"He'll chicken out!"
"Give him a chance!"
"He'll chicken out again!"
"Don't be so quick to judge!"
"Oh, Reynar, that guy took down more enemy pilots single-handedly than any elite New Republic squadron, but he's too scared to just knock on a door. And this is supposed to be that famed Dominion masculinity? Ow! What was the kick for?"
"Don't be so biased against men," Obscuro said reproachfully. "And yes, that wasn't a kick, it was a swat!"
"Just because I don't have eyes on the back of my head doesn't mean I can't tell... Ow!"
"And now you can tell?"
"With all this armor strapped on, try figuring out whether it's a knee or a palm," the girl lying next to the Dark Guard on their observation post complained. They were positioned about a hundred meters from a solitary dwelling.
A solitary dwelling that looked utterly defenseless on the Nightlands of Ryloth.
The planet, known among astrogators by its alternative names — Twi'lek or Twi'lek Prime — was a harsh, rocky, and merciless world for fools.
The Twi'lek homeworld was located in the Outer Rim, situated on the Corellian Run and forming the terminus of the hyperlane known as the Death Wind Corridor.
One side of the planet was constantly facing its sun, while the other remained in darkness — a phenomenon known as tidal locking.
The day side was called the Bright Lands, and the night side was known as the Nightlands.
And the temperature here was always so low that even from space, looking at the snow-covered half of the planet, it was obvious the Nightlands were not a hospitable place.
Tourists didn't fly here either.
Except maybe pod-racing spectators paid some attention to this place, having laid a section of the track through the Nightlands.
But right now, there wasn't a hint of racers on Ryloth.
The planet Ryloth.
But it was here that Major Kreb had finally found what he'd been searching for all this time.
And not that he'd outdone the Dominion Intelligence, which was also looking for Dia Passik...
Actually, no, he had outdone them.
Because he'd found the Twi'lek, and they hadn't.
"You think he figured out on his own that Twi'leks' names in their native language are different from their Galactic Basic pronunciation?" Vex asked.
"Kreb, from what I've heard, is a sharp guy..."
"Reynar."
"What?"
"Where's your 'strong but dumb' switch?"
"Woman, you're asking for it."
"Yep," Vex grinned. "But seriously, 'Dia Passik' and 'Dia Passik' are completely different people to my people. Twi'leks don't broadcast their native names; they use the more familiar first-and-last-name combo for outsiders. Not every friend of a Twi'lek even knows they have another name. It's not something you talk about to just anyone... The one who told him that secret was clearly more than just a friend."
"His wingmate," Reynar said. "She was from Ryloth."
"Oooooh," Vex twisted around to rub her palms together smugly. "I smell love secrets."
"I don't follow..."
"And again I ask about the hidden mode... Ow!"
"What makes you think Kreb and Tia were that close?"
"Well, if she told him about the Twi'leks' real names, then he was clearly more than just a friend. And not just a commander. Lover, husband — yes. But not just someone whose bunk was next to hers. If he'd been the same species, then fine, no questions. But a human... Look, Tiap'assik was clearly more than just Kreb's wingmate."
"That wasn't in my briefing. Unlikely that counterintelligence missed a fling between a squadron commander and his subordinate."
"Oh, please," Vex rolled her eyes. "It's not that hard... You know, hit the shower together, wash each other's backs, sneak off in the locker rooms... Security cameras don't cover everything, you know."
"It scares me that you know this kind of stuff."
"You know, I was trying to help us!" the girl whispered indignantly, her hot breath washing over him. "How was I supposed to know we wouldn't have to hide in corners like teenagers..."
"Stop acting like a child!"
"Boo," Vex stuck her tongue out at him. "Don't be a buzzkill, Reynar. Playing dumb is fun."
"Uh-huh, loads of fun," Reynar grunted. "You know... It just hit me — I've never actually seen your ID."
"What are you getting at, warrior?" The cheer instantly vanished from Vex's face.
"Well... I'd like to see some numbers on your ID..."
"You think I'm a minor or something?" Vex squinted.
"No, it's just... You know, I got interested in that whole 'real name' thing," Reynar tried to backtrack. "I'd like to know yours..."
"Since when?"
"Uh... We're partners."
"And?"
"More than partners."
"And?"
"I don't even know your name!" Reynar snapped.
"Pffft," Vex snorted. "What a complicated man. Little one, regular sex between us doesn't mean we're on a first-name basis."
Reynar opened his mouth to say exactly what he thought about his girlfriend, but she pressed against him and, with a delicate finger whose elegance even the thick gloves of her thermosuit couldn't hide, pointed at the door of the dwelling, which had just swung open.
"Look at that, Kreb actually has some balls! And here I was thinking he left them under his pilot seat whenever he got out of the Avenger. Ow! What was the swat for this time?"
"I just felt like it," Reynar said, raising his monocular to his eye.
"Really-really-really?" Vex's eyes lit up. "Can I have another one? Plee-he-he-hease?"
"First you tell me your real name and full birthdate."
"Well," Vex shrugged, "no, then no. I'll just watch Kreb's personal life instead. I care more about it than my own."
* * *
Ten steps away from the house he'd been searching for so long, Major Kreb stopped. To be safe, he touched the grip of his blaster, confirming the weapon was still at hand.
The thick winter clothes he'd bought at the local market on the hot side of Ryloth were pretty uncomfortable — nothing like the Dominion-issue winter gear.
But if he'd arrived here in that uniform, he probably wouldn't have lived to see this moment.
For a long time, he'd flown here on his speeder but never dared to announce his presence. He pretended that if he didn't see any lights in the living area of the dwelling, then he shouldn't bother checking the technical area, where the owner of the dwelling clearly was, along with — from the sounds of it — an astromech droid.
But in the end, his leave was almost over.
He couldn't put off the unknown any longer.
According to the latest news, the Dominion was successfully "bringing the heat" on all possible fronts.
And an air group commander who couldn't bring himself to fulfill a commitment he'd taken on could do the best thing possible — return to duty.
After fulfilling that commitment.
So he finally pressed his fingers to the notification device, hearing a distant melodic sound from behind the entrance bulkhead.
Despite the lack of lighting in the living section and the screech of metal-cutting tools coming from a sturdy shed that rivaled the main house in size.
After standing for a few minutes without getting any response, he looked at the holo-photo of himself and Tia, forced a smile, tucked it into his back pants pocket, and repeated the action.
But this time, having learned from his previous attempt, he timed it for a pause in the tool's operation.
Obviously, the screeching equipment had been preventing the residents from hearing the melody and understanding what was going on.
Although the astromech, at least, should have detected what was happening at the doorstep.
Ideally — and Kreb was almost certain of this — the owner should have motion sensors set up around the perimeter and known about visitors well in advance.
After all, the Night Side of Ryloth wasn't exactly a place where everything was as quiet and peaceful as, say, Chandrila.
He heard rustling behind the bulkhead. Light came on behind the windows — a good sign.
Then a metal plate, thick enough to stop a laser cannon shot, slid aside.
"Oh," the green-skinned Twi'lek woman standing in the doorway said. She wore a tight-fitting snow-white top and a coverall stained with technical fluids, with a blaster holstered on her hip. "It's you."
The major felt a jolt of surprise.
"Excuse me?"
"Want to come in?" One eyebrow arched upward. "It's below freezing out there, and we Twi'leks are a heat-loving people."
"Yes, sorry," Kreb stepped over the threshold as the owner moved aside to let him pass.
The door bulkhead obediently slid back into place, and the major pulled back his hood and reached for his jacket zipper.
"Nope," he felt the barrel of that same blaster he'd seen on the girl's hip press into his back, while his own weapon left its holster and smacked him in the elbow, hinting he'd better raise his hands higher. "Not so fast, little man. First, you tell me why you've been tracking me and why you kept flying to my house. And why you only rang the doorbell today. But first — turn around."
The major obediently complied.
In the bright light, he confirmed that the woman from Ryloth who'd given him such a warm welcome was indeed the one he'd been looking for.
But for some reason, the spots on her lekku were gone, replaced by tattooed stripe patterns.
Otherwise, she looked exactly like the data the Dominion scouts had given him.
Just a few years older.
Her features had hardened a little, her gaze was sharper, heavier.
Kreb knew she'd spent a long time on a spaceship as a slave.
Because of that, she had a deep distrust of her own people, which was why she'd moved as far away from any major settlements as possible.
She had certain knowledge and connections among mid-level criminal organizations, so she never really wanted for anything, living in seclusion.
Oddly enough, the intelligence hadn't been able to get information on the source of her income.
"Or they just didn't want to tell me," Kreb began to suspect when he saw that the technical coverall, whose color he'd initially taken for dark brown, was actually a pilot's suit.
Orange.
Traditional for New Republic or Galactic Alliance X-Wing pilots.
The major swallowed, his saliva turning bitter.
Dia Passik.
"Excellent," the girl smirked, gesturing with the blaster toward the nearest chair. "Sit down, make yourself at home, but don't forget you're a guest. I hope you haven't forgotten how to talk?"
"No," Kreb confirmed.
"Good for you," Dia Passik sat down in the chair opposite him, keeping the muzzle of her DL-44 trained on him.
It was a powerful, easily modifiable, and accurate blaster pistol.
Compared to other pistols, it delivered a strong punch without sacrificing accuracy, making it the top choice for many groups and individuals — from smugglers and bounty hunters to the military of small states.
But it was most popular among the very same militaries of the New Republic and the Galactic Alliance, who were impressed by General Solo, for whom this weapon was practically standard issue.
DL-44 Blaster Pistol.
Han Solo had exactly the same one, except his had a parody of a scope mounted for easier handling in a firefight and quicker draws from the holster.
Besides being powerful and reliable, the weapon had other attractive features, like a vibration system built into the grip that pulsed softly, warning the user only five shots remained, and the ability to charge a condenser with a shot twice as powerful without damaging the weapon.
Like most pistols, it usually came equipped with a motion-sensitive scope and a galvanic circuit that allowed the pistol to deal more damage at normal energy consumption and rate of fire.
"Then let's move on to the basic questions," the Twi'lek said with a smirk, elegantly crossing one leg over the other.
But Kreb didn't react to the full-on provocation, which the homeowner seemed to be offering him in order to confirm her suspicion that he had criminal intentions for coming here.
"This won't be a short conversation," Kreb warned.
"You in a hurry somewhere?" Dia Passik asked.
Sighing, the major began his story, reciting the cover story the Dominion Intelligence had prepared for him.
* * *
Fodeum, handing over a small contraption that looked like an ancient artifact to Thrawn's hands, patiently waited for his reaction to what had been said.
"An interesting piece," the Grand Admiral said, examining the object. "I see a combination of at least two cultures. Humanoid. One of them is definitely human, the other... At the same time, it's not ornate or handmade, but looks factory-made. As if standardized..."
"This tracking artifact was clearly created in the Revived Sith Empire," the Jensaarai Defender said. "About four thousand years ago, there were conflicts between it and the Old Republic. The Sith Empire rose from the ruins of its predecessor, but it was more of a militarized technical state with an emphasis on using the Force as a means of warfare. And this artifact, as I understand it, is from roughly the same era."
"And how did it end up aboard our prize so many years after the Sith Empire's destruction?" Thrawn asked.
"Sir, guessing isn't my strong suit," Fodeum said. "Maybe someone had it in their collection, maybe it was found in an ancient treasury, maybe some Sith froze their gear along with themselves..."
"From what I know of the Sith of that era, they would never have stayed in the shadows," Thrawn noted.
"Actually, they would have, given the negative attitude toward them after Darth Vader and Darth Sidious," Fodeum countered. "There have been cases in history where Sith and Jedi froze themselves using technology or ancient mechanisms. Honestly, that's not what matters."
"Then what, in your opinion, does matter, Defender Fodeum Sabre De'Luz?" the Grand Admiral asked.
"The fact, sir, that the enemy could clearly track our course and figure out exactly where we've brought our ships," Fodeum explained. "They might already be on their way here..."
"Remove the assumptions from your speech, Defender Fodeum Sabre De'Luz," the Supreme Commander advised, "and you'll reach the same conclusions I did when I directed the prizes to Karthakk."
"Damn Sith!" Jaden Korr swore. "It's impossible to calculate that without the Force! And you're not a Jedi..."
"Of course not," Thrawn agreed. "I simply study the art of my enemies. If you would be so kind, Defender Fodeum Sabre De'Luz, see that your charges are prepared for the fact that they will soon engage the acolytes and leadership of the Silri Syndicate in combat. They are coming."
"And there will be a lot of them," escaped Fodeum's lips.
"'And only with a fleet of ships / Will I meet any trouble. / Shoot — so shoot! / I will not be undone. / I forgave many, / But I blew up many more! / They call me — the Grand Admiral!'" the Supreme Commander suddenly intoned in a singsong voice, staring straight ahead. "Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen. Reminded by old memories from a very different life. You're dismissed. Prepare — the enemy is coming."
"Yes, sir..."
Fodeum was glad he wore a mask.
Because otherwise, his face would have worn exactly the same expression as Gantoris's, Magash's, and Jaden's.
Exactly the same.
"Thrawn... sings, too?"
* * *
."..so I decided to keep my promise and meet this man's daughters to tell them about his death and pass on his final request," Kreb finished his "confession."
He'd told the story almost unchanged.
He'd just removed the Dominion and the "Zann Consortium" from the equation, replacing them with "a small planet in the southwest of the galaxy" (where things weren't all that well explored) and "some raiders."
Thus he presented himself as a pilot for that planet's military, which had been repelling an attack on their homeworld, and Passik's father, an honest freighter pilot, had been a random victim who'd begged the nearest pilot to tell his family what had happened to him.
"And you flew halfway across the galaxy for this?" Dia Passik clarified, not even thinking about lowering her weapon.
"I gave my word," Kreb said. "Maybe it's an empty concept for you, but not for me and my people."
The concept of reputation was quite widespread in the galaxy, and respectable beings strove to protect it and emphasize it.
Because recommendations and the ability to keep one's word were how semi-criminal elements — who provided most lower-tier beings with work — usually found their contractors.
Given Kreb's cover story, this fit him best.
"I don't recall humans following their promises that easily," Passik snorted.
"Well, then you've met yourself. And if you don't mind, I'll be going. Since your sister isn't home..."
"Oh, she is home," Dia favored him with an icy smile, then twitched the blaster barrel slightly. "Look at the holo-photo on the dresser."
"There's no need for that," Kreb said. "I was told you live alone, so... Even if it's not entirely fair, I decided that if I could pass on your father's last words to at least one sister..."
"He wasn't our father," Passik cut him off. "Stepfather. And not even the best one. I'd put it more strongly, but I don't want to stir up old family drama again. If he's dead, good riddance. Too bad my sister and mother won't hear about it and get to be happy he's gone."
"That's not a very flattering way to talk about your stepfather," the major noted.
"What's your name?" Passik asked.
"Kreb," the wing commander didn't lie.
"So, Kreb, thank you for telling me the old bastard kicked the bucket," Passik's gaze was filled with icy calm. "Otherwise, I'd have had to fly around the galaxy to find him and kill him for what he did to our family."
"This mission seems to be going too far," Kreb thought.
Maybe the girl could get her hands on weapons and equipment characteristic of the Dominion's enemies — not exactly rare on the black market — but her behavior definitely resembled that of a veteran warrior.
In terms of wildness — a Republican pilot.
The jokes, the wisecracks, no discipline at all, just bile and impotent rage.
How many pilots like that had Kreb sent to meet interstellar dust with fire from his cannons?
Easier to check his personal file than to remember.
When you're doing the best job in the galaxy, you don't usually brag about killing enemies by the dozen.
"Glad I could help," Kreb said. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to return..."
"He sold me into slavery," Passik suddenly said, pulling out an opened (and generously opened!) two-liter bottle of not-the-best whiskey from somewhere. "Me, my mother. My baby sister, from what I heard, ran away from the bastard herself and got mixed up with shady characters in the western galaxy. And this 'stepfather' had also excelled after that," she said the last word with an old ache. "You know what he did?"
"I definitely have no idea," the major's brain worked as quickly as it did during an attack.
Now he was beginning to understand what was happening.
The woman — it was very difficult to determine the exact age of Twi'leks due to their natural sexualization and ability to take care of themselves — was clearly drunk.
And the atmosphere in the house indicated it wasn't exactly a family home; it looked more like a temporary base.
Which was strange, given that according to Kreb's information, this dwelling belonged to his interlocutor's family.
It seemed the owner drowned some kind of grief in alcohol every evening.
The story she'd told was sad, of course, but for Twi'leks, slavery wasn't something so extravagant.
Yes, lately they'd been selling fewer of their men, women, and children off-planet to support those who remained with necessities, but the practice still existed.
And it brought generous commissions and revenue to all parties involved in such deals, most of which were also voluntary.
So...
The family tragedy was clearly deep in its causes and underlying issues, but Kreb understood he shouldn't escalate the situation.
The sixth sense that was born in fighter pilots told him such conversations wouldn't lead to anything good.
He needed to get out.
The major regretted that he wasn't in the cockpit of his trusty TIE Avenger, able to torch the engines and blast off at FTL speed to get as far away from here as possible.
"This bantha poodoo joined the Zann Consortium," Passik said. "He used the money from selling his own family members to get to Shola and return under Tyber Zann's wing."
"Um... I thought he was just a freighter pilot," pretending to be a boring conversationalist whom people would try to get rid of as quickly as possible seemed like the best move now.
"Recently, sure," Dia snorted. "But, as I found out, he'd worked with Tyber Zann before that bastard was sent to Kessel to breathe thin air. And as soon as he found out that runt was rebuilding his organization, he did everything to get back."
Kreb, analyzing what was said, understood his interlocutor was referring to the restoration of the Zann Consortium, which had begun a little over ten years ago, not the present.
"I think I'll be going," the man stood up slightly, not taking his eyes off the blaster's muzzle, which — despite her intoxication — Passik was holding quite steadily. "I think you need some time alone."
"I've always been alone," Dia said sadly, looking at her blaster before tucking it into her thigh holster. You know what I had to go through to escape slavery? I worked my fingers to the bone on my masters' ship, then found a way to steal a shuttle and destroy their starship. I joined the service, thinking I'd find an outlet there. I looked at the pampered faces of Twi'lek warriors who'd joined the New Republic — yeah, so Kreb was right about that — and then I found someone who loved me for who I am. Unfortunately, he became my commander, and I had to leave the service because those are Hutt rules! We bought back my family estate, where I waited for my beloved as a loyal but unofficial wife, handling supply runs, searching for my relatives...
She'd clearly gotten carried away.
Not surprising, really, considering how much time she spent here, perpetually alone, unsociable, with no one but an astromech to even chat with.
But this sublimation of basic social interaction couldn't replace the real thing.
Alcohol blurs the boundaries of propriety, and so Kreb had become her sole audience.
A Dominion pilot, listening to the life story of a Republic service member.
Tell anyone — they wouldn't believe such a thing could happen.
"I'm sorry for you," Kreb admitted. "But I really do need to go. You'll pass along what I said to your sister when she returns, or when you next see her?"
However much he might sympathize with this young woman on a human level, he couldn't help.
But if he accidentally let slip who he really was and what contribution he'd made to increasing the number of widows in the New Republic and the Galactic Alliance, things would get very bad.
A tipsy woman was capable of foolish actions.
And if it came down to a choice between her and him, the major would decide in his own favor without hesitation.
But he didn't want that.
Dia Passik had already lived a life full of pain.
No need to make it worse.
The Twi'lek woman looked at him with the weary gaze of a woman who'd seen some serious bantha poodoo in her life.
"Like I said — everything's on the chest of drawers," she said. "You can tell her yourself. Maybe my little fool will actually listen to you."
So, this was the terminal stage starting.
Time to quickly perform an act of courtesy and get out.
Especially since it seemed the conversation was about a holo-picture.
Apparently Passik's head was really not in a good place.
Kreb took a few steps toward the indicated chest of drawers, stepping over a disassembled fuel feeder, clearly removed from an X-wing and bearing the marks of maintenance.
Approaching the chest, he grabbed the first holo-picture he found without looking, to feign interest and get out of there as fast as possible.
But one glance at the image was enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
"Some kind of problem?" came the Twi'lek's voice from behind him, its tone striking Kreb as strange.
But no stranger than the holo-picture of a dozen beings, dressed in whatever they pleased, captured against the backdrop of a flag.
A large circle with twelve cross-spires drawn inside.
A dozen machines — standard squadron strength.
Nothing unusual about that...
But the symbol itself.
The faces of some of those present...
"Wraith Squadron," he said quietly.
"Its original composition," Dia Passik's calm voice came. "My beloved, Garik Loran, codename 'Face,' served there from its founding. His picture is right next to it."
The original composition of Wraith Squadron. "Face" a man with a scar across his entire face, in an orange flight suit.
"Crap-crap-crap." Kreb felt beads of sweat starting to roll down his forehead.
Yes, he could blame it on being in warm clothes in a warm room.
But he knew perfectly well it was an adrenaline rush.
Because in the picture Passik had pointed out, not only "Face" was captured.
Not just a former Imperial actor who'd faked his death and turned against the ruling regime.
Standing next to him was Passik herself.
In the same uniform.
With the same chevron.
"I really stepped in it this time." Kreb, like any soldier, knew what fear was.
And now his brain, driven by that feeling, was analyzing the situation.
Passik wasn't in the group photo of Wraith Squadron's original composition.
She wasn't in the personnel files the intelligence had obtained on the active "Wraiths" when they were posing as "Rogues," either.
So she'd joined the unit between the first major battle, which had battered the Wraiths, and entered as part of the second wave of replacements.
Probably the very one that had put an end to General Solo's hunt for Warlord Zsinj's flagship — the Super Star Destroyer Iron Fist — when the New Republic considered it destroyed.
If that was the case, then Passik wasn't just a New Republic soldier.
Not just a pilot.
Wraith Squadron had been formed by its commander on an unconventional principle.
While the Rogues — pilots by specialty — had to carry out sabotage missions, their then-commander, Wedge Antilles, decided it would be a good idea to form a squadron where pilots would be saboteurs first and pilots second.
And so the Wraiths were born.
If Dia had served in that squadron, she was an experienced saboteur.
And now he had no doubt about who would come out on top if shooting started.
It was unlikely he'd reach the backup blaster hidden under his jacket.
So he needed to buy more time to develop an evacuation plan — preferably without extra holes in his body.
And Passik's offer to admire her holo-picture collection was perfect for stalling the time he so desperately needed now.
"Accept my sincere condolences," Kreb said, putting the lovers' photo back in place, his gaze habitually scanning the others.
Judging by appearances, one Twi'lek woman captured in a separate holo-picture was clearly the mother of Dia and her sister, but the second...
Kreb froze, feeling unable to command his hand, which had traveled halfway to the next photo, to obey.
His heart began to pound like an ancient drum; blood rushed through his veins and arteries at an accelerated pace.
At first he thought it was a photo of Dia Passik in a younger form, but then he realized he was wrong...
Yes, it was a very young Twi'lek woman, but...
Add five years, put her in an Imperial pilot flight suit or seat her in a Lok Revenants bomber cockpit, and the picture would form itself...
"Sorry," his voice treacherously wavered as he finally forced himself to turn around. "And... who is this girl?"
The barrel of a DL-44 and Dia Passik's eyes, full of cold fury, burned into him the same way enemy cannons wear down a ship's weak shields.
"As if you don't know, you bastard," she hissed, tossing Kreb a small static holo-picture with her free hand.
That very holo-picture.
The one that was supposed to be in his back pants pocket.
And which he'd apparently dropped.
"Black Leader, huh?" the girl was breathing so fiercely she seemed ready to personally reprocess all the oxygen in the dwelling. "Bastard!"
"Wait, I can explain everything." Kreb knew how that sounded: pathetic and weak.
If he were in her place, he'd just shoot without getting into an argument.
But apparently she had a lot pent up.
"You have the audacity to mock me?" Tears streamed from Passik's eyes, but it didn't affect her resolve. "First you Imperials kill my sister, and then you and your unit destroy my friends and my beloved. And it's not enough that you took away a family I never had — you decided to barge in here and fray my nerves? Did you deliberately drop that holo-picture by the doorstep so I'd find it and see this forgery?"
"There isn't a single altered bit here..."
"My little sister would only wear an Imperial uniform in one case — if someone first put a slave collar on her!" Passik declared, almost sobbing. "You son of a bitch! Do you enjoy torturing me, huh? Looking for adrenaline rush? You think I can't see this holo-picture was made from two others? And the uniform on her is pasted on too! Or did you fly here to finish off the last Wraith?"
"Dia, listen, I..."
"Shut up! Shut up-shut up-shut up!" she screamed in his face. "You, the Empire, took everything precious from me! Why do you mock me? Why do you dance on graves? If you want to finish me off, then finish it! Blow this whole place to hell!"
"Dia, listen..."
Without knowing it, Major Kreb had made the very mistake that the vast majority of men make when arguing with the opposite — and fair — sex.
He asked her to listen to him.
Right at the moment when she had become the queen of her own tragedy, when only her monologue should be heard.
It was this insolent, thoroughly boorish, and frankly insulting (from a woman's perspective) action that transformed the young Twi'lek standing before him from a victim into a predator.
"You know what, Black Leader?" Passik said, wiping tears from her eyes. "Just die."
Before the major could say anything, a shot rang out.
And the light faded from his eyes.
* * *
Kal Skirata hadn't holstered his blaster.
He'd simply moved it aside.
"Maybe what you're saying is true, Bob'ika," he said. "But it all needs to be checked thoroughly. Not that I don't trust you, son of Jango..."
"And I don't trust you," Fett replied calmly. "Your boys are still waiting for the order to attack."
"Clan security is paramount," Skirata reminded him. "You'd know that if you'd followed Jango's path."
"Become Mand'alor?" The most famous bounty hunter's voice was calm, but carried a hint of mockery. "And who would follow a ten-year-old child? Maybe you, Kal'buir? Or one of the Cuy'val Dar? Perhaps Duchess Satine Kryze would have given up her throne and pacifism thirty years ago for the old traditions?"
"But you're not ten anymore either. Kryze is dead, her sister is missing, Fenn Shysa has taken over Mandalore and freed us from Imperial rule. He fought back, and now our sector is free."
"For how long?" Sergius inquired. "MandalMotors' technology, the largest known deposits of beskar, the Mandalorians themselves — all these are enormous resources on the galactic stage..."
"Then we'll make sure Shysa hears us," Skirata declared. "He can always be negotiated with — he's got a good head on his shoulders."
"I obtained a blood sample from reliable sources," Boba Fett said, handing the retired sergeant a transparisteel vial with a sealed cap.
Half-full, it settled into the old Mandalorian's glove.
"I think your clan can find a way to verify whether we're right or wrong," Fett said. "The Zann Consortium is alive. The Dominion has already caught so-called Imperial rulers governing pro-Imperial sectors being nothing but clones doing whatever Zann needs to rebuild his criminal empire."
"And since when do you care about the whole galaxy, Bob'ika?" Skirata asked, pocketing the blood sample.
"I didn't care about it before, and I don't now," Fett replied. "I don't want the Dominion to level Mandalorian heritage along with the mantle of planets that oppose them and pose a threat."
"So you're on their side?"
"I'm on my own side," Fett corrected his interlocutor. "But I don't wish harm on Mandalorians either. If it weren't for this," he gestured at Skirata's hand, which had held the vial of blood, "I wouldn't have gotten involved. You'd just be talking in negotiations and would have achieved something. Shysa, from what I've observed of Mandalore, is indeed a reasonable man. Except he hates the Empire and those who cooperate with it more than an accidental shot in the leg."
"The situation is spiraling out of control," Sergius explained. "We believe the newly formed Consortium is backed by the Empire — the part that controls the Deep Core. Information from there is extremely negative, including reports that the entire vanished Imperial Fleet is preparing for a campaign against all enemies. Mandalore is on that list. As is the Dominion. Our objective is to destroy all puppet governments in the so-called pro-Imperial sectors and bring them under Dominion control."
Kal understood why he was being told something that constituted a state secret.
Fett and the Dominion agent were clearly demonstrating their openness and good intentions.
Preemptively positioning him as an ally.
Well, the children still didn't know all the rules of the game yet.
"If you don't want war in five years, conquer your neighbor who's preparing to stab you in the back," Skirata nodded with understanding. "Ancient Mandalorian wisdom, nothing new."
"The Dominion proceeded from the position that the Mandalorian Sector would remain a neutral and mutually beneficial neighbor," Sergius continued. "But if Shysa is a clone, then it's time for us to prepare to be attacked by his forces. I hope you understand that as well."
"As well as the tactic of preemptive strikes," Skirata nodded. "I'm not thrilled, but I take it the war won't start tomorrow?"
"Definitely not," Fett confirmed.
"Then I have time to check and double-check everything," Skirata concluded. "If there's going to be a war between Mandalore and the Dominion, the latter shouldn't even dream that my clan, in whole or in part, will side with my people's enemy."
"Even if that enemy deliberately uses your people as cannon fodder?" Sergius clarified.
"And you want my boys to undergo memory-copying procedures and give you blood to create an ARC soldier army that will come and burn Mandalore?" Skirata inquired.
"But Shysa...!"
"If he really is a clone, we'll find a better place to live," Skirata cut him off. "But no matter what, I won't let one Mandalorian fight against another. That's my final word."
"So we won't get your men or the data on stopping the aging process?" Sergius clarified.
"On that part, my answer is definitely no," Skirata said firmly. "In light of the confusion you've told me about..."
The old Mandalorian fell silent, demonstratively pressing the fingers of his free hand to the part of his helmet where a comlink earpiece sat.
"Ordo, are you sure those are Protectors?" he asked his unseen interlocutor. "I hear you, son. Watch, but don't intervene. Whatever happens here..."
The next moment, the cantina simply exploded.
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