Ten years, six months, and ten days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, sixth month, and tenth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year, two months, and twenty-five days since the Arrival.)
The lonely echo of footsteps reminded Isard of her first appearance aboard the Lusankya.
Ah, yes... these were not HER memories.
The original's.
But she felt them as her own.
And the real Ysanne Isard was dead, so it could be considered that the memories also belonged to her...
But the clone resolutely dismissed that argument.
If she accepted the real Isard's memories as her own, then her life, her actions, her decisions would have to be attributed to her own past.
Many of them were effective, but those that represented absolute savagery would never be something she could recall with a smile on her face, over a glass of champagne in decent company.
You could commit a million "good" deeds, but one "evil" would forever overshadow how others saw you as a rational being.
The dualism she had to live with.
Isard preferred to treat the real Isard's memories as reference information, kept in her head to complete the mission.
That was why she hadn't pretended to be the original when she arrived in the Deep Core.
The Emperor was sensitive to the Force, and detecting her duality would be child's play.
Besides, he had the best technical and scientific geniuses in the galaxy at his disposal, who could easily determine her nature and understand what was going on.
Such a slip could easily have cost her the chance to do what she had gotten involved in the game for, at Thrawn's request.
Walking the edge of a vibroknife, balancing like a circus performer, she did what she thought was right.
She should thank Saarai-kaar upon her return for the teachings the leader of the Jensaarai Order had given her to counter the Emperor's mental influence.
And even though she hadn't fully believed it would work, the plan had succeeded brilliantly.
She hadn't managed to eliminate every single commander of the Imperial Navy and Army, but a significant portion of them were now dead.
Palpatine had lost the most talented and dangerous military leaders to the Dominion and the galaxy.
He had thinned his loyal circle when she dragged out their dirty laundry and showed them what they were really worth.
To be honest, Isard thought it would be much harder.
Operating by the same categories of loyalty that the real Isard had lived by, the clone, as they say, "judged others by herself."
And that made it all the easier to find inconsistencies.
Palpatine was insane, and to manipulate him, she had to be "on the same wavelength."
Every madman fears betrayal.
Especially if he has already been betrayed by those close to him.
And even if that was built into Sith philosophy, the fact remained that betrayal and death had not done Palpatine any good.
He was afraid.
Terribly afraid of being betrayed again.
And he had been betrayed.
He just didn't know it yet.
The mission he had given Isard involved long-term autonomy, so under certain conditions, it would be a while before he realized what had happened.
But Sedriss...
Not that she had worked against him at full capacity; the fact that the Executor had been thrown off balance was mostly the fault of the undisciplined Imperials themselves and Thrawn.
The Iceheart entered the turbolift cab and rose several levels.
A dimly lit corridor led her to a red double door adorned with the Empire's "cogwheel."
The woman pressed her palm to its center, and the door opened without any delay.
Ysanne smiled.
As always, the ship responded to its mistress's presence.
The shipboard systems differed from those installed on other ships of this type as much as the current "firmware" differed from the one that had been loaded into the Lusankya by the Emperor's order.
As soon as the Lusankya entered the Deep Core, every one of its systems was inspected.
Naturally, they found nothing that could contradict her history, because the Lusankya hadn't been equipped with secret spy programs or surveillance cameras in the past.
Now it had.
But they couldn't tell the Emperor anything either — Isard had found and neutralized them before using the secret communication line and reporting everything to Thrawn.
Now only the finishing touches remained.
The Imperials had altered the ship's software before returning it to her, packing it with a large number of spy programs and equipment.
They had replaced the software as well.
Almost exactly what it had been before, but with the addition of certain interesting elements.
The number of surveillance systems had increased, an autopilot mode had been installed that was supposed to deliver the Super Star Destroyer to the Deep Rim if anyone attempted to seize it, and much more besides.
Isard passed into a compartment paneled with exotic wood.
It pleased the real Isard; for the clone, it was a reminder of whom the starship had once belonged to.
Subdued golden light filled the compartment with a sense of natural warmth and illumination.
Yet another illusion to keep from losing her head.
An ebony inlay in the shape of the Imperial emblem adorned the back wall, replacing the New Republic crest of mahogany that had itself replaced the Imperial "cog."
An interesting succession of emblems.
Ysanne walked to a door beside the emblem, opened it, making sure no one was there and that the general order was undisturbed.
Beacons known only to her indicated that no one had visited her quarters without her knowledge.
The young woman with the different-colored eyes strode to a high-backed chair in the center of the room, sank into the soft cushions, inhaled the sharp, wild smell of the leather upholstery that stirred pleasant memories.
Unclipping a comlink from her belt, she inserted it into a special socket on the massive armrest.
"Captain, please report."
The holographic projector built into the floor displayed an image of the officer at three-quarter scale.
"Forgive me, Director, but technical work is still underway. We don't understand what happened, but it seems something with top priority is running a diagnostic check on all systems."
"How much longer?" she added a note of cold impatience and demand to her voice.
"Apparently, it will be finished in fifty standard minutes. No later than an hour we can resume the journey."
"Have you found anything that might indicate sabotage?" Ysanne narrowed her eyes.
"The priority of the task preventing us from making the jump does point in that direction, Director."
The furrow between the Iceheart's brows deepened slightly.
"I trust the search is underway?"
"Yes, Director."
"Are the communication systems still unavailable?"
"We suspect mechanical damage,"naturally. First the hyperdrive had failed, and the Lusankya had dropped out of hyperspace, unable to move. Simultaneously, the communication systems had failed, and the ships sent for support had never returned. And they never would—impossible when a thermal detonator explodes inside your hyperdrive. "It appears there were demolition charges placed somewhere that weren't detected during the external inspection of the ship in the Deep Core immediately after your arrival…" The Super Star Destroyer's commander trailed off, realizing he was telling her something she wasn't supposed to know.
All that work to verify her cover story and establish surveillance on her had been done in secret.
Ysanne wasn't even supposed to suspect such a thing.
But she wouldn't have been the Iceheart if she'd simply believed she had been pampered and fully trusted at the Emperor's court.
"Hurry, Captain," she said, pretending the slip didn't interest her. "Have all personnel not on duty take part in searching for saboteurs. One man couldn't have done this. Search every compartment, every corridor. I don't want to hang in the middle of the Antimeridian sector any longer than necessary, fearing an enemy attack. Do whatever is necessary to make my ship combat-ready again!"
"As you command, Director."
The hologram disappeared.
The Iceheart removed the comlink from its socket and stood up, catching a glimpse of the Sovereign Protector entering the room.
"Are you ready, Carnor Jax?" she inquired.
"Yes, Director," the man removed his helmet and knelt before her. "I await only your order."
The multicolored eyes of the Lusankya's mistress grew cold.
"You are alive only by my mercy," she reminded him. "Your involvement in Sarcev Quest's conspiracy against the Emperor long ago should have cost you your life."
"Yes, Director."
Before her insertion, Ysanne had studied much of what had happened in the Empire and its remnants.
She had read what the real Isard knew—fortunately, her memories had been copied before she was given to Eric Shohashi.
The "Butcher of Atoa" had had a fine time with her original, satisfying his revenge.
And it was hard to blame him.
Anyone whose life the real Ysanne Isard had turned into a nightmare would have done the same.
The clone herself sometimes thought she would have carved the original open with a rusty scalpel if she'd had the chance.
After she learned why she was created, the desire to kill Isard was the most natural thing.
Carnor Jax…
A lead to yet another conspiracy that had seemed destroyed by her own actions.
But no.
This protégé of Sarcev Quest had survived.
He had a patroness.
Lumiya, as she was now called.
She had worked with the real Isard before, even hunted Mara Jade on the Iceheart's orders.
How small the galaxy turned out to be.
But Jax was a far more valuable source of information about many threats looming over the galaxy.
And he was full of arrogance and anger toward his teacher.
Turning him, breaking him, had not been the biggest problem Ysanne had faced.
"You will take a ship and go on a mission," Ysanne said. "You will carry out everything you are ordered to do, to the full extent. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"From now on, you are my eyes and ears, Carnor. You owe me your life. That is your reward. If you dare betray me, you will die the most horrible death you can imagine. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mistress."
Ysanne walked to a cabinet located on the opposite side of the room from the Imperial emblem, opened a secret compartment, took out a blaster, then unlatched the back wall of the hiding place.
The new hiding place held several information crystals, one of which was already missing from its slot.
Ysanne gave Jax the last crystal she had recorded.
"Go," she said, glancing at the ship's chronometer. "You have twenty minutes to prepare."
"Yes, Director. How do I contact you?"
"Do what's written in the file," she indicated the datacard.
The man inserted the data chip into a device, then studied the information provided.
As soon as the designated time elapsed and the data self-destructed, he returned the equipment to her.
"I understand everything, Director."
"Then carry it out." There was a little under half an hour left until the "diagnostic" was finished. "The evidence you need."
She gave him another information chip, which the Sovereign Protector concealed in his armor.
While he studied the plan of action, the Iceheart prepared everything necessary to keep his cover story intact going forward.
Carnor Jax left her quarters.
Ysanne, activating the computer built into the desktop, confirmed that her personal life-support capsule—which this entire compartment effectively was—was fully sealed and functional.
"Director," a call came from the flight deck. "Your Sovereign Protector is taking your shuttle."
The concern was understandable—it was the last ship with a hyperdrive remaining aboard the Lusankya.
"He is acting on my orders," she informed them. "I authorize the launch."
"Yes, Director."
Isard changed the frequency on her comlink and raised the small transmitter to her lips.
"Captain, how is the search for saboteurs progressing?" The question went directly to the Lusankya's bridge.
The holographic projector activated again, showing the Super Star Destroyer's commander.
"The entire crew, including stormtroopers and off-duty personnel, are searching the Lusankya top to bottom, Director," the man announced. "No one found."
"Continue until you find someone!"
When the hologram faded, Isard double-checked the security measures, looked at the ship's chronometer.
She accessed the flight log and confirmed that her shuttle had left the Lusankya's side and broken the light barrier.
Now she could begin.
Removing a decorative panel from the chair's backrest, she made sure the "diagnostic" finished on time.
The backup control system functioned as expected—perfectly.
Ysanne picked her moment and switched the ship's control from the bridge and backup equipment to her compartment.
"Director," when she sat down in the chair, the hologram of the ship's commander appeared before her. "We have lost control of the ship."
"Specifically," she demanded, logging into the root directories from the workstation, noting that the operating system for the Lusankya developed by Mister Ghent had completely purged the Imperial counterfeit. "Which systems are inaccessible to you?"
"All of them, Director! We are like passive observers! We are working on tracking the control intercept."
"Not good," Ysanne agreed, launching the protocol she needed. "I'll do what I can to make your work easier."
And she did.
Several things happened simultaneously.
Sensors shut down, shipboard internal communications ceased, atmospheric shields on the main flight deck and cargo hold deactivated, blast doors in the corridors swung open, every single bulkhead, emergency and standard docking points and airlocks transitioned to "open," and viewports blew out.
Everything.
From bow to stern, the ship suffered decompression.
Nothing supernatural.
Ysanne had used the emergency programs built into the ship during its Imperial automation.
All that was needed was to block the backup systems, like the metal panels covering the viewports during decompression, as well as the metal blast doors of the main and cargo hangars.
Tens of thousands of people—crew members, stormtroopers, army specialists—all of them found themselves outside the Lusankya.
The atmosphere rushed out in a merciless whirlwind, ejecting every object not permanently attached to surfaces.
The Super Star Destroyer's systems, under the Iceheart's control, immediately reported that the automatic turrets had switched to defensive mode.
Sentients died from the guns' fire before the merciless vacuum could reach them.
Though all of them, to a man, were soldiers of the Empire, loyal to the New Order and devoted to the mad Emperor, she felt no desire to inflict a martyr's death on them.
And she could not leave them alive.
Ninety-seven percent of the crew died within the first half hour after decompression.
Another three percent somehow ended up inside the starship, having managed to overcome the cunning trap.
Mostly stormtroopers, whose reaction to what happened was astonishingly swift.
Such soldiers were always valuable.
But they too would not go against the Emperor.
Ysanne activated the navicomputer and hyperdrive, and proceeded with pre-flight preparations.
Her ship would have to endure much, but that was the price of victory and returning to the Dominion.
The Lusankya accelerated for the jump and dove into hyperspace.
By the time it traveled the secret route to the Gordian Reach, the radiation of hyperspace would kill the survivors.
The Lusankya had left the Dominion with one sentient aboard.
It would return in the same state.
Ysanne stretched her neck and walked to a mirror to fix her hair and light makeup.
Perhaps she ought to thank the Emperor for installing a Class 1 hyperdrive on her ship, but she would allow herself to be ill-mannered and ignore that nicety.
After all, she was the Iceheart.
Ruthlessness to the enemy was her second name.
Well, for now, she could read something useful and snack on fruit—she had nearly a day of flight ahead of her.
* * *
Dia regained consciousness suddenly, as if someone had flipped a power switch in her head.
The back of her head throbbed with pain.
But not fresh, fading, like an echo of the past.
The girl saw an unfamiliar ceiling above her.
Certainly not like the decor of her home.
Interesting, where had she ended up this time?
It took a few seconds before the Twi'lek could finally get her brain in order and recognize the ceiling of a compartment on a spaceship.
And the design was definitely intriguing.
The girl exerted herself to rise from the soft bunk she was lying on and looked around.
No, she wasn't mistaken.
She was indeed inside a spaceship.
Judging by the light, barely perceptible vibration trace—the starship's engines were running at full power.
Judging by the number of medical apparatuses, including strictly functional ones, she was clearly in a recovery room.
Which made sense, given her last memory.
She was aiming at the Imperial who had destroyed the sentients she loved, then pain in the back of her head and darkness.
She had managed to fire.
She wondered if she had hit.
She really hoped she hadn't missed.
Because that vile scum was dead!
"Black Leader"!
That was the callsign the New Republic had given her when they notified her of Garik's death.
How they found out, they naturally hadn't told her.
Probably they had recovered the carrier's flight recorder, which held all communications, intercepts, surveillance data, and so on.
Or intelligence had reported it, but Dia didn't believe that.
And she didn't really care.
It was enough that in retirement she understood her own insignificance.
Spending time to deceive or mislead her was just stupid.
And why?
To bring her back to service?
What would be the point?
The youth in the New Republic and the Galactic Alliance were so obsessed with fighting the Empire and any of its Remnants that there was no shortage of volunteers to pilot starfighters or fill crew positions on starships.
"Wee-e-ell," the Twi'lek swung her legs to the floor, getting out from under the thin blanket that covered her naked... "Now I really don't understand what happened, but I demand an answer!"
She would have understood if she had found herself actually naked.
Or in the cut-up jumpsuit she had been wearing during her last encounter with the Imperial.
At the very least, in underwear, if the outer clothes had been cut off for treatment.
But there were three facts.
First—she was wearing completely different underwear, not what she had on at the last moment she was conscious.
Second—they weren't her clothes, and they were too small, digging into her skin.
And they clearly belonged to someone younger and with a more flighty personality, judging by... hmm... the style.
Well, cute, certainly, but a grown woman wouldn't wear that unless she was trying to lure someone into bed.
Third—she couldn't find a single trace of surgical intervention on her body.
From which she could conclude...
"Oh!" an exclamation came simultaneously with the hiss of the opening hatch. "You're awake! Welcome to the world of the waking, Dia Passik."
The speaker was a blue-skinned Twi'lek, clearly no older than thirty, judging by her good, firm skin, delicate facial features, and slender figure that her simple, loose-fitting clothes didn't spoil at all.
Dia thought she was starting to guess whose underwear she was wearing.
"Who are you?" she asked, her mouth dry.
"You can call me Vex," replied the guest (or owner) of the ship she was on. "No memory gaps? Feeling okay? No desire to take off your clothes and thank your rescuer?"
Dia thought that a couple of black eyes would teach this little brat to keep her mouth shut.
"Didn't your mother teach you to be polite?" Dia asked. "Instead of jumping straight into my pants?"
Vex digested this for a few seconds, then burst out laughing, energetically slapping her thigh.
"Oh, I can't. You thought I was hitting on you?" she cackled. "Oh, help, I'm going to wet myself. That was priceless." After laughing herself out, Vex wiped tears from her eyes with manicured fingers. "No, I understand, loneliness, abstinence, and all that… But let's agree from the start. Just because I gave you my clothes doesn't mean I'm courting you. Keep your desires and thoughts to yourself, dear Dia Passik. I'm strictly into the opposite gender. And I have a man, and 'both ways' isn't for me."
"Do you ever shut up?" Another moment and Dia would decide that a punch to the jaw would serve as a "thank you."
"It happens, but only my man can do that," the interlocutor smiled, showing white teeth.
"Is that a statement of fact or what?" Dia grimaced, noticing a black jumpsuit (Imperial, damn it!) next to her and began to put it on.
"Actually, it's bragging, but oh well," the girl giggled.
Or was she a girl?
She was twenty at most.
But she acted like she was barely sixteen.
"Where am I?"
"The ship's name wouldn't tell you anything anyway," Vex turned serious. "We change it from time to time. But rest assured—you're perfectly safe here. Unless you start attacking people."
An answer that wasn't an answer.
"How did I get here?"
"My man and I brought you here," the girl announced. "Don't worry—I changed you myself. Didn't poke around, didn't take pictures, didn't tell anyone."
"Until you mentioned it, I hadn't even thought of those possibilities," Passik winced. "Why did you take me from my home?"
"You don't have a home anymore," Vex snorted.
"What do you mean?"
"Because you shouldn't shoot blind when you have thin walls and a fuel tank in the next room!" Vex wagged a finger. "Be glad we pulled you out and revived you at all…"
"That little bastard not only stunned me, but burned down my house!" Dia yanked the jumpsuit's zipper in fury, and naturally, it broke. "Sith-spawn!"
"Calm down," Vex said more seriously. "First of all, it was me who cracked you on the back of the head when Reynar cut the power. And you set your own house on fire—I have it all recorded."
"You knocked me out?"
"Specifically, I did."
"Wee-e-ell." Dia glanced at the table of medical instruments, but there was nothing there.
And there was nothing in the entire compartment that could be used as a weapon.
They'd covered their bases, then.
"That bastard got away?"
"Who?"
"He called himself Kreb! Tall, strong, young…"
"Ah-ah-ah, the Major," Vex clearly knew who she meant. "No, he's in the cockpit. We have a complicated course, it'll be better if he…"
"Major?" Dia was surprised. "In his photo… those were lieutenant's pips!"
"Well, I haven't seen the photo you're talking about, and you won't be able to look at it anymore," Vex said. "But when your sister flew as Kreb's wingman, yes, he was a squadron commander. Now… promoted."
"I see." Dia stopped trying to zip up and crossed her arms. "You're an Imperial henchwoman, decided to kidnap me?"
"Right, kidnap…"
"You miscalculated, folks—I won't tell you anything."
"We don't need anything," Vex snorted.
"Especially since there's nothing to tell! Because of your lousy games, my house burned down, my astromech, my ship!"
"Stop-stop-stop!" Vex waved her hands. "You burned your own house! And your astromech and X-wing are sitting in our cargo hold. You can thank Kreb for pulling them out of the fire."
"There's nothing secret in them, so don't bother…"
"Are you stupid, or what?" Vex looked at her sympathetically.
"Maybe it's time you got a life lesson, little girl?" Dia snapped at her.
"I've had more of those lessons than you," Vex stated coldly, sticking her hand into her jacket pocket. "Here, read this at your leisure, bitch."
Dia caught the information crystal thrown to her.
"And what's this?" she asked.
"Your sister's personnel file—pilot of Black Squadron, number two," Vex said. "Everything's here, from stimulants to bacta: her autobiography, including her time in Captain Nym's gang in the Karthakk sector. And the episode when she was pushing Kreb to kill her, and he convinced her to join us, just like she wanted. And about their relationship as mentor and wingman. And about how your stepfather saved our flagship by betraying his own. And about the pilot who promised him he'd find you. And a bit about Kreb, especially how he took responsibility to fulfill the dead pilot's promise…"
"And there's nothing about how my sister died during the Karthakk cleanup?" Dia hissed. "Nothing about the killing of the 'Ghosts'? Take your disinformation…"
"Your sister was shot down by pilots of Rogue Squadron from their own guns," Vex said, shocking Dia. "They shot her down to show off that they can do more than suck spent fuel from twin ion engines. And the 'Ghosts'… Maybe you should ask the ones who dressed them up as 'Rogues' and threw them at the Dominion?"
"What are you babbling about?"
"Read the files—a lot has been declassified," Vex advised. "I understand a lot, friend. Bitterness, frustration, and all that. But nobody forced your 'Morda' to pretend to be Wedge Antilles, and the other 'Ghosts' to pretend to be the other 'Rogues.' War is going on, after all. I get it, revenge and all. But even Kreb pulled himself together and didn't let himself sink to a savage's level, avenging Tia. He just shot down all the 'Rogues' he could. In my opinion, if you cared so much about your sister and boyfriend, you would have signed up as a pilot again and fought, instead of sitting in your cave getting drunk…"
"Not for you to teach me, little one!"
"Do whatever you want," Vex said, heading for the exit. "You're free to move around the ship except the cockpit, engine room, and drive sections. If you get bored, talk to the other passengers, ask what's what and how things are…"
"Other passengers?" Dia repeated blankly.
"No, the Emperor's black bones, we flew to Ryloth just for you!" Vex threw up her hands. "Use your brain for a second—besides you and me, millions of Ryloth girls, boys, and Twi'leks of all stripes end up in slavery one way or another."
"With people like you!"
"Yes, but after they cross the Dominion border, their purchase documents become the basis for citizenship," Vex stated, approaching the outer hatch. "You don't seem to have hollow lekku, Dia Passik. Just use your head and think about what I've given you."
With those words, the girl left the med bay.
Dia sat down on the cot, turning the information chip over in her hands, then picked up a datapad from the nearby table and opened the files.
It was most likely lies, but Dia knew how to find the right threads to unravel a tangled web of deception.
* * *
With a soft hiss, the door to my quarters in the governor's palace on Loka slid open, admitting a visitor.
It seemed the conversation would have to be conducted with the only reasonable one here.
Well, that made things simpler.
"Grand Admiral," Ordo Skirata moved with confidence, as if Rukh, Tierce, and half a dozen guards in full combat kit weren't standing behind him. "Glad to meet you face to face."
"Likewise," I indicated the seat across from me. "I hope you've rested well after the journey and managed to discuss everything necessary with your comrades. I think we can skip the part where we exchange pleasantries, can't we?"
"And condolences," the clone fixed me with a stare.
Well, not me exactly, but Boba Fett, standing behind me to the right.
"Be that as it may, the loss of Sergeant Skirata grieves me considerably," I admitted.
"I hope you're not about to spin a tearful story about how you were acquaintances or friends?"
"I never knew your adoptive father personally, only from holo-photos and service record entries."
"A conversation that starts with honesty is a good conversation."
"As is the fact that your comrades are attempting to infiltrate secured facilities all over Loka during our talk," I said calmly, noting that Ordo's expression didn't change.
"Were we being followed?"
"No, we just have a good security system at our installations," I explained. "Could you tell me what exactly your brothers and allies are looking for?"
"Anything that gives us answers."
"To what questions?"
"We'd prefer to keep those to ourselves for now."
"Convenient," I agreed. "First, get the answers, then ask the questions, listen to what's said, and compare it with the intelligence gathered during reconnaissance. And play along with the liar until you have a chance to nail him. Simple and elegant."
"Glad you appreciate it," Ordo said coldly. "Should I understand that my brothers are in danger?"
"I doubt you haven't accounted for the possibility of losses during this daring mission," I said. "However, we have no intention of killing you all out of simple curiosity."
"Because everything interesting has already been moved?"
"Because I wanted to see you and your brothers in action." That clarification drew a smile from Ordo. "The guards have been instructed to use their weapons at minimum power. There will be no deaths, but the pain..."
Ordo was practically grinning now.
"You think we've gotten rusty in thirty years?"
"I'm certain that those born for war will never find peace in civilian life," I said. "No matter how hard they try to make a go of it as farmers, carpenters, homesteaders, mechanics. War — it's in the blood."
"You speak from experience," Ordo snorted. "Though word did reach us about what you pulled with the New Republic. Almost Mandalorian in style. Not even a Jedi stopped you."
"The rule of five Ps," I said, watching the new head of Clan Skirata blanch slightly. "Proper Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance."
"Kal'buir used a different word instead of 'performance'," Ordo Skirata chuckled.
"We're at a negotiation table, not on a battlefield."
"You want our blood."
"Among other things."
"Let's say you can unlock the secret to preventing the aging of Kaminoan clones," Ordo squinted, gesturing at the silent Fett. "That would help with our specific DNA. But with these," he pointed at the guards and Tierce standing nearby, "treating them will be different. They're not Fett. They're not us."
Interesting.
Clones can recognize clones.
The first one to do that was the clone of Iceheart.
"I understand that a ready-made solution won't work for everyone. Besides, our clones aren't produced using Kaminoan technology."
"GeNod? Spaarti? Arkanian? Khommite?"
"We took the best from all the technologies we know of, refined and improved it," I said. "Not least thanks to the work of Orun Va, whom you know well."
Ordo showed no surprise.
His composure was top-notch.
"So the creator of the ARC program for the Null and Alpha classes is cooperating with you," he said. "I take it that perfectionist long-neck is working on creating mindless, efficient puppets?"
The remark had merit, since it was precisely those criteria — the ability to think independently and be autonomous — that Orun Va considered flaws in the ARC project clones.
"We don't work that way," I shook my head. "We create clones using Spaarti cylinders. Kaminoans, as well as several other scientists, work on the project we call 'GeNod-Dominion.' But we don't create mindless puppets. I don't need slaves. I need proactive, dedicated fighters and specialists."
"And how do you achieve that without programming obedience or implanting volitional limiters?"
"We clone originals who are already loyal."
"Convenient. Ingenious. Effective."
"Thank you, we tried."
"How many Jango Fett clones do you have?"
"All who answered our call to return to active duty. Some are still undergoing rehabilitation and prosthetics, recovering from decades of Imperial obscurity."
"Are you saying you're also treating the old clones?"
"Yes."
"They're useless in combat."
"Perhaps. But what's better — having one experienced clone on the battlefield, or having him serve as an instructor, passing his knowledge on to new clones or recruits?"
Ordo was silent for a moment.
"You're using our genetics to develop suitable therapy for other clones," he realized.
"Yes, the sample is precisely for understanding the treatment method."
"Let's say that's the case. What guarantee is there that all clones will receive this medicine?"
"And what guarantee is there that your brothers aren't being torn apart right now by soldiers of the 501st Legion, who are obedient, docile puppets following my orders?" I inquired.
Ordo smirked.
"I appreciate the irony. You rely heavily on your word."
"I keep it."
"I suppose. What did you use to motivate Fett to work with you?" Skirata pointed at the bounty hunter. "As I recall, Boba didn't much like being used behind his back. And I heard he caused a big ruckus on Kamino when he found out a new clone army was being made from him."
"My arrangements are my business, Ordo," Fett said.
"So you plan to create a new clone army, but with Boba Fett at the head?" Ordo asked.
"For some tasks, he's ideally suited."
"As far as I understand the process, you need matrices to train the clones. Fett is certainly strong and brave, but I doubt you need an army of bounty hunters."
"That's correct. We extract matrices from those Jango Fett clones who have entered our service. We accumulate their experience, create new personalities, and put them into production."
"And? No rebellions yet?"
"It's a necessary measure. I would prefer to create an army the Kaminoan way, but I don't have the capability."
"Are you willing to wait another ten years for them to mature?"
"I have a way to accelerate the cloning."
"You risk creating madmen."
"You have a peculiar way of gathering additional data," I allowed myself a smile. "Cross-examination by a single person?"
"Everyone expects two people to be asking questions in such an interrogation," Ordo didn't deny it. "That's how they get caught. You're holding up well."
"One day I'll get tired of going through all these 'rituals of trust,'" I sighed, handing the Mandalorian a datapad with several information chips.
"What's this?"
"The cloning data we have," I explained. "As well as a threat assessment of what we'll face in the near future. The Zann Consortium and the Silri Syndicate are just the tip of the iceberg that I intend to deal with in the short term. The Galactic Alliance, the New Republic, the Imperial Remnants, Palpatine, warlords, guests from beyond the galactic rim... Those are the real targets. And only some of them need to be destroyed. A harsh lesson will suffice for the rest. Your brothers will gain access to this information at various facilities on the planet. It's all structured here."
The Mandalorian remained silent but took the device.
"Your justification for why we should meet you halfway?" he clarified.
"I'm showing you the reason I have neither the time nor the desire to fight the Mandalorians," I explained. "We can ramp up production of broad-spectrum specialists. I have soldiers, pilots, narrow-field professionals. But I have virtually no commandos."
"What about Orun Va?"
"He can create improved bodies for clones that age slower, carry more ammunition and equipment, but he can't replace decades of training and experience. With the death of Kal Skirata and his allies going underground, no one will train clones in the Mandalorian way like Cuy'val Dar did. That leaves only you, Ordo, your clan, and your allies."
"And what about the Silri Syndicate?" Skirata asked.
"It will be destroyed. As will the Zann Consortium."
"Kamino?"
"I intend to bring the planet under my control."
"So far we haven't received proof that it was 'syndicate men' who killed Kal'buir."
"If you stick around for a while, you can ask them personally, as I said."
"How long?"
"Just a few hours," I said, glancing at the ship's chronometer. "We took something valuable from them, and the Syndicate is eager to get it back. And to take this sector from us."
"A trap within a trap?"
"With another trap inside that."
"I don't doubt it." Ordo placed the datapad on the table. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary."
"Is that so."
"We studied all of this within a day of our arrival," Ordo revealed. "We will cooperate with you. At least until the Silri Syndicate is destroyed and the guilty party is punished. But on the condition that the Dominion does not bring war to Mandalore."
"I will do everything in my power," I didn't evade. And why should I? Skirata understood perfectly well that if we were struck, we would respond with all available force. "So, am I to understand that this current 'infiltration' of our facilities is a tribute to the guards who slept through the real penetration?"
"You are absolutely correct, Grand Admiral," Ordo sighed. "Your soldiers have nothing to counter former Republic commandos with. But you can be sure of one thing — Boss asked me to convey that Delta Squad is ready to join your assault commandos. Though they like the Katarn-class armor better. So we'll be working 'in our own gear.'"
"Oh," I smiled. "Trust me, we have versions of the Katarn that you'll love."
"Sir," Tierce addressed me. "A message has arrived. Silri Syndicate ships are half a day's travel from the Karthakk system border."
"So," Ordo cracked his neck and knuckles. "We'll stretch our legs soon. You have no objection, Grand Admiral, if we take point?"
"I have no objections whatsoever," I assured him.
* * *
Returning to the mess hall felt almost like a break.
The Grand Admiral's messengers didn't exactly stumble into the officers' cafeteria aboard the Crimson Dawn, but they were making quite a bit of noise.
It's not every day you return to base for some downtime and learn that one of the Dominion's Super Star Destroyers has arrived in orbit.
If only she knew which one.
Mara inwardly feared it was the Guardian.
Thrawn certainly knew how to keep himself busy, and Shohashi had surely reported that they still hadn't found the place to which Exar Kun's spirit was tethered.
And the latter, may his after-life be even worse, also showed no desire to show his face.
He'd obviously figured something out about their search and decided to lie low.
Well, nothing for it — soon they'd be bringing in even more ysalamiri and then...
"Um," Ahsoka, walking at the front, stopped dead in her tracks when she saw a lone, unfamiliar figure sitting in the far part of the cafeteria. "That's not who I think it is, is it?"
Mara followed her gaze and flinched slightly, reflexively grabbing her stomach.
But then she pulled herself together.
"It is," the girl hissed through clenched teeth. "Thrawn sent the Snow Queen after us."
"No," Jahan Cross's nervous laugh failed to amuse anyone. "Surely the Dominion isn't short of women who wear a red admiral's uniform without rank insignia."
"And with different-colored eyes — the galaxy is full of young women like that," Mace Windu echoed him.
"And she's not even looking our way," Kyp Durron shuddered.
"We're all just scared, aren't we?" Asajj Ventress clarified.
Silent nods were her answer.
"Let's sit somewhere far away from her..." Ahsoka suggested, looking around.
But when she turned her gaze back to her companions, she noticed a red-haired silhouette in a black combat suit moving away from them. "Mara, banta puudu in your boots, where are you going⁉"
The Togruta, who had started to follow her, was stopped by a hand on her shoulder from Mace Windu.
"Don't," the Korun advised. "She has to face her own vulnerability herself..."
What they said next, Mara didn't hear.
Whether because she was walking fast, or because of the drums pounding in her ears and the indignation flaring inside her.
"So you've come!" she sat down unceremoniously opposite the Snow Queen, who was busy with her lunch.
Ysanne didn't even look up from her steak, continuing to cut a small piece from the bloody meat.
"And where have you been all this time⁉" Thrawn's Hand continued to provoke the conflict.
Ysanne put a small piece of meat in her mouth, chewed it thoroughly, then dabbed her lips with a napkin and took a sip of juice.
"And I'm glad to see you too, Mara Jade," she said calmly, continuing her meal. "I recommend you order the same dish — it's prepared exquisitely here. The last time I tasted anything like it was on Alderaan. Clearly, the Vice Admiral loves the cuisine of his lost homeworld."
Mara understood this game perfectly.
Closing her eyes, she exhaled slowly, getting her emotions back in order.
Her nerves were acting up.
"Why have you come?" she asked, regaining her composure.
"Orders," Ysanne replied, continuing her meal.
"Whose?"
The Snow Queen looked at her with a barely perceptible smile.
"Don't play dumb," she advised. "You know perfectly well who can give me orders and who I serve."
"I don't doubt we both serve the same person," Mara snorted. "Still, why haven't you been seen all this time?"
"An assignment," Ysanne replied simply, savoring her food.
"And what was it, that you didn't even show up on the horizon?" she inquired.
In her memory stood the trip she and Thrawn had taken to Tangrene, where she was offered to take one of three Super Star Destroyers.
A gift for her excellent work and... a hint that she wasn't indifferent to the Grand Admiral.
She had refused her Executor because a ship like that wouldn't just make her work unnecessarily 'un-covert'.
It was also a way to stand out compared to that cross-eyed bitch who was crazy about her Lusankya.
And even though she wasn't the real Snow Queen, she was now the only one with that set of genes, memories, cunning, treachery, ruthless cruelty, and... intelligence.
"I suspect you don't have the clearance to ask me questions," Ysanne said. "When Thrawn arrives, you can ask him yourself."
Even better.
So the Grand Admiral was definitely coming here.
And they had nothing for him; the mission was incomplete.
"So you flew here to oversee our work on Yavin IV?" Mara clarified.
"When Thrawn arrives, you can ask him about that yourself." A smile appeared on the young version of Ysanne's lips. "Though I doubt he'll be frank with his trained pet."
"I am a 'trained pet'?" Jade flared up.
"Unlike you, I'm working, not running around with hysterical questions to someone who's done nothing to you," Ysanne replied. "Leave your grievances with the Snow Queen behind. I'm not her. I'm better. And much more useful to the Grand Admiral than you or the real Isard."
"Is that so?" Female rivalry has never obeyed the laws of logic. At least, not the commonly known ones. "I bet I'm more important to Thrawn than you are."
"Whatever you say." Ysanne was finishing her steak. "I won't argue."
She seemed to have backed down, but the way that bitch held herself, as if she really were the Snow Queen...
Ugh, I'd wipe that smirk off your face...
"Of course you won't," Mara said quietly and sweetly, smiling, preparing to deliver a precise and final blow. "Because I'm more important to him than you. I'm pregnant by him."
Ysanne froze for a moment, interrupting her chewing.
Then, carefully and imperturbably, she placed her cutlery on the plate, wiped the sauce and droplets of blood from her impeccable mouth, and looked into the triumphant Jade's eyes.
Then, in a clear tone, she said:
"Then there are two of us now."
And calmly finished her fruit juice.
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