Ten years, two months, and twenty-one days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, second month, and twenty-first day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Nine months and six days since arrival).
After listening to the president, Admiral Duplex for the first time in his life began to think 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 with which you are conveying information to me, Mr. President," Argenis admitted. "But their general meaning..."
Borsk Fe'lia, or rather his hologram, rolled his eyes as if he had to explain something elementary to a stupid animal.
"What specifically is unclear to you, Admiral?" a wave ran through his mech, symbolizing extreme irritation among the Bothans.
"You're saying we'll get two dozen new Mon Calamari Star Cruisers?" the commander of the First Fleet clarified.
"Yes, and what about that phrase confuses you, Admiral?"
"As far as I know, Dak does not cooperate with the New Republic," Argenis stated. "In this regard, the question of their origin arises..."
"That should not concern you at all, Admiral," the president raised his voice, flaunting the waves of his mech. "The main thing is that you have them now."
"Yes, but what kind of starships are they?"
"I think your competence in military matters allows for the fact that you can understand what 'Mon Calamari Star Cruisers of MC80A and MC80b types' are," the Bothan said with poorly concealed mockery.
"I know the nomenclature and capabilities of these starships," Argenis replied calmly. "And I also know that at the moment, no unit of the New Republic is capable of releasing such a volume of line ships to reinforce our positions at Balmorra."
"You know the composition of our fleet poorly, Commander," Fe'lia shook his head with theatrical affectation. "We have several hundred ships of this type, so..."
"And they are all busy," Argenis added ice to his voice. "Removing any of the detachments from the front lines will weaken our defense and allow the enemy to break through the blockade. If you are giving me ships to reinforce Balmorra, then you are weakening us and leaving us open to attack from other directions! This is unacceptable! What sense is there for me to hold Balmorra if you let ships from Imperial Space into my rear somewhere?!"
A threat appeared in the Bothan's voice:
"Don't forget yourself, Admiral Duplex," he said, almost syllable by syllable. "You are the commander of only one fleet. I am the head of state, the president, and the Supreme Commander! Please choose your tone and respect when communicating with me."
The commander of the First Fleet's brain, tormented by long sleepless nights, painted a picture of himself squeezing his fingers around the fluffy neck...
Shaking his head to drive the hallucination out, the Zeltron looked into the eyes of his direct commander.
He was completely unconcerned that Fe'lia had taken control of the military department as a whole and the New Republic Defense Fleet, replacing his position with that of the highest military rank.
And he was unconcerned that the Bothan had neither the appropriate military education nor military experience.
Until now—it didn't concern him at all.
"Sir," he said a little quieter. "The Balmorran position is impregnable. I'll stake my life on it. There's no need to remove ships from other front lines and send them to our aid. We will hold out—even if the 'Reaper' comes here. Even—if with its escort group. We cannot allow the front to be exposed on other frontiers!"
Argenis knew what he was talking about.
He was well aware of the situation of each of the New Republic's fleets—the fleet commanders and squadron commanders did not hide anything from each other.
The exchange of experience allowed them, after long retreats, to implement the most successful defense solutions wherever Imperial Space or the Pentastar Alignment intended to strike.
Yes, they suffered losses.
Yes, they lost comrades in arms.
Yes, starships perished, there was a shortage of aircraft, and reinforcements left much to be desired.
But they held on.
They held on, understanding that reserves were being prepared in the rear.
Understanding that the workers of Rendili StarDrive and dozens of other small shipyards and assembly docks were tirelessly repairing damaged ships through cannibalization, for which they could not find spare parts.
They were well aware that people and other species did not sleep at night, fixing damage to starships, other military equipment, and returning it to the war, into the hands of their defenders.
Just as they had a clear understanding that the military equipment production flywheel was spinning up, gaining momentum.
Republic-class Star Destroyers became commonplace by the third month of the war with the Empire.
After retreating from Coruscant, their prototypes were refined and transferred to the New Republic Defense Fleet.
They became the flagships of the fleets, and at the beginning of this month, the first production batch arrived.
The speed of production was astonishing—but it came at a great cost.
Tens of thousands of new workers came to Rendili StarDrive, and now the entire planet was working in a continuous production cycle.
The quality, of course, left much to be desired, but there was nothing else to be done.
Mon Calamari star cruisers broke down too quickly to worry about new star destroyers having any insignificant defects.
The speed of weapon reproduction is what matters.
It was thanks to the new destroyers, which became the basis of the First Fleet, led by Argenis, that they managed to hold the enemy at Balmorra and prevent further advance.
Yes, Kuat was lost—but it was not loyal to the New Republic in any way anyway.
However, it was not in a hurry to join the Imperials either, understanding its strength and realizing that its own fleet could give any faction in this region of space a good thrashing.
That's why Grand Moff Kaine did not dare to repair his "Reaper" at Kuat, preferring to take it into the depths of his territories.
The policy of inflated prices deterred even the invaders.
Who could do absolutely nothing about Kuat and their position—they lacked the forces and means to resist a private company armed for millennia.
"I can assure you that these ships have not been removed from any front line," Fe'lia said.
"Starships don't appear out of thin air either," Argenis reminded him.
"Why such meticulousness, Admiral?" the Bothan asked.
"Because there are rumors among the army and the fleet that Bothawui has begun to cooperate secretly with the Dominion," Duplex said, not fearing the president's reaction at all. "And those who languished in their captivity yesterday do not like this. Especially when there is an understanding—the Dominion has too often put the New Republic in danger and done its dirty deeds behind our backs, splashing mud on us from holoreceiver screens and turbolasers—in battle."
"Rumors are just rumors, Admiral," Fe'lia stated. "I assure you—they have no basis other than speculation and slander from our enemies."
"Then where did the ships come from?"
What Argenis least wanted was to receive starships that were actually in Dominion hands in the past.
Yes, ships are needed like air—where there is an excess of them, one can try to go on the counteroffensive.
But, knowing the Dominion's habit of equipping starships with various tracking devices, he really didn't want to face something like this again.
Especially now, when the New Republic has an advantage—the latest star destroyers, whose tactical and technical characteristics are unknown to the enemy.
Until the Empire acquired and studied the Mon Calamari star cruiser technology, they were able to fight Imperial star destroyers on equal terms.
If, due to the government's shortsightedness, the enemy acquires this information as well, there will be great trouble.
"From the strategic reserve," the Bothan admitted reluctantly.
"He's lying," Duplex understood.
"Why did you keep this reserve for so long?"
"Aren't you asking too many questions of your Supreme Commander?" Fe'lia flared up.
"That's a logical question," Argenis reminded him. "If I had had two dozen Mon Calamari star cruisers a month ago, I wouldn't have retreated from the Humbaryn sector. And it is there that the Commonwealth of Five Stars has now deployed a full-fledged forward base!"
"These ships were undergoing repairs," Fe'lia continued to prevaricate. "The Bothan people, tearing the last credits from themselves, restored almost destroyed starships, directing tens of thousands, if not millions of credits into the pockets of smugglers who profited from us by delivering equipment that we no longer have direct access to. And now, when my people have made such a sacrifice, you dare to reproach us, Admiral?"
An emotional attack designed to knock him off course and confuse him, to make him feel guilty.
The Bothans, as always, played on the emotions of their interlocutors.
How tiresome all this was...
"I apologize, Supreme Commander," Argenis apologized, not at all sincerely. "I am too exhausted to assess the situation rationally."
"I understood that from a single glance," the Bothan snorted, puffing himself up again. "You should rest—the entire defense of this sector rests on you."
"Certainly, sir," the Zeltron nodded, lying once again.
It's not so easy to carve out even an hour for sleep when you have to study reports from scouts, patrols, spies, coordinate the installation of minefields and defense stations, coordinate which starship is best to dismantle to get the maximum number of spare parts for the others, give advice and orders to your subordinates, whose formations are bleeding all over your area of responsibility...
"The Bothan crews have already been formed," Fe'lia continued. "And soon the starships will arrive for you. Fully manned."
"It's getting worse and worse," Argenis thought, slapping his face with his palm. "An entire fleet of star cruisers, manned by Bothan officers and crews."
"So, if the crews are Bothan, then they are also given a very responsible mission?" Argenis clarified.
"Of course," Fe'lia didn't even catch the sarcasm in the First Fleet Commander's words. "According to our intelligence, Grand Moff Ardus Kaine intends to strike at your position with the 'Reaper' and its escort squadron. You will have to fight him and win..."
"We could have done that with our own forces," Duplex calculated.
"After that—you will need to go on the counteroffensive and drive the enemy out of the nearest sectors," the President of the New Republic continued, becoming more and more inspired by his own words. "Your forces, according to the Military Command's estimates, will be sufficient to liberate considerable territories."
"If this includes their clearing, planetary operations, then in addition to the star cruiser fleet, I will need large ground forces as well," Argenis warned.
"Admiral," the Bothan looked at him with a condescending smile. "Even I, not a professional military man, know that without supplies and weapons, garrisons on planets won't last long. Push their space forces all the way to Coruscant, or even further, and in a week, a month, half a year, even the most stubborn Imperials, under blockade, will surrender to you."
"Absurd," Duplex realized.
"Sir, we are not facing a militia, but motivated soldiers who believe in the strength of their own state," he stated. "And they will not surrender so easily."
"Convince them with orbital bombardments," the President of the New Republic began to lose patience. "Our ground forces still need time to complete the training of the state's valiant defenders. Even if not all Imperials surrender—we will smoke out the rest. Our goal is to retake Coruscant by the end of this year. The capital of the New Republic is not a place where Imperials can march with their dirty boots. The entire galaxy is watching us and whether the New Republic lives up to the calls it made to the peoples of hundreds of thousands of worlds in the past."
"If you allow, sir, I would rather direct these forces to strengthen the blockade of Carida," Argenis proposed. "Yes, the offensive initiative of the Commonwealth of Five Worlds is fading—we are successfully grinding them down. But Imperial Space..."
"It's bogged down in battles with the Alliance," Fe'lia said with disgust. "They don't concern us as long as we are not ready to drive them out of our territories. Concentrate on countering the Commonwealth of Five Stars."
How does he imagine this?!
If the Commonwealth is defeated, then the other Imperials will simply swap forces and occupy the positions they left.
"Sir, with all due respect, but one must understand that there is rivalry between Bastion and Orinda..."
"Do as you are ordered, Duplex!" Fe'lia roared. "We need victories! And only victories! The faster we push the Empire back into their corners, the easier it will be for us to restore the territorial integrity of the New Republic! Sectors and systems that have broken away from us are just waiting for signs of strength from us!"
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 their blood.
"Sir, we need to reconsider..."
"Enough!" Fe'lia barked. "You are a military man, Admiral Duplex. I am your commander. You have been given an order—you carry it out. There can be no other way. Have I explained my point of view clearly?!"
"Perfectly, sir."
It was useless to fight with him on his terms.
Fe'lia did not understand operational and tactical necessity.
He did not understand that if they managed to defeat the "Reaper" and its squadron, it was most likely that they would start fighting among themselves, and thus the pressure on the entire front would weaken.
"Well, that's great," Fe'lia chuckled. "And one more thing, Admiral. I have a secret mission for you."
"I am listening, Supreme Commander," Argenis said resignedly.
Such verbal preludes do not bode well.
Especially when politicians, acting out of their own selfish ephemeral ideas of victory, give orders to the military.
"I was thinking," but from the look in the Bothan's eyes and the expression on his face, it was clear that he had made this decision long ago and, as they say, had "brought the interlocutor to the desired state." "There's no need to destroy the 'Reaper.' Board it. And, preferably, capture Grand Moff Kaine himself."
"Capture a Super Star Destroyer, which alone is worth a whole fleet," the Zeltron mentally translated the Bothan's demand. "And also don't accidentally destroy the head of the Commonwealth. Well, yes, what could be simpler than this—capturing the 'Executor' and its commander?"
"This decision may cost us more losses. Including among your kin," he warned, thinking that perhaps this argument could enlighten the Bothan.
"I will humbly accept this sacrifice, Admiral," Fe'lia stated coldly. "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 will be able to drive the Pentastar Alignment out of the war."
Loudly spoken.
Strongly.
Too strongly for someone who sends hundreds of thousands to their deaths.
But this order is not devoid of logic.
Without a warlord and a strong leader, the Imperials may indeed flee.
At the very least—they will be demoralized.
As it was after Palpatine's death at the Battle of Endor.
The only question is how many ships and their crew members will die just so Fe'lia can boast of a battered ship and a barely alive Grand Moff?
Because the commander of the First Fleet of the New Republic Defense Forces simply could not imagine any other way for these two to end up in Republican captivity.
"The order is understood, sir," he said dryly. "May I proceed?"
"Are you still here, Admiral?" Fe'lia expressed genuine bewilderment. "Immediately begin developing an operation to bring the New Republic to victory!"
***
The sharp sound of a slap momentarily plunged the operational headquarters of the "Zann Consortium" into deafening silence.
The operators, analysts, cryptographers, and decoders gathered at the workstations, as well as ordinary "ice cutters," turned their heads almost in unison towards the source of the sound.
At the foot of a massive multifunctional chair, where the head of the organization liked to be, observing through a huge, multi-colored hologram everything that was happening in the galaxy from the reports of thousands of informants, there now lay a fragile-looking woman in black, form-fitting clothes and pale skin.
On her head was an intricate hairstyle of glossy black hair, braided into thin pigtails and intertwined in an elaborate style alien to human perception.
It was for this hairstyle that Tyber Zann lifted the woman with his muscular hand, tearing her from the floor, and slapped her again.
He didn't stand on ceremony, he struck with a backhand, breaking her face, lips, tearing skin from her face and leaving ugly abrasions.
The woman did not resist, hanging like a lifeless doll in the boss's grip, receiving her just punishment.
The staff members watched the scene for only a few seconds, after which they all turned away, returning to work.
Perhaps it would have been strange from the outside to observe that out of hundreds of women watching the beating of a sentient being of their own gender, not one of them showed even a hint of sympathy.
But the few men working side-by-side with them perfectly understood the reason why their analyst colleagues reacted that way.
And preferred to keep their opinions strictly to themselves.
"Vile bitch," Tyber Zann stopped beating his subordinate, causing Jirod Sykes, standing modestly in the corner, to let out a sigh of relief. "Stubborn as Jabba the Hutt! My whole arm is bruised!"
The man with snow-white hair and an ugly scar on his face looked with contempt and disgust at the woman wiping blood on the floor, then swung and hit her in the stomach with his heavy boot with all his might.
The force of the blow was such that the beaten owner of beautiful hair and pale skin was thrown back a couple of meters.
She tumbled down a short staircase, ending up on the common level, where those who continued to work for the benefit of the "Zann Consortium" paid her no attention.
"Is this your best protégé, Sykes?" Tyber Zann asked with undisguised fury, collapsing into his chair.
The commander of the organization's combat wing understood that arguing was useless, as was proving something to the boss.
"Yes."
His answer was short, unambiguous, and did not tolerate double interpretation—everything strictly according to the Charter.
The provisions of which surfaced in his mind every time it became necessary.
Old military pensioners say it right—"You can shake you out of your uniform, but you can never shake the uniform out of you."
A proverb that clearly demonstrates 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 of his chair and emptied it in one gulp. "Is she that stupid, or have you lost your grip, deciding to waste time on such a useless person?"
Sykes looked at the barely breathing young woman.
Many commanders had experienced the heavy fists and boots of Tyber Zann firsthand.
For most of them, like a shot from a disintegrator, it was the last thing they saw before their lives ended.
"A simple question deserves a simple answer, boss," Jerid remarked. "But I can't give it until I hear her report."
"There's nothing to listen to," Zann looked at the stirring woman with hatred. "This idiot was given a simple task! Block the Bosf sector until Harsh returns! Be there and just guard this Hutt scrap of the galaxy! Prepare for an attack! And keep your Hutt eyes and ears open! Nothing more! Nothing beyond what her empty head could forget!"
"Boss, if she does tell the details, I'll have more information," Sykes stated, not flinching under the icy and destructive gaze of the head of the organization. "And I'll be able to make my decision."
"Your decision?" Zann growled at him.
"You clearly didn't invite me here to watch an educational conversation," Jerid surmised.
"And that's true," Zann chuckled softly, which indicated that he had returned to a state of mental calm without much difficulty. "Well, ask your protégé your questions. And I'll listen to how she justifies herself. And remember: her failure is your failure."
"Of course, boss," Sykes replied, heading towards the young woman, who had barely managed to get on her knees.
Tyber is absolutely right—the failure of this young woman will be the failure of Sykes himself.
Because it was he who convinced Zann, who had already experienced betrayal, the collapse of his criminal empire, which he was now piecing back together, and the trap set for him by the Imperials, which almost became his end.
All this was in the past.
And even such a fit of rage had its nuances in past events.
Zann first lost it when he learned that his organization had come to an end.
And, despite all his qualities, he could not accept the fact that by uniting all the largest and most important criminal organizations in the galaxy under the wing of the "Zann Consortium"—both under direct and indirect control—he had achieved everything he had ever dreamed of.
And then they started destroying him.
And traitors crawled out of every crack.
The "Zann Consortium" broke into fragments, almost all of which were destroyed either by the Empire or the Rebel Alliance.
What he managed to preserve is only a pathetic semblance of past glory, hard-won.
But now he is on the rise again.
The fact that Zann lost it, turning into a wild beast, only indicated that the failure in the Bosf sector was something more than a simple breakthrough of the blockade of a region inhabited by miners unable to fight an armed enemy.
"How are you?" Sykes asked quietly, taking his protégé by the elbow and helping her up.
"I've had worse," she wiped the blood from her broken lips and smiled, revealing bloody teeth. "I remember being beaten up pretty badly once. What I've endured now is nothing compared to it."
"Then stop smiling like an idiot and give a full report," the combat wing commander of the organization instantly became serious. "Not only your life, but mine depends on it."
"I understand," the smile disappeared from her lips.
When they climbed the stairs, Sykes's protégé knelt before Zann.
"I let you down, boss," she said softly, obsequiously. "The attack was unexpected..."
"I've heard all that," Zann waved away her words.
"But I haven't, boss," Sykes objected. "Perhaps she will report something important that will help us understand the enemy's tactics."
"Well, let's see," an excited glint flashed in Zann's eyes. "Let her tell you the same thing she told me. And then we'll compare our conclusions."
"I'm fine with that," Jerid admitted, looking at his protégé. "Tell me. And don't try to be evasive. Your tricks won't work here."
"Well, of course," the woman smiled wryly.
But she quickly realized that her jokes were of no interest to anyone here.
"I was following the commander's orders," she began. "I sent patrols to the smuggler routes. I divided the Picket Fleet into two detachments to strike and pin down the native forces. A minute after we were supposed to receive a general report on the situation from our scouts, but received nothing, my ships were attacked."
"By whom?" Sykes moved on to the interrogation.
"I assume it was the Dominion," the woman stated. "The formation was led by a fast Star Destroyer of the 'Warrior' type. I know only one state that has it."
"Let's assume so. Continue."
"We were surrounded by interdictor cruisers, after which, as soon as they deployed their gravity nets, the main enemy forces emerged from hyperspace—a fast dreadnought, five Imperial-class Star Destroyers, and Avenger-class heavy cruisers. We were surrounded and attacked from all sides. Special attention in their attack was given to the capture of our flagship."
"As a result, your forces were defeated," Zann summarized. "A tearful story about how you were outsmarted, and you cowardly fled from the battle."
"I didn't just retreat for no reason," the interrogated woman stated. "I felt a very strong sentient being on board the enemy flagship, a woman sensitive to the Force. But it happened so suddenly, why I couldn't detect her immediately or feel the threat emanating from her. As if she was hiding from me somewhere, and then decided that hiding was stupid and decided to attack me."
"And you decided to expose a novice, your student, to her," Tyber Zann continued for the woman. "A promising young man, by the way."
Sykes glanced at his boss.
Although he understood that he was merely being ironic, he wanted to confirm it personally.
Despite Zann's serious expression, a mocking smile was frozen on his lips.
Yes, everything is fine.
The boss is just tormenting the loser he beat up.
Recently, he has not trusted sentient beings sensitive to the Force with any serious operations, let alone individual missions important for the future of the "Zann Consortium."
But in the context of the galaxy, when the Empire has Inquisitors and the New Republic has Jedi, Sykes considered it necessary to have at least a few such fighters at hand.
Winning their loyalty is not difficult—it is enough to save their lives and find a common object of hatred.
After all, Urai Fenn is also sensitive to the Force—and Tyber Zann trusted him completely.
In fact, he served as the head of the remnants of the "Zann Consortium" when Tyber himself was "sunbathing" in the Kessel mines.
But the recent defeat of the "Zann Consortium" at the hands of the Empire, the New Republic, and internal enemies affected many things.
Including the criteria for trusting sentient beings sensitive to the Force.
"That is the way of the Dark Side," the woman declared. "The weak must fall so that the strong may survive."
"Spare me this nonsense," Zann demanded. "In the end, what happened to him?"
"And what can happen to a klutz who wasn't significant even during the Jedi Order?" the woman shrugged. "Her opponent is clearly stronger and more experienced—she finished him off without any problems."
"Her?" Zann became interested. "Was it a woman?"
"Yes," the beaten woman replied after thinking. "I would even guess that it was a Dathomirian witch—they have very characteristic traces in the Force..."
"Witch!" Zann shouted. "These damned gizkas from Dathomir are interfering with my enemies again!"
"Boss, we need to find out what's what..." Sykes began.
"Find out?" Zann shot him an angry look. "What else do you want to know, Sykes? Who exactly was it?"
"It would be nice," the commander of the organization's combat wing remarked. "We need to know how deeply the witches have integrated into the Dominion..."
"It's simple," Zann said acidly. "Thrawn opened the doors of his toy to anyone who wanted in. Plus, he solved the problems with our imperial neighbors who served that lunatic clone, what's-his-name?"
"X1," Jerid prompted.
"Yes," the head of the organization snapped his fingers. "That psychopath had quite a few Dathomirians with him. It's possible Thrawn took them under his wing. Or maybe they're infiltrators from the Eastern Faction."
"I don't see any problems," the battered woman declared. "Our 'Vultures' were perfectly capable of killing witches..."
"Except we lost our cloning facilities," Zann reminded her. "Completely. Imagine for a moment what would happen if the Dominion gained access to Kamino? Considering the hundreds of derelict starships they have gathering dust? They'd fill them with clones in one go!"
"I don't think the witches would go for such an alliance," Jerid voiced his assumption after thinking. "They are greedy and vengeful, but we must understand that Thrawn knew perfectly well, and likely let slip to one of his subordinates, that ysalamiri can block the Force. And vornskrs hunt Force-sensitives. They didn't visit Myrkr for no reason."
"And now they've stopped doing that," Tyber added. "Hutt, I'm starting to regret telling Thrawn about Myrkr and the properties of ysalamiri at the Academy. That blue-eyed bastard," he looked at the transparisteel panel, "finally got there..."
"As did Car'dè," Sykes reminded him.
"There will be a separate conversation with that clown," Zann waved his hand, looking thoughtfully at the floor. "We need to act."
"Boss?" Sykes was surprised. "We wanted to wait until they all killed each other there."
"And in the end, we see that our fleet was intercepted and destroyed in Karthakk, and there was a Dathomirian witch in Bosph," Zann reminded him. "It seems I outmaneuvered myself. Instead of destroying them, Pelleon decided to ally with the witches. They probably promised him Rothana and Kamino to restore the Empire... And the fool fell for such tales, believing it would allow him to fulfill his imperial duty or something. It doesn't matter. Sykes," he looked at the head of the organization's combat wing, "have you prepared forces to attack the northern sectors of the Dominion?"
"As ordered," he agreed.
"Then we deploy them," Zann declared decisively. "We can't risk losing Dominion trophies. I don't want the Eastern Faction to get the Dominion's ships and factories! These are our trophies! And our industry!"
"We can just wait until the end of the year, and then Harsh will launch the industry in the Chiloon Rift and..."
Zann shot Sykes a furious look.
"Haven't you realized yet?" he asked. "The loss of Bosph means the loss of a direct route to the Rift. It can be under our control a hundred times over, but without logistics, we won't need the metal reserves there, nor tibanna, nor fuel plants—nothing at all. Consider the money invested in those factories as wasted. If we don't find a way to punch a corridor there. And now is the opportune time."
"Deep reconnaissance is needed," Sykes insisted. "We only know about a large number of Dominion ships in the Karthakk sector, and a squadron in the Bosph sector, but the rest..."
"Take all active forces of the 'Consortium'," Zann ordered. "Every single one. And attack the Dominion. I want you to subjugate it before those Dathomirian bitches get ships from 'Horsch & Kessel'. It will be incredibly difficult to hunt down this spawn across the galaxy! Especially when the cloning process on Kamino is completed."
"Previously, this didn't concern you," Sykes reminded him.
"But now it does!" Zann roared. "Now they have ships, an ally, transport—and now the clones from Kamino will become a huge thorn in our side. Yes, a couple of months ago, this wasn't a problem! But now it is! Because the ships are almost ready! Not to mention Rothana."
"But Pelleon swallowed the bait with the 'Adamant'," Sykes reminded him. "Their blockade-runner is ready for use."
"Yes, but the witches have accelerated too," Zann countered. "I wouldn't be surprised if Pelleon is preparing a backup plan for an assault, but he might not make it in time. We'll do everything now—fortunately, we know where their headquarters and fleet anchorage are. While their fleet is 'terrorizing' the Karthakk sector en masse, we'll go in and get what we want. We'll deprive the Dominion of its metropole, and Thrawn's remnants will have a hard time."
Zann cast another glance at the transparisteel panel, peering into the glowing red eyes of the stuffed doll within.
"I personally gutted your body, Thrawn," Zann said to the remains of the sentient being. "Taxidermy was new to me, but I did it with no small amount of pleasure. And with exactly the same pleasure, I will take everything you left your worthless followers."
The stuffed effigy of the deceased Grand Admiral, filled with special contents and recovered from space by the 'Vultures' after a significant kick to the Republic soldiers at Sluis Van, continued to stare at the head of the Zann Consortium.
It had taken effort to implant miniature light sources into them, exactly as the original had.
"Begin the attack, Sykes," ordered Tyber Zann, tearing himself away from contemplating the Grand Admiral's doll. "Let them pay for everything. Our agents are in place and awaiting your requests."
"Alright, boss, we're attacking," the admiral agreed, understanding that a great deal of work would be required to capture such a tough nut as the Dominion. "If you don't mind, I'll take my ward..."
"Get her out of my sight," Zann grimaced with disgust. "If she doesn't kill all the witches in the Dominion's metropole, you can throw her overboard your flagship."
"I heard you, sir," Sykes replied quietly.
***
"And what do you intend to do?" Orun Va's hologram looked serene, but one shouldn't be fooled.
Kaminoans were not an emotional race, in principle.
Even if he felt something, he would never show it or let his interlocutor understand it through his facial expressions.
There were not many works of art created by Kaminoans in the galaxy.
Even fewer were known to other galactic peoples.
And an extremely small number were publicly accessible and available for study.
But this was if art was considered 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 humanity and closely related species, art was truly expressed in sculptures, music, painting, and so on.
For Mandalorians, art was war.
For Mon Calamari, it was water and everything related to it.
Even material art for those from Daca was works created from the gifts of the sea.
For Kaminoans, art was science.
Genetics—first and foremost.
And in their field, they had reached unprecedented heights, creating masterpieces that other races could not replicate.
Their masterpieces walked, dug, served, fought, sang, and satisfied the whims of their masters.
Yes, for Kaminoans, art was primarily their clones.
"You know perfectly well what this equipment is," the hologram of Colonel Astarion replied in the meantime.
"Yes, I am aware of its functionality," Orun Va agreed. "Copying a donor's memory for subsequent transplantation to clones."
"In that case, you, as a sentient being who was long associated with the cloning project under the 'Spaarti' program, should understand that these installations are designed for cloning humans," Astarion continued.
"Yes, that is their narrow focus," a mockery appeared in Orun Va's voice. "You realized that quickly. I suppose it's because you never managed to map my brain. And when the images obtained from my mind appeared before you as blurry pictures and fragmented information, it finally dawned on you that I couldn't be cloned this way."
"In general terms, you are correct," Astarion agreed.
"And you've come to negotiate," Orun Va continued.
"And that's also correct."
"So, you only have a Kaminoan-made cloning cylinder, but not a training system," Orun Va mused, stroking one hand with the other. "And this once again increases my significance to you... Well, you know my terms."
"And you know ours," Astarion countered. "You won't work independently. Only on our orders."
"In that case, we won't reach an agreement," Orun Va smiled. "You need me. And without me, my knowledge—you can't do without it."
"You can comfort yourself with that assumption," Astarion replied calmly. "But the situation is entirely different."
"That's what you think," Orun Va replied in a soft tone. "You have no alternative but to agree with me and my, allow me to say—very modest—demands."
"You would have been better off listening to me when you were told that the Dominion's terms would not change," Astarion remarked coldly.
"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 certain level. But I can only work with genomes, improve them, make your clones stronger, smarter, more deadly. And people like me. But you can't clone me. And you can't get to Kamino either. I think there are also Kaminoans somewhere in the galaxy who fled their homeland, but none of them can create new things at the same level as I can. Even in the best years, there weren't that many specialized geneticists on Kamino."
"I'm telling you—you need to listen to me carefully, Orun Va," it was Astarion's turn to smirk. "You see, there is something you didn't account for when you gave us your ultimatums."
"For example?" Orun Va inquired.
"Are you familiar with a cloning specialist like Zyix K'zzt?" the head of Dominion Security asked.
"A familiar name," he replied indifferently. "That person studied our work on Kamino for some time. Useless."
"Well, well," Astarion smiled triumphantly, continuing to bore into Orun Va with a heavy gaze. "But we don't think so."
"Because you yourselves are short-sighted in matters of genetics," Orun Va said in the same phlegmatic tone.
And that was a mistake.
Like any artist, Kaminoan geneticists put parts of themselves into their works.
Into the clones.
When creating the Grand Army of the Republic, they tried with all their might to destroy clones that acted independently, stood out from the masses, or in principle did not meet the parameters of a "good soldier."
And in the Kaminoan understanding, a good soldier, ready to advance, should be calm, indifferent, unceremonious.
Phlegmatic.
Especially in moments of despair, when his fate no longer depended on any decision he made.
Just like Orun Va was behaving now.
The lack of usual emotionality on the cloner's face did not make him vulnerable to physiognomic analysis.
He had shifted from offense, when his speech was more assertive, to defense—and now he maintained a visible calm.
But he had stopped rubbing his hands and gesturing with them—because he didn't feel in control of the situation.
The name Zyix K'zzt had made him wary.
"If so, then you will surely be surprised by the fact that Zyix K'zzt was able to extract a lot of interesting things from the fragments of your memories," Astarion continued. "Yes, these are not entirely complete sequences of altered genes, but still fragments of knowledge that Kaminoans have been hiding from the 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 we will put Zyix K'zzt in charge of the cloning processes."
"You will need much more time to master our technologies," Orun Va stated.
"You keep repeating the same arguments, not understanding that they no longer work," Astarion smirked. "We have an entire genetic team. We have Zyix K'zzt. We have many promising scientists, and we continue to search for them. After all, we currently have thirty thousand fully functional Spaarti cloning cylinders, which, by disassembling Arkanian contraptions, have been brought to acceptable working order..."
Not counting the two hundred cloning cylinders that are in my personal possession, as well as eight hundred skillfully assembled, booby-trapped copies from Karthakk, which do not have the function of copying and in principle do not work correctly—they only pump nutrient fluid.
However, they were not supposed to work.
They were supposed to explode when a two-frequency signal from the transmitter in Magash Drashi's horns was activated.
One signal—for detonation.
The second—to report its location.
Given that the found "cloning cylinders" were supposed to work most optimally in a cluster with others—most likely with those we found on Smarck—this sabotage was supposed to deprive us of the cloning capacities obtained as a result of the attack.
And then the perpetrators of this adventure, offering an alliance and providing their cloning cylinders to create an army to destroy the 'Zann Consortium', would surely emerge under false pretenses.
I had almost no doubt that this army would surely turn against us later, destroying the Dominion.
Just as I had no doubt that if Magash Drashi had managed to conclude an agreement with the Dominion command, there would have been no explosions—until a certain point.
And if she had realized that there would be no alliance—she would have had to destroy both the Dominion command and our cloning facilities.
And the numbers of the fake cloning cylinders are chosen perfectly.
Seven thousand two hundred we received on Smarck.
And eight hundred—on Karthakk.
The human brain just wants to connect them to get a round number.
Well, we don't need that anymore.
The disassembly and repair of Arkanian contraptions, although it reduced the number of available incubators to the point where my idea of a spare parts warehouse and their subsequent restoration found no path of development—all Arkanian contraptions were disassembled and turned into spare parts for our existing installations.
Completely.
As they say—from "bandages to cotton wool."
Nothing remained but metal skeletons.
Everything went into use.
Every pipe and wire.
But now we have thirty thousand third-model Spaarti cloning cylinders.
We lost a potential strategic advantage, but gained a tactical one.
Thirty thousand clones every fifteen days.
In a year—that's about seven hundred and thirty thousand clones.
It hasn't been a year since I found myself in this galaxy, and already by the first anniversary of my "grand admiralship," I received a gift in the form of an almost twofold increase in clone productivity compared to the initial sixteen thousand that were available to us before the repairs made by Colonel Selid.
"If you want any reaction from me to your triumph, you won't get it," Orun Va stated.
"You think so?" Astarion smiled. "Zyix K'zzt also thought we had nothing to offer him as a cloner. That's why he was in no hurry to show his true face. By the way, did you know that from the very first years of working as a geneticist, he dreamed of working with the donor genotype for the Grand Army of the Republic?"
"I don't care."
"Oh, it's a fascinating story. At first, such an initiative and obsession from Zyix K'zzt alarmed us," Astarion confided. "We put him under surveillance—when we returned his children to him. Just imagine—a person whose mind combines knowledge of genetics with knowledge of methods of conducting suppressive fire and tactics for assaulting a settlement, turns out to be a caring father. And so talkative... Do you know why he never gave up his work as a geneticist?"
"That's unnecessary information for me."
"He lived with the idea that by working for the Empire, one day he could get his hands on the project of working with Jango Fett's clones and show the entire Empire that he is the best geneticist and can create clones—particularly your beloved 'Elite Republic Commando' 'Alpha' and 'Null' types—without the flaws that made you consider your work defective."
"I corrected those defects on the last batch of 'Vulture' clones on Smarck," Orun Va reminded him. "You mindlessly destroyed them all."
"But that doesn't mean you didn't collect genetic samples," Astarion stated. "Which are now at Zyix K'zzt's disposal. As are your fragmented memories. And he will use them for the good of the Dominion."
"It's not that easy to replicate my research," Orun Va looked outwardly impenetrable as stone. "Especially—if he wants to create better Jango Fett clones. He won't succeed without the necessary DNA."
"And here's the most interesting part," Astarion's hologram smiled. "We have a clone of Jango Fett."
"Good luck extracting and restoring the pure genes of the original specimen," a triumph appeared in Orun Va's voice.
"We don't need to," Astarion said in a syrupy voice. "I didn't tell you the name of the Jango Fett clone we have."
"Products don't have names," Orun Va stated unexpectedly sharply. "Only serial numbers!"
"But this one does," he assured him, showing a datapad with a holophoto. "I think you recognize this face, Senior Geneticist?"
"This face is well known throughout the galaxy," Orun Va replied phlegmatically. "I have already been tried to be convinced that you have an unaltered clone of Jango Fett. But no proof, only mere words..."
"In that case, look here," Astarion changed the picture on the datapad. "Do you recognize the nucleotide sequence?"
Orun Va's hologram was silent for a very long time.
His eyes scanned the lines, but not a single muscle twitched on his face; however, nothing else was expected.
"Be bolder, Senior Geneticist," Astarion advised. "You have looked at these sequences for decades, making various changes and improving Jango Fett's genetics. You can't not recognize it."
"Let's say I see the decoded, unaltered genome of Jango Fett before me," Orun Va said in a calm voice, looking away from the lines on the screen. "That still proves nothing."
"Indeed?" Astarion smiled. "For example, do you think we could have obtained this decryption from the Imperial Archives?"
"I don't rule out that possibility."
"Then you should be curious to see the part of the decryption that deals with the object's age."
Another page turn.
Another careful study.
"Forty-two years," the Kaminoan said very slowly, looking at the colonel.
"Forty-two," Astarion nodded. "Let me remind you that Jango Fett was born sixty-six years before the Battle of Yavin. He died twenty-two years before it. And his genotype was stored on Kamino. Zyix K'zzt told us that you used up all of Jango Fett's blood except for what was obtained in the last year before his death. Consequently, if we were talking about demonstrating the genetics of one of his altered clones, or Jango's own genecode, then based on telomere length and other accompanying indicators, you would have realized that we were providing you with a fake, wouldn't you? And now a little math. You hired Jango Fett thirty-two years before the Battle of Yavin IV. And you created an unaltered genetic version of himself for him—little Boba, who is a complete genetic copy of Jango Fett. No changes. And forty-two years have passed since then."
"This cannot be," Orun Va stated firmly. "We already tried to clone him. And he destroyed the entire laboratory and all his clones. He would never have agreed to cooperate on cloning. And he died on Tatooine."
"Then where did we get his blood?" Astarion clarified. "We couldn't have gotten to Kamino in any case to search your reserves. And Boba Fett knows the value of his blood well enough not to leave samples lying around. But even so, we have a sample of his DNA anyway. So, no one has deceived you, Orun Va? And besides, pay attention to the donor's photo," Astarion returned the first image on the datapad. "Don't you see a large number of chemical burns on his body? It's not as pleasant to be in the stomach of a sarlacc as they say."
The Kaminoan geneticist remained silent.
"And now, it turns out that we have Boba Fett's genecode, identical to Jango Fett's. We have tissue and blood samples from your improved 'Vulture' 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 ERC clones, combine your developments with genetics that you couldn't master in the past. And get a result that would satisfy you as the greatest geneticist of Kamino. Do you think such work is worth it under the conditions offered by the Dominion?"
"You demand that I do what you want," Orun Va reminded him.
"It so happened that we have a need to produce ERC-model clones to replenish the losses of assault commandos," Astarion said in a paternal tone. "That's why we have two scenarios. Either we shove you back into the 'centrifuge' and conduct the last 'pass' of your life, get what we can extract after that, and hand over all developments and Boba Fett to Zyix K'zzt, or you work with Boba Fett's DNA yourself, create the samples we need for us. And, perhaps, when Kamino becomes subordinate to the Dominion, Grand Admiral Thrawn will allow you to take the position of head of the planet—on the scientific side. And you will have all the geneticists of your race at your disposal. Those who didn't believe in your success. But you will demonstrate your achievements to them using Boba Fett's clones as an example. And prove your rightness. I think honor, respect, and recognized leadership among your population await you."
"Are you suggesting I become a collaborator?" Orun Va clarified.
"I'm suggesting you choose between continuing your career with a glorious finale, and a inglorious end and your future reprocessing," Colonel Astarion declared with a triumphant expression. "However, there is one more option."
"Which one?"
"We will finish cloning your body, after which we will transfer your mind from your body into it," the colonel pointed at the Kaminoan's tiny head. "Fortunately, there is a specialist from the monks of the Order of B'Omarr, who really likes to eat and transplant the brains of sentient beings into their cloned bodies. She almost always does it correctly."
For the first time, Orun Va flinched.
"So, what do you choose, Senior Geneticist?" Astarion inquired, nodding towards the memory copying 'centrifuge'. "Death and obscurity, or life and glory? Let me remind you that diligent work for the Dominion is rewarded. Think about what you can achieve if you fulfill our little requests? Perhaps you will be allowed to pursue your own research? Or Kamino will regain 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, an answer could be read, which could be perceived even through the hologram.
"I agree," he replied. "Give me the equipment and Boba Fett's DNA—I'll make you such assault commandos that even the Mandalorians or the Ailon Nova Guard will want to learn from them."
End of recording.
A smile played on my lips.
Long preparation, processing, and undeniable success.
He will have to be watched—until he realizes his cherished project of an improved ERC.
And then, like all idealistic scientists, he will no longer be able to stop.
The urgent buzzer of a private commlink, whose frequency was known only to one living soul in the galaxy, distracted me from my thoughts.
Activating the device with its built-in portable holoprojector, I looked at the hologram of a young woman who was no longer destined to become Luke Skywalker's wife.
"Hand, what do I owe this honor?"
"They're starting, Grand Admiral," Mara Jade said. "The 'Consortium Zann' fleet is preparing to depart. Their target is the Dominion."
"Excellent," a slight smile on my lips puzzled Hand slightly. "Let them come. We've been waiting for them." "Continue your mission on Etti IV."
"That's just it, sir," the young woman said a little quieter. "There's one l-little problem..."
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: Granulan