Nine years, eight months, and six days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, eight months, and six days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and twenty-six days since the arrival).
The Herglic appeared somewhat disappointed as he settled at Mara's table, instantly occupying all the space on the opposite side.
— My apologies, Countess Cleria, — he addressed the young woman, who continued to play the role of a highborn lady. During her time as the Emperor's Hand, she had adopted many aliases, names, and fabricated backstories. "Countess Cleria" was the identity she used while investigating the misappropriation and embezzlement of Imperial assets by Moff Glovstok some time after the Battle of Yavin. Ultimately, he was convicted of treason against the throne and misuse of Imperial funds, and the evidence she uncovered in his personal vaults led her to another conspiracy — in the Sheshla sector. There, she also met the now-former Moff Disra, who was then merely a chief administrator committing such vile acts that only circumstances prevented his demise. Judging by their encounter on Yag'Dhul, Disra either feigned ignorance with vague hints or genuinely did not recognize her, as he did not say so outright. After all, their acquaintance had not been personal, but when she arrested the governor of the Sheshla sector, many sentients were present in his palace. Some might have shared observations about her appearance with Disra. True, on Yag'Dhul, she had slightly altered her face to avoid recognition, but...
In any case, Disra was currently the least of her concerns.
— What's the matter? — she asked irritably.
The black-market trader had been stalling for quite some time, constantly offering her new assortments of military cargo. But none were truly Imperial. And they were far from top quality. Not to mention, if they had ever been supplied to the fleet, it certainly wasn't within the last century.
— A slight delay...
— Oh, stop playing games with me, — she demanded sharply. — Speak plainly — what's the issue?!
— The supplier... — the Herglic hesitated. — He... isn't meeting delivery schedules. The goods you're looking for aren't in stock. You understand, it's very expensive and practically one-of-a-kind... Give me a week, and all the goods will be in the warehouses, but right now, they simply aren't available. I'm so sorry...
— Are you joking? — she inquired.
— Not at all, but...
— I know the reputation of Herglics as honest traders who never tell a buyer they have goods that aren't in stock, — she infused her voice with as much artificial disdain as possible. — At our first meeting, you assured me you had Imperial weaponry. Now you say it's unavailable. Are you a liar?
— Absolutely not, — the giant waved his hands vigorously, literally overturning two nearby tables. By fortunate chance, no one was seated at them or in the path of falling furniture and dining utensils. — I'm an honest businessman and...
— Then what's the problem? — Mara knew the answer perfectly well but wanted to hear it from the Herglic.
According to intelligence, this trader indeed had access to a wide range of Imperial goods. But they were currently unavailable to him. The reason was simple — and it was located directly aboard an Imperial Lambda-class shuttle and a battered GR-75 medium transport that the Imperials had acquired.
She had no doubt that in a week, this broker's warehouses would be fully stocked. There were no indications that the new goods would be inferior to the original. However, there was a nuance — if they truly intended to use this broker as a source for Imperial goods straight from the Kuat Drive Yards' vaults, he needed to earn their trust. He already understood she was highly solvent. But, apparently, he chose not to risk his relationships with long-standing clients.
— Another client... — the Herglic finally admitted the truth. — When they learned you were also interested in Imperial tech, and in such quantities, they decided to outbid you.
— Are they arming a Super Star Destroyer or something? — Mara wrinkled her nose, signaling to the Herglic that the notion was absurd. — I wanted to order millions' worth of turbolasers alone.
— That's true, — he said guiltily. — But they offered a better price... I've been working with them for a long time, and I've only known you for a short while...
— I see, — Mara huffed. Her suspicions were confirmed. This Herglic loved credits (who doesn't?). And he trusted only established clients, giving them preference and exceptions. Consequently, there was no guarantee that in future dealings, he wouldn't sell their hypothetical goods to someone he'd known longer or who paid more. — You've only wasted my time...
— Esteemed lady, I...
Mara was no longer listening to his excuses. She had clarified everything necessary and had no intention of wasting more time. It was time to move on to more pressing matters.
Leaving the restaurant, she hailed an airspeeder, giving a random address in the city's central district. The droid-driver swiftly merged into the traffic flow, while Mara, using the Force and her experience, continued to monitor for any potential tails.
As expected, there were observers. Two Rodians in a battered speeder followed her, keeping a few vehicles behind in the flow. Their typically thuggish appearance and confident navigation, unlikely for anyone unfamiliar with the intense local traffic, suggested they were local mercenaries. Good to know.
Mara exited the transport at the designated point — no need to hint that she'd noticed the surveillance. She strolled calmly along the commercial boulevard before ducking into an alley. There, quickly assessing the situation and surroundings, she shed her clothing, leaving only her form-fitting black combat suit. Unfortunately, it lacked armor elements; otherwise, the voluminous aristocratic dress would have looked odd. The voluminous skirt had concealed weapons strapped to her waist and thigh, and the sleeves hid a concealed blaster holster.
Tossing the dress onto a nearby dumpster, Mara hid in the darkest corner of the alley, positioning herself to observe how events would unfold.
The two Rodians appeared a couple of minutes later. They quickly realized the dress was empty and began conversing...
Mara didn't speak Rodian (nor did any sensible person), but the Force, which she could now focus on and call upon more easily thanks to several meditative sessions with Ahsoka, revealed the aliens' thoughts. They suspected she was nearby. Hardly surprising — the alley was a dead end.
— I'm right here, boys, — she said, firing from the shadows.
She wounded the first in the leg, and he collapsed, shrieking in pain.
The second, clearly a subordinate, bolted, only to be struck in the head by a blaster bolt. His body slumped lifelessly onto the filthy ground.
— Who hired you? — Mara asked, approaching the whimpering Rodian. They weren't seasoned criminals — just street thugs who frequented alleys like this.
The Rodian babbled something in his native tongue. His thoughts were muddled...
Sighing, Mara activated her lightsaber.
Fear flashed in the mercenary's eyes.
His shouted word, "Jedi!" and the superstitious dread it still evoked in such places, instantly cleared his mind. Images surfaced, emotions poured out, accompanied by whimpers and pleas for mercy...
— Well, that's clear, — Mara smirked, deactivating her weapon. — Old acquaintances from the Lambda. Alright, we'll have a chat, think things over. Hey, you, — she lightly kicked the Rodian's wounded knee. He howled in agony. — Stop screaming; I didn't hit anything vital. But if I catch you doing anything illegal again, I'll finish you. Understood? — The Rodian undoubtedly understood Basic, and his vigorous nods confirmed as much. The only question was how foolish he was to act on his fleeting thoughts.
Turning, Mara headed toward the bustling thoroughfare...
A second later, her lightsaber sliced through the air, deflecting a blaster bolt back at the Rodian. The crimson shot struck his throat, burning through to his spine. Modified blasters firing at maximum power were terrifying.
— I warned you, — Mara sighed, sensing the sentient's life fade in the Force.
After weaving through the city for a few more blocks, she activated her comlink and contacted Ahsoka.
— Are those two on the shuttle planning to leave soon? — she asked.
— They've got another day of loading, — the Togruta replied, maintaining constant surveillance on the Imperial buyers. — Looks like they'll need another ship.
— They won't, — Mara stated. — They'll attach extra containers to the medium transport and call it a day. Regardless, they're not going anywhere.
— I thought you wanted to intercept them in space, — Ahsoka reminded her.
— These guys made a very big mistake, — Thrawn's Hand said. — We need to make that crystal clear to them. Straight to their brains.
— Their heads? — Tano asked with a hint of amusement.
— The ones who ordered the attack on us don't have those, — Jade remarked. — We'll get to the bone.
***
In this galaxy, throughout its existence, there have been Empires, Republics, Charters, Expanse, Alliances, Leagues, Federations, Unions, and countless other states, each with its own character and political structure.
But the Dominion...
No, it wasn't the first of its kind. A state by that name had already existed. To be precise, in the southern reaches of the galaxy, after the Battle of Endor, an Imperial Moff created his own fiefdom under the same name.
A curious fact.
Imperial stormtroopers are known for their fanatical devotion to the Emperor. But after his death, they found themselves under the command of dozens, if not hundreds, of various Imperial and pro-Imperial dictators. Why? How could this happen?
It's quite simple.
A stormtrooper first and foremost obeys the Emperor's will. And that will is conveyed through their commanding officers. When the Emperor dies, they trust their commanders.
Such is the simplification, based on the study of departmental documents. There's actually a wealth of fascinating information in them. However, it's suspected that these documents are only studied in Academy classes, then promptly ignored once soldiers enter active service in the army or navy. It recalls the familiar saying: "At the institute, they tell you to forget everything you learned in school. And at work, they demand you discard everything you studied at the institute."
It seems the same applies to the Imperial war machine.
And to its statecraft.
Thus, the Dominion was officially proclaimed a state in the northwestern part of the galaxy. I assumed leadership of this young state, effectively legitimizing my current rank and position as the official regalia of the Dominion's ruler. Not that anyone objected much. The inhabitants of the Ciutric Hegemony, the Morshdine sector, and the systems that joined them generally didn't care about what happened at the pinnacles of power.
The galaxy's population could change patrons and rulers daily — as long as the common folk's situation didn't worsen, they were indifferent. If it improved, they'd start taking an interest in who was in charge and what made that sentient so notable.
Moff Ferrus and his team of administrators were developing the state structure, giving local bureaucrats a clear understanding: we're here to stay. Lieutenant Colonel Astarion's people delicately, as if milking a bantha, handled the bureaucratic system, rooting out corrupt schemes. Intelligence was vetting foreign assets and scrutinizing the backgrounds of systems and sectors that had expressed intent to join. I had already identified four sectors to form the state's core, with no immediate plans to expand further. Doing so would mean strategically losing the initiative in the territory we currently held. But no outright refusal would be voiced either. Definitely not.
After all, these sectors and systems had their own interests.
But at the moment, my attention was drawn to the holographic figure of a middle-aged woman with pleasant features, clad in a dark dress intricately adorned with lace... Aristocratic dust thrown in the eyes.
A beautiful wrapper, nothing more.
— Grand Admiral, — Advisor Feena D'Asta said reservedly. — The Imperial Ruling Council is concerned by your interference and violation of existing agreements.
— Is that so? — I clarified. — Odd that the Imperial Ruling Council wasn't concerned about the forcible alienation of the Ciutric Hegemony should Prince-Admiral Krennel have been defeated by the New Republic. In that case, an entire region of the New Territories, hitherto neutral and sparsely populated but rich in resources, would have slipped from Imperial control. Sectors ripe for conquest would have joined Coruscant's territory, exposing our eastern and northeastern flanks. Not to mention, such a conquest would have given the Republic access to routes into the rear of the Imperial Remnants and an outlet to the galaxy's borders. I'd also remind you that the Hegemony's economic and industrial capacities would have fallen into New Republic hands...
— What are you driving at, Grand Admiral? — A sarcastic smile appeared on the young woman's face.
— That a strategically sound decision was made, resulting in a victory for the Empire, — I said calmly. — If the Imperial Ruling Council has any grievances against me, I'd like to hear specifics.
The woman with snow-white hair (which looked almost unnatural in the hologram) regarded me with interest.
— Equipment supplies, — we finally reached the crux. — The Council and I are primarily interested in whether the previous contracts with the Prince-Admiral remain valid.
— Let's be frank, — I proposed. — Have those contracts been paid for?
As the saying goes: a loaded question.
Thanks to Krennel's guards and the encryption he applied to his data, much of it was either destroyed or so heavily encoded that cracking it wasn't straightforward.
Of course, unless you had a genius slicer named Zakarisz Ghent.
Thus, I was aware of a significant portion of the Hegemony's commercial activities, including active contracts — which I ordered decrypted first. I knew this conversation would arise as soon as the dust settled from the Hegemony's capture.
— Only the advance payment, — surprisingly, the Baroness was candid with me. A pleasant addition to her appearance and initiative in contacting me first. But let's not forget who this woman truly is and what "cockroaches" might be battling logic and reason in her head. — Subsequent transactions were to be transferred upon fulfillment of both contract parts.
— Well, — I concluded. — That aligns with the information I have. I see no obstacles to continuing the execution of these contracts.
Especially since the bulk of this contract — five hundred TIE fighters — could be fulfilled without issue. For one simple reason: that number of TIE Interceptors was currently on the planet, among the fifteen hundred Krennel was manufacturing for me. Since I decided to replace fighters with interceptors, the machines currently equipping my ships could be transferred to Imperial Space immediately, while my Star Destroyers could be armed exclusively with interceptors.
Orinda's order entailed producing nine hundred TIE fighters — seventy-five squadrons. Each Star Destroyer carries three fighter squadrons. Currently, I had twenty-four destroyers, though not all were fully equipped with air wings. Not to mention the Crimson Dawn. But other ships also carried such equipment, as did planetary-based squadrons.
However, my primary focus was rearming the Star Destroyers currently on active combat duty.
Since Imperial equipment repairs typically involve replacing damaged or nonfunctional components with new ones, making them nearly indistinguishable from freshly manufactured units, detecting such "sleight of hand" was difficult. But a thorough cleaning of the ships' equipment and systems should be conducted first.
— Thank you, — she smiled coldly. A captivating ruthlessness slipped through her demeanor, carefully and ostentatiously cultivated. Such types often become favorite patients of psychologists. In severe and common cases — psychiatrists. — Now, I'd like to discuss transferring Leia Organa Solo, Borsk Fey'lya, and the generals to the Council's custody...
— Out of the question, — I declared.
— Pardon? — The woman seemed taken aback, surprised by my reaction to her absurd proposal. It appeared my willingness to honor existing fighter contracts was mistaken for a readiness to make concessions, rather than agreeing to their execution solely in my interest. This allowed me to recoup some of the funds I paid Krennel for interceptors he never delivered. Regardless, the TIE fighters needed to be relocated somewhere. The initial plan was to transfer them to sector defense fleets, especially since volunteers with basic qualifications were assigned there. But those ships still required repairs, some extensive, given their damage and the need to procure specific parts.
— These individuals and sentients are my prisoners of war, — I reminded her. — And valuable sources of information necessary for my continued campaign against the New Republic.
— But the Council needs them! — the white-haired woman pressed.
— Then I can only sympathize with the Council, — I said. — My prisoners can only depart in one direction — back to the New Republic, upon fulfillment of the terms of my ultimatum.
— You forget yourself, Grand Admiral! — Commanding tones crept into her voice. That was a mistake.
— No, Advisor, — nothing infuriates an enraged interlocutor more than a calm tone from their opponent. — I'm afraid it's you and the Imperial Ruling Council attempting, unsuccessfully, to apply double standards to me.
— What do you mean? — she frowned.
— Exactly what I said, — how they love these psychological ploys of re-asking what's already been heard and understood. — The Imperial Ruling Council has effectively accused me of breaching agreements under which I was provided multifaceted support for military operations against the New Republic. If my memory serves, — the woman smirked at this, — the terms were that you do not interfere with my war efforts, providing feasible assistance, while I, in turn, refrain from meddling in the internal politics of the Imperial Remnants, thus reducing overall tension. Or do you have a different view of the agreement?
— No, but...
— I wasn't finished, Baroness, — the hologram displayed a flicker of confusion on her face. — The prisoners are part of a military campaign you have no involvement in. They are not a political asset of the Empire acquired by you. You have no claim to them if I object to their transfer.
— And you...?
— I object, — it seems with Imperial diplomacy, one must repeat twice, if not thrice, for it to sink in. Or is this another ploy?
— But we hoped to obtain data of interest from them, — her tone was neither plaintive nor pleading. She merely stated a fact, hoping to uphold the Imperial Ruling Council's interests.
I must admit, it's a compelling stance — accepting the current realities rather than begging for favor in light of obstacles. This suggests a maturity in my interlocutor's worldview. Recalling my knowledge of this universe's characters, an inner resolve is more an exception than the rule, especially among women not engaged in operational activities. Still, we mustn't forget she remains an aristocrat.
— Your hopes are solely your intentions, — I clarified.
— Grand Admiral, — her features hardened. — The Imperial Ruling Council tasked me with speaking to these prisoners and taking all measures to obtain information.
— What kind of data do you intend to acquire? — I asked.
— That's confidential, — she replied sharply.
— In other words, you plan to take my prisoners of war, — I emphasized the last phrase to clarify their status, — interrogate them, obtain information possibly related to military operations against the New Republic, and potentially undermine my further actions?
— You must understand my position and intentions, Grand Admiral, — she adopted a firm tone, — it's not often we capture such high-ranking political figures of the enemy.
— I owe you nothing, Baroness D'Asta, — I had to remind her of a basic truth. — Your initiative to interrogate my prisoners and obtain information while concealing your goals could harm me. Thus, I'm afraid I must deny your request until you clarify your position.
She looked at me with a mix of mockery and challenge.
More verbal sparring, it seems.
— Grand Admiral, — she stressed my rank, — are you suggesting I disclose our objectives over a holocall?
— Baroness, — I replied calmly, — I need to know what you intend to ask my prisoners. How you convey that information to me is of no interest.
She seemed momentarily stunned.
— Are you proposing I come to you to deliver the information in person? — Her holographic eyes widened as if she'd witnessed the Big Bang itself.
Only months of maintaining the persona of an unflappable Grand Admiral allowed me to keep a neutral expression. Her counter-response was utterly unexpected and unpredictable.
After all, the most logical course, if unable to transmit information personally, would be to send a courier. Since when do Imperial Ruling Council members personally interrogate even such high-ranking prisoners? Politicians — high-ranking politicians — don't engage in such tasks.
Darth Vader interrogated Leia Organa after her capture in Tatooine's orbit a decade ago not as the Emperor's heir or successor to the Galactic Empire's throne, but as an official — the Emperor's Executor.
This is standard procedure in the Empire, including within the Imperial Remnants.
Thus, it's highly unlikely the Baroness intends to interrogate anyone herself. She undoubtedly has more pressing matters. Therefore, she could send a delegate or another representative to convey the interrogation's purpose and conduct it.
Something is afoot.
Her initiative is a leading question.
As if she sought a meeting with me but needed a pretext, where the suggestion for such a rendezvous would come from me, not her.
And so, peculiar political games begin, into which they aim to draw me.
Refuse? Without knowing what's happening or the meeting's purpose?
It's possible this is a prelude to something that could benefit me.
Quite intriguing, as I recall that during the Emperor's rebirth, Imperial Ruling Council members orchestrated a conspiracy against him. Could this be an attempt to pull me into a similar scheme?
Agree? Again, it may not relate to what I know.
Not every conversation is a conspiracy.
It could be a purely operational matter, and I'm overthinking due to the swirling intrigues.
— Yes, that would be the most convenient option, — I said, yielding the conversational initiative. Her reaction would reveal her true intentions. One doesn't need to master physiognomy to understand what drives a person. Simply observing their facial expressions during dialogue, noting reactions to favorable or unfavorable responses, suffices.
That's enough.
— Very well, — her features relaxed, as if relieved by my response. So, a positive answer to her leading question suited her and was the preferred outcome. The conclusion is simple — she wants a personal meeting. Now, this is far more interesting. But again, it may not align with my assumptions. For instance, she and those behind her might be trying to pinpoint where and when I'll likely be. The tried-and-true tactic I often employ, "Ordinary Ambush, Extraordinary Consequences," could easily be turned against me. — I'll arrive on Ciutric IV in five days. Time is pressing; I want to resolve this matter quickly and return to my duties.
Valuable information. Noted.
— I'll be expecting you, — and I'll prepare a fitting surprise. — I strongly recommend choosing something smaller than a Star Destroyer for your journey.
— Travel through contested and border territories near the Republic enclave in the Oplovis sector without adequate protection? — Her eyebrows shot up. — I hope you're joking, Grand Admiral.
— I'm not in the habit, — I admitted. — In that case, I hope your ship's commander transmits identification codes before being fired upon by defense forces. Or, more likely, destroyed.
The Baroness blinked, genuinely shocked by my words.
— Thrawn... Are you serious? — she managed.
— As always, — I said. — The Dominion does not welcome the presence of military ships, regardless of affiliation, except those of the Dominion itself. If these security measures don't suit you... Well, you needn't come.
Whatever the motive for this meeting, it's time to establish the terms of engagement. If you need something from me, you play by my rules.
Otherwise, we won't reach a consensus.
— I'll inform you of my decision later, — she said, clearly unwilling to continue.
— As you wish, Baroness, — I offered a polite bow as a gesture of courtesy.
The younger D'Asta, without a reply, deactivated her holoprojector.
After a few seconds of silence in my quarters, I activated my comlink.
— Captain Pellaeon.
— On the bridge, Grand Admiral, — responded the commander of my flagship Star Destroyer.
— Contact the navigation section, — I ordered. — In one hour, I need calculations for all possible routes from Orinda to Ciutric IV, including time estimates for each.
Gilad hesitated briefly.
— It will be done, Commander, — he replied affirmatively. — Any further orders?
— Not at this time, Captain, — I said. — Continue preparing the fleet for the campaign.
— Yes, Grand Admiral, sir, — Pellaeon confirmed, deactivating the comlink.
Glancing at data from Delta Source, I smiled. Ketaaris, you say? Excellent, that will make a fine demonstration for the New Territories' inhabitants.
Checking the chronometer, I deemed it an appropriate time to visit certain sentients held in the brig aboard the Chimaera. Their "marination" period was complete, and I was confident they'd agree to a conversation.
Because it would be an offer they couldn't refuse.
***
Perhaps I should be grateful to Grand Admiral Thrawn for recognizing the importance of separating the Imperial Security Bureau's operations from Imperial Intelligence, as was done in other Imperial Remnants.
But should we continue to consider the Dominion and its loyal territories part of the Empire? Even as a Remnant?
Or is the Dominion something new, absorbing the best of Imperial militarism but becoming something greater? The state the Empire should have been? Peace, order, law — for all, without distinctions of class, wealth, or origin?
It's too early to say — states are born from ideology but rot from within due to the flawed interpretations of those enacting it.
For now, the question of the Dominion's state structure and development path wasn't pressing.
But organizing the DSB — the Dominion Security Bureau, responsible for a vast array of tasks — that was my responsibility. I wanted to work in an operational unit, not become a director. I'd told Thrawn as much. The Supreme Commander listened silently and promised to resolve the personnel issue soon.
Until then, I had to work in the field and handle organizational paperwork.
"All I did was approach Thrawn to help preserve the ISB as an independent authority," thought the Lieutenant Colonel, facing Captain Nym.
It was time to wrap up with this sentient and with Aurra Sing.
— So, — Astarion opened the pirate's interrogation file, who sat on a metal chair, hands cuffed behind him to the wall. Since his capture, he'd revealed much — enough for several executions and a dozen life sentences on Kessel. Most amusingly, Thrawn's suspicion about the source of Nym's wealth proved correct. — Where did we leave off last time?
— I told you how, on Grand Moff Tarkin's tip, I attacked treasury caravans carrying aurodium as payment for my services, supplying materials, specialists, and leads on planets where slaves could be easily taken for his projects, — Nym's voice lacked any trace of emotion; he was utterly broken. This sentient had endured standard interrogations, an interrogator droid, mental breakdowns, solitary confinement... He had no will left, especially not to resist. — Before that, I detailed every instance of my piratical activities.
— Yes, — Astarion confirmed. — Over four hundred victims, killed either by you personally or on your orders. You're not fond of leaving witnesses to your crimes.
— No one wants to get caught, — the pirate explained.
— Very well, — the Lieutenant Colonel sighed. — Now, the last matter. Aurra Sing. Why kill her and her family?
— She worked for me, — Nym explained. — We had a romance. She got pregnant. I wanted her to terminate it, as I needed her as a sniper and bounty hunter, not a mother. We fought. She fled.
— After shooting off your ability to continue your line, — Astarion continued. A curious tale of high emotions among criminals and outcasts. But nothing unusual. Years of practice exposed one to worse.
Nym nodded in confirmation.
— Go on, — Astarion ordered.
— I hunted her out of revenge for the insult, — he continued. — The damage was... irreparable. No chance of recovery. Over time, I reconsidered my reasons for pursuing her. I wanted to find the child and raise them as my successor. I tracked her down after a long time, almost by chance. It took years. I demanded answers. She refused to talk. I killed her husband — only then did she say she'd terminated the pregnancy. In retaliation, I beat her so severely it caused a miscarriage of her current pregnancy. I thought she'd died and told my men as much. But one of them informed me she hadn't. I took her to a prison station and left her to rot. She tried escaping several times but was always caught. Then you arrived, and I realized...
— Tiberos is your son, — Astarion stated. Nym nodded silently.
Oh, the fascinating twists of others' personal lives. It was clear almost immediately after capturing Aurra Sing on Lok, when the Grand Admiral ordered a comparative genetic analysis to establish kinship. The result surprised many, but not Thrawn.
I wonder if the Captain knew that, had we not seized prison station 1138 in the Karthakk system, Sing would have escaped her cell with a new plan that would have worked? The station would have gone up in a fiery explosion, along with all of Nym's wealth.
Since he's not saying, he doesn't know. No need to tell him. Unnecessary information.
It took several hours to complete Nym's interrogations, clarifying details about his professional criminal activities and other aspects of his piracy and gang operations.
Once all questions were asked and answers received, the Lieutenant Colonel ordered the prisoner returned to his cell.
After preparing the necessary documents and explanatory notes, he compiled the file, transferred it to an encrypted data chip, and handed it to one of the Imperial Guards assigned to his protection at Thrawn's insistence.
— Deliver this to the Grand Admiral, — he ordered. — Personally.
The Imperial Guard took the chip, which vanished into his attire, then left his partner to continue protecting the Lieutenant Colonel. Not because he was such a valuable counterintelligence asset.
It was far more mundane — as long as he served as DSB director, he'd be guarded to the highest standard.
Afterward... freedom from all this high-level bureaucracy.
Contacting the stormtrooper company commander responsible for the Ciutric IV detention facility, where all high-ranking or particularly valuable prisoners in Thrawn's eyes were held, he ordered Aurra Sing brought in.
Every story must be confirmed or refuted with concrete facts.
***
Settling into a chair opposite a small metal niche separated by an energy screen, I studied the young (by the standards of the galaxy far, far away) woman with interest. Clad in a prison uniform, she silently drew on a wall with a simple marker.
Her other "artworks," adorning the walls, floor, bed, and sparse furnishings of the cell, were intriguing. Unprofessional but with a strong claim to quality amateur work.
— A compelling method of expressing inner turmoil through art, — I praised, activating the audio panel so she could hear and respond, while disabling the wall panel's camouflage.
As if startled, she dropped the marker and shrank back, eyeing me with a frightened gaze. Did she not know one of the cell's slanted walls was a high-tech version of a Gesell mirror — a mirror on one side, transparisteel on the other? The same principle applied here, with a false transparisteel wall. The energy screen prevented escape if the transparisteel was damaged. Yes, they know how to build. A pity they don't always do so.
But her reaction was clearly feigned.
— Allow me to doubt the sincerity of your response, — I said. — You've been involved with Imperial technology, including Star Destroyers, long enough to know this minor technical detail.
The dark-haired woman with silvery streaks, whose still-beautiful face and figure could charm anyone, attempted a coy "shooting of the eyes" with added flirtation. In that moment, she resembled a teenager. I'm unsure why such antics and simplistic flirting, as described in "I, Jedi!", provoked an irresistible desire in some men to pursue this sentient...
— I knew it, — Leonia Tavira abruptly ceased her tactics, becoming a composed prisoner. — You're a droid.
— An interesting hypothesis, — I said. — Is there a logical basis for it?
— Why should there be? — she smirked, pacing the cell like a caged predator. — A beautiful woman doesn't need logic to explain what she feels in her heart.
Clever manipulations.
Her petite stature and taut, pale skin gave her a youthful appearance, but her confident movements made her seem older.
Truly, this woman was a bundle of contradictions. Attractive — in her own way, ambitious — without measure, and deadly — if you showed weakness near her.
— Fair enough, — I agreed, gesturing to the drawings. — Logic is alien to you. Impulsiveness, passion, a desire to submit to the stronger, yet simultaneously cunning and ruthless — these are your typical traits.
— Observing me, Grand Admiral? — she asked coyly.
— Evaluating your artwork, — I clarified.
She stood silently for a moment, studying her "masterpieces." Then she looked at me with a blank expression.
— Art, — I explained. — It reveals much about an ally. Or, more often, an adversary.
Tavira instantly shifted from "playful kitten" to feral beast.
— You've kept me in a cell for months just to admire my drawings?
"No, I don't discard valuable assets, and predicting your behavior was challenging," I thought in response.
— Thank you for your cooperation, — I said. — My people have studied your images, whether in the Chimaera's cell, on Tangrene, or the prison ship that brought you here. I now have a complete understanding of you as a person. A fine occasion to talk, given the circumstances.
— So that's why they tossed this in my cell, — she glared at the marker with indignation. In truth, it was her fifteenth writing tool, exhausted over time. But it was worth it. — You wanted me to draw?
— The valuables you've plundered are inconsistent, with too few you genuinely like, — I explained. — Studying you through such indirect preferences would be an inefficient use of my time.
— Well-l-l, — she resumed flirting. She'd benefit from a psychiatrist — her mood and behavior shift too frequently. — You could've just arranged a romantic dinner, gifted me some jewelry, poured decent wine — and I'd have told you everything about myself. And maybe even shown you...
And this woman once served as an Imperial Moff. Granted, she killed the Moff's wife, took her place, and then the Moff himself joined his ancestors.
How did she manage to be so reckless yet tactically astute in selecting targets and organizing attacks? No doubt she had Jenssarai support, but no Force could compensate for tactical ineptitude.
Still, I'd calculated her behavior. Now, I needed to test it in practice — through personal conversation. As with Baroness D'Asta, I'd ask the right questions and catch the necessary reactions.
— Thank you for the offer, — I said politely. — I'll pass.
Her expression changed again.
Now, it was marked by frustration.
— Seriously, are you a sentient or a droid? — When her feminine charms failed, no matter how exaggerated, it threw her off, making her vulnerable. Such a fragile nature — she craved submission to a confident person (or alien) who'd make her feel weak, dependent. As they say, "not loved enough as a child." So, she sought someone to "love her" as an adult. — Don't I attract you at all?
— You're a charming woman, I won't deny that, — now, a cautious game was needed. The performance was just beginning. — But the purpose of our meeting is entirely different.
— Oh, no-o-o, — she said with a predatory smile. — You won't brush me off that easily, Grand Admiral. If you didn't need something from me, this meeting wouldn't be happening. And you certainly wouldn't have studied me. So, you're interested in working with me.
— Suppose so, — the best way to control her was to let her think she could win, allow her to sense a chink in the armor, then break her ego and impulses, redirecting her perception of me from "object of desire" to "sentient who gives orders I eagerly obey, and it's my choice." Yes, convoluted, but that's how reprogramming works.
— Then I have a condition, — she licked her full lips eagerly. — You're mine.
— Doubtful, — now, she needed to see this as a minor "retreat." — I see no logic connecting work and attraction.
— Oh-h-h, — her eyes gleamed with blatant vulgarity. How could this be attractive when it only inspired disgust? No self-respect, no dignity. Just ringing vulgarity... Who was this even meant for? — You can't imagine how pleasurable and productive it could be. Possessing a beautiful woman, unattainable to others — it's prestige among subordinates, a way to bond with them by showing your humanity. It helps them see you can err, and there's no shame in it. A woman beside a man is like fancy packaging for an ordinary product. Eye-catching, alluring, drawing attention... Everyone wants her, but can't have her. Isn't that proof of absolute, unattainable power?
No, of course not. It's more akin to Helen of Troy's tale.
This woman evokes nothing but pity.
She devalues herself in the eyes of strong men, seeking an easy, hormone-driven path to their affections. Like over-fermented wine left in a cellar for years — you know it's valuable because of the attractive label. But one sip reveals the taste of vinegar and poison.
Don't the most beautiful blooms belong to carnivorous plants?
— An intriguing perspective, — I said, pausing briefly to send an encoded message via comlink. — But I'm afraid such improvisation won't work with me.
Leonia Tavira.
She reverted to an aggressive predator.
— Is that so?! — she hissed, her eyes practically flashing. — You think I'm not impressive enough for you?! That I don't belong beside a renowned commander like the last Grand Admiral?!
The only thing about her that truly intrigued me was the violet hue of her eyes, a shade I'd never seen among humans in this galaxy. Ironic that they belonged to someone who walked over others.
It didn't take long to supplement the Imperial archives' data on her with what I knew, especially from the reference material accompanying "I, Jedi!".
Tavira knew she was considered attractive and often used her appearance to manipulate men for power and wealth. At sixteen, she began an affair with Moff Taril Tavira. She was content with the marriage that followed the death of the Moff's first wife, a loveless union that brought her wealth and rescued her from youthful poverty. Later, she manipulated a false prince leading conspirators, promising him her love, using his revolutionary forces to steal much of Eiattu's wealth. Tavira was long suspected of responsibility for her husband's and his first wife's deaths — and considered marrying the "prince" conspirator, planning to kill him to rule as his widow. Too similar to Moff Tavira's fate to be coincidence. After fleeing to Susevfi, where she established a pirate haven and subjugated the Jenssarai, Tavira tried seducing the local Imperial Moff and killed him when he rejected her.
According to "I, Jedi!", Tavira's appetite for male company was well-known among her gang, and becoming her "consort" was one of the few ways to join the Invidious' crew. When Corran Horn infiltrated the Invids, Tavira was attracted to him. Instead, she named another pirate her next "consort," expecting Horn to prove his worth. After Horn defeated the "consort" in combat, Tavira executed the chosen for disobedience, believing Horn had outmaneuvered her manipulations by eliminating his rival. Tavira committed utterly mad acts to gain the attention and approval of the one man she desired by her side.
Reading "I, Jedi!", I felt second-hand embarrassment repeatedly. The book is saturated with a maniacal pursuit with intimate undertones, alien to the spirit of Star Wars.
But those are old matters. Or future events that will never occur.
Because for this woman, like any precious gem, a fitting cut has been found.
By allowing her to draw in her cell out of boredom, I studied her, confirming and reinforcing what was known. Despite her instability, Tavira was intelligent, but also ambitious, opportunistic, and deceitful. She never plotted against her first husband but swiftly capitalized on his death to seize Eiattu. As a Moff, when Imperial authority waned, she manipulated both sides of the planet's civil war to maintain control.
What few know: Tavira delivered Sate Pestage to the Hegemony, then betrayed him by revealing his location to Ysanne Isard. The reason? Greed. Pestage's payment for her transport services didn't satisfy her. So, she demanded millions from Isard, who offered a mocking hundred thousand credits.
This woman loathes being betrayed or deceived. She eliminates such individuals without hesitation.
Yet, she has notable positive qualities.
She adeptly commanded her pirate fleet. According to numerous interrogations of the Invidious' crew, she skillfully identified talents among her subordinates, promoting them based on skills and initiative, long before subjugating the Jenssarai.
She built an effective security system for her group, ensuring the New Republic couldn't trace her. The system was simple yet brilliant: all contacts with gangs were initiated without revealing her location. Only she communicated with them, preventing betrayal even if they tried.
A well-structured distribution of pirate profits ensured their loyalty and eagerness to participate. Despite her evident instability, she chose tactically sound targets for strikes, almost always escaping with substantial gains.
Her achievements also include maintaining the illusion in the Imperial Center that her husband-Moff was alive while she ruled Eiattu. In fact, they were highly satisfied with "his" work, indicating her considerable administrative and managerial acumen, despite her volatile nature.
— No, Leonia, — I refuted her words. — You clearly don't belong by my side.
— Is that so, — her lips curled into a snarl. — Arrogance... Well, well... I'll be here, Grand Admiral, when your subordinates crave a more human presence on the destroyer's bridge, someone with simple human flaws, rather than an emotionless droid who only knows war.
Sighing, I permitted myself a smile.
— I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Leonia Tavira, — I said, seeing confirmation. The former pirate leader stared into my eyes, too engrossed in the conversation to notice the soft hiss of the door opening behind her. A lone figure, accompanied by two guards, approached the unsuspecting pirate queen with a stealthy, feline gait. — I don't need a dangerous, uncontrollable weapon that might shoot me in the back. Even if it's clad in an appealing physical form. You see, in the way you're interested in me, I'm indifferent to you. I'd prefer a woman who embodies the qualities of a trusted ally, a comrade, or none at all, rather than waste time wallowing in filth.
— But you're spending time on me? — she challenged. — What's all this rhetoric for?
— Simple, — the voice Leonia Tavira heard was like winter's winds breathing down her neck. With a squeal, the violet-eyed woman leapt aside, cowering in the corner opposite the cell's entrance. — These words aren't for you. They're for me.
Tavira's face displayed a terror beyond description, as if she'd seen her own death in human form. Yet, no one intended to kill her.
Though, after this procedure, she'd likely never be the same.
— I-I-Isard?! — Tavira whimpered. — Y-Y-You're dead!
The woman with heterochromia smiled, like a nurturing predator inquiring if its prey, soon to be crushed in its jaws, was in pain.
— Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated, — she said, absently touching the remnants of a scar on her temple that surgical droids couldn't fully erase. — Now, Leonia, we'll talk. And I'll show you exactly why you'll serve Grand Admiral Thrawn with utmost loyalty.
— I w-will! — Leonia nodded frantically. — I will! Get her away! I'll do anything!
— I don't believe you, — Isard struck her across the face with a backhand, sending her shoulder-length hair flying. — For me to believe you, we need to break you first. And rebuild you. So you're more loyal than these fellows, — the Iceheart gestured behind her, where two Imperial Guards stood. — Don't worry. Your personality will remain intact. But the urge to betray your master will vanish completely.
Leonia Tavira descended into hysterics as stormtroopers brought in numerous tools and equipment Isard required for the procedure.
— This won't take long, Grand Admiral, — Isard said, looking at me while donning a polymer apron, typically used by butchers to avoid bloodstains.
— No rush, — I replied, settling in comfortably. — I've always wanted to observe your work in person.
— The feeling's mutual, Grand Admiral, — she said unexpectedly.
— Do your job, then we'll talk thoroughly, — I said firmly, knowing that with the Iceheart, showing any weakness was a death sentence.
— Gladly, — Isard smirked, turning to Tavira, who stared in horror at the monstrous saws in the Iceheart's hands. — Ready, Leonia? Let's start earning those loyalty points.
As the surgical tools' electric drives whirred, filling the cell with the screech of saws, the pirate queen fainted.
— She lasted two seconds longer than I expected, — Isard said, deactivating the equipment and placing it on the cart, shedding the protective apron. — She'll regain consciousness in an hour, and we'll repeat the process. But instead of the Grand Admiral, a guard will be present. Then a Noghri. And so on, until she develops a conditioned reflex of fear and obedience to specific Dominion authority symbols. Grand Admiral, if you have a few minutes, I'd appreciate a private conversation.
Erm...
Was I the only one who thought the Iceheart was going to carve Tavira into pieces?!
Strange are your ways, Ysanne Isard.