Ten years and the twentieth day after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year and the twentieth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months and the fifth day since the arrival).
This guy clearly wasn't claiming the title of "Friendliest Person on the Planet Bosf."
Honestly, he wasn't even human.
No doubt, he had once left his mother's womb, born with a full set of human genes and distinctive features, but now...
This two-meter mountain of muscle, whose arms and legs were replaced by massive prosthetics, and half his head was hidden under a metal plate so that the red photoreceptor replacing his eye made him look more like a droid than a human, clearly didn't inspire trust.
And definitely couldn't be their contact.
"Grissom," Arista said quietly, pretending to be occupied with sipping her cocktail, but in reality watching the approaching giant cyborg heading toward their cantina unblinkingly from under her long, fluffy lashes. "Looks like we've got trouble."
Arista Kabul.
The massive Gamorrean, whose build was in no way inferior to the cyborg's, was sipping lum ale with apparent indifference, but Arista understood that he was preparing for a fight.
Her loyal companion always tensed his neck before a brawl began.
Grissom.
"Plug your ears," came the Jawa's chirp from under the dirty brown hood. "Big boom-boom coming up..."
"No need, Tech," Arista replied in the same language, laying a hand on her companion's shoulder for emphasis. "Blowing up the cantina isn't part of our plans."
And picking fights wasn't, either.
But it seemed the trouble was seeking them out.
Ever since they had left Otunia, having blown up the Kabul Industries mines, the trouble had left them alone for a while.
And now, today, on the very day they were supposed to meet the contact offering help in preventing Seth from seizing the remnants of her father's corporation, this very cyborg appears, moving through the crowd like a Star Destroyer among civilian yachts.
And there was nowhere to run—they were sitting in the farthest corner, the only exit was also the entrance, and it lay behind the cyborg's back.
And a crowd of tipsy locals separated him from those present, locals who, in their current state, needed only a good personal reason to start a fight.
But the black-haired young woman wasn't sure that in this brawl, the scrawny local farmers would have any chance of victory in a fistfight.
If these people were locals, Bosfs, then maybe something could be devised, but as it was...
Her only hope was Grissom's muscles and her own agility.
"No boom-booms?" Tech chattered questioningly.
"No," Arista stated.
"I've got little boom-booms," a pleading note entered the Jawa's voice. "Really little boom-booms..."
"No need to draw attention to our compa..."
Arista didn't finish.
The cyborg unexpectedly quickly appeared behind Grissom as he rose from the table.
A heavy bar stool appeared in the air, crashing down on the Gamorrean's head with furious speed.
Jawa Tech.
Grissom rolled his eyes and went limp.
The massive Gamorrean bulk crashed to the floor, lying among the splinters without any signs of life.
"Damn it...!" was all Arista managed to think, watching as the cyborg unceremoniously grabbed the Jawa and knocked him out with a single powerful blow under the hood.
"Hey, tin can, what do you think you're..." the nearest farmer began, but the cyborg sent him into oblivion with one slap.
"Don't approach!" The cyborg's voice was artificial, too.
But the blaster that appeared in his hand from somewhere was the most real thing.
"What do you think you're doing?!" the other drunks began.
"Doing my job," the cyborg cut him off. "These three are terrorists and criminals accused of blowing up the Kabul Industries mines several years ago. My task is to deliver them to Otunia for trial. Anyone who interferes with fulfilling the contract dies on the spot."
As expected—this provocative situation didn't arise out of nowhere.
She had to react—and quickly.
Bounty hunters didn't much like letting go of their prey from their clutches.
Especially when the client was someone like her uncle Seth.
Arista sprang into motion.
Instead of lunging at the offender of her friends, instead of smashing something impressive into the cyborg's teeth, Arista slipped to the side, avoiding a blaster shot that punched a huge hole in the wall, and then, finding herself behind him, leaned on the tabletop of the nearest group and thrust out her long leg.
The blow, with all the force a fragile woman could muster, struck the cyborg in the temple on the side of the metal plate.
The bounty hunter staggered, while Arista hopped on one foot, realizing that she'd probably damaged the other in the strike at best.
And he just had to turn around, huh?
Only a few seconds passed before the cyborg rose again, back on his feet.
His monstrous weapon had vanished somewhere, and he clearly intended to deal with the fragile girl with his bare hands.
Especially since Tech had also disappeared from his grasp.
Arista understood that a direct clash with the giant would overwhelm her in any scenario.
The cyborg looked like the victim of a fatal speeder collision with a pedestrian, assembled from the wreckage of both.
And a fragile woman against him, even with a concealed mini-blaser in hand, was just laughable.
But then a new participant appeared on the scene—Grissom rose from the floor.
The Gamorrean didn't look disturbed by his head wound at all—he didn't even pay attention to the streams of blood.
His sculpturally chiseled body, the envy of most of his kin, his giant stature, his clearly experienced fighting stance—the opponent assessed it all in an instant.
And smirked: not a drop of amusement, cold, threatening.
The cyborg struck first again.
Scattering the patrons who fled screaming in all directions, he yanked a bolted-down table from the floor, raised it overhead, and swung at his opponent with a strained heave.
An ordinary human wouldn't have ducked in time, but Grissom wasn't human.
The Gamorrean charged forward, ducking, thereby evading the heavy projectile.
He went low under the cyborg and knocked him to the floor with the mass of his body.
Immediately after, Grissom took painful blows to the head from the cybernetic hands.
Teeth flew off to the side, and the Gamorrean's fanged head smashed into the cyborg's face with a powerful strike.
There was the clang of crumpling metal.
Grissom's heavy fists pounded the cyborg so that his photoreceptor flew off somewhere and the metal plates cracked on his head and upper torso.
The other bar patrons eventually reached a certain consensus.
They cleared space for the fighters and began placing bets, making wagers on the winner.
The cleared area allowed Arista to spot Tech, who was crawling out from somewhere in the back rows, furiously cursing.
The girl barely ducked: a mug flew over her head and shattered against the wall.
"Terrorist!" someone shouted from the crowd.
Arista just cursed powerlessly and silently.
Clearly, the cyborg had support or a provocateur to inflame the emotionally drunk crowd.
Over the years since the mine explosion, Seth, nearly bankrupt, had spread plenty of rumors that hundreds of corporation workers had died in the shafts.
Despite there not being a single living soul there, it hardly mattered now.
Whether they recognized her or not, hostile glares glinted in the crowd—any moment, bold ones would step up to tie her up and claim the reward.
Grissom was already slamming the cyborg's head full force, splintering the wooden floor and leaving cracks in the permacrete underneath.
And then the cantina suddenly swarmed with black jumpsuits of security forces.
Arista didn't have time to be surprised that humanoids identifiable by their figures were working as law enforcement on Bosf, when the crowd found itself under the sights of blaster rifles from four fighters.
The fifth, their commander, unambiguously gestured to her with his hand: approach immediately.
Defying a man in heavy armor who was also armed was foolish in itself.
Judging by how Tech was dragged to this sentient the same way, and Grissom and the cyborg were taken under crossfire by three soldiers at once, these were clearly professionals.
Mercenaries, perhaps, or...
The girl realized she was starting to get scared.
Especially because upon closer inspection, it was clear these guys were clad in elements of Imperial uniforms.
And that was definitely as bad as it could get.
The planet Bosf had been orbital-bombed by the Empire in the past, and the locals preferred to consign even the mention of Imperials to oblivion—according to the natives' beliefs, this was the highest sign of contempt.
And they definitely wouldn't hire Imperials for work.
Of course, these could be mercenaries using widely available black-market Imperial gear, but such groups cost too much for a remote sector.
So things were much more serious.
These were Imperials.
And they were surely working for her uncle's ally.
They'd sooner shoot them than let them go alive.
She didn't even notice as they took her blaster, pulled out spare power cells and the tibanna cartridge, the knife in her boot shaft, and fastened heavy manacles on her wrists.
"Out," the squad commander ordered.
The crowd, ceasing their rioting in an instant, just watched mesmerized as the law enforcers smoothly dragged each of the four detainees toward the doors.
They were led out of the smoke-filled bar onto the street without extra words, but no one noticed much change in the atmosphere.
It was pouring from the sky like from a bucket, and Arista was instantly soaked to the skin.
They were brought to the transport.
A pot-bellied windowless van, the kind usually used to haul prisoners.
One fighter flung open the rear doors, and the clearly out-of-it cyborg was shoved in, his head's metal parts so obviously loose that the staples fastening them to his skull were visible.
Grissom was clearly in a foul mood; he'd nearly finished off the bounty hunter.
The Gamorrean himself looked fairly lively and was clearly itching to start another brawl.
He tensed again when a blaster was jammed into the back of the cyborg's head.
The squad commander pulled the trigger, and several concentric bursts of white-blue energy ran through the bounty hunter's body.
He was immobilized.
The Gamorrean was already tearing at his restraints, but he, along with Tech who'd just squeaked "I'll give you such a boom-boom!", were taken out of commission.
Then one of the fighters shot each of her friends with a pneumosyringe into the body, putting them to sleep, after which both were tossed into the same van.
The trio of fighters climbed in after, the fourth got in the cab, and another silent airspeeder stopped beside the Arista stunned silent by the proceedings.
"This way," the squad commander ordered uncompromisingly, pointing the girl to the rear door he'd opened.
"Go to Hell," she snapped.
"Ma'am, I just got back from there," the mercenary said unexpectedly, then uncompromisingly shoved the girl into the cabin and sat by the door himself, cutting off the way back.
The airspeeder took off, moving along the deserted streets behind the prisoner van.
Inside it was dark—not just from the lights being off, but because the windows she could make out were fakes; from inside, armored plates were visible in their place.
So.
Short summary.
They'd lured her from her hideout to the cantina.
Staged a show.
Grabbed her.
Separated her from her friends.
Hauling her somewhere in an armored vehicle...
What else could surprise her today?
Suddenly, the cabin lights came on.
It stung her eyes painfully, but the girl shielded them and squeezed shut to adjust faster to the bright glow.
"So, I must apologize for our meeting not going according to plan," a male voice said.
Clearly not belonging to the squad commander sitting beside her.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, still struggling with photophobia.
"The one who promised you help in dealing with your uncle's problems," after about two minutes, she managed to restore her vision, and Arista finally could make out her interlocutor.
Like the squad commander, he was clad in black armor.
A strong-willed face, short haircut.
A piercing gaze and cold, appraising eyes.
Even sitting in the chair, he commanded respect and clearly had nothing to do with civilian structures.
An experienced military man sat before her.
The only question was whom he represented.
That's exactly what Arista asked about.
Not a shadow of a smile appeared on her interlocutor's face.
"It's not yet time to name names," he said. "But I can tell you that the forces behind me are clearly intent on breaking the Bosf sector blockade and at minimum establishing trade relations with Kabul Industries."
"The company is bankrupt," the girl stated. "The mines are destroyed."
"Your information is outdated," the man replied just as seriously. "Your uncle, Seth Kabul, with the support of former Moff Harsh, the crew of his Star Destroyer The Cauldron, and those sponsoring the subjugation of the sector's planets, has begun their full restoration. Now it's no longer just a couple of miraculously functioning mines trading minerals with the Corporate Sector. It's a full revival of all of Kabul Industries' industrial potential. Investments in restoring the enterprise and lining your uncle's pockets in exchange for handing over the entire business to the Corporate Sector. According to our information, your uncle intends to hand over the entire corporation and all its mines to the shadow government of the 'corporatists' and thereby finally subjugate the Bosf sector, establishing total dictatorship over the local population. That bounty hunter was supposed to deliver you to your uncle. After which your death and that of your friends would serve as a cautionary lesson for all who intended to rebel."
It grew cold inside the young woman.
"And you must be those fine Republican liberators from the New Republic base in our sector, fighting for all that's good against all that's bad, but lacking the funds to free us?" she asked with a light reproach.
"No," her interlocutor replied calmly. "We don't care about 'all good and all bad.' We need your enterprise's mines and resources. We're ready to provide all necessary support for you to regain control over your father's enterprise. We'll also help get rid of your uncle. If you want, you can put him on trial or blow his brains out right in his residence—we don't care. The only condition is equal partnership in your future enterprise. And naturally, we'll ensure your mines have constant demand for minerals."
The girl frowned.
"You're being awfully shady," she said. "You won't say who you are, won't explain why you're helping... What you're talking about is full-scale war, requiring thousands of fighters, hundreds of ships... The mines might be reclaimable, perhaps by capturing my uncle and forcing him to renounce the inheritance, but what to do with The Cauldron and the Corporate Sector fleet blockading the borders. Not to mention they have an army..."
"Some questions' answers aren't timely yet," her interlocutor stated. "But I can declare with full responsibility—we aren't afraid of such confrontation. We have soldiers, ships, and the desire to prevent this sector's subjugation by our enemies."
"Because you intend to conquer it yourselves?" the girl realized.
"My leadership has no desire to fight for annexing the sector to our holdings if it contradicts the will of the populations of the planets within the sector," her interlocutor stated. "We believe resources aren't worth spending time on occupation."
"Yeah, tell me about it," the girl snorted. "On Otunia alone, there are a large number of mines extracting nearly every metal from the periodic table. Not to mention over two dozen uninhabited systems in the sector rich in minerals that my father planned to turn into new mines. For the conquest of these planets, the Corporate Sector invaded Bosf and besieged the borders, not allowing the population to escape beyond and report the dire situation. These reserves would suffice to build an entire fleet, maybe more than one!"
"Yes, we know," her interlocutor replied. "And we prefer not just to waste time fighting for the sector only to get kicked out and told we're not welcome here. We'll either care for the population, its security, and develop the sector's economy, or there's no point for us. Constantly subsidized sectors in a state's composition don't interest us."
"Even in Imperial times, Bosf meant nothing; only mineral supplies somehow allowed the population to live decently," Arista noted.
"In that case, we just need to approach territorial development competently," her interlocutor noted. "The Outer Rim and everything beyond it is a source of vast resources always needed. For military affairs as much as civilian industry. Initial-stage investments pay off—if colonization is approached wisely."
"Sounds overly utopian," Arista stated.
"Sounds like a refusal to cooperate with us," her interlocutor calmly stated his opinion.
"From my side, it looks like you intend to use me as a nominal leader to regain control over the enterprise with your help, which you'll use in the future as the core of your own colonization," Arista said. "While taking half the company under your control, by your own words. But you won't even declare who you really are."
"Your position is perfect," her interlocutor stated. "Yes, Kabul Industries is set to become the backbone of the sector's industry, a source of jobs, and the main conduit for our aspirations of peaceful association. Understanding that makes you sufficiently competent and level-headed manager in my eyes. But your failure to realize that I and the forces behind me offer you not just half of your father's old company, but half of what Kabul Industries can become in perspective, is justifiably disappointing," he said, then added immediately. "Will become with competent management, of course."
The young woman was silent for a time, then, raising her head, asked:
"And when will the hints come that half of the family enterprise, obtained with your help and on your terms, is better than getting nothing, but on our own?"
For the first time in the conversation, a smile appeared on her interlocutor's face.
"As you see, I have no need to say it," the man said. "You understand it perfectly yourself. But if it makes you feel better, I'll repeat your own words but simplify the phrasing maximally: 'half,' growing proportionally, is better than a whole 'nothing.' Not to mention that, ridding your company of attacks, you'll also remove the target Seth Kabul hung on your back."
The girl forced a smile.
"You're not hoping for an immediate answer, are you?" Arista asked.
"Of course, you're free to think whatever and as long as you see fit," her interlocutor agreed. "But I think you should know our operation will proceed. Regardless of whether you consent or not."
"Then what do you need me for?" Arista wondered.
Her interlocutor smiled again, emotionlessly and strained, which led the young woman to think: she was conversing not with a diplomat, but a professional killer.
"Having the direct heir in charge of the company will let you launch it in maximally short terms," she realized. "My name and the fond memory of my father among the miners will draw them to the corporation much faster than if you did it independently."
"Correct," her interlocutor agreed. "Winning loyalty also requires time and money. We prefer to spend both on restoring the enterprise. But don't forget, one of the foundational reasons we offer you cooperation is your professional knowledge in managing your father's company. You were his right hand and perfectly understand how and why certain changes are needed in the company, how to manage it for the best results."
"And a direct heir in power at the company will help you avoid the reputation of invaders," Arista continued voicing her viewpoint, licking her lips from emotional overload.
"Yes," just like that, her interlocutor told her they simply wanted to use her. "Mutually beneficial deal. You help us establish in the sector, we help you—preemptively—gain control over the company and avenge your father's killer."
"But if I refuse, you'll destroy my uncle, the fratricide, yourselves," Lady Kabul summed up. "After which you'll declare yourselves liberators and start restoring the mines, building up the planets with everything the population needs, and methodically work them for loyalty."
"As cynical as it sounds, that will happen either way," her interlocutor grew serious. "We're not predators who only need resources."
"But you need them!"
"It'd be strange to deny it," the man shrugged. "And foolish to say we came solely to make the local population's life a fairy tale just like that. We have interests in the sector, and we intend to satisfy them. Without extra frills about democracy and other theses that will never come true."
For several minutes, Arista simply sat silent, pondering what answer to give her unexpected and undefined benefactors.
"At least honest," she said. "I understand your interest in Kabul Industries. The mining company and my father's ancillary productions, factories, provided jobs to hundreds of thousands of sentients across the sector. So you start with it. Demonstrate to the population that your interests are as important to them..."
"I perfectly remember what I said just minutes ago," her interlocutor said. "No need to repeat my own utterances back to me."
"I need to think," the woman stated firmly. "And at minimum, I want to know who's extending me the 'hand of friendship.' Stories about 'bad corporatists' and New Republic demagogues are good when you're not them yourselves. I don't even know your name."
"We're neither the Empire, nor the Republic, nor Corporate Sector representatives," her interlocutor assured her. "You can call me Bravo One. I represent the Dominion in your sector. And we hope for mutually beneficial cooperation."
Arista couldn't hide her bewilderment.
And skepticism.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn's Dominion?" she grimaced. "The same one whose admiral died less than a month ago? Honestly, after that news, my enthusiasm to cooperate with you has waned... The Holonet's been mocking you Republicans for a couple weeks now, saying without Thrawn you can't do anything, huddled in your metropole like womp rats..."
"As you know," Bravo One replied indifferently. "I won't bluster. But I'll say straight—after we take former Moff Harsh's Star Destroyer The Cauldron from him, we won't need you anymore. We'll rid the sector of his tyranny ourselves, and the locals, not immediately but will accept us as liberators."
Moff Harsh.
Seth Kabul's accomplice, who killed her father.
The man intent on seizing Kabul Industries for his own gain.
The scoundrel leading the Corporate Sector's sector takeover...
A man whom, like her uncle, conscience demanded be killed.
But circumstances didn't allow it.
"You may not consider yourselves Imperials, but you manipulate sentients' interests just like them," the woman replied with distaste.
"We took the best from the Empire," Bravo One stated. "If a person's prejudices hinder accepting the right and beneficial decision for him, we'll explain on a more accessible level. Believe me, when I set out on this mission, I thought I'd be working with a pragmatic young lady, not a child who's smart but poorly controls her emotions."
"You're mistaken," Arista raised her head proudly. "I control my emotions. And I agree to your proposal. You'll help me—I'll help you. But try to deceive me, and I'll stage a revolution across the whole sector, and your power won't last a month."
"If you could—you'd have done it already," Bravo One dismissed her threat. "Empty bravado doesn't interest me. Better to discuss more constructive aspects of our cooperation..."
Arista couldn't find anything to object to this sensible proposal.
***
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.