergius said. "I think it's because your loyal commandos found out that the Clone Wars weren't about the Republic's survival at all. It was Supreme Chancellor Palpatine's game and his struggle for absolute power. You didn't like what the galaxy was turning into, so you, and a few of the Cuy'val Dar — 'Those Who No Longer Exist' the Mandalorians hired over forty years ago by Jango Fett to train the Grand Army of the Republic — prepared and deserted to Mandalore. Hid in your sanctuary, Kyrimorut, started other lives, fought to eliminate the clones' accelerated growth genes..."
"Decided to give me a history lesson?"
"No, I'm just observing your reaction, Sergeant Skirata," Sergius explained. "You handled the secrecy and security of your sanctuary so well that, frankly, I was expecting some kind of reaction to the fact that I know practically every step you've taken. Although, not just yours. I also know about the service of Darman and Niner in the Fortieth Squad of Imperial commandos. And that they deserted from there under the cover story of hunting Jedi."
"Go on, boy," the Mandalorian snorted.
"I will, without a doubt, Sergeant," Sergius said calmly. "Just as I'm assessing you during this conversation, you're looking through your memories for times you might have slipped up. That's perfectly logical."
"Let's skip the long preamble. Licking the shit of the past is beneath a Mandalorian," Skirata suggested. "Let's get back to that part of our conversation where you're listing the reasons why I shouldn't just shoot you right now. You seem to have lost your train of thought."
"Indeed," Sergius nodded. "I did stray from the topic somewhat. So, the main reason you won't touch me isn't just that my special forces are currently near Kyrimorut, which you've left without proper cover."
"One shot at any member of my clan, and I'll gut you," the retired GAR sergeant warned.
"Relax, Kal'buir," Sergius advised. "Do I, or those I represent, look like people who would open fire on former clone soldiers, commandos, women, children, or former Jedi who've done them no harm?"
Skirata was silent for a few seconds.
"If you're waiting for an answer to a rhetorical question, you won't get one," he declared.
"Is that what you said to the current Mand'alor, Fenn Shysa, your good acquaintance, when, after driving the pro-Imperial lobbyists and bureaucrats off Mandalore, he proved unable to fight off the Zann Consortium, and now intends to take the bait from the Galactic Alliance and join them?" Sergius inquired.
"Ah," the Mandalorian drawled. "So that's what this is about... Trying to change the subject in the hope something will catch my interest? Don't bother, boy. I don't meddle in politics."
"Your mistake," Sergius stated. "You do know that the Mandalorian Sector now neighbors the Dominion, don't you?"
"Heard something about it."
"Do you have any idea what will happen if Mandalore becomes part of, or allied with, the Galactic Alliance?" the agent clarified.
"Let me think... You'll sick your 'Butcher of Atoa' and his big ship on us?"
"No, Rear Admiral Shohashi has his own goals and objectives. But you're right about one thing — if Mandalore joins states hostile to the Dominion, the time for talk will be over. Your sector will be blockaded, its planets — one by one — will be captured."
"Remind me, history buff, how many times have people tried to conquer Mandalore?" Skirata inquired. "And how many times did it work?"
"Impressive bravado, Sergeant, but inappropriate," Sergius said seriously. "The Dominion is perfectly fine with the Mandalorian Sector's neutrality. But not an alliance with the Alliance."
"And why's that?" Skirata chuckled. "Afraid you can't conquer us without your Grand Admiral?"
"No one will conquer Mandalore," Sergius said quietly. "It will simply be wiped from the face of the galaxy."
"Now I understand why you decided to talk to me, a friend of the Mand'alor, rather than to him directly," the retired sergeant said after a pause. "After words like that, you definitely wouldn't have walked out of that meeting."
"Yes, I'd probably have been carried out feet first," Sergius agreed. "But that's not even the point, Sergeant."
"Then what is it? Enlighten me, you milk-sop. So far, your words and veiled threats haven't caused me anything except boredom," the Mandalorian said, using his free hand to mimic stifling a yawn. "Lousy entertainment, honestly."
"No one is threatening anyone here," Sergius made it clear that he didn't take the words about being killed by Skirata's hand as a real threat. "The Dominion is offering common sense: refuse to align with the Alliance, the New Republic, or anyone else. Neutrality suits everyone."
"Except for the neighboring sectors you've captured," Skirata reminded him. "Were they also a threat because they wanted to join the Alliance?"
"No, they didn't."
"Seems like many of them were even pro-Imperial..."
"And every single one of them was a satellite ally of Tyber Zann," the agent explained.
This time, the Mandalorian didn't have an immediate comeback.
"Let's say you're not trying to pass off artificial Tibanna as natural," Skirata said slowly. "Do you have proof?"
"You'll find it on the chip," Sergius said. "I took the liberty of adding information about the Alliance and New Republic's recruitment efforts to track down Jedi, which is what you wanted from me."
That very data had been the reason he'd managed to arrange a meeting with Skirata in person.
"And? Am I just supposed to take your word for it?"
"Why would you?" Sergius said in surprise. "You can simply go through the list of MandalMotors employees — which is also on the chip — and take blood samples from them."
"What for?"
"You'll be surprised to learn that they're all clones. And not of Kaminoan origin."
The Mandalorian was silent again.
"What game are you playing, Imperial?"
"I'm a Dominionite," Sergius corrected him, deciding it was time to curb the interlocutor's ego. "Firstly. Secondly, part of the Zann Consortium really wasn't destroyed. More than that — it split. One group of survivors is holding the Corporate Sector now, and the other is busy building a new clone army on Kamino. And building a fleet on Rothana. Modernized Keldabe-class battleships and Crusader-class corvettes, at that. Quite advanced designs, I must admit. Which aren't available to MandalMotors. At least, not for sale. And imagine my surprise, and that of my colleagues, when we found out that the improvements for those specific ship types were all carried out inside the Mandalorian corporation, so that the new masters of Kamino could get an entire fleet."
"MandalMotors doesn't produce ships of the types you mentioned, Imperial."
"Of course not. They just developed the upgrade schematics. And it just so happens that your leading designers and engineers are clones who are doing work no one else is. So, is Mandalore so rich that it can afford to spend thousands of man-hours creating ship designs that will never be built in metal? Forgive me, but I don't believe it."
Skirata was silent for a while, then said, "How interesting this is," he said. "First, you lure me here with talk about how the democrats are looking for ways to get to my Jedi allies. Then you sweet-talk me about sharing data on slowing down the clones' accelerated growth. And now it's a tall tale about clones being everywhere and criminals building a clone army... Isn't that a bit much information for one meeting?"
"My task is to obtain the cure for the clones," Sergius explained dryly. "The conversation we're having is nothing more than a courtesy."
"Is pointing a blaster at the heads of my household also a courtesy?" Skirata suggested, clearly mocking him.
"My men are stationed near your sanctuary solely to determine when you'll call for reinforcements," Sergius explained.
"And? Did you find out?"
"Of course. We may not be able to crack your secret communication frequency, but we can certainly observe Bardan Jusik and Arligan Zey approaching the cantina," Sergius reported, turning so his interlocutor could see the micro-device in his ear. "As I already said — we have no intention of harming any members of your clan."
"Then we'll have to teach you a lesson, regardless of the fact that you're not resisting," Skirata said.
"I doubt you and your men will manage that, Kal'buir," a voice came from the entrance.
Without lowering his blaster from Sergius, the Mandalorian turned his head slightly towards the opened door.
From the movement of the gold-sand helmet, it was clear the sergeant was assessing the newcomer, looking him up and down.
"Not a bad parody of Jango," Skirata chuckled, nodding his helmet towards the being in Mandalorian armor who had entered and was now moving towards Sergius. "Excellent, I'd even say."
"The only difference being that I'm not a parody," the Mandalorian in the old, green-painted armor said calmly.
He lounged into a massive chair next to the Dominion agent, acknowledging him with a welcoming nod.
"Any news?" Bravo XI inquired, ignoring the Mandalorian in the gold-sand armor.
"Worse than we thought," the newcomer replied. "Shysa is also a clone. Kaminoan."
Sergius grimaced.
"So Silri decided to add fuel to the fire from this side too," he said, draining his glass in one gulp. "This is a mess."
"Neutrality isn't even an option anymore," the Mandalorian in green armor confirmed. "All necessary arrangements have already been made."
"I wonder where you got such information," a chuckle came from under Kal Skirata's helmet. "Since even I haven't heard anything like that. And I'm closer to the Mand'alor than some local Jango Fett fanboy serving the Dominion. Although, I'm probably mistaken, and your look, according to the color of your beskar'gam, is meant to imitate a different Fett..."
The Mandalorian in the green beskar'gam (Mandalorian armor) deliberately slowly turned his helmet's visor towards the speaker.
For a few seconds, a silent battle of gazes raged between them, after which he demonstratively placed his EE-3 blaster carbine on the tabletop, and then, showing his empty hands, reached for his helmet.
"And what are you planning to impress me with, besom (ill-bred lout)?" Skirata inquired with a smirk.
The green helmet took its place next to the carbine.
He cracked his neck with a crunch, not taking his eyes off the retired sergeant sitting opposite him.
The blaster pistol, after a spin around the trigger guard on his index finger, slid into Skirata's thigh holster.
"You've been through the wringer, ad'ika (son)," warmth crept into the old Mandalorian's voice. "Rumors were going around that you were dead."
"Yes, I heard something similar."
"They said a giant creature ate you."
"That's exactly what happened. After long weeks of agonizing suffering, it died," the scarred man explained.
"Rumors said you survived. But it always turned out to be nothing more than impostors."
"Yes, I've met those too. My bu'sheye (helmet) was the last thing they ever saw," the Mandalorian with the scarred face related.
Kal Skirata nodded his helmet towards the Dominion agent, who was sipping mineral water.
"Can this aruetii (outsider) be trusted?" Skirata clarified, as if ignoring the agent's presence.
"Kal'buir (Papa Kal), you may not trust him, but my words are as strong and reliable as the beskar my armor is made from," his interlocutor said. "Shysa is not who he claims to be."
"You do realize that the moment you show yourself, half of Mandalore will say the same about you?" Skirata asked.
"I'm not here to start a bloodbath among our own," the Mandalorian in the green armor shook his head, putting his helmet back on.
"Then why are you here, if not to fight for the title of Mand'alor?" Skirata leaned forward.
"To back him up," the Mandalorian in green nodded at the agent. "And to get the cure for the clones. For the existing ones and for those who will be deployed. On the Dominion's side."
Muffled Mandalorian curses came from under Skirata's helmet.
"Boba, are you serious?" he asked.
"Quite," the man clipped out. "The Dominion is creating a new Grand Army of the Clones. And I am its donor. Just like my father in his time. But they need training. They need knowledge that I and the other Jango Fett clones don't have. Mandalorian knowledge. Commando knowledge. The knowledge of the best tacticians, sappers, signalers, survival experts. Which brings me, Kal'buir, to an offer for you and your clan..."
"I can guess what it is," Kal Skirata's reply was clearly ground out from under his helmet. "You won't get by with just a blood sample from my adopted sons, will you, Bob'ika (little Boba)?"
"You were always quick on the uptake, Kal'buir," Boba Fett said approvingly. "Jango had good reason to hold you in such high regard. So what will be the answer of Clan Skirata to the offer of becoming our new Cuy'val Dar ('Those Who No Longer Exist') and leaving Mandalore?"
Boba Fett makes an offer you can't refuse.
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