Ten years, the second month, and the twenty-first day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, the second month, and the twenty-first day after the Great ReSynchronization.
(Nine months and six days since the arrival).
After listening to the president, Admiral Duplex thought for the first time in his life that his hearing was failing him.
"Is everything clear to you, Admiral?" the Bothan, puffed up with pride and obvious self-satisfaction, clarified.
"I understand the words you are using to convey the information to me, Mr. President," Argentis admitted. "But their overall meaning…"
Borsk Fey'lya—or rather, his hologram—rolled his eyes, as if he had to explain something elementary to a stupid animal.
"What exactly is unclear to you, Admiral?" A wave ran through his fur, symbolizing extreme irritation among Bothans.
"You say we are getting two dozen new Mon Calamari star cruisers?" the First Fleet commander clarified.
"Yes, and what bothers you about that phrase, Admiral?"
"As far as I know, Dac does not cooperate with the New Republic," Argentis said. "This raises the question of their origin…"
"That should not concern you at all, Admiral," the president raised his voice, flaunting waves in his fur. "The main thing is that you now have them."
"We have them, but what kind of starships are these?"
"It seems your competence in military matters allows you to understand what 'Mon Calamari star cruisers of the MC80A and MC80B types' are," the Bothan said with poorly concealed mockery.
"I know the nomenclature and capabilities of these starships," Argentis calmly replied. "And I also know that at present, no New Republic unit can release such a volume of capital ships to reinforce our position at Balmorra."
"You know the composition of our fleet rather poorly, Commander," Fey'lya shook his head with theatrical affectation. "We have several hundred ships of this type, so…"
"And all of them are engaged," Argentis let ice creep into his voice. "Removing any squadron from front sectors will weaken our defense and allow the enemy to break through the blockade. If you are transferring ships to me to strengthen the Balmorran position, you are weakening us and leaving us open to strikes from other directions! That is unacceptable! What is the point of holding Balmorra if you let Imperial Space ships into my rear somewhere?!"
Threat appeared in the Bothan's voice:
"Do not forget yourself, Admiral Duplex," he pronounced almost syllable by syllable. "You are the commander of merely one fleet. I am the head of state, president, and Supreme Commander! Kindly choose your tone and respect when speaking to me."
The brain of the First Fleet commander, tormented by long sleepless nights, painted a picture in which he squeezed his fingers around the fluffy neck…
Shaking his head to drive the obsession away, the Zeltron looked into the eyes of his direct superior.
It did not concern him at all that Fey'lya had subordinated the military department as a whole and the New Republic Defense Fleet, substituting his position for that of the highest military rank.
Nor did it concern him that the Bothan had neither the appropriate military education nor military experience.
Until now—it did not concern him at all.
"Sir," he said a bit quieter. "The Balmorran position is impregnable. I stake my head on that for you. There is no need to remove ships from other front sectors and throw them to our aid. We will hold—even if the Reaper comes here. Even with its escort group. We cannot allow the front to be stripped on other lines!"
Argentis knew what he was talking about.
He was well aware of the position of each New Republic fleet—the fleet commanders hid nothing from each other.
Sharing experience allowed them, after long retreats, to implement the most successful defense solutions in all places where Imperial Space or the Pentastar Alignment intended to strike.
Yes, they suffered losses.
Yes, they lost combat comrades.
Yes, starships perished, fighters were insufficient, and reinforcements left much to be desired.
But they held.
Held, understanding that reserves were being prepared in the rear.
Understanding that workers at Rendili StarDrive and dozens of other small shipyards and assembly docks tirelessly repaired damaged ships by cannibalization, for which spare parts could not be found.
They were well aware that sentients and other species did not sleep at night, repairing damage to starships and other military equipment and returning it to the war, into the hands of their defenders.
Just as they had an excellent understanding that the military production flywheel was spinning up, gaining momentum.
Republic-class star destroyers had ceased to be rare by the third month of the war with the Empire.
After the retreat from Coruscant, their prototypes were refined and handed over to the New Republic Defense Fleet.
They became fleet flagships, and at the beginning of this month, the first production batch arrived.
The production speed was impressive—but it came at a huge cost.
Tens of thousands of new workers came to Rendili StarDrive, and now the entire planet worked in an endless production cycle.
Quality, of course, left much to be desired, but there was no choice.
Mon Calamari star cruisers went out of service too quickly to worry about new star destroyers having some insignificant defects.
The speed of armament reproduction—that was what mattered.
It was thanks to the new destroyers, which became the basis of the First Fleet led by Argentis, that the enemy was held at Balmorra and prevented from advancing further.
Yes, Kuat was lost—but it was not particularly loyal to the New Republic anyway.
However, it was in no hurry to join the Imperials either, understanding its strength and realizing that its own fleet could give a thrashing to any faction in this region of space.
That was why Grand Moff Kaine did not dare to repair his Reaper at Kuat, preferring to withdraw it into the depths of his territories.
The policy of inflated prices repelled even invaders.
Who could do absolutely nothing about Kuat and its position—they lacked the forces and means to oppose a private company that had been arming itself for millennia.
"I can assure you that these ships were not removed from any front sector," Fey'lya said.
"Starships do not appear out of thin air either," Argentis reminded.
"Why such meticulousness, Admiral?" the Bothan asked.
"Because rumors are circulating in the army and among fleet personnel that Bothawui has begun secret cooperation with the Dominion," Duplex said, not fearing the president's reaction at all. "And that does not please those who were in their captivity just yesterday. Especially when there is understanding—the Dominion too often set up the New Republic for strikes and carried out its dirty dealings behind our backs, smearing us with mud on holoreceiver screens and with turbolasers—in battle."
"Rumors are just rumors, Admiral," Fey'lya stated. "I dare assure you—they have no basis other than speculation and slander from our opponents."
"Then where do the ships come from?"
Most of all, Argentis did not want to receive starships that had indeed been in the Dominion's hands in the past.
Yes, ships were needed like air—where there was excess, one could try to go on the counteroffensive.
But knowing the Dominion's habit of equipping starships with various tracking devices, encountering that again was not desirable.
Especially now, when the New Republic had an advantage—newest star destroyers whose tactical and technical characteristics were unknown to the enemy.
Until the Empire obtained and studied Mon Calamari star cruiser technology, Imperial star destroyers could be fought on equal terms.
If, due to the government's shortsightedness, the enemy obtained this information too, great trouble awaited.
"From the strategic reserve," the Bothan reluctantly admitted.
"He is lying," Duplex understood.
"Why was this reserve held so long?"
"Too many questions for your Supreme Commander?" Fey'lya flared up.
"That is a logical question," Argentis reminded. "If I had two dozen Mon Calamari star cruisers a month ago, I would not have retreated from the Humbarine sector. And that is exactly where the Pentastar Alignment has now deployed a full forward base!"
"These ships were under repair," Fey'lya continued to evade. "The Bothan people, tearing away their last credits, restored practically destroyed starships, directing tens of thousands, if not millions, of credits into the pockets of smugglers who profited from us, delivering equipment to which we no longer have direct access. And now, when my people have made such a sacrifice, you dare to reproach us, Admiral?"
An emotional attack designed to throw off course and embarrass, make one feel guilty.
Bothans, as always, played on the emotions of interlocutors.
How tiresome it all was…
"I beg your pardon, Supreme Commander," Argentis brought insincere apologies. "I am too exhausted to assess the situation rationally."
"I understood that from one look," the Bothan snorted, puffing up again. "You should rest—the entire defense in this sector rests on you."
"Certainly, sir," the Zeltron nodded, lying again.
It was not easy to carve out even an hour for sleep when one had to study reports from scouts, patrols, spies, coordinate minefield placement and defense stations, coordinate which starship was better to disassemble to get the maximum spare parts for the others, give advice and orders to subordinates whose units were bleeding across the entire area of responsibility…
"Bothan crews have already been formed," Fey'lya continued. "And the starships will soon arrive to you. Fully crewed."
"Things are getting worse by the hour," Argentis mentally slapped his forehead. "An entire fleet of star cruisers crewed by Bothan officers and crews."
"So I understand that if the crews are Bothan, a very responsible goal is set for them?" Argentis clarified.
"Naturally," Fey'lya did not even catch the sarcasm in the First Fleet commander's words. "According to our intelligence, Grand Moff Ardus Kaine intends to strike your position with the Reaper and its escort squadron. You are to engage him in battle and win…"
"We could have done that with our own forces," Duplex estimated.
"After which—it will be necessary to go on the counteroffensive and drive the enemy out of the nearest sectors," the New Republic president continued, growing more inspired by his own words. "Your forces, according to Military Command estimates, will be sufficient to liberate considerable territories."
"If it includes clearing them, planetary operations, then besides the star cruiser fleet, I will need large ground forces too," Argentis warned.
"Admiral," the Bothan looked at him with a condescending smile. "Even I, not a professional military man, know that without supply of provisions and armament, garrisons on planets will not last long. Push their space forces back to Coruscant itself, or even farther, and in a week, a month, half a year, even the most staunch Imperials, blockaded, will surrender to your mercy."
"Absurd," Duplex understood.
"Sir, we are opposing not militia, but motivated soldiers who believe in their state's power," he stated. "And they will not all surrender so easily."
"Convince them with orbital bombardments," the New Republic president began losing patience. "Our ground forces still need time to complete preparing the valiant defenders of the state. Even if not all Imperials surrender—the rest we will smoke out. Our goal is to return Coruscant by the end of this year. The capital of the New Republic is no place for Imperials to march in their dirty boots. The entire galaxy is watching us and whether the New Republic lives up to the calls it gave to the peoples of hundreds of thousands of worlds in the past."
"If you permit, sir, but I would rather direct these forces to strengthening the Carida blockade," Argentis proposed. "Yes, the Pentastar Alignment's offensive initiative is fading—we are successfully grinding them down. But Imperial Space…"
"Is bogged down in battles with the Alliance," Fey'lya said disdainfully. "They do not concern us until we are ready to drive them from our territories. Concentrate on countering the Pentastar Alignment."
How does he imagine that?!
If the Alignment is crushed, the other Imperials will simply rotate forces and occupy the positions they left.
"Sir, with all due respect, but we need to understand that there is rivalry between Bastion and Orinda…"
"Do what you are ordered, Duplex!" Fey'lya growled. "We need victories! And only victories! The faster we push the Empire back into their corners, the easier it will be for us later to restore the territorial integrity of the New Republic! Sectors and systems that seceded from us are just waiting for signals of strength from our side!"
Ah, so that's what it is…
Another political populism, for which tens, if not hundreds of thousands of New Republic servicemen will pay with blood.
"Sir, we need to reconsider…"
"Enough!" Fey'lya roared. "You are a military man, Admiral Duplex. I am your commander. You are given an order—you execute it. There can be no otherwise. Have I explained my point of view clearly?!"
"Perfectly, sir."
Arguing with him on his field was pointless.
Fey'lya does not understand operational and tactical necessity.
Does not understand that if they manage to crush the Reaper and its squadron, most likely they will start gnawing at each other, thereby weakening pressure across the entire front.
"Well, excellent," Fey'lya smirked. "And one more thing, Admiral. I have a secret assignment for you."
"I am listening, Supreme Commander," Argentis said doomfully.
Such verbal preludes bode nothing good.
Especially when orders to military personnel come from politicians proceeding from their selfish ephemeral ideas of victory.
"I was thinking here," but from the Bothan's eyes and muzzle expression, it was clear he had long made this decision and was, as they say, "bringing the interlocutor to the right condition." "No need to destroy the Reaper. Take it by boarding. And, preferably, capture Grand Moff Kaine himself alive."
"Capture a Super Star Destroyer that alone is worth an entire fleet," the Zeltron mentally translated the Bothan's demand. "And not accidentally destroy the head of the Alignment as a bonus. Well, yes, what could be simpler—take the Executor and its commander prisoner?"
"This decision may cost us more losses. Including among your kin," he warned, thinking perhaps this argument could reason with the Bothan.
"I will humbly accept this sacrifice, Admiral," Fey'lya coldly stated. "We need symbols of our victory. Democracy cannot exist without being watered with the blood of tyrants and patriots. With the capture of Grand Moff Kaine, we can knock the Pentastar Alignment out of the war."
Loudly said.
Strongly.
For one sending hundreds of thousands to death—excessively strongly.
But the order was not devoid of logic.
Without a commander and strong leader, Imperials might indeed turn to flight.
At minimum—be demoralized.
As it was after Palpatine's death in the Battle of Endor.
The question was only how many ships and their crew members would perish just so Fey'lya could boast of a battered-to-the-hulk ship and a barely alive grand moff?
Because the First Fleet commander of the New Republic Defense Forces simply saw no other way these two could end up in Republican captivity.
"Order understood, sir," he said dryly. "Permission to execute?"
"Are you still here, Admiral?" Fey'lya expressed genuine bewilderment. "Immediately begin developing the operation to bring the New Republic to victory!"
***
The ringing slap plunged the Zann Consortium operations headquarters into deafening silence for a moment.
Operators, analysts, cryptographers, and decrypters gathered at work terminals, as well as simple slicers, almost synchronously turned their heads toward the source of the sound.
At the foot of the massive multifunctional chair in which the organization's head liked to sit, observing through a huge multicolored hologram everything happening in the galaxy from reports of thousands of informants, a fragile-looking woman in tight black clothing and pale skin currently lay.
On her head was an intricate hairstyle of glossy black hair braided into thin braids and interwoven in a pattern alien to human perception.
It was precisely by this hairstyle that Tyber Zann, with his muscular hand, lifted the woman, tearing her from the floor, and delivered another slap.
He did not stand on ceremony, striking open-handed, smashing her face, lips, tearing skin from her face, and leaving hideous abrasions.
The woman did not resist, hanging like a limp doll in the boss's grip, receiving deserved punishment.
The headquarters staff looked at the scene for only a few seconds before all turning away, returning to work.
It would probably seem strange from the outside to watch that out of hundreds of women observing the beating of a sentient of their gender, none showed even a shred of sympathy.
But the few men working alongside them understood perfectly the reason their analyst colleagues reacted that way.
And preferred to keep their opinions strictly to themselves.
"Vile scum," Tyber Zann stopped beating the subordinate, causing Jirrod Sykes, modestly standing in the corner, to exhale a slight sigh of relief. "Stubborn as Jabba the Hutt! Bruised my whole hand!"
The man with snow-white hair and a hideous scar on his face looked at the woman wiping blood on the floor with contempt and disgust, then swung and kicked her in the stomach with his heavy boot as hard as he could.
The force of the kick was such that the beaten owner of beautiful hair and pale skin was thrown back a couple of meters.
She tumbled down the short staircase, ending up on the general level, where those continuing to labor for the Zann Consortium paid her not the slightest attention.
"Is this your best protégé, Sykes?" Tyber Zann asked with unconcealed fury, collapsing into the chair.
The combat wing commander of the organization understood that arguing was pointless, as was proving anything to the boss.
"Yes."
His answer was short, unambiguous, and allowed no double interpretation—all strictly by the book.
The provisions of which surfaced in his head every time necessary.
Old military retirees are right—"You can shake the uniform out of you, but never the uniform out of you."
A saying vividly demonstrating that ingrained reflexes manifest even in civilian life.
"Then I have a simple question," Zann grabbed a crystal-clear glass of Corellian whiskey from the armrest and downed it in one gulp. "Is she that stupid, or have you lost your edge, deciding to waste time on such a fool?"
Sykes looked at the barely breathing young woman.
Many commanders had learned on their own skin what Tyber Zann's heavy fists and boots were like.
For most, like a disintegrator shot, it was the last thing they saw before ending their lives.
"A simple question deserves a simple answer, boss," Jirrod noted. "But I cannot give it until I hear her report."
"And there is nothing to listen to," Zann looked with hatred at the stirring woman. "This idiot was given a simple assignment! Block the Bosf sector until Harsh returns! Stay there and just guard this Hutt-forsaken scrap of the galaxy! Prepare for attack! And keep her Hutt-damned eyes and ears open! Nothing more! Nothing beyond what her empty head could forget!"
"Boss, if she still tells the details, I will have more information," Sykes said, unflinchingly withstanding the icy and annihilating gaze of the organization's head. "And I can make my decision."
"Your decision?" Zann growled at him.
"You invited me here clearly not to watch an educational conversation," Jirrod assumed.
"That's true," Zann laughed quietly, indicating he had returned to mental calm without much trouble. "Well then, ask your ward questions. And I will listen to how she justifies herself. And remember: her failure is your failure."
"Of course, boss," Sykes replied, heading toward the young woman who had barely managed to sit on her knees.
Tyber was entirely right— this young woman's failure would be Sykes's own failure.
Because it was he who convinced Zann, who had already experienced betrayal, the collapse of his criminal empire which he was now reassembling piecemeal, and the trap set for him by Imperials that nearly ended him.
All that was in the past.
And even such an outburst of rage—also had shades in past events.
Zann first snapped when he learned his organization was finished.
And despite all his qualities, he could not accept that by uniting under the Zann Consortium wing all the largest and most important criminal organizations in the galaxy—both under direct and indirect control—he had achieved everything he dreamed of.
Then they began destroying him.
And traitors crawled out of every crack.
The Zann Consortium fell apart into fragments, almost all destroyed either by the Empire or the Rebel Alliance.
What he managed to preserve was merely a pitiful semblance of past grandeur, earned through hard labor.
But now he was on the rise again.
That Zann snapped, turning into a wild beast, indicated only that the failure in the Bosf sector was something more than a simple blockade breach in a region inhabited by miners incapable of fighting an armed enemy.
"How are you?" Sykes asked quietly, taking his protégé by the elbow and helping her stand.
"Been worse," she wiped blood from her smashed lips and smiled, showing bloody teeth. "Remember how they really worked me over once. What I went through now doesn't compare."
"Then stop smiling like an idiot and give a full report," the combat wing commander instantly grew serious. "Not only your life but mine depends on it."
"I understand," the smile fled her lips.
When they climbed the steps, Sykes's ward knelt before Zann on one knee.
"I have let you down, boss," she said quietly, submissively. "The attack was unexpected…"
"I have already heard all that," Zann waved off her words.
"But I have not, boss," Sykes objected. "Perhaps she will report something important that will help us understand the enemy's tactics."
"Well, let's see," an avid spark flashed in Zann's eyes. "Let her tell you the same as she told me. Then we will compare our conclusions."
"That suits me," Jirrod admitted, looking at his ward. "Tell it. And do not dare evade. Your tricks will not work here."
"Sure," the woman smiled crookedly.
But quickly realized her jokes were of no interest to anyone here.
"I was carrying out the commander's orders," she began. "Sent scouts to smuggler routes. Divided the Picket Fleet into two detachments to strike and pin down the natives' forces. A minute after we were supposed to receive a general situation report from our scouts but received nothing, my ships were attacked."
"By whom?" Sykes moved to interrogation.
"I assume it was the Dominion," the woman stated. "The formation was led into battle by a Bellator-class dreadnought. I know only one state that has it."
"Suppose so. Continue."
"We were surrounded using interdictor cruisers, after which, as soon as they deployed their gravity wells, the enemy's main forces exited hyperspace—a Bellator-class dreadnought, five Imperial-class star destroyers, and Vindicator-class heavy cruisers. We were surrounded and attacked from all sides. A special place in their assault was capturing our flagship."
"As a result of which your forces were crushed," Zann summed up. "A tear-jerking story about how you were led by the nose, and you cowardly fled far from the battle."
"I did not decide to retreat for nothing," the interrogated stated. "I sensed a rather strong sentient aboard the enemy flagship—a woman sensitive to the Force. But it happened so suddenly that I could not detect her immediately or sense the threat emanating from her. As if she was hiding from me somewhere, then decided hiding was stupid and attacked me."
"And you decided to put a novice, your apprentice, under her," Tyber Zann continued for the woman. "A promising lad, by the way."
Sykes glanced at his boss.
Though he understood it was mere irony, he wanted to confirm personally.
Despite Zann's serious expression, a mocking smile froze on his lips.
Yes, all was well.
The boss was just tormenting the failure he had beaten.
Recently, he did not trust Force-sensitives with any serious operations, let alone individual assignments important for the Zann Consortium's future.
But in a galaxy where the Empire has Inquisitors and the New Republic has Jedi, Sykes considered it necessary to have at least a few such fighters on hand.
Winning their loyalty was not hard—save their life and find a common object of hatred.
After all, Urai Fen was also Force-sensitive—and Tyber Zann trusted him fully.
In fact, he performed the duties of head of the Zann Consortium remnants when Tyber himself was "sunbathing" in Kessel mines.
But the recent rout of the Zann Consortium by the Empire, New Republic, and internal enemies affected much.
Including criteria for trusting Force-sensitives.
"That is the way of the Dark Side," the woman stated. "The weak must fall so the strong survives."
"Spare me that nonsense," Zann demanded. "In the end, what happened to him?"
"And what can happen to a bungler who was nothing significant even in the Jedi Order's time?" she shrugged. "His opponent was clearly stronger and more experienced—she finished him without problems."
"She?" Zann grew interested. "It was a woman?"
"Yes," the beaten one replied after thinking. "I would even assume it was a Dathomirian witch—too characteristic in the Force from them…"
"A witch!" Zann shouted. "Again these vile gizkas from Dathomir crawling to help my enemies!"
"Boss, we need to find out what is what…" Sykes faltered.
"Find out?" Zann threw an angry glance at him. "What more do you want to find out, Sykes? Who exactly it was?"
"It would be good," the combat wing commander noted. "We need to know how deeply the witches have integrated into the Dominion…"
"It's all simple," Zann said venomously. "Thrawn opened the doors of his toy to anyone who wanted. Plus he solved problems with our Imperial neighbors who served that mad clone—what was his name?"
"X1," Jirrod prompted.
"Yes," Zann snapped his fingers. "That psychopath had plenty of Dathomirians with him. Perhaps Thrawn took them under his wing. Or perhaps—they are planted agents from the eastern group."
"I see no problems," the beaten one stated. "Our Defilers handled killing witches perfectly…"
"Only we lost our cloning facilities," Zann reminded. "All of them. Entirely. Just imagine for a minute what will happen if the Dominion gains access to Kamino? Considering hundreds of ownerless starships just gathering dust? They will fill them with clones at once!"
"I do not think the witches would go for such an alliance," Jirrod voiced his assumption after thinking. "They are greedy and vengeful, but still, understand that Thrawn knew well, and surely told some subordinate, that ysalamiri can block the Force. And vornskrs hunt Force-sensitives. It was not for nothing they visited Myrkr."
"And now they stopped," Tyber added. "Hutt, I am starting to regret telling Thrawn about Myrkr and ysalamiri properties at the Academy. The blue-eyed bastard," he looked at the transparisteel panel, "still got there…"
"As did Karrde," Sykes reminded.
"There will be a separate conversation with that clown," Zann waved his hand, thoughtfully staring at the floor. "We need to act."
"Boss?" Sykes was surprised. "We wanted to wait until they all kill each other there."
"And in the end, we see our flotilla intercepted and destroyed in Karthakk, and in Bosf there was a Dathomirian witch," Zann reminded. "It seems I outplayed myself. Instead of destroying them, Pellaeon decided to ally with the witches. Surely they promised him Ryloth and Kamino to restore the Empire… And the fool fell for such tales, believing it would let him fulfill his Imperial duty or whatever. It does not matter. Sykes," he looked at the combat wing head. "Have you prepared forces for attacking the Dominion's northern sectors?"
"As ordered," he agreed.
"Then launch them into battle," Zann decisively stated. "We cannot risk losing Dominion trophies. I do not want the eastern group to get Dominion ships and factories! Those are our trophies! And our industry!"
"We can just wait until the end of the year and then Harsh will launch industry in the Chiloon Rift and…"
Zann scorched Sykes with an angry gaze.
"Have you not understood yet?" he asked. "Losing Bosf is losing the direct path to the Rift. It can be under our control a hundred or a thousand times, but without logistics, we will need neither the metal reserves there, nor tibanna, nor fuel factories—nothing at all. Consider the money invested in those factories gone down the tube. Unless we find a way to punch a corridor there. And now is the right time."
"We need deep reconnaissance," Sykes insisted. "So far we know only about a large number of Dominion ships in the Karthakk sector, and a squadron in the Bosf sector, but the rest…"
"Take all active Consortium forces," Zann ordered. "Every single one. And attack the Dominion. I want you to subjugate it before those Dathomirian bitches get ships from Hoersch-Kessel. Catching that spawn across the galaxy will be incredibly difficult. Especially when clone creation on Kamino finishes."
"Previously that did not concern you," Sykes reminded.
"And now it does!" Zann roared. "Now they have ships, an ally, transport—and now Kamino clones will be our huge pain in the ass. Yes, a couple of months ago it was not a problem! But now—it is! Because the ships are almost ready! Not to mention Ryloth."
"But Pellaeon swallowed the bait with the Relentlesses," Sykes reminded. "Their blockade-runner knockoff is ready for use."
"Yes, but the witches accelerated too," Zann countered. "I would not be surprised if Pellaeon is preparing a backup assault plan, but he clearly may not make it. Do it all now—fortunately we know where their headquarters and fleet parking are. While their fleet is massively 'nightmaring' the Karthakk sector—we will come in and get what we want. Deprive the Dominion of its metropolis and Thrawn's halfwits will have a hard time."
Zann threw another glance at the transparisteel panel, peering into the glowing red eyes of the stuffed doll from within.
"I personally gutted your body, Thrawn," addressing the sentient's remains, Zann said. "Working as a taxidermist was new to me, but I did it with pleasure nonetheless. And with the same pleasure, I will take from your worthless followers everything you left them."
The stuffed remains of the late grand admiral, retrieved in space by Defilers after a solid kick to Republican warriors at Sluis Van, continued staring at the Zann Consortium head.
It took effort to implant miniature light sources in them exactly like the original's.
"Begin the attack, Sykes," Tyber Zann ordered, tearing himself from contemplating the grand admiral's body doll. "Let them pay for everything. Our agents are in place and awaiting your requests."
"Good, boss, we attack," the admiral agreed, understanding much work lay ahead to crack such a tough nut as the Dominion. "If you do not mind, I will take my ward…"
"Get her out of my sight," Zann grimaced in disgust. "If she does not kill all the witches in the Dominion metropolis, feel free to hang her out the airlock of your flagship."
"I heard you, sir," Sykes quietly replied.
***
"And what do you intend to do?" Orun Va's hologram looked serene, but do not deceive yourself.
Kaminians are generally not an emotional species.
Even if he feels something, he will never show it or let the interlocutor understand through his mimicry.
There are not many works of art in the galaxy created by Kaminians.
Even fewer are known to other galactic peoples.
And an indecently small number are publicly available and accessible for study.
But that is if considering art from the perspective of material, inanimate culture.
In a galaxy inhabited by thousands upon thousands of different species, each with its own "quirks," the concept of "art" should be interpreted more broadly.
For humans and species close to them, art is indeed expressed in sculptures, music, painting, and the like.
For Mandalorians—art is war.
For Mon Calamari—it is water and everything related to it.
Even material art for natives of Dac is works created from sea gifts.
For Kaminians, art is science.
Genetics—first and foremost.
And in their field, they achieved unprecedented heights, creating masterpieces no other species can replicate.
Their masterpieces walk, dig, serve, fight, sing, satisfy their owners' whims.
Yes, for Kaminians, art is primarily their clones.
"You know perfectly well what this equipment is," the hologram of Colonel Astarión replied meanwhile.
"Yes, its functionality is known to me," Orun Va agreed. "Copying the donor's memory for subsequent implantation into clones."
"In that case, as a sentient long associated with the Spaarti cloning project, you should understand that these installations are designed for cloning humans," Astarión continued.
"Yes, that is their narrow focus," mockery appeared in Orun Va's voice. "You figured that out quickly. I assume it is because you could not map my brain. And when the images obtained from my mind appeared before you as blurred pictures and fragmentary information, it finally dawned on you that cloning me that way will not work."
"In general terms, you are right," Astarión agreed.
"And you came to negotiate," Orun Va continued.
"And here too—you are correct."
"It turns out you have only a Kaminoan cloning cylinder but no imprinting system," Orun Va thoughtfully said, stroking one hand with the other. "And this once again increases my significance to you… Well, you know my conditions."
"And you know ours," Astarión countered. "You will not work independently. Only on our orders."
"In that case, we will not come to terms," Orun Va smiled. "You need me. And without me, my knowledge—you cannot manage."
"You may indulge in that assumption," Astarión calmly replied. "But the situation is entirely different."
"That is what you think," Orun Va replied softly. "You have no alternative but to agree with me and my—allow me to note—quite modest demands."
"You would do better to listen to me when told that Dominion conditions will not change," Astarión coldly noted.
"And what will you do?" a semblance of a human smirk appeared on the Kaminoan's face. "My group can maintain your production at a level. But working with genomes, improving them, making your clones stronger, smarter, more deadly—only I can do that. And those like me. But you cannot clone me. Nor reach Kamino. I think there are Kaminoans somewhere in the galaxy who fled the homeworld, but none can create new at the level I can. Narrow specialist geneticists were not that numerous even in Kamino's best years."
"I keep saying—you need to listen to me carefully, Orun Va," now it was Astarión's turn to smirk. "You see, there is something you did not account for when setting your ultimatums."
"For example?" Orun Va inquired.
"Are you familiar with such a cloning specialist as Zyix K'Zzt?" the Dominion Security Service head asked.
"A familiar name," he replied indifferently. "This human studied our work on Kamino for some time. Incompetent."
"Well, well," Astarión smiled triumphantly, continuing to drill Orun Va with a heavy gaze. "But we do not think so."
"Because you yourselves are ignorant in genetics," Orun Va said in the same phlegmatic tone.
And that was a mistake.
Like any artist, Kaminoan geneticists imbue traits of themselves into their works.
Into clones.
Creating the Grand Army of the Republic, they tried with all their might to eliminate clones that acted independently, stood out from the mass, or generally did not meet "good soldier" parameters.
And in Kaminoans' understanding, a good soldier ready to advance should be calm, indifferent, unceremonious.
Phlegmatic.
Especially in moments of despair when his fate no longer depends on any decision he makes.
Exactly as Orun Va behaves now.
The absence of usual emotionality on the clone maker's face did not make him immune to physiognomic analysis.
He shifted from attack, when his speech sounded more assertive, to defense—and now he maintains visible calm.
But he stopped rubbing his hands and gesturing with them—because he feels no control over the situation.
Zyix K'Zzt's name made him wary.
"If so, you will surely be surprised that from scraps of your memories, Zyix K'Zzt extracted quite a bit of interesting material," Astarión continued. "Yes, not entirely complete sequences of altered genes, but still fragments of knowledge Kaminoans withheld from Imperials. I think, if not now, then in a few years—whether we conquer Kamino or destroy it—we will subjugate your people. And your cloning facilities. And put Zyix K'Zzt in charge of cloning processes."
"You will need far more time to master our technologies," Orun Va stated.
"You bring the same arguments, not understanding they no longer work," Astarión smirked. "We have an entire genetic team. We have Zyix K'Zzt. We have many promising scientists, and we continue searching for them. In the end, we currently have thirty thousand fully operational Spaarti cloning cylinders, refined to acceptable operation by disassembling Arkanian knockoffs…"
Not counting two hundred cloning cylinders in my personal use, plus eight hundred skillfully assembled mined copies from Cartao that serve no cloning function and generally do not work properly—only pump nutrient fluid.
Though they were not supposed to work.
They were supposed to explode when a dual-frequency signal from the transmitter in Magash Drashi's horns activated.
One signal—for detonation.
The second—for reporting her location.
Given that the found "cloning cylinders" would optimally work in a cluster with the others—most likely those we found on Smarck—this sabotage was supposed to deprive us of cloning facilities obtained from the attack.
And then, surely under false identities, the authors of this venture would appear, offering alliance and providing their cloning cylinders to create an army to destroy the Zann Consortium.
That this army would then turn against us, destroying the Dominion, I had little doubt.
As well as that if Magash Drashi managed to conclude an agreement with Dominion command, there would be no detonations—until some point.
And if she understood no alliance—then she was supposed to destroy both Dominion command and our cloning facilities.
And the numbers of fake cloning cylinders were chosen perfectly.
Seven thousand two hundred we got on Smarck.
And eight hundred—on Cartao.
The human brain so wants to combine them into a round number.
Well, we no longer need that.
Disassembly and repair of Arkanian knockoffs reduced the number of available incubators so much that my idea of a spare parts warehouse and subsequent restoration found no development—all Arkanian knockoffs were disassembled and turned into parts for our existing installations.
Completely.
As they say—from "bandage to cotton."
Nothing remained but metal frames.
Everything went into use.
Every tube and wire.
But now we have thirty thousand third-model Spaarti cloning cylinders.
Lost possible strategic advantage but gained tactical.
Thirty thousand clones every fifteen days.
In a year—that is about seven hundred thirty thousand clones.
Less than a year since I arrived in this galaxy, and already by the first anniversary of my "grand admiralship," I received a gift of nearly doubling clone productivity compared to the original sixteen thousand available before repair by Colonel Selid.
"If you want some reaction from me to your triumph, there will be none," Orun Va stated.
"You think?" Astarión smiled. "Zyix K'Zzt also thought we had nothing to offer him as a cloner. That is why he was in no hurry to show his true face. By the way, did you know that from his first years as a geneticist, he dreamed of working with the donor genotype for the Grand Army of the Republic?"
"That is irrelevant to me."
"Oh, it is a fascinating story. First, his initiative and obsession alerted us," Astarión confided. "We put surveillance on him—when we returned his children to him. Just think—a man whose head mixes genetics knowledge with ways to conduct defensive fire and assault tactics on a settlement turns out to be a caring father. And so talkative… Do you know why he never abandoned genetics work?"
"That is unnecessary information for me."
"He lived with the thought that working for the Empire, one day he could obtain the project for Jango Fett clones and show the entire Empire he is the best geneticist and can create clones—particularly your favorite Elite Republic Commando 'Alpha' and 'Null' types—without the flaws you considered your work defective for."
"I fixed those defects in the last batch of Defiler clones on Smarck," Orun Va reminded. "You mindlessly destroyed them all."
"But that does not mean we did not take genetic samples," Astarión stated. "Which are now at Zyix K'Zzt's disposal. As are your fragmentary memories. And he will apply them for the Dominion's benefit."
"It is not so simple to repeat my research," Orun Va outwardly looked impenetrable as stone. "Especially if he wants to create better Jango Fett clones. He will achieve nothing without the necessary DNA."
"And here is the most interesting part," Astarión's hologram smiled. "We have a Jango Fett clone."
"Good luck extracting and restoring pure genes from the original specimen," triumph appeared in Orun Va's voice.
"We do not need that," Astarión said sweetly. "After all, I did not tell you the name of the Jango Fett clone we have."
"Products have no names," Orun Va suddenly sharply stated. "Only serial numbers!"
"And this one has one," Astarión assured him, showing a datapad with a holophoto. "I think you will recognize this face, senior geneticist?"
"This face is well known to the entire galaxy," Orun Va phlegmatically replied. "They already tried to convince me you have an unaltered Jango Fett clone. But no proof except simple words…"
"In that case, look here," Astarión changed the image on the datapad screen. "Recognize the nucleotide sequence?"
Orun Va's hologram was silent for a very long time.
His eyes slid over the lines, but not a single muscle twitched on his face—though nothing else was expected.
"Go ahead, senior geneticist," Astarión advised. "You looked at these sequences for decades, making various changes and improving Jango Fett's genetics. You cannot not recognize it."
"Suppose I see before me the decoded unaltered Jango Fett genome," Orun Va calmly said, tearing himself from reading the screen lines. "That proves nothing yet."
"Really?" Astarión smiled. "For example, you think we could have obtained this decoding from Imperial Archives?"
"I do not rule out that fact."
"Then you should be curious to look at the part of the decoding responsible for the object's age."
Page flip again.
Attentive study again.
"Forty-two years," the Kaminoan said very slowly, looking at the colonel.
"Forty-two," Astarión nodded. "Let me remind you that Jango Fett was born sixty-six years before the Battle of Yavin. Died—twenty-two before it. And his genotype was stored on Kamino. Zyix K'Zzt told us you exhausted all of Jango Fett's blood except that obtained in his last year before death. Consequently, if we were talking about showing you the genetics of one of his altered clones or Jango's own genocode, by telomere length and other indicators you would understand we are providing a fake, right? And now a bit of math. You hired Jango Fett thirty-two years before the Battle of Yavin IV. And created for him an unaltered genetic version of himself—little Boba, who is a complete genetic copy of Jango Fett. No changes. And forty-two years have passed since then."
"That cannot be," Orun Va firmly said. "We already tried cloning him. And he destroyed the entire laboratory and all his clones. He would never agree to cloning cooperation. And he died on Tatooine."
"Then where did we get his blood?" Astarión clarified. "We could not reach Kamino anyway to search your stockpiles. And Boba Fett knows the value of his blood well enough not to leave samples just anywhere. But even so, we have a sample of his DNA in any case. So no one deceived you, Orun Va? And moreover, note the donor's photograph," Astarión returned the first image on the datapad. "Do you not see a large number of chemical burns on his body? It is not so pleasant in a sarlacc's stomach, as they say."
The Kaminoan geneticist was silent.
"And now it turns out we have Boba Fett's genocode, identical to Jango Fett's. We have tissue and blood samples from your improved Defiler clones. We have Zyix K'Zzt, who only dreams of working with such material. And we have you, who has a chance to truly create improved Elite Republic Commando clones, combine your developments with genetics that eluded you in the past. And achieve a result that would satisfy you as Kamino's greatest geneticist. What do you think—is such work worth the conditions the Dominion offers?"
"You demand I do what you want," Orun Va reminded.
"It so happened we have a need for producing Elite Republic Commando-sample clones to replenish storm commando losses," Astarión said almost paternally. "That is why we have two scenarios. Either we put you back in the 'centrifuge' and conduct the last 'pass' of your life, get what we can after that and hand all developments and Boba Fett to Zyix K'Zzt, or you work with Boba Fett's DNA yourself, create the samples we need. And perhaps, when Kamino submits to the Dominion, Grand Admiral Thrawn will allow you to take the planetary head position—in the scientific part. And all your race's geneticists will be at your disposal. Who did not believe in your success. But you will demonstrate your successes to them using Boba Fett clones. And prove you were right. I think honor, respect, and recognized leadership among your population await you."
"You offer me to become a collaborator?" Orun Va clarified.
"I offer you to choose between continuing a career with a glorious end, and an inglorious end and your future recycling," Colonel Astarión stated with a triumphant expression. "Though there is another option."
"What?"
"We finish cloning your body, then transfer your mind from your body into it," the colonel pointed at the Kaminoan's tiny head. "Fortunately, we have the corresponding specialist from the B'omarr Order monks, who loves eating and transplanting brains of one sentient into their cloned bodies. She almost always gets it right."
For the first time, Orun Va shuddered.
"So what will you choose, senior geneticist?" Astarión inquired, nodding toward the memory-copying "centrifuge." "Death and obscurity or life and glory? Remember that diligent work for the Dominion is rewarded. Think what you can achieve if you fulfill our small requests? Perhaps you will be allowed your own research? Or return Kamino the right to commercial clone production? Who knows, who knows…"
The senior geneticist looked into the eyes of the Dominion's chief counterintelligence officer.
In his black eyes, one could read the answer even through the hologram.
"I agree," he replied. "Give me the equipment and Boba Fett's DNA—I will make you such storm commandos that even Mandalorians or the Ailon Nova Guard will want to learn from them."
End of record.
A smile played on my lips.
Long preparation, processing, and undoubted success.
He will need watching—until he realizes his cherished project of an improved Elite Republic Commando.
And then, like all idealist scientists, he will no longer be able to stop.
The alarming buzzer of the private comlink, whose frequency only one living soul in the galaxy knew, distracted me from reflections.
Activating the device with a built-in portable holoprojector, I looked at the hologram of the young woman no longer destined to become Luke Skywalker's wife.
"Hand, what do I owe?"
"They are starting, Grand Admiral," Mara Jade said. "The Zann Consortium fleet is preparing to depart. Their target—the Dominion."
"Excellent," a small smile on my lips slightly puzzled the Hand. "Let them come. We have been waiting for them. Continue your mission on Etti IV."
"That is just it, sir," the young woman said a bit quieter. "There is one sma-a-all problem…"