The goal of collecting 200 power stones has been magnificently achieved; therefore, I present this part to you ahead of schedule. Yet, may I inquire—could you perhaps attain 400 stones to unlock the next part?
***
As paradoxical as it sounds, work on Project Asteroid revealed yet another application for this technology.
Unrelated to minefields, planetary blockades, or asteroid attacks on enemy fleets.
Prison cells, whose security level is ensured by the vacuum of surrounding interstellar space itself.
My personal shuttle was hovering over one such "prison asteroid."
Medium-sized, unremarkable, but at the same time—quite valuable in the long term.
Drifting alone in the vast interstellar space beyond the inhabited systems of the Dominion.
Far from well-trodden hyperspace routes and places of even random ship appearances.
A secret prison where one could be held quite long.
A fusion reactor powers the air purification and gravity systems, magnetic locks on the solitary cell doors.
Food—monotonous gruel and drinking water, delivered directly to the cell twice a day through special conduits.
Minimum comfort, minimum amenities, no viewports, communication systems, or monitoring.
Not even utensils provided.
Nothing that could be used to create even a remotely decent transmitting device.
A computer programmed to overload the reactor if the regime or cell hermeticity is breached.
And the only exit—through the door.
Which doubles as the airlock for the tiny compartment.
The perfect solitary cell that drives one mad.
I admit, when the airlock hatch slid aside and the shuttle cabin filled with stale air, I expected the prisoner to lunge in attack, try to escape, or at least harm the arrivals.
But nothing happened.
The sole inmate, clad in simple robes, lay calmly on his solitary bunk.
However, the movement of his eyes betrayed the tension hidden behind the indifferent mask on the clone's swarthy face.
"You look unwell, Mr. Fett," I said, settling onto the folding chair I'd brought from the shuttle.
"And you look too healthy for someone killed by a lightsaber and ejected into space," the bounty hunter replied, demonstratively staring straight ahead.
If he hoped that phrase would throw me off somehow, he miscalculated.
I knew perfectly well what Tierce had told him when visiting the prisoner right after the Sluis Van operation's conclusion.
That he'd been captured on my orders.
And that from capture to the adjutant's previous appearance, Fett had had a portable Holonet receiver, that's known too.
Essentially, after discovering that device, he was transferred from a regular prison to the asteroid.
With whatever news, but Fett was somewhat informed.
"You can't say the same for your friend, the bounty hunter named Dengar, who came to free you," I said.
Boba Fett turned his head toward me.
He still managed to seem unflappable, but if there were sentients in the galaxy he didn't give a damn about, Dengar—whose wedding Fett had attended and whom he'd called on for help more than once—was among them.
"Did he die quick?" the Mandalorian clarified.
"He's badly wounded but will survive," I replied.
"At this point in the genre, you offer me cooperation in exchange for Dengar's life," the bounty hunter snorted. "I don't like preludes. Get to the point."
Professional approach.
The mercenary is only interested in money.
At least that's what the clone of Jango Fett wants to emphasize to me.
"You're not that easy to find, Mr. Fett," meanwhile, I intend to "marinate" him a bit more.
I need to track his reactions, behavior, to understand—can dealings be had with him.
Or will the offense of capture overpower, and the Mandalorian, barely free, instantly start revenge.
Personally, I lean toward the latter.
But I don't want to dismiss even the simplest variant prematurely.
"Those who undertake such searches usually don't live to see them conclude," the mercenary replied.
"You refused offers to work for me," I reminded him, recalling how many bids to the Bounty Hunters' Guild (and other means) my subordinates had sent to find the clone.
All—fruitless.
"And I refused the contract on your head," the mercenary replied. "One hundred forty thousand credits. A hefty sum even by my standards."
"And what stopped you?" I asked, intrigued.
In the past, Fett hadn't been picky about choosing contracts to fulfill, so his remark...
Quite intriguing.
"Your little 'Jawa' assassins, gutting anyone who took the job," the mercenary answered honestly. "Fairly inventive executors. Took me time to connect the Jawas' appearances and the dead colleagues' bodies. Though I intended to finish some of them personally."
"Perhaps you'll get the chance," I said meaningfully. "You need only agree to the offered job."
"Let me clarify something, Grand Admiral," Fett sat up sharply on his bunk, not taking his eyes off Tierce.
He was clearly testing my adjutant's reaction speed to possible excesses on his part.
Grodin didn't twitch an ear, perfectly understanding what was happening here and not rising to the provocation.
"You're not the first Imperial planning to use my blood to create an army of clones, like in the Old Republic days," the bounty hunter said, not averting his gaze from me. "Beings far more powerful than you tried it. The Empire was at its peak, but even they failed. I didn't allow it. And I won't let you. Millions of my clones won't roam the galaxy."
"You speak as if anything depends on you," I narrowed my eyes.
"Everything depends on me, Grand Admiral," the man said confidently. "I don't know what technology you intend to use for my replication, but you won't succeed. You can drain as much blood as you want from me and make any number of clones. Cover the whole galaxy with them—but you won't put anything in their heads. At least nothing I know. Otherwise, you'll get nonsense, and clone degradation will go exponential once they take their first breath. Go ahead. Waste time, money, and a couple million bodies, but you'll return to square one."
For an ordinary bounty hunter, he knows too much.
Some hint of voluntary cooperation in mind copying and negative consequences if he refuses.
Could this be a bluff?
Yes, undoubtedly.
We've already cloned those unwilling to cooperate.
Yes, they weren't the best mind templates, but functional.
And Fett claims he can complicate the process...
Wait.
There's logic in it.
Those who submit to mind copying voluntarily produce the most stable imprints.
Those who don't want to cooperate much—yield "damaged" mind matrices.
And that's after "breaking" them before copying to make them submissive and non-resistant.
So, refusing cooperation, we'll get mere fragments from Fett's mind or something like that.
Hypothetically, of course, he can be broken.
Like any sentient.
The only question is how much time it'll take to transform him in the way I need.
I suspect simple torture and manipulation won't take someone who's survived a sarlacc's stomach.
And I don't have an inventive interrogator at hand.
To my great regret.
But I don't intend to give up easily either.
If needed, Fett will be run through the brain mincer, but he'll cooperate.
Whether he wants to or not.
"Well, we'll return to that question, Mr. Fett," I assured the prisoner. "Currently, certain circumstances of your past work concern me."
"I don't disclose information about my past contracts," Fett cut off categorically.
"And you're unusually verbose for a mercenary of your reputation," I noted. "Demonstrating feigned superficial cooperation while verbally denying in communication to hasten dialogue's end is a fairly well-known rhetorical ploy. But ultimately useless."
Fett looked at me calmly, then at Tierce, scanned the walls of his cell.
"There'll be no conversation," he said, easily lifting his feet off the floor and stretching out on the bunk, staring at the ceiling.
"In that case, my monologue," I stated. "So, brief facts that at first glance aren't connected. You're the only clone of Jango Fett in the entire galaxy without the genetic modifications the Kaminoans applied to the rest of the Grand Army of the Republic clones. You were created and raised on the planet Kamino. And some time ago, you visited it to recover after your stay in the sarlacc pit. A small number of sentients know you're alive. But more importantly, I'm interested in information about your very specific assignment from Darth Vader."
The clone just smirked sarcastically.
In his bounty hunter career, he'd worked for the Sith Lord so often that he'd been called the Supreme Commander of the Empire's right hand more than once or twice.
"Hunt for Galen Marek's clone from Kamino to Kamino, pursuing the ship to Dantooine, freeing Darth Vader from captivity," I calmly listed the known facts of Boba Fett's story's end in this context briefly. "These theses refresh your memory?"
The bounty hunter was silent.
"I want to know what happened on Dantooine, if Galen Marek and his allies are alive," my motives didn't reflect on Boba Fett's face.
An awkward silence hung.
And the longer it lasted, the less respect the mercenary would have for me.
And the less he'd want to cooperate.
"Lieutenant Colonel Tierce," I addressed the adjutant quietly. "Break Mr. Fett's one arm."
"Which one exactly, sir?" came the question from the former guardsman.
"Any," Fett remained calm, but noticeably tensed, preparing for hand-to-hand. "Your choice."
Like a gray shadow, the guardsman slid forward, striking a fist to the mercenary's chest.
But Fett had already leaped from the bed and assumed a fighting stance.
The guardsman's kick landed in the bounty hunter's gut, sending him flying to the wall.
And he immediately charged the adjutant.
Tierce dodged a hand strike to the head, twisted his torso to soften a kick he blocked.
For a moment, the opponents froze, then Grodin, holding the opponent's leg, squatted and swept, dropping the bounty hunter to the metal floor.
Fett softened the impact by arching and striking with his other leg to the guardsman's head, but Tierce didn't even react.
He grabbed the mercenary by the arm, worked his torso, lifting him off the floor, then slammed Fett back-first onto the metal with force.
Not giving the opponent time to recover, Palpatine's former guardsman piled on with his full weight, punched the throat.
The delayed Fett momentarily lost control of the fight, allowing Tierce to continue the assault.
I didn't even catch how the bounty hunter's right arm ended up in my adjutant's lock, but the latter, toying like with a senseless child, slipped his elbow into Fett's arm bend, twisted the wrist, breaking it, then with a short powerful strike snapped the radius and ulna of the forearm.
After that, he wrenched the good arm, flipping Fett onto his back and pinning him knee to back to the floor.
And did it so the damaged arm was pinned under the sole of his right foot.
"Thank you for demonstrating your skills, Mr. Fett," I said. "Comfortable?"
The bounty hunter was silent.
"You were asked questions," Tierce stated emotionlessly.
But Fett kept mum.
Foolishly.
Grodin, not counting much on grabbing the opponent by his short hair, yanked his head back with his free hand so the upper torso lifted off the floor, then smashed the mercenary's face into the metal with full swing.
He repeated the procedure twice before Fett's face resembled bloody mush.
Split lips, broken nose, bleeding abrasions, several knocked-out teeth.
"You're a stubborn man, Mr. Fett," I assessed. "I perfectly understand your code of honor doesn't allow disclosing past contract data. But you must also understand that since I'm officially dead to all, I have plenty of time. And Lieutenant Colonel Tierce can continue this fun until he tires. Believe me—his endurance is no less than my free time. And you've just convinced yourself of his skill in breaking the best of the best."
"So clone him already," Fett hissed, his head pulled back by the former guardsman so it seemed he was ready to snap it off with the spine.
"I'll definitely consider your suggestion," the situation's irony was that Tierce had already been cloned multiple times.
As a guardsman, as a stormtrooper squad commander, and as a storm commando to replace Colonel Selid's fallen clones.
His training as a stormtrooper and guardsman allowed clones from him to be anything.
On the ground battlefield, of course.
"Seems I overdid it saying you're a smart man, Mr. Fett. Don't disappoint me. Say you've perfectly understood my visit's goal isn't so much to persuade you to be a donor for our clones. Honestly, with your experience, we'd get anyone but professional soldiers, which the Dominion needs. Commandos, assassins, saboteurs—yes. Your life experience allows instilling such qualities in clones. But from you, I need not so much your blood and mind imprint as information. So, repeat my question?"
"Be so kind," the verbal sparring ended for Fett with another face-slam to the floor.
"As you wish," I satisfied the mercenary's request. "How did you free Darth Vader, and what happened to Galen Marek and his fighters. If it pleases you, your revelations I'll take to the grave. When I finally visit."
The mercenary shot me a devastating glare.
"I destroyed the rebels' base on Dantooine," Fett croaked. "Called in Imperial spec ops. While the rebels were busy repelling the frontal assault, I freed Vader. Marek, Eclipse, Kota escaped. Vader tasked me to find them, but it was fruitless. That trio fled in their ship somewhere into the Outer Rim. What happened to them after, I don't know. I didn't engage the clone directly—he's devilishly powerful and mad in battle. Such a fight could have cost me my life."
"Suppose," I said. "What do you know about Galen Marek's clones?"
More precisely, I was interested in only one of them.
"I'm aware I was hunting a clone of the Jedi killed by Vader, from Kamino," Fett said. "There were many like him on Kamino, but all—complete lunatics. After the Alliance beat the Empire at Kamino. I know nothing of other clones."
In other words, Fett means he doesn't know about another stable Galen Marek clone.
And I'm not talking about Starkiller, the hero of the second part of the video game The Force Unleashed.
I'm talking about the so-called "Dark Apprentice," who in the game appeared only if Starkiller, after dueling Vader, intended to finish him off.
Whether it happened for real, or it's all invention and so-called "game convention," I don't know.
But I definitely know that spies on Kashyyyk spotted at least one Galen Marek.
In the company of Rahm Kota, Juno Eclipse, Kyle Katarn, and his assistant.
Thus, Katarn fulfilled the late General Madine's order and found Marek.
Or Starkiller.
I don't know who's who.
Whether the hero of the second game part is a clone, or the restored original not fully finished off on the Death Star.
Theories and facts exist both confirming and refuting each version.
If there's desire to find them.
Essentially, it doesn't matter who's who—the problem exists.
The newly formed Alliance, with its capital on the planet Dac, absorbed a significant portion of the northeastern sectors of the galaxy once controlled by the New Republic.
And this threatened several of my own planets, like Columex, Trogan, Garosa IV, Makem Te.
The Empire wars with the New Republic, while the Alliance is still recovering and completing the Second Fleet based on the planet Elom, which joined the Rebellion leaders.
True, the latter is no more than aggressive and foolish propaganda.
The Second Fleet, as before, supports and defends the New Republic.
Only a few dozen capital ships, and no more than a hundred corvettes and frigates, deserted and joined the new Rebel Alliance.
The new state's striking power is the Mon Calamari sector fleet.
And it must be admitted, it's huge there.
Over the last six months, Dac's residents have significantly boosted their industrial potential in manufacturing combat starships.
And there's no doubt that if I don't manage to send reinforcements to the Dominion's peripheral systems in time, the enemy will besiege them.
And to man all ships without exception, I need personnel.
Experienced fighters, whom the Defense Fleet has essentially already drained.
The situation haunting me the last four months repeats.
Have ships—no crews.
But now it's a full-blown catastrophe-sized problem.
And it must be solved as soon as possible.
Cloning sentients to man, at best, one or maybe two Star Destroyers in a month is a failure.
And endlessly diluting crews with volunteers from crash military training courses is also just temporary.
That's why Guardian hasn't left constant training cruises since participating in the battle with Moff Gron's destroyers.
The crew is seventy percent cloned, but combat cohesion is needed.
And more clones.
They're needed everywhere.
In the army, Storm Corps, armored forces, aviation, fleet, for garrison duty.
Training our own troops will take considerable time, but fighters and specialists are needed now.
Considering the existing threats.
In defense, of course, we can hold out.
For the first time.
And only the metropole.
But if we let the enemy onto our territory, slaughter is unavoidable.
Similarly for peripheral systems.
While galactic chaos, defensive stations, planetary artillery, shields, and the iron will of commanders protect them.
But the longer this conflict drags, the more manpower and technical resources I'll have to divert to defend territories.
Palpatine isn't the New Republic.
Once he tries (and he or his allies will definitely do it) to conquer the Dominion and washes bloody tears, the most logical and obvious step will be to attack the Dominion's outer systems.
My clone's staged death will divert the blow from the Dominion for a time, but not forever.
And all this leads to one simple logic—I need clones.
The more—the better.
Existing production capacities for them are already at the limit.
Need more cloning cylinders.
Especially since, from my own clone grown via experimental technology involving a Kaminoan incubator, I already know how to shorten maturation time.
We can provide them everything needed—the Dominion's warehouses still hold millions of Phase II clone trooper armor sets.
And Grand Army of the Clones special forces armor.
And much else that doesn't lag much in quality behind the Empire's stormtrooper armor we have in service, but it's tailored to specific body parameters.
One single body's in the galaxy.
Fitting that gear to recruits or clones is too time-consuming, costly, not to mention smelting and refitting.
And our own stormtrooper armor and variants production, softly speaking, doesn't satisfy the armed forces' demands.
As does armored vehicle production, or modernization of trophies from storage bases.
And whatever Fett says, he'll help me create a new clone army in his image and likeness.
But for that, I need to capture one single planet.
True, that implies full-scale war with one of the galaxy's most dangerous criminal consortia.
"Well, Mr. Fett, thank you very much for cooperating on this matter," I said. "You'll receive your due reward and compensation for the inconveniences caused."
"My services cost dearly," the bounty hunter squeezed out.
"Oh, they'll be paid, of course," I assured him. "Right after you help my troops capture the place where you were born."
The bounty hunter's gaze, softly speaking, was eloquent.
Very eloquent.
"That's right," I confirmed his guess. "You'll lead the 501st Legion through Kamino's corridors and cities again. Or at minimum, tell everything you know about the planet where you were created. Everything, down to the smallest details. Lieutenant Colonel Tierce, prepare our guest for transport."
Without a word, the former guardsman smashed his fist into Fett's occiput with full swing, knocking out the bounty hunter.
And it's not to say that's the wrong preparation method, considering the reputation of this specific clone of Jango Fett.
***
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