Nine years, nine months, and five days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, nine months, and five days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Four months and twenty-five days since the arrival).
After Grand Admiral Thrawn concluded his address, Moff Ferrus remained silent for a moment, processing the information.
Lieutenant Colonel Astarion, however, was quick to respond.
— Sir, ensuring the security of the repair and restoration operations on the *Guardian* will undoubtedly be challenging but feasible, — the counterintelligence officer stated. — Given Tangrene's defense systems, camouflaged asteroids, and other measures, we will do everything in our power to conceal the presence of the super star destroyer in the system.
— Thank you, — Thrawn replied calmly. — Do you have anything to add, Moff Ferrus?
— Frankly, yes, sir, — Felix replied without hesitation. — I do not believe Tangrene is suitable as a base for the *Guardian*.
— You might as well suggest repairing it in open space, — shipbuilder Zion interjected, unable to restrain himself.
— You will have your chance to speak, — Thrawn gently interrupted Zion's remarks. — Moff, I am listening.
Felix slightly loosened the collar of his uniform tunic.
— Sir, my concerns are rooted in security considerations, — he began. — Tangrene has long been known as a base for the Ubiqtorate. The enemy is aware of our repair capabilities there. Furthermore, the Morshdine sector is located at the end of the Axxila-Tangrene hyperspace route, which eliminates the possibility of evacuating the ship in the event of an attack on the shipyard.
Astarion appeared ready to object, but Thrawn silenced him with a gesture.
— Continue.
— The *Guardian* is not an *Imperial*-class, — Felix reminded. — Its repair will require significant time.
— We'll manage by year's end, — Zion interjected quickly. — Moreover, given the damage, I'd propose initiating modernization immediately. At minimum, we could enhance its deflector shields with additional SEAL system generators, integrate Mandalorian lasers, and reconfigure the hangars…
— We will discuss your vision shortly, — Thrawn noted softly. — Moff, do you have more to say?
Hutt's blood, yes!
— Grand Admiral, with all due respect, the *Guardian* should be relocated from Tangrene, — Felix declared. — Not only does it require repair, but modernization as well, which means additional equipment. This, in turn, necessitates more transport ships and, at times, specialized cargo. Lieutenant Colonel Astarion is confident his team can ensure the security of the ship and the Tangrene system. I, however, maintain that a mere promise is insufficient. Yes, we have camouflaged asteroids. Yes, we have a cloaked *Golan* platform. Even the shipyard itself can be concealed. But the sector's defense forces cannot withstand an enemy fleet's assault—and if necessary, the New Republic or Imperial Remnants will come with an entire armada.
Surprisingly, Thrawn did not object. Perhaps he was still basking in the victory at Soullex, or perhaps he was envisioning a fleet of nearly fifty star destroyers and cruisers. Hutt knows what he thinks of himself, but that's not how this works.
— Your concerns are noted, Moff, — Thrawn said. — The *Guardian* will remain where it is.
Splendid! So, you need the ship repaired, but who will bear the responsibility for its safety? That's right, Moff Ferrus!
— Why not transfer the *Guardian* to Ciutric IV? — Ferrus inquired. — Sir, eliminating the leadership of the Cavil Corsairs does not mean crime in Morshdine has been eradicated. I acknowledge my oversight, but the fact remains. Edusa and Vandain have been cleared of their bases, and Lieutenant Anilex has withdrawn his forces to Axxila, preparing to seize control of the planet. But the reality is that Morshdine is not secure. I need additional time, forces, and ships to conduct sweeps. Moreover, fresh intelligence from Lieutenant Anilex indicates the presence of a Cavrilhu pirate base in the sector. Additionally, Kamdon hosts a shadow port, *Serpent's Lair*, used for acquiring smuggled tibanna gas and fuel. These are destabilizing factors, and until they are eliminated, I cannot guarantee the ship's safety. Forgive me, sir, but the transport flow through Morshdine operates in both directions, and I wouldn't rule out saboteurs infiltrating via ships delivering cargo to Tangrene.
— Pirates are not the greatest threat, — Thrawn remarked. — Especially with the fleet now under your command.
Like a conjurer, the Grand Admiral produced an information chip, holding it between his index and middle fingers.
— This contains a detailed defense plan for the sectors, accounting for the additional forces now under your command.
— Forgive me, sir, — Felix looked at him, puzzled, taking the data storage device. — You're… assigning me new ships?
— Correct, — Thrawn confirmed. — In addition to the starships already at your disposal, I am placing under your command a *Procursator*-class star destroyer, all New Republic star cruisers, all escort frigates, and five *Vindicator*-class heavy cruisers—once the campaign in the Sprizen sector concludes. Additionally, you will temporarily command the star destroyers currently at Tangrene, crewed by personnel from the *Guardian* and incoming clones. The thirteenth batch of clones is ready, sufficient to fill the specialist shortages on your ships. Furthermore, there are recruits to crew frigates and other starships.
— I'm grateful, sir, — Felix said, slightly flustered. How many starships did he now command? — This is… a formidable force for defending Morshdine.
Just the escort frigates alone numbered nearly fifty!
— Now, for clarifications, — Thrawn continued. — Shipbuilder Zion, within one week, I require a modernization plan for the *Guardian*. The ship must receive an expanded starfighter wing, a reduced crew, and enhanced fighter protection. Your proposal to install additional SEAL system generators is acceptable.
— In other words, I intend to replicate the 'Triad' but on the scale of an *Executor*-class ship, — Zion's eyes gleamed with anticipation. — The project will be ready in three days. I won't even leave Ciutric IV to deliver it.
— Very well, — the Grand Admiral said. — Lieutenant Colonel Astarion, I require you to conduct 'operations' with shadow business representatives in the Morshdine sector. Once Axxila's integration into the Dominion is complete, I want all illicit operations relocated there. Eliminate any who resist. No leniency, no pirates, privateers, or freelance hunters within the metropolitan borders. In one week, the fleet will be ready for active military operations against the New Republic. Thus, Moff Ferrus, I must be confident that the ships under your command are prepared to bear the burden of securing all sectors under your authority.
— Sectors under my authority? — Felix tensed. What was this now?
— Axxila's integration into the Dominion will soon be complete, a significant step in your career, — the Grand Admiral continued. — Once the Cavil Corsairs secure the planet and fulfill their promises to you, assume control of the Dominion's metropolitan internal affairs. The Morshdine, Nidjun, Oplovis, Ciutric Hegemony, and Sprizen sectors, upon their integration, will henceforth be your domain, Grand Moff. — Felix felt his palms grow clammy. — Ciutric IV remains the political center of the metropolitan Dominion. The Tangrene system is declared off-limits to all except personnel with appropriate clearance. Concentrate production lines there for modernization and classified fleet projects. To ensure the secrecy of all activities, Lieutenant Colonel Astarion, you are to establish a counterintelligence headquarters on Tangrene to safeguard against sabotage and other malicious actions.
— Yes, sir, — the Dominion's chief counterintelligence officer replied, his expression unwavering.
Ferrus, however, tasted bitter saliva.
He had barely managed the economy of the Ciutric Hegemony—Astarion had placed over a hundred corrupt officials under investigation.
Morshdine's issues were still unresolved, and now this responsibility…
It was clear he would guide planetary governments, but managing multiple sectors would require expanding his staff.
— Further, — Thrawn handed the newly minted Grand Moff another chip. — This contains recommendations for establishing additional production facilities on our controlled planets. Prepare construction sites—by month's end, factories for military goods will be delivered to the Dominion. Additionally, I order measures to procure equipment necessary for the full operation of the Vosterlig shipyards in the Oplovis sector. These will become the official shipbuilding hub of the metropolitan Dominion. They must also support Ciutric's repair operations.
— In other words, Morshdine remains a classified fleet facility for modernization, Vosterlig will handle starship production, and Ciutric will manage repairs, — Felix summarized. — Sir, the current number of orbital defense platforms is wholly insufficient to secure these facilities.
— Acquire as many as necessary, — Thrawn declared. — The Sronk system in the Oplovis sector has an aurodium deposit, per my intelligence. Additional metal and resource shipments will come from peripheral systems. Establish logistics hubs near Axxila to prevent unauthorized starships from accessing strategic sites. Exclude civilian pilots from transporting military cargo—replace them with clones. Intensify recruitment of specialists and soldiers. The galaxy has many minor Imperial warlord bands—I want information on each. Those we can subjugate, we will; the rest, we eliminate and seize their assets. They must have no ties to the Pentastar Alignment or Imperial Space.
— Rogue warlords, — Astarion understood.
— Correct, — Thrawn confirmed. — I've identified primary targets. Secondary ones, Lieutenant Colonel, you'll determine based on your unit's operations. Many who pledge loyalty to us previously served in such groups.
— It will be done, sir.
— Shipbuilder Zion, — Ryan looked at the Grand Admiral with surprise. When Thrawn summoned them to Ciutric, it was assumed the chief shipbuilder would only answer for current projects. But he had already submitted his files, so… — During the attack on Hast's shipyards, we acquired a damaged proton beam cannon previously mounted on a star destroyer.
— Yes, sir, the mechanism is in storage, — Zion said slowly. — The damage is significant, so…
— Assign a team to this project, — Thrawn ordered. — I want a functional prototype by month's end.
— Sir, — Zion's hair practically stood on end. — That's… highly unlikely.
— I'm not interested in probabilities, shipbuilder, — Thrawn stated. — The Dominion is in danger. Your division must deliver the *Asteroid*, *Asteroid-II*, and all other defensive-offensive weaponry we can utilize.
— I understand, sir, but a proton beam cannon isn't a turbolaser, — Zion stammered. — Mastering this technology will be complex…
— Then master it, — Thrawn commanded. — I need results, not excuses.
The Grand Admiral produced three more information chips from his breast pocket, handing one to each present.
— I've prepared tasks for each of you to execute promptly. Failure will not be tolerated.
Taking the chip meant for him, the new Grand Moff thought that life under the Ubiqtorate wasn't so bad.
Yet, strangely, this meeting, with its added stress and ocean of challenges, only fueled his desire to overcome them and make the Dominion stronger and safer.
***
The ocean on Maramere covers most of the planet's surface, ensconced within the nebulae of the Karthakk system.
**Planet Maramere**
The vast bodies of water provide the local population with sustenance—fish and other sea creatures—supporting both life and profit through bountiful catches, yet also capable of destruction.
Maramere's capital, Point Modie, sits at the base of a massive reef, a mountainous peak rising from the ocean's depths.
As Captain Shteben learned, the settlement had been repeatedly devastated by tides and tsunamis.
Yet, with remarkable tenacity, the native mere population rebuilds their homes from scratch.
Maramere is not inhabited solely by the mere.
**Sol Sixxa, a typical mere**
One can encounter Neimoidians, Rodians, Zabraks, humans, Twi'leks, and hundreds of other species here. Each contributes to the planet's modest economy. While some may dislike fishing, survival demands it, so every morning, before Point Modie's streets fill with natural light, hundreds of fishing schooners depart for the day's catch.
Notably, they primarily hunt the massive, predatory relix fish, which devours anything it can chew, sometimes leaving fishing vessels with gaping holes in their hulls.
If they return at all—accidents at sea are common.
**Point Modie, Maramere's capital**
According to Dominion census data, Maramere's population numbers approximately nine hundred million sentients. Point Modie cannot house such a multitude, so it's logical to assume other cities exist.
Indeed, Maramere hosts thousands of settlements, from small fishing villages to large cities, all situated on reefs, as the mere have little concept of islands or continents.
The *Silver Cloud* cantina is packed to capacity in the pre-dusk hours.
**Silver Cloud Cantina**
Fishermen return from their hauls, workers from the numerous mines built by the Trade Federation, and employees of fish-processing plants frequent the establishment to wet their throats.
Shteben was no exception.
He surveyed the crowded bar with a bored glance, lazily sipping the local swill.
The appointed hour was nearing, so he continued drinking.
Truthfully, in his years of Imperial service, Shteben had visited many planets, mostly observing them from orbit. Oceanic worlds were typically handled by specialized diving teams or recruited amphibious species.
One could jest that the Dominion continues the Empire's policy in this regard.
Arriving on the planet under the guise of a simple mechanic, Shteben wandered Point Modie seeking cheap lodging, observing the local situation. He eavesdropped on conversations, lingered at fish stalls or seafood markets, and moved between workshops seeking work, engaging anyone who might shed light on the planet's affairs.
After several days on his covert mission in the Karthakk system—kept secret even from the local moff—Shteben found himself thinking he rather liked it here.
The cries of seabirds and the sound of waves were soothing, and the streets, diligently cleaned by thousands of droids, grew more spacious and appealing daily. Locals initially believed the Dominion's eradication of gangs merely replaced one master with another, forcing them to toil for the occupiers.
But reality brought surprises.
Including hints Shteben dropped about seeking the mere pirate band *Mere Resistance*, particularly expressing interest in joining and meeting their leader, known only as *The Ghost*.
A fitting nickname, considering *The Ghost* had reportedly died a hundred times yet always returned.
— I didn't think you'd dare show, — a typical mere sat uninvited at Shteben's table.
Frankly, they all looked alike.
Tall, lanky, with webbed limbs, dressed in durable wetsuits to protect against the cold depths.
— Greetings, Sol, — Shteben said, raising his glass in a mock salute. — Thought you'd ditch me.
— Me? — The mere laughed, a sound like coughing or choking to an unprepared sentient. — Never. Who am I to ignore *The Ghost*'s orders?
Shteben feigned surprise, playing his cover to the fullest.
— What, *The Ghost* himself is interested in me?
— Did you think *Mere Resistance* would ignore a highly skilled mechanic arriving on our planet? — Sol Sixxa clarified, still chuckling. — No, friend. We need qualified sentients. Especially now, with the Empire seizing control.
Shteben mimicked astonishment—he needed to probe the motivations of this small pirate band. Though not a major nuisance, they commanded respect among locals for their defiant actions against Trade Federation occupiers.
It made one wonder what heroic feats the typically phlegmatic mere had achieved to maintain influence over two decades after overthrowing Neimoidian rule.
— I thought things were fine here, — Shteben said. — When I arrived, I figured Maramere was starting a new chapter…
— Your rehabilitation after being part of Nym's crew doesn't mean things have changed, — Sol said bitterly.
— Well, I don't know, — Shteben drawled. Per his cover, he was a former mercenary of Captain Nym, acquitted by a Dominion tribunal. With Lok hosting Dominion facilities, only those with clean records were hired. Pirates who avoided becoming examples of Dominion justice had few options.
Some joined *wolf packs*, raiding fleets targeting Dominion enemies. With nearly a hundred ships—mostly armed freighters—there was work for all.
There were also two *Providence*-class carrier-destroyers under Captains Irv and Tiberos, but their crews were set, needing only pilots.
Those with clean records could join Karthakk's Defense Forces under Moff Tavira. Rumor had it she controlled not only repaired Mon Calamari cruisers at Lok's orbital yards but also the *wolf packs*.
Shteben claimed he wanted no part of Dominion leadership and sought a better opportunity.
Local tales of *The Ghost* and his band led him to contact them.
At least, that was the official cover.
In reality, Shteben was tasked with locating the band's leader, discerning their goals, finding their base, and seizing the prototype cloaking device *The Ghost* reportedly possessed.
— Seems nice here, — Shteben said. — Locals govern the planet, Point Modie's a decent town, and stormtroopers aren't patrolling every corner like on Lok.
— The local government—the Mere Council—is a sham, — Sol said irritably. — The Dominion handpicked prominent mere to rule the rest. In exchange for loyalty and Tavira's firepower against uprisings, they restart the Trade Federation's mountain and seabed mines. And fishing? Half the catch is loaded onto Dominion ships leaving Karthakk. Don't get me started on Lok's factories and mines. There are legions of stormtroopers there!
— But that creates jobs, — Shteben said, genuinely surprised. — What's wrong with that?
— The Trade Federation said the same at first, — Sol retorted. — Then they brought troops and turned us into slaves. Why do you think the Dominion forbids mere from building our own cruisers, like during the Clone Wars?
"Because they're a waste of metal," Shteben thought.
Two-hundred-meter ships with sublight engines, one heavy turbolaser, and a dozen light ones barely qualified as corvettes. Sol was exaggerating—the mere couldn't rebuild those ships even if they wanted to. The Trade Federation had bombed their production facilities during the occupation, and surviving ships were lost attacking a Neimoidian lab on Nod Kartha, Karthakk's third world.
— Soon, the Dominion will drop the pretense of allowing mere police, — Sol continued. — Why do you think they opened recruitment centers? To train mere volunteers to operate Mon Calamari ships? To make them combat divers?
"That's exactly what Dominion instructors are doing," Shteben thought.
— What else would it be?
— They're raising occupiers, regime enforcers, — Sol declared. — Karthakk is a resource vein for them. They're building factories on Lok, forging armor, modernizing old ships, and upgrading captured ones. I hear Nod Kartha has factories producing star destroyer engines and other equipment. Understand? Our system is a Dominion resource appendage. They mine our worlds and ship out hundreds of thousands of tons of rare ores and finished components via guarded caravans. What's left for Karthakk? Refurbished stations? Ships being upgraded, loaded with our resources, and sent off forever? You see it—Tavira sends dozens of transports under escort daily, filled with our metals, composites, and structures…
— Sounds like trade to me, — Shteben admitted. — They're not doing it for free, are they?
— The credits go to the planet's government, Dominion puppets, — Sol said conspiratorially. — Common mere work for scraps.
"But Maramere's government was elected by its citizens," Shteben thought. "And led by their chosen representatives."
They told Tavira they'd handle their planet themselves, forming an efficient bureaucracy and law enforcement. Mere citizens work in fishing, processing, and sales to the Dominion, as well as in deep-sea mines and old Trade Federation sites, ensuring their own employment.
No matter what Sol claimed, mere voluntarily joined Dominion training and crews for Karthakk's Defense Forces, alongside Lok's population.
From what Shteben heard, life on Maramere had improved under Dominion "occupation."
Dominion engineers enhanced mere structures, and cities gained defenses against high waves.
The population could now pursue safer livelihoods beyond high-risk fishing.
— So, what do you need from me? — Shteben asked.
— We're planning to strike Dominion shipyards, — Sol said conspiratorially. — Destroy ships and yards, maybe incite crews to rebel. And seize control of Karthakk!
"Idiot," Shteben thought.
Sol and *Mere Resistance* aimed to repeat their campaign against the Trade Federation.
Except, back then, they had support from *Lok Revenants* and other gangs.
Now, Tavira commands over a hundred ships. The yards are heavily guarded, and ship crews are loyal—otherwise, they wouldn't be there.
Every candidate for a ship's crew, from *wolf pack* freighters to repaired trophy ships staying in Karthakk, is vetted by counterintelligence.
Inciting a rebellion among mere living better than ever is utopian.
Yet, Sol didn't seem deranged. If he spoke of a strike, he likely had a plan.
— Alright, — Shteben picked at his teeth with a fingernail. — What do I do?
— Come to Pier 23 when you find a fishing company card in your room, — Sol said. — We'll head to sea, take a dip…
Some part of *Mere Resistance*'s plan likely involves something beyond inhabited areas.
— No problem, — Shteben agreed. — Hope the pay's good, whatever I'm fixing.
— Glad you're with us, — Sol stood, clapping him on the shoulder. — It'll be fun.
Leaning in, he lowered his voice:
— When I take control of Karthakk, and we trade with anyone who pays for our resources, rest assured—you won't be left out of the wealth and glory.
— Sure thing, — Shteben grinned, mimicking a pirate promised riches. — I love credits. Really love 'em.
You'll be surprised, Maramere conspirators, when the Noghri come for you.
Just show me what you're hiding in the ocean.
Experience suggests it's tied to rumors of *The Ghost*'s cloaking generator.
***
As the door closed behind me, the *Snowdrop* Iceheart was already seated at a bank of monitors, turned to face me.
— Welcome, Grand Admiral, — she said, ignoring Rukh, who darted past me like a gray blur, scanning for ambushes.
He paid particular attention to the space behind the clone and her chair.
Finding no threats, the bodyguard melted into the shadows of the quarters, positioned to strike if danger arose.
— I expected you later, — she said with a smile.
— To business, — I said, settling into the chair opposite her. — What are the results of the operation to retrieve Fey'lya?
For a moment, the clone of Ysanne Isard stared with her mismatched ice-and-flame eyes, as if disbelieving…
— I expected you'd ask why you should spare my life, — she said, her face showing clear displeasure. — So much effort… and not a single emotion.
— Skip the unnecessary preamble, — I pressed. — Results.
The clone sighed with disappointment.
— The Counselor returned to Coruscant, — she said. Seeing my eyebrow twitch, she clarified:
— Information from open sources. I haven't used communication channels except under guard supervision. With no access to the HoloNet, I rely on news broadcasts, — she leaned back, pressing her tunic to her abdomen and gesturing toward a window. — A kilometer from the residence, a public monitor displays key galactic news. When I heard the Bothan fleet was sent on maneuvers and ambushed, I knew they fell for a trap. But they were smarter this time—the 'exercise' cover prevents us from using their fleet's destruction for propaganda. Still, it opens other opportunities.
— I'd be interested to hear which, — I said, considering how many of her conclusions aligned with mine.
— Several, — Isard returned to her initial position, smiling as I watched her face. — Since the Bothans sent their forces covertly, we could negotiate secretly for prisoner exchanges. Many captives are from influential clans, unlikely to want a scandal over their attempt to bypass the New Republic to eliminate your excellency. I hope you're not offended that I didn't demand a comm session to warn you of the Bothan squadron's approach.
So, the warning wasn't meant to serve that purpose. But no, if she wanted me dead, she'd have devised something more substantial than the remnants of a Bothan fleet.
Noted.
— Suppose so, — I had five other ways to play this 'card' with 'unauthorized' Bothan prisoners, but this was my first thought. — Is the compromising material on Fey'lya ready?
— And edited, — she confirmed, taking an information chip from the table. — Recordings of my conversations with him. The angle hides the restraint system. An unaware viewer would think the Counselor willingly kneels before me, enduring discomfort and drinking from a bowl like his distant ancestors. Quite a spectacle… captivating, I'd say. Especially the ending.
I don't want to know, but I'll have to review it.
— The recording also captures me offering him a choice—save himself or his subordinates, — Isard continued. — No need to guess his choice. He played his part well—betraying his subordinates and the New Republic with false operation timings. If that's normal on Bothawui, it'll add negativity and prejudice against Bothans and Fey'lya in civilized society.
— What was demanded in return? — I asked.
No one thinks this schemer gave critical information without personal gain.
Isard tilted her head, squinting.
— Think I'm that mercenary, Grand Admiral?
— I'm certain you wouldn't be believed without stating your interests, — I said, holding her gaze. — Neither by Bothans nor the Provisional Government.
A smile spread across her lips.
— Your composure impresses me, Grand Admiral, — she turned to a monitor. — As for your question, you're absolutely right. I took payment for my 'services.' Otherwise, such dealings 'behind your back' wouldn't be convincing.
I wasn't about to indulge her with a question.
Instead, I drew a simple conclusion.
I kept the duplicate Isard alive not only for her inherited skills but to avoid complacency after victories.
But practice shows I miscalculated.
Since I missed something, why keep her alive? The key task—locating the real Isard and rescuing Himron—has seen no progress.
— The New Republic transferred three billion credits in their currency to shell companies I control, — the clone said, eyeing me with interest. — They value your head highly, Commander.
Did she use that honeyed tone when digging Krennel's grave, promising his victory?
— For the 'exclusivity' of offering my 'services' to the Bothans first, I received fifty billion New Republic credits, — she smiled radiantly. — You don't seem impressed, Grand Admiral.
Of course not.
I'm stunned. Let my teachers and parents weep over my lapse into profanity.
Fifty-three billion?
How does that even work?
It's flattering to be valued at a sector's annual revenue, but just for coordinates without a guarantee I'd be there…
— How did you convince them your information was reliable? — I asked, trying not to betray my fascination.
— It's on the recordings with Fey'lya, — she pointed to the chip. — But since you won't watch them soon, I'll summarize without omitting the essence.
Please do.
— I promised to betray you, secure a New Republic pardon for my crimes, and take over the Dominion without causing them future trouble, — she beamed.
In the next instant, the hair on her right side was ten centimeters shorter than the left.
— Easy, Rukh, — I didn't need to look for my bodyguard; I felt him behind me.
Isard glanced at the throwing knife embedded in her chair's backrest.
She tried to pull it out—unsuccessfully.
— Interesting, — she said, brushing off severed locks. — Obsidian. I hope your bodyguard won't insist on finishing me after missing?
— Rukh doesn't miss, — I said calmly.
— Then what…? — She didn't finish as the chair collapsed, dismantled by design. Rukh had inspected it thoroughly upon entering.
— Question withdrawn, — the clone said, rising and brushing off nonexistent dust. — Where were we? Ah, yes… Fifty-three billion New Republic credits. They belong to the Dominion. My modest contribution to our victory.
I'd love to see what she considers a 'major contribution.'
— Our conversation paused at you outlining my destruction to my enemies, — I reminded her.
— Merely reinforcing that I'm power-hungry and untrustworthy, — she smirked, taking another chip from the table. — Here's the 'pardon' and assurances of no claims.
— Another mine laid under the New Republic's foundation, — I took the chip from my bodyguard.
— With the Fey'lya recordings, it'll blow the roof off the shack they call the New Republic, — Isard stood, arms crossed.
I have a 'bomb' that could raze their foundation.
I just need to hold out a year or two.
If only it were possible…
— Continue, — I said. — Ennix Devian.
Isard blinked, pausing—an unusual reaction for her.
Embarrassment? Confusion? Ignorance?
— Palpatine's favorite toy and hired killer, — she paced the office. — Your fleet took much from him. He likely assessed how dangerous you are in direct combat, sacrificing little to gain more. Based on what I know, it's unlikely this was his plan—he excels at small-scale assassinations. He probably has an experienced commander behind this operation.
Not a profound insight—I reached that conclusion immediately. I'm interested in something else…
— Given his losses, Devian will likely seek additional allies, — she declared.
Interesting. I had the same thought.
— Based on the ship descriptions, — she glanced at the chip I provided upon arrival, — I assume heavy losses among fighters and interceptors. Devian will prioritize recruiting them.
Brilliant, Watson. I figured that out and prepared. Now, where will this recruitment occur?
I have guesses, but I'm eager to hear the clone's take.
— I see you've already calculated this, — she noted, and I nodded. — So… the recruitment location, correct?
— I've calculated it, — I said.
— A test, then? — she clarified.
— You could say that, — I confirmed.
— Its purpose? — she asked.
— To assess your continued usefulness, — I stated. — The search for Molo Himron hasn't progressed.
— It's disheartening to know you don't believe in me, — she said with feigned pain.
— I have other concerns—trust in you isn't one.
Her voice turned steely:
— I don't ask for trust, Grand Admiral, — she said. — I remember our agreement and won't deviate. I know where the real Isard's base is.
It's been three years…
— Coordinates, — I demanded.
She handed me another chip.
— A secret staging base housing two squadrons of TIE Defenders for preservation and awaiting orders, — she said. — It's staffed with personnel, repair shops, and everything needed for long-term operation.
— Why create such a base? — I asked.
— One of Palpatine's hidden cells, — she replied. — Commanded by a weak-willed general so terrified of the Emperor he wouldn't contact anyone to verify orders. I suspect the real Isard has already eliminated him.
Likely.
— The search took longer due to incorrect initial criteria, — she explained, leaning against the desk. — The TIE Defenders were stored as components, not whole units, so I had to restart my search.
I pocketed the chip.
— Well, — she looked at me, — I think it's fair to note that Ennix Devian likely doesn't bother with ideologically driven pilots. Their outdated ships suggest no one values them. My guess—recruitment is happening in Hutt Space…
My conclusion exactly.
— Planets near the Ghost Nebula host many ex-Imperials turned mercenaries. They're not pursued by law and can find easy work there.
— And consider that only the dregs of the Pilot Corps fled there, — I finished. — Those willing to take any job.
— We're not so different, Grand Admiral, — she remarked. — You took the words from my mouth. Shall we discuss matters important to me?
Really now.
— You may present your proposals, — I clarified.
— So be it, — she shrugged. — I offer my services to streamline Dominion Intelligence and Counterintelligence.
Do tell.
— I'd be curious to hear your thoughts, — I said.
— First, eliminate fleet intelligence, — she said. — Intelligence must be unified, operating deep behind enemy lines, not at the front under their noses. Let storm commandos or fleet special forces handle tactical intelligence—it's part of their role. This avoids duplication.
Suppose we think alike…
— For counterintelligence, I'd suggest focusing solely on countering enemy agents, filtration, border control, and combating organized crime, piracy, slavery, and other highly dangerous illegal activities, — I said, noting her keen interest. I paused, letting her continue.
— You've clearly addressed primary concerns, — she said with a faint, icy smile, nodding slightly.
— Yet you have insights to address my gaps, — I said.
— Indeed, — she looked intrigued. — I'd be glad to assist.
"Glad is unlikely," I thought.
— Blackhole, — the name turned her face into an icy mask.
— He's alive? — she hissed.
— And operating Ubiqtorate remnants in the Pentastar Alignment, — I confirmed. — With enemies closing in, preemptive strikes seem prudent. Eliminating Blackhole would be an interesting clash of intelligence agencies trained in the same methods. What can you tell me about him that stays within the Imperial Palace?
— Truly, — her features softened. — To me, he's just a name in another's memory…
An intriguing framing, distancing herself from the shared past with the real Isard.
— Blackhole emerged in Intelligence before the Battle of Yavin IV, — she began without preamble. — He led a reclusive life, avoiding contact. I rarely heard of him undertaking missions himself—most work was done through droids, lower-ranking agents, or covers. In his rare appearances, he used a holographic transmitter with an image distorter, operating solely under the codename *Blackhole*. The hologram resembled a flickering starscape or simple robes, with a featureless face or just eyes. Despite my efforts, I never cracked how he distorted his voice.
Perhaps it wasn't a device.
— Palpatine kept him apart, even heeded his words. Under Blackhole, Imperial Intelligence gained near-unlimited access to the HoloNet. He expanded its structure, defined each level's tasks, and devised multi-channel report systems. That was his design, — she shed light on several aspects.
— After he vanished and Palpatine promoted Isard, Blackhole took many technical achievements with him. He had exclusive access to vast galactic data, which was also lost.
Data management issues seem rampant in this galaxy.
— The Emperor favored him, — she continued. — He was given the star destroyer *Singularity* and elite units like shadow troopers. Their armor, made with advanced stealth technology, evaded most detection methods.
— Is that all? — I asked.
— Beyond being a cunning, unprincipled maniac, I have nothing to add, — she said.
Disappointing.
That's nearly identical to my other query results.
Not much to work with.
We can likely locate Blackhole's ships—Ghent is on it.
The question is whether eliminating Blackhole will slow Palpatine.
— You know, — Isard squinted, — I think someone could solve your Blackhole problem. I'm surprised he's not already under your banner. A man with a keen sense of justice, acting by a personal code. He excelled in seemingly impossible missions, always returning victorious. Yet he rejected the New Order's xenophobia, treating aliens and droids well. That kept him a mere agent, assuming he found work after Endor.
— Who? — For Isard to praise someone without ulterior motives?
— An agent with exceptional combat training. Skilled in hand-to-hand, melee, blaster, and beam weapons, plus expert piloting. Observant, insightful, but quick to use force when needed, — her voice held a trace of respect, remarkable given her worldview. A worthy candidate for recruitment.
Or a trap.
— His name? — I asked.
— Jahan, — she said. — Jahan Cross.
Something familiar…