Ten years, first month, and eighteenth day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, first month, and eighteenth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Eight months and third day since the arrival).
Aveka Dunn adjusted her tool belt so that the wrench swung and tapped against her right thigh, and not against…
Well, let's call that part of her body "the place where Vex usually preferred to sit."
The belt, the tools, the duraplast helmet, and the unassuming muddy-yellow jumpsuit with a multitude of pockets from which tools protruded, completed the disguise with her bright-red hair pulled into a tight braid.
What caught the eye were the time-worn logos of the corporation on her shoulder and the right side of her chest—a white circle with three red four-pointed stars inside.
And all of it—not exactly fresh off the shelf.
Combined with emerald-green eyes, a couple of streaks of technical fluids on her face, and several synthetic-flesh freckles on her nose, this whole masquerade perfectly emphasized her belonging to the maintenance crew of the building housing the Hoersch-Kessel office.
An image too mundane for those around her to pay close attention.
Rederick, in turn, had acquired exactly the same set of clothing and gear, except that his face bore several aged scars made from the same synthetic flesh, the contact lenses were a brown shade, and his hair was dyed a greasy gray reminiscent of days-old grime.
Vex kept stopping every now and then, examining something on the datapad screen, then pointing authoritatively first one way, then another, creating the impression of a boss issuing valuable instructions to a dim-witted subordinate who ignored their meaning.
The expression on his face, one of universal torment from the flood of verbiage his "boss" unleashed on him, drew sympathetic glances from employees of the numerous offices and organizations passing by, leaving the building after the end of the workday.
But as soon as anyone approached this sweet pair, they abruptly changed their minds about inquiring into the reasons for a couple of maintenance techs being on the office floor.
Because both reeked so unmistakably of sewage that everyone preferred to give them a wide berth.
"I tell you, the liquid waste disposal pipe runs right here," Vex jabbed a fingernail chipped from cheap polish into the datapad, knowingly pointing at the building's load-bearing wall sheathed in decorative paneling. "And it's already three hundred years old…"
"The material it's made of will last another three hundred," Rederick said wearily, smirking bitterly as his gaze met that of a pretty middle-aged Twi'lek who shot flirty eyes at the young tech.
A minor office drone he'd crossed paths with a few times during his undercover stint.
Nothing special about her, but that face, that figure hugged by the strict office…
Rederick turned his head, following the familiar figure with his eyes, and smiled when she glanced back over her shoulder.
But she immediately turned away and hurried off on her long legs, clicking across the tiled floor without looking back.
Rederick, however, did look back.
And locked eyes with Aveka, whose posture radiated disapproval and impatience in equal measure.
"Look at her one more time, and I'll gouge your eyes out," Vex said in the same tone she'd used for the sewage.
Rederick shook his head dejectedly.
"One day this nightmare of working with you will end," he said dreamily, forcing a smile when Aveka looked at him.
"Baby, I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you and ever will," the agent batted her long lashes, turning her back to him and continuing her ramble along the wall. "So don't settle for second-rate easy lays who've had every first desk jockey from the office where she works reception plowing her, and she brings caf to her boss every hour."
"So you're spying on me too," Rederick snorted, noting that the second turbolift arriving in the building lobby was half-empty. "Making contacts in the office was on my conscience."
"Trust a girl with a keen eye for that sort of riffraff— the only thing you'll pick up from her company is something you'll have to treat with a doctor for a very long time, one you try not to look in the eye," Vex said.
"I don't even want to know how you got that kind of experience," Rederick shook his head mournfully.
"Good call, baby," Aveka nodded in agreement. "Sometimes there's knowledge that, once acquired, you can never go back to being who you were."
"Where did I sin so badly that I have to work with you?" Rederick rolled his eyes to the ceiling, recalling that in one religion, they believed certain divine forces lived in the heavens.
Superstition, of course.
Pilots ascending above the cloud layer in their flying machines could easily disprove that thesis.
But religious cults can't be swayed by facts…
"I'm surprised myself," Vex said. "But pull in those tears—we're just at the beginning. I think the pipes have nothing to do with it—we need to head to the technical floor, check the distribution and pump stations. Maybe they ramped up the pressure, and that's why all that nasty sludge ended up in the basement."
With Vex, it was always like this—she wove work and personal moments into her chatter so skillfully that your head started to ache from the thought that somewhere in her words there was a double meaning.
Or triple.
"It's not too late to file a transfer request to fleet spec ops," Rederick thought.
But he dismissed the idea on the grounds that even if he ended up piloting a one-man recon ship, Vex wouldn't leave him alone.
"Then we'll have to work on the roof," he sighed, catching sight of a guard approaching them out of the corner of his eye. "Hey!"
He forced a good-natured but weary smile.
"Something wrong?" the Zabrak asked, glancing at Vex's form-fitting jumpsuit but pretending he was interested in hearing what her partner had to say.
"The basement comms burst," Rederick reported. "We patched the sewer hole," after first helping it form, "now we need to check why it burst in the first place. Got to get to the technical floor."
Questions about why all the critical comms were routed above the top office floor belonged to anyone who understood Hutt architecture even a little.
Rederick wasn't one of those experts.
"Everyone's already gone," the guard said, still eyeing Vex while she pretended to be engrossed in the datapad screen.
"Maybe they're the lucky ones," Rederick smiled sadly. "They won't have to smell what we'll be digging through while disassembling the equipment. By morning, the whole nasty odor will have aired out."
"Actually, work in the building isn't allowed after hours," the guard stated. "You need an escort."
Of course they did.
And that's how it always went, on a regular weekday.
But Vex and Rederick hadn't come here in the last hours of the workweek for nothing.
An hour before shift end on the last day, only one guard came on duty, sticking around through the weekend, staring at surveillance monitors and fiddling with the HoloNet on his datapad.
"Would it be better if the pump fails and the toilet contents blast back under pressure?" Vex clarified. "I'm no art expert, but I suspect the staff won't be thrilled by the characteristic smell and trendy Republican-style yellow-brown streaks on the walls, floor, and ceiling…"
"All right, all right," the guard waved his hands. "I'll let you through, check and fix it. Just make it quick!"
"One foot in, the other out," Rederick promised.
"Watch it," the Zabrak pretended to warn. "I don't want to get my neck wrung for letting office stink interfere. They'd shake my soul out for that!"
"They won't," Vex assured him with a charming smile. "We'll do it clean—no one but you will even know we were there."
Vex, subjected once more to the guard's oily gaze, impassively summoned the turbolift.
Rederick, feigning utter reluctance to work, sheepishly lowered his eyes, earning a look from his "boss," and followed her into the arriving turbolift cab; the doors closed behind them.
They selected the top floor, from which the technical level required foot travel via the service stairs.
The girl ran her palm over the cab's paneling.
"Real wroshyr wood from Kashyyyk, not some fibroplast or hollow metal panels. Very stylish and costs a fortune."
"It's Hoersch-Kessel, remember," Rederick reminded her. "With their annual turnover, they could ship half the trees from Kashyyyk to Nar Shaddaa or any regional office."
"Given that their main office security on Nimban is all Trandoshans, I wouldn't be surprised if they did," Vex declared. "I suspect they shipped the trees out with the Wookiees, whom Trandoshans just love to use as hunting prey. And as slaves that fetch top cred on any slaver market in our beloved disgusting galaxy."
Rederick snorted.
"And here I thought nothing was sacred to you," he said. "But no, look at the disgust you have for Trandoshans and slavers."
"Show me a sentient who burns with great love for them, and I'll personally give the bastard a fireworks funeral."
"Dressing stormtroopers as pallbearers and gunning down everyone at the funeral?" Rederick clarified.
"Ugh," Aveka grimaced. "What low opinion you have of me! Of course, I'd never shoot the mourners…"
Rederick thought he'd misheard.
"…I'd stuff ryll into the corpse and blow it during the farewell ceremony," Vex finished.
"Note to self," Rederick muttered. "And make sure you don't hear if I die suddenly. I don't want a skyscraper-sized crater where my grave should be."
Dunn twisted a fiery curl around her finger, making a funny face.
"Don't die, baby," she batted her eyes. "If you leave this mortal world, my heart will break, and I'll wither away after you, like a flower deprived of life-giving moisture and natural light."
"Sometimes I'm even scared that everything you say and do isn't an act, but what you really think and intend to do," Rederick said cautiously.
Aveka forced a smile.
"It's called 'accentuated character,' baby."
"And that's a mental disorder, isn't it?" the Dominion agent tensed, realizing he was paired with a deranged mercenary.
"We women call it a 'spark' that adds spice and helps us stand out from the gray mass of our kind to attract male attention," Aveka rattled off, as if hosing down an enemy bunker with a heavy repeater burst. "See, in a galaxy with no small number of races considered beautiful, like Zeltrons or those same easy Twi'leks, human women have to take radical steps to fulfill their biological need and acquire offspring. It's in our genes, and by around thirty, every girl's itching to expel a couple of little bandits from her uterine concentration camp. And for that, you need a suitable partner. Strong, able to protect and provide, help and support. But those types usually fall for easy lays, so we're left with one option—either fight the enemy with their own weapons, i.e., adopt the tactics our biological rivals use to deprive the human gene pool of the most promising males, or settle for the leftovers. From experience, I'll tell you that all willful and strong men first notice accentuated behavior. So we live—fighting to preserve the human race."
Rederick blinked.
Then again.
And again.
"Where did you even get that from?!" he blurted. "I haven't heard such eugenics theory since studying the historical chronicles of the Pius Dea crusades. When humans exterminated non-humans."
"From there," Aveka yawned. "Or do you think that because I'm beautiful and attractive, I only know how to fight and kill? No, I'm trained to read and self-improve too."
"Tell me you were joking about all this fight for the future of the human race and such," Rederick grimaced. "It sounds repulsive and contrived, especially since humans and near-human races outnumber all aliens combined in the galaxy."
"Baby," Aveka approached her partner and ran her palm over his face. "I just gave you the biggest female secret. Yeah, I couldn't resist and wrapped it in tinsel from Pius Dea crusader racist theories and human feminists, sprinkled in my own inventions, but otherwise—pure truth."
"What's the 'otherwise'?!" Rederick blurted in shock. "I didn't even get what part of what you said was true!"
"That girls act provocatively to attract a man they're interested in," Vex winked, playfully hip-checking him in the groin. "You know, there's a button here, we could stop the cab…"
"Why is she doing this on a mission?!" Rederick fumed internally. "Why not before or after? Verbal diarrhea is the simplest way to shed tension and the tremor of danger and…"
And, suddenly for himself, he understood what was happening.
"You're scared," he blurted.
Aveka shot him a look.
But not a playful one.
Not enticing.
Wary and suspicious.
Even a bit bewildered.
"All your games and flirtations are stress dumps from what's happening," Rederick continued. "Now I'm sure of it. You don't take this seriously to avoid fearing the dangers and possible consequences ahead. Your whole behavior is aimed at lowering the brain's danger level and muffling the fear."
Aveka stepped back a couple paces and looked at her partner with undisguised interest.
"And when did you become a behavioral psychologist?" she asked curiously, forcing a smile.
"A couple minutes ago," Rederick didn't lie.
"So no caf mug stain on the diploma yet," Aveka pursed her lips. "Well… Good for you, growing on yourself. Not fast, but making progress. Understanding your partner is the first step to becoming a full team, where you can read each other without words."
She said it in a calm, mentoring tone, like a teacher delivering a boring but mandatory lecture.
Which was nothing like Vex's usual behavior.
"So all that you were doing was another stage of my training?" Rederick horrified.
"W-e-e-ll," Aveka drew out. The turbolift stopped at their floor meanwhile. "It's not exactly what Cross asked me to teach you, but better I share what I know than nothing, right?"
"I'm not sure I want to know half your personal experience," Rederick cut off, exiting the cab.
The corridor was quiet, so he, not counting Aveka, was the only living being who could observe the aurodium inlays on the wooden doors.
The corporation's sigil and name in Aurebesh.
And in Galactic Standard.
"Snobs," Aveka declaimed, examining the last inscription. "But we're going the opposite way."
"Uh-huh," Rederick grunted, following Vex to the far end of the corridor where the service stairs were.
Both acted as if they were unaware of the three hidden surveillance cams in the office hall.
Unlocking the hatch to the technical floor, they ascended bickering, closing the passage behind them.
From a belt pouch, Rederick pulled a flat square box the size of a man's palm.
Vex, glancing around, stood to shield his fiddling from possible surveillance.
"Clear," the agent said, stowing the detector.
"Let's work," Aveka sobered. "Alarm devices first."
Together they installed a few simple beacons that would signal if anyone larger than a womp rat approached the technical floor access.
The building where Hoersch-Kessel had fitted out its office (and a good hundred shell intermediary companies) had been built barely a millennium ago, so there were ventilation windows here.
Which, naturally, they intended to use, as the builders on Nar Shaddaa apparently thought even Hutts would squeeze out through such openings.
A five-minute job—check the exterior for sensors, confirm their absence, rig and secure ropes and harnesses for descent.
Another three minutes—to shed the worker jumpsuits and remain in baggy combat suits with light fabric armor, faces hidden behind balaclavas.
One more minute—to crawl out the vent window and rappel to the target floor in the shadow of protruding bas-reliefs.
Thirty seconds—to check again for sensors, but now inside the room.
Rederick had been in this office during work hours before—that's how he knew the receptionist.
He knew the surveillance system layout, but not if the staff applied extra security on weekends.
One minute—to slice the transparisteel and gain access inside the building on the right floor.
Ten seconds—to polarize and reseal the window in place, to avoid questions from passing airspeeder pilots or residents of other buildings.
They were in a conference room squarely in the center of the top floor.
Nothing interesting here—a plain meeting space.
The pair moved to the corridor.
On either side, wooden columns rose from floor to polished ceiling with a silvery sheen.
A multitude of closed wooden doors leading to staff personal offices.
Against the opposite wall sat a low table and cozy, seemingly soft leather chairs.
They oriented quickly and found the archive room they planned to hit first.
"All shipping manifests for metals from the Corporate Sector should be here," Vex said, masterfully using an electronic pick. "Voilà, let's go test our archival aptitude. If they boot us from intel, at least we'll have something to live on."
Rederick didn't comment.
It had taken too long to figure out how and where CorpSec routed its transport ships.
Given that the "corpos" had decent shipyards of their own, the Hoersch-Kessel recipient clearly hid something very interesting.
Doubly intriguing was why a regional office served as the "buffer" instead of the HQ directly.
The windowless room was pitch black, which they pierced only with night-vision goggles.
Vex, closing the archive door, scanned the surroundings.
Endless shelves and drawers surrounded them, stuffed to bursting with data chips.
"Looks like we'll sweat for this," she puffed her lip, realizing the work was untouched.
Given the tight timeline—they couldn't hole up on the technical floor all weekend—they needed to work precisely.
"Their card catalog's in order," Rederick declared, eyeing box labels. "I think we need anything pointing to CorpSec or Black Sun."
"You're a regular investigation genius," came Vex's voice from behind the next shelving unit. "Found it. Come to me, dear."
"Can we skip the performative sarcasm?" the agent grimaced, approaching his partner.
"I'm serious as Boba Fett on a job," Vex announced. "If you knew how much they pay me for your internship and training…"
"Got it," Rederick fished an infochip from a drawer labeled "Operations with the Corporate Sector," skimmed the title. "Take a look—ore shipments from the 'corpos'!"
The chip went into the portable datapad.
It took time to crack the encryption, but what they saw…
"The algorithm looks familiar," Vex commented. "Metal from CorpSec gets funneled to Zygerria, where a shell company shreds the origin docs. Hold on…"
Spotting the recipient corp name, Aveka found its chip too.
"Uh-huh," she concluded after joint review of the docs. "Old scheme, but it works."
"Etti IV mines metal and resources, ships them to a Zygerrian company that supposedly owns the deposit, it books the goods, swaps the papers, and then it's like the Zygerrians send ships to Nar Shaddaa," Rederick said.
"Where the Hoersch-Kessel office swaps manifests again and ships the thoroughly 'laundered' resources to HQ and their own yards," Vex summed up.
Rederick grimaced:
"Too convoluted. Something about this really rubs me wrong. Why go to such lengths, swapping manifests twice, if the 'corpos' collaborate with Hutts?"
"Turns out they don't," Aveka concluded. "At least, not openly. You know… I have an idea."
"Who'd doubt it?" Rederick scowled. "And what is it?"
Aveka, meanwhile, prowled another shelving unit but, not finding the right box, kept searching.
Five minutes later, she returned with another chip.
"Over the last few years—and shipments started after Zsinj's destruction—the 'corpos' supplied Hoersch-Kessel enough metal this way for a good hundred Star Destroyer-class warships," Vex said. "Doesn't that raise questions for you about why the Hutts need it?"
"Laundering sales profits?"
"Please. In the Corporate Sector, you turn a corner, flag down the first grumpy mug in the crowd, ask him to clean 'black cash,'" Vex snorted, decoding the third chip. "All he'll ask is: 'What's my cut?'"
"Then why?" Rederick pressed.
"When's the last time you saw Hoersch-Kessel advertising their goods?" Aveka asked. "I don't recall any HoloNet spots urging orders."
"If they work directly for Hutts, why need outside clients?" Rederick asked.
"That's where you're wrong," Vex stated. "After the Clone Wars, Hoersch-Kessel weathered plenty of crises. Management splintered the company into pieces hoping it'd squeeze more profit and wash off the Separatist sympathizer stain. Every new client—and they clearly have one, given the resource needs. Ah, think I found it. 'Nar Shaddaa Shipping' ordered about a hundred ships from this Hoersch-Kessel office."
"First I've heard of them," Rederick admitted.
"It's a transport outfit, based in Dravian Spaceport in the Tamarin sector. They recruited freighters with crews a few years back… Oh," Vex drew out. "Well, these starships handle the CorpSec shipments."
"The company hired private contractors to haul 'laundered' metal for building their own ships?" Rederick clarified. "Now it's completely baffling."
"To me, it's the opposite," Vex said, pocketing the data crystals. "Two hundred fifty years ago, that sector and neighboring Rseik were a real pirate free-for-all. The Trade Federation tried to clean it up, but apparently after the Empire fell, it circled back. True, I heard some moff still holds power there, but I won't swear that's current. And yeah, you won't be surprised what ships 'Nar Shaddaa Shipping' ordered."
"Spill."
"Lucrehulks," Rederick's face fell. "Yes-yes-yes, old Trade Federation battle-freighters. Huge capacity, able to haul a full invasion army in their holds. And very expensive to maintain. And, if what I read is true—they're ordering them in pretty combat-ready shape, with modern weapons and tech. How many guesses on who and why needs ships like that, in that config, obtained that way?"
"It's no coincidence," Rederick said, not even diving into guesses. "We head back and report to command."
"No objections," Vex said.
A couple minutes to cover tracks and exit the archive.
"And here I thought you'd settle in there for good," the earlier guard leveled a disintegrator at both. "Come on, spies. No funny business."
In the corridor, Rederick spotted at least five fighters in the room.
All armed, clad in enclosed armor…
Very familiar armor.
So familiar that the agents' teeth ground in sync.
"Move it," the apparent leader of the Zann Consortium's Defilers ordered.
"You've got a most unpleasant trip ahead," the Zabrak guard snickered, trailing Vex.
But before either Dominionite could utter a word, the nearest Defiler to the guard drove a combat knife into his temple with lightning speed.
The blow's force was so great that the blade pierced the tough skull without resistance and sank into the brain.
The body hit the floor with a thud.
"Incompetence is punished," the killer said matter-of-factly, extracting his weapon from the victim's body and sheathing the knife. "Move, don't dawdle."
***
When Mara emerged from the 'fresher wrapped in a huge bath towel, with a second one turbaned on her head for drying her hair, she felt much better.
Only after so many days of nonstop scrubbing, scouring, soaking, and rubbing with every conceivable cleanser had she managed to wash off all the grime, the repulsive stench, and stop feeling coated in dried crusts of clone blood and chunks.
The girl, padding barefoot across the deck of her assigned cabin, collapsed onto the couch and stretched with relish.
How wonderful to get a weekend off and not worry about constantly reaching for the Force to sense who's around you.
Sometimes she even started to like being in the ysalamiri Force-nullifying bubbles enveloping the Chimaera's superstructure and aft section at present.
On the grand admiral's flagship, a lavish cabin was always ready for her—one of those usually occupied by high Imperial officials.
Any on the "guest deck" of the Star Destroyer's superstructure.
That deck was built precisely for that—to let dear Imperial posteriors feel at home in their accustomed coziness and comfort, without dwelling on trading the Imperial Palace for a warship.
No, the Flame was a fine ship, of course, but a Star Destroyer had more comfort.
That's exactly why she'd refused her own Star Dreadnought—afraid she couldn't resist holing up in the suite entirely.
The girl, immensely pleased with life and herself, touched the control panel, activating the wall panel to enjoy the soothing sound of the ocean…
"With light steam, Mara Jade."
Squealing, the Hand pushed off the floor and backflipped, ducking behind the couch back.
First thing, she checked that the towel clamps holding her makeshift garb were secure.
Only then did she slowly raise her head from cover, not peeking above eye level.
"In that position, you remind me of an infantryman in a trench watching enemy movement under fire," the grand admiral said, seated on the pristine-white couch to the left of the one behind which she cowered.
"This is my cabin!" Mara hissed.
"This is my ship," Thrawn parried, still watching the shifting ocean swells on the screen.
"You're keeping the ysalamiri on the Chimaera for this?" she asked sarcastically. "So young Force-sensitives don't know you're here?"
"Partially correct," Mara's eye twitched. "They remain to prevent Force-users from harming the ship and crew," Thrawn explained.
"Do you realize how uncouth and low it is to sit in the dark staring at a girl fresh from the 'fresher in just a towel?" Mara seethed.
Thrawn finally deigned to tear his gaze from the monitor, and his fiery-red eyes met her emerald stare.
"For starters—there are two of them on you," Thrawn said calmly. "Second, you turned off the lights yourself. Third, no one forces you to wander a warship in dishabille. That was entirely your choice. Violating regs, by the way. Fourth, my eyes were closed."
Seriously?!
No, he was seriously saying that?!
She was at fault for padding around her own suite in a towel after the 'fresher?!
Mara opened her mouth to fire back a biting retort…
And closed it.
Because Thrawn, blast him, was right—the regs required those aboard to leave the 'fresher area in attire precluding nudity.
Formally, a towel qualified, but…
"Hope nothing earth-shattering happens while I change?" Jade asked, glancing around.
Where was that little furry pest?
"Rukh is outside the door," Thrawn said, making Mara flush. "No, my business can wait while you make yourself presentable, Hand."
The girl, clenching her fists, straightened proudly and deliberately sauntered slowly to her bedroom, vengefully thinking that those fiery eyes were surely boring into her back…
Unable to resist, she turned at the threshold.
Thrawn, leg crossed over knee, stared at the datapad screen he'd brought.
Right hand propped to his forehead, blocking his eye line.
So he knew full well she'd try to catch him in a natural male glance…
And made her suspicions laughable.
"Blast it!" she blurted, slamming her palm against the metal doorframe with full force.
Thrawn didn't even react.
"I managed in two," Mara said, collapsing back onto the same couch she'd hidden behind.
She ignored that the living area now glowed with dim light.
But noted Thrawn was indeed alone.
Hm… Was this how much he trusted her?
Even Palpatine never left her alone, and she, even if she'd wanted to kill him, wasn't his equal even in dreams.
Clad in her traditional combat jumpsuit (good thing the Chimaera and Flame had spares she could shamelessly exploit), she smoothed the towel turban atop her head.
"How's your hand?" Thrawn asked, lifting his eyes to her.
"Uh…" The girl, instantly losing her belligerence, averted her gaze. "Don't know what you mean, Grand Admiral."
"Well then," Thrawn said. "As you say. Have you rested enough, or do you intend to use the full leave allotted?"
"I'm afraid I can't relax aboard this ship anymore," she said.
Take that!
Not an open jab (they wouldn't punish her for her pre-change behavior, but openly hissing at the grand admiral wasn't wise), but a clear hint.
Thrawn was smart.
He'd get what lay behind her words: that now even in her own cabin, she wouldn't be sure some grand admiral wasn't lurking in the dark to issue a new assignment.
Honestly, with Palpatine it had been simpler—he rarely gave orders in person, preserving her incognito at the Imperial court.
She could always hear his faux-concerned voice even from the galaxy's farthest edge.
"I'm sure you'll survive it," Thrawn didn't bat an eye, sliding the datapad across the transparent low table toward the girl. "Your new assignment and supporting intel."
Mara deftly caught the datapad, skimming the lines.
Tearing her gaze away, she looked at the grand admiral hoping his expression would signal the screen text was just a joke…
Yeah, she might as well try reading his stone face for lunch or breakfast.
"This isn't a joke?" she asked.
"Not in the least," Thrawn replied. "The trend of replacing moffs with clones is real and longstanding. Tyber Zann suborns the Imperial Remnants this way, dismantling the Empire's central command structure. Then suborns the Remnants one by one. The clones are obviously programmed for it."
"But Baroness D'Asta went against the Consortium's will," Mara noted. "So, they didn't program her?"
"That's the obvious conclusion," Thrawn agreed. "One curious detail—Force-sensitives can detect an 'unclear threat' from programmed clones."
Mara furrowed her brow.
"And Carnor Jax, the Emperor's placeholder, and Lord Quest, the Emperor's Hand, both are Force-sensitive," she murmured. "Feena D'Asta is part of their conspiracy."
Thrawn looked at her with interest.
Mara could practically feel him expecting her to complete the logical chain.
"Zann didn't program her because Quest and Jax could sense the threat to their plans and eliminate her," Thrawn's Hand said, meeting the grand admiral's eyes.
"I reached the same conclusion," he nodded. "He acts cautiously, with multiple redundancies. His schemes have double or triple layers, letting him stay in the shadows all these years. Quite the progress for someone not long ago into racketeering, piracy, and kidnapping, like most criminal orgs in the galaxy. A very dangerous foe, aimed at us."
"We accidentally scratched a scab, and it turned out to be a half-body-sized abscess underneath," Jade said slowly.
She understood herself that Thrawn's plan to purge pirates for seizing their Imperial assets and securing Outer Rim sectors (at least some) was needed chiefly to make the sector populations understand and embrace the Dominion.
And the bet paid off.
Barring nipped-in-the-bud revolts, the Dominion was decent overall.
Not peak Empire, but far better than most Imperial Remnants.
"So, we've lost the clone originals, the docs, and the Kaminoans don't know where the Spaarti cloning cylinders came from, who they replaced, or the odds Zann set up cloning on Kamino and at what scale," Mara said.
"In broad strokes," Thrawn replied dryly.
Uh-huh…
In broad strokes.
This was a nightmare!
Impossible to tell which remaining moffs governing their sectors galaxy-wide could be trusted, and which not!
Even Kaine could be a clone unbeknownst to himself.
No need to look far!
There was a whole list of moffs and grand moffs in filtration camps posing an "unclear threat."
And some already ID'd as clones!
How many such could lurk across the Dominion?!
It could all collapse in an instant!
"You have a plan, right?" Mara asked quietly. "We can't leave this to chance."
"We won't," Thrawn agreed. "The Zann Consortium will be eliminated. It's our direct foe at present."
"Not even Palpatine…"
"We'll need flexibility to avoid caught between two fires," Thrawn said. "For now, the Empire's attack on the Dominion is staved off only because Palpatine seeks to crush the New Republic while it's weakened. That gives us a narrow window—until Imperial Space and Pentastar Alignment forces are fully spent. After that, Palpatine will join the op and commit his own."
"And how long do we have to deal with the Zann Consortium threat?" Mara asked.
That Thrawn meant to handle Tyber Zann first was right, any way you sliced it.
Couldn't leave such a force at the doorstep—or in the rear with the Chiloon Rift.
Criminals, clones, "corpos"…
The galaxy's shadow side, mixed into a cocktail of production and Imperial sectors secretly backing Zann and evidently providing services…
Yeah, in a certain frame, Zann might even out-scare Palpatine.
Compared to his intrigues, Zann looked a model of strategic cunning.
And if allowed to fracture the Empire and suborn it, he'd be truly unbeatable.
Eradicating him would demand fleets and armies the Dominion lacked and unlikely ever would.
Fighting half the galaxy with just a dozen-plus sectors and a few distant systems under hand…
That was specific suicide.
But sitting idle waiting for Zann to execute and Palpatine to notice the Dominion would be utter folly.
So enemies swapped places.
From sideline nuisance, Zann—who already moved against the Dominion, undermining from within—became the prime threat.
Clashing with Palpatine without smashing Zann first meant the Dominion's end.
Two-front war with mighty rivals—clear failure.
Mara, no tactician or strategist, grasped it clearly.
Thrawn—all the more.
"At most, half a year," Thrawn said. "Intel provided mobilization resource data for Imperial Space and Pentastar Alignment. It'll last max five-six months, but the last two won't be victories. I've already acted to slow the Imperial advance, redirecting it to internal issues. That'll occupy them awhile—the first stage of consolidating conquests. The Imperial Ruling Council and Grand Moff Kaine will soon launch anew, but with limited success. Once they dig in on conquered worlds, not fighters. Their forces won't even suffice for current targets. Once Palpatine sees that—he'll intervene and finish it."
"Crushing Tyber Zann that way and in such short time will be practically impossible," Mara surmised.
"No unreachable goals," Thrawn declared. "This campaign won't be easy, but only victory over Zann will free our forces for solid Dominion defense. Accordingly, I've begun prep for a combination to deal serious damage to Zann Consortium forces."
No one doubted that.
Nor that Thrawn hadn't shared how deeply Tyber Zann had infiltrated galactic realities for nothing.
It could mean only one thing—the grand admiral was leading her to grasp a simple fact.
They intended to assign her a suicidal mission.
One whose outcome could decide the Dominion's fate.
Her home, to which she'd grown attached soul-deep.
And the grand admiral gently but insistently made the assignment not just a mission, but personal.
Couldn't say he failed.
"And what must I do, Grand Admiral?" Mara asked quietly, feeling chills run down her spine.
"You'll have to stick your head in a rancor's maw, drag me in behind, and survive it," Thrawn replied.
Ah, just that?
Mara swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
The grand admiral, no doubt, knew how to inspire feats.
But right now, it got very scary.
"Now to the details…"
***
Instead of the usual turbolift, the Defilers used a freight one, which delivered the whole party to the ground floor.
Fighting armed, armored foes outnumbering them and clearly with no qualms about killing detainees—pure madness.
Especially since the enemy had disarmed them, stripping simple cold weapons and tech gear, binding hands inventively so that within minutes Rederick lost feeling in them.
They were marched to the yard behind the building, and Vex nearly retched from the stench of rotting refuse.
Naturally, no one bought the little ploy—they just shoved her in the back.
The Defilers quickly herded the prisoners into an alley where an airspeeder waited.
"I think it's time to say I'm carsick," Vex said, attempting yet another provocation of the Zann Consortium elite troopers into something.
They reacted.
With a backhand to the face.
"Diversions," Vex said, spitting a knocked-out tooth onto the pavement and, for some reason, crushing it underfoot. "Repeat the acid—accuse the sepia of torment. You my new prwoteff tollsny."
"Shut it and get in," the "senior" ordered.
Two more Consortium Defilers spilled from the speeder's cab, doors flung wide.
Rederick scanned: a long run to the street, past this new pair of trouble.
Time to act now.
If loaded into the vehicle, they'd be whisked wherever, interrogated, and killed.
Rederick desperately brainstormed a plan when a few chittering Jawas on some errand of theirs appeared in the alley.
The Defilers raised weapons, but the Tatooine beggars kept advancing as if oblivious to the group.
"Halt and scram from here," the senior's vocoder ordered from among the seven Defilers.
Now both Jawas noticed them.
And began screeching something apologetic, bowing.
The Defilers tracked them with weapons, vigilance unbroken.
And, honestly, Rederick missed the moment the first Zann Consortium elite fighter hit the ground.
An instant sufficed for the agent to ID the blade hilt protruding from one captor's visor.
Then it all turned to battle chaos.
One Defiler aimed a disintegrator at Aveka, and her partner had no time to think.
Rederick body-slammed the Defiler before him; the shot missed Dunn, but the agent took a foot to the groin, elbow to the jaw, fist to the nose, yet clung to his foe with his whole body.
Vex lunged at the "senior," knocking him down.
From the alley shadows emerged both seen Jawas, who at impossible speed for them leaped beside the downed two agents-Defilers, zapping them with paralyzers.
The resisting Defilers stilled.
As did the remaining four, cut down by invisible blaster shots.
Rederick felt the plasteel ties vanish from his wrists, and he and Vex were helped to at least sitting.
A stim of painkiller hit his shoulder, easing life.
"I'm not a droid," Rederick groaned, seeing the "Jawa" reach for his face with a small gray hand.
Crunch, pain—and the broken nose snapped back.
"Better?" the "Jawa" mewled.
"Noghri," Vex exhaled, settling beside Rederick. "And here I wondered why Jawas mistook you for trash droids."
Meanwhile, another half-dozen "Jawas" appeared in the alley, deftly dragging Defiler bodies into the speeder cab, stripping and binding the two unconscious ones simultaneously.
For a moment, Rederick thought both prisoners had female faces.
Very similar to each other…
But he didn't get to look, as the captives got black hoods over heads, a sedative jab, and—while at it—several teeth pried from mouths and pocketed out of sight.
"You triggered early," Vex addressed the "Jawas." "Should've let them take us, we'd trace their handler."
"Our task is guarding agent lives," the Noghri stated in a mewling tone. "We intervened because they'd surely interrogate and kill you in the speeder. Our lord wouldn't forgive such risk."
"We'd slap a tracker on the speeder and hit them later," Rederick whined, prodding his broken, slowly swelling nose. "Risk is part of the job. If our deaths revealed more than we learned, they'd be worth it."
"The speeder's unregistered, actually," Vex said, eyeing the vehicle. "But automated. Maybe its memory holds destination coords."
"Or," Rederick eyed the prisoners being stuffed into the back seat, "we could make them talk. Which I personally doubt. No, we should've let them take us…"
But at the same time, he knew survival odds in that scenario were slim.
And tracking even a marked speeder in Smuggler's Moon traffic—you'd need to be a stealth surveillance genius.
Unlikely the Vex-Rederick "release and tail" plan wouldn't end in their pointless, inglorious deaths.
"Our lord, Grand Admiral Thrawn, gave clear orders—protect the agents," the apparent Noghri squad leader said firmly. "His will is law to our people. You were in mortal peril—we intervened. No other way."
"Clear."
"No big deal," Vex took his face in both hands, turning it this way and that. "It'll heal by the wedding, your cute mug. And scars make a man handsome anyway."
"Duly noted," Rederick rose, rubbing his hands as blood flow made them prickle fiercely. "You never mentioned the implant-beacon in your tooth."
"A girl needs her little secrets," Vex winked. "But when else do death commandos Noghri save you? They usually have different work."
"Uh-huh," Rederick grumbled. "Heard of 'em. Met 'em. And I keep wondering—if you've got these guys, why need us at all?"
"Ask command when we report," Vex suggested, running a hand over her partner's battered face. "And you know you just saved my life, right?"
"Honest— not on purpose," Rederick said. "Conscience kicked in. Thought maybe they'd rid you of me, and then…"
He didn't finish.
Vex sealed his mouth with a hot, sensual kiss.
The most exquisite he'd ever experienced.
"And don't you dare weasel out of the rest of the reward, my hero," Aveka whispered huskily in his ear. "Especially since you need help treating those battle wounds…"
Fine.
At least this was post-mission harassment.
Better agree, or she'd never let up.