Ten years, the first month, and the thirty-fifth day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, the first month, and the thirty-fifth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Eight months and twenty days since the moment of arrival.)
The shuttle was waiting for him on the flight deck of the main hangar.
Sergius took one last look around, scanning for any signals that might indicate potential trouble.
Finding nothing, he approached the boarding ramp, near which two thugs were already lounging.
The carelessly slung weapons on their bodies and the baggy uniforms made it clear these fighters were definitely not top-tier.
Just disposable material, the kind sent on missions more for presence than anything else.
In real action, guys like these weren't much use: good only for catching a few blaster bolts with their chests, nothing more.
"What took you so long, flyboy?" one of the thugs growled without real malice, sizing him up with a contemptuous glare.
"Taking a shower," the agent smirked. "You could use one yourself."
The guard muttered something in reply.
"Quit chewing snot," Sergius snapped loudly, drawing the attention of the deck crew as he fixed the thug with a withering stare. "If you've got something to say, say it so I can hear. Can't say it to my face? Then shut up before I decide to kick your verbal vomit back down your throat. Got it?"
The thugs nodded, but their venomous glares didn't go unnoticed by those around them.
Well, as expected—conflict established, witnesses present.
So no matter what happened next, he at least had minimal proof of his companions' "hostility"—companions forced on him by Bossk.
"Yeah," the thug exhaled, reeking of booze. "Got it. Cool it."
"You'll give orders to the med-droid when it's shoving a feeding tube up your ass," Sergius said.
"And what's that for?" the "clueless" bandit blinked, looking around.
The surrounding techs were already snickering at the loser who'd tried to put the cocky pilot in his place—a pilot rumors had already spread about across the ship—but clearly overestimated himself.
"Because I'll break your jaw if you, you clumsy, useless sack of biomass, try to tell me anything," Sergius declared. "Neither you nor your buddy here mean a damn thing to me. The assignment Bossk gave me always takes priority. Even over your lives. Got it?"
"Yeah, boss," the thug muttered dejectedly.
"And you?" Sergius turned to the partner.
The man silently nodded.
"Good boys. Go fetch yourselves some lollipops from the shelf," mocking those you've "crushed" with authority was a display of dominance in the criminal world.
A marker of power and the right to command others.
If one word from you makes someone "crawl under the bunk"—back down and abandon their original stance—you're a heavier, more authoritative figure in the underworld than those you've overpowered.
Both thugs, catching the subtext and double meaning, started huffing like ancient steam engines.
"Nozzles shut and march behind me," Sergius openly flaunted his ability to humiliate and dominate his temporary subordinates with impunity—part of the plan.
The thugs followed without question.
As Sergius had predicted, the "push" from the more dominant of the pair hadn't gone according to script.
And the brains to turn the situation to his advantage were clearly lacking.
In verbal sparring, reaction speed matters more than the meaning you put into your words.
Whoever fails to respond in time gets buried under the rubble of the internal criminal hierarchy.
But there was another side to it.
That was exactly what Sergius intended to exploit in the current situation to at least somehow complete the task set by command.
"Prisoner on board?" Sergius asked the thugs once they were on the shuttle's passenger deck and the ramp had sealed them off from the Star Destroyer's hangar.
"Yeah," the second thug—apparently mute, good only for nodding—replied.
Fine. He'd be called "Quiet."
The first one, the one Sergius had just put in his place, got the nickname "Mouthy."
He could talk.
The passenger compartment was predictably silent.
Sergius fell in behind the thugs as they moved through the shuttle's cabin, loosening his hands in preparation for the climax.
The goons stopped on either side of the opening leading to the ship's forward section.
"Keep an eye on things," Sergius warned as he headed for the cockpit.
This was a passenger-modified Lambda, built for transporting sentients.
Far too luxurious for a band of thugs and one prisoner flying to the neighboring sector.
And definitely not standard issue for an Imperial Star Destroyer's complement.
Zleche Ounaar sat with his back to the entrance.
The shackled man was strapped to the passenger seat like he'd been welded there.
That solved the problem for the next several dozen minutes.
Sergius passed the prisoner, catching out of the corner of his eye that the man tried to lift his head, and turned his own so only the back of it was visible.
At the same time, the gesture allowed him to "not see" the prisoner and ask the questions he'd worked out in the shower in the cabin they'd given him for rest.
The very cabin where he'd hidden a portable hyperspace beacon in the ventilation shaft—disguised as a shampoo bottle from his travel bag.
It would activate under specific conditions.
And Sergius's job was to make sure those conditions were met.
Dropping into the pilot's seat, he glanced at the control panel.
Standard, familiar, instantly recognizable.
No signs of repair or tampering.
Good.
Either no one had messed with the ship, or they'd done it so subtly only a professional would notice.
"Well, are we flying or what?"
"Mouthy" plopped into the adjacent seat.
Guards don't act like that.
So these two were also "watching" him.
Well, expecting full trust from Bossk would've been foolish.
Though now, these were hardly the problems worth fearing.
A shower's good not just for relaxing and washing off grime, but because nothing distracts you from thinking through a situation and finding a way out even when you can't see one.
Of course he'd taken a risk leaving his own personal beacon on the destroyer—the kind every Bravo-class agent carries.
It activates only in case of mission failure to signal command that extraction is required.
In practice, Imperial agents never used them, knowing it was pointless—you're just telling the coordinator you've failed and can be written off.
You could count on the fingers of one humanoid hand the times Imperial Intelligence had "gone in" to rescue active agents in trouble.
Most were killed long before help arrived.
"Hey, Serg, are we flying or what?" "Mouthy" repeated.
"I already told you not to open that filthy mouth without my permission," Sergius growled. "Be glad I let you sit here and enjoy the view."
All the same, he launched the Lambda's systems with deliberate slowness—the kind of hesitation people show when dealing with unfamiliar or half-forgotten things.
Nearly clipping the bay doors with the shuttle's wings, he eased the craft outside, confirming that unlike the Imperials, Bossk's gang didn't use tractor beams for launches and recoveries.
Perfect.
Further proof he wasn't "all that good."
A known issue with Imperial agents—they unconsciously displayed muscle memory.
On tests like "disassemble and reassemble an E-11 while piloting a TIE fighter" or similar, the slip-ups happened.
There were purely Imperial training methods involving thorough technical understanding of your gear and weapons—methods no one outside professional operators could replicate.
On the E-11 blaster rifle, that "feature" was the one-handed hold at just the right angle so the ejected gas cartridge and power cell didn't fly off.
You couldn't figure that out on your own—only if BlasTech Industries gave you the tip.
And "mere mortals" naturally weren't told.
The Lambda slid forward as Sergius engaged the hyperdrive, having already entered coordinates for the planet Corkrus in the Quimin sector.
Anyone watching their jump would confirm it was the correct course.
Sergius leaned back in the stiff seat and tossed his hands behind his head.
"All right, we'll be there soon," he announced.
"Not 'soon'—couple of days," "Mouthy" predictably replied.
"Then go check that the carbonite slab is working properly," Sergius ordered lazily.
"What slab, Serg?" the bandit gaped.
"The one our prisoner's in, idiot," the Dominion agent said disdainfully.
"He's just strapped to the chair back there," "Mouthy" jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Who's gonna freeze him? It's a short…"
"What did you say?" Now it was Bravo-Eleven's turn for some acting.
The pilot fixed the thug with a look of utter astonishment.
"You're telling me we're flying through two unstable sectors with a prisoner who knows he's being taken to his death—and he's not in carbonite?" Sergius pressed, pinning the man with his stare.
"Well, uh," "Mouthy's" eyes darted. "We're right here…"
"You two are just two sacks of organic fertilizer needed for ballast," Sergius defined his companions' life purpose. "Move it—show me where he is and what he's doing. I'm not even thinking about the chance the prisoner breaks loose and kills us all. Now!"
"Mouthy" leapt from his seat and headed for the cockpit exit.
Zleche Ounaar, face that of a man condemned to death, stared straight ahead.
"Mouthy's" appearance snapped him out of his stupor, and he looked at the approaching men.
He recognized "Mouthy" instantly, and it evoked nothing but disgust—whereas Sergius's disguise took a moment longer to register.
"There, Serg, everything's fine," "Mouthy" grunted, stepping forward and stopping beside Zleche Ounaar's seat.
He turned to face his "boss" square on.
"Got it," Sergius locked eyes with Captain Zleche Ounaar. "Well, Imperial, time to pay old debts, huh?"
The former commander of the Crusader frowned, but the voice clearly sounded familiar.
"Haven't we met before?" As always—Zleche Ounaar could think tactically, but not holistically.
Sergius struck first.
Bracing his right hand on the back of "Quiet's" seat, he drove both feet into "Mouthy's" face, hurling him down the corridor between the rows of passenger seats.
Simultaneously, his left fist slammed into "Quiet's" throat, forcing the man to clutch the damaged area in a desperate attempt to restore airflow.
An instinctive reaction that wouldn't change the weather.
Sergius had no intention of disabling this goon—he was useless by nature.
"Mouthy" was clearly the more informative of the pair in command's plans—hence the provocative behavior.
Or he was just a typical loudmouth rancor.
So "Quiet" was expendable.
He was already done for—the force of Sergius's strike was characteristic of teräs käsi technique.
Such throat trauma was often compound, complicated by fractures of the laryngeal cartilages, torn vocal cords and tendons, and massive internal bleeding.
But the opponent could still act for a short time—until the brain began to starve for oxygen.
So with one precise motion Sergius snapped "Quiet's" neck and lunged at "Mouthy."
The man had barely staggered to his feet when he took a kick to the side of the knee, shattering any evolutionary plans for the functioning of his right leg.
The thug howled in pain, never managing to draw his blaster—Sergius shattered his wrist.
Then a blow to the back of the skull knocked him out cold.
"Hey!" Zleche Ounaar shouted, trying to look behind him. "What the hell's going on back there?! Agent! Answer me! I'm an Imperial officer!"
Sergius silently searched and disarmed his prisoner, paying special attention to the mouth.
No false teeth with poison capsules.
Just a regular grunt.
Silently unfastening Zleche Ounaar—who kept demanding answers—but leaving his hands bound, Sergius immobilized the prisoner further by gagging him so tightly he couldn't close his jaw to bite off anything and bleed out internally.
For insurance, he dragged the unconscious body to a row of seats and secured it face-down with safety belts so the head couldn't turn or strike anything.
That way, even if the prisoner managed to bite through something vital, the blood would drain downward.
"I know you!" Zleche Ounaar blurted when Sergius appeared in front of him, shoved "Quiet's" body off the seat, and sat opposite the Imperial. "You're an Imperial agent! I don't remember where we crossed paths, but you'll help me! They sent you to free me?"
"Eyttyrmin Batiiv, nine years ago," Sergius reminded him. "I spent several months embedded with that gang and fed two Imperial Star Destroyers their main base coordinates."
"Right!" Zleche Ounaar's eyes lit up.
Judging by his relaxed posture, he was starting to calm down.
He'd drawn the wrong conclusions.
"Free me, agent," he demanded. "I don't know why the pirates need me, but…"
"The Eyttyrmin Batiiv weren't completely destroyed," Sergius continued. "My mission is to deliver you to them."
The former Imperial's eyes widened.
He didn't panic, didn't cower, didn't beg.
The shock had passed; now he was processing the situation.
"So you're a turncoat," he spat with contempt. "Teamed up with criminal scum the moment things stopped going smoothly for the Empire! You're a disgrace to the Empire!"
Sergius didn't bother responding.
He simply slapped him—hard enough that a tooth flew from Zleche Ounaar's mouth.
"I work for the Dominion," he stated flatly. "And I do my job."
"Thrawn's Remnant?" the former Imperial clarified with a slight whistle. "What does Pellaeon care about local squabbles?"
"The gang I'm embedded with intends to hand you over for execution to the remnants of the Eyttyrmin Batiiv," Sergius shared. "They're recruiting a mercenary army, and they have a fully operational Imperial-I Star Destroyer at their disposal."
The Imperial, despite years away from drill and discipline, hadn't lost all his talents.
"What exactly do you need my help with?" he asked, probing the split lip and the gap where the tooth had been with his tongue.
Good question.
If only he himself understood the depth of the black hole he was ready to jump into.
Bravo-class agents had the authority to make independent mission decisions.
But here everything was so tangled…
And there were no guarantees any of it would work.
"You're being offered a unique opportunity," Sergius continued in a mentor's tone. "I can give you a chance to live. In exchange for your loyalty, Captain Ounaar."
"Loyalty to what?" the Imperial tensed.
"To the Dominion," Bravo-Eleven declared.
"I already swore an oath to the Empire," the man sneered.
"And you abandoned service, preferring to satisfy your own needs over duty," Sergius reasonably pointed out.
"Don't lecture me, agent," Zleche Ounaar snapped. "They wrote me off and tossed me out like spent material because I couldn't destroy that pirate group you just mentioned."
"You were transferred to a staff position," Sergius reminded him. "A promotion."
"Inspector of fleet arsenals?" the Imperial laughed bitterly. "A polite way of saying 'stay out of the way.' So spare me the lectures about duty to the Empire. You're not serving Orinda either. We're alike in that, agent."
"More than you think," Sergius inwardly acknowledged the irony.
He'd been used and discarded by the Ubiqtorate when no longer needed.
Zleche Ounaar had suffered roughly the same fate—at the hands of fleet bureaucrats.
That kind of treatment makes you reconsider your patriotic devotion to the oath.
If the state abandons you the moment you're no longer useful, why should you keep banging your head against walls to get back in the game for the state's new interests?
"Inspector of arsenals," Sergius narrowed his eyes, catching something. "Now I see where you got the money to live carefree on the Galactic Chance. Selling off second-tier arsenal stocks?"
"Everyone survives how they can, agent," the Imperial cut off. "Enough with the moralizing and hypocritical speeches."
"I'm assessing your usefulness, Captain," Sergius explained. "During the operation against the Eyttyrmin Batiiv you acted brilliantly and competently—half the success in destroying their fleet was yours. The Empire may not suit you anymore, but the Dominion is something else. The best of the Empire, carried into the future…"
"Here's what I'll tell you, agent," the former Star Destroyer commander leaned forward. "I've heard that pitch from dozens of warlord Remnants. In practice—the difference is minimal. I've no desire to fight again for people who'll reward me with a kick in the ass. And your Dominion clearly has an interest in experienced Star Destroyer commanders with combat records. Don't think I didn't hear on the Galactic Chance about Grand Admiral Thrawn's return, the chaos he caused in the galaxy, splitting the New Republic and effectively wiping out two of their four military fleets, leading to the secession of several hundred sectors and systems. A pity about him—death at a Jedi's hands is quite the adventure, an unworthy end to a brilliant career. But I've no desire to hire on with you and become an enemy to both the Empire and the New Republic. If the 'Butcher of Atoan' were running the Dominion, I might consider it. Might even recall a few old depots still holding anti-capital missiles for Victories and proton torpedoes for Acclamators. But Pellaeon… That man disgraced us at Endor. He's a lousy tactician. Retreating, knowing when a battle's lost and saving the men—yes, that's what your new leader does best."
Sergius remained silent, offering no comment.
He toyed with the cylinder of his comlink—old-looking only on the surface.
"No need to pretend you've taken a vow of silence, agent," the Imperial smirked. "You didn't kill those two for nothing. If your undercover mission is to deliver me for execution, the Eyttyrmin Batiiv will recognize you just as I did. Just as I recognized you. I doubt they've forgotten the man who cut their command staff's throats with his bare hands and called in the Bombardier to rain fire from the heavens with missiles the size of airspeeders. They've already got an execution squad ready for me. But you? They might not know anything yet. Until you show your face. And you will—otherwise you wouldn't be here. So spare me the brave face at a bad game, agent. I've seen the 'I save your life, you serve my government' play dozens of times."
Sergius kept silent.
So did Zleche Ounaar.
He'd fully recovered from the shock of capture, the agent's appearance, and the accompanying deaths.
Now he was waiting for a better offer.
The comlink beeped; a chain of green lights raced along its side.
"What's that?" the former Imperial officer eyed the device in the agent's hand suspiciously.
"No active surveillance on the ship," Sergius explained, casually tearing the ornate buckle from his belt.
Under Captain Zleche Ounaar's wary gaze, he pried off the back plate, exposing thin wires.
With practiced motions he connected them to the comlink.
Checked the assembly.
Then activated the emergency channel—fully aware this conversation could cost him not just his career, but his life.
As the connection established, he finalized the framework of the plan he wanted to propose…
"Grand Admiral Thrawn, sir," he said as the hologram appeared before him. "Bravo-Eleven. Emergency situation. The operation is at risk of failure."
"The emergency beacon data conflicts with the coordinates of this device, agent," so the "surprise" left aboard Retribution had worked. "What prompted you to use this method of contact?"
Sergius glanced at Zleche Ounaar, whose wide eyes slowly shifted from the agent to his "patron."
"The situation in the Tamarin sector is spiraling out of control," Sergius explained. "The criminals possess an Imperial Star Destroyer. Furthermore, I've been tasked with delivering an experienced Imperial fleet officer for execution, thereby securing the loyalty of several additional stable pirate formations. Completing this mission as ordered is impossible. The original objective is at risk."
"Interesting," Thrawn stroked his chin. "How much time do we have?"
"Six and a half standard days," Sergius replied. "After that, my assignment must be completed and the prisoner executed."
"Very well," Thrawn glanced aside, studying something beyond Sergius's field of view. "A full report will clarify the situation."
"Yes, sir," Sergius turned the projector toward his prisoner. "This is former Imperial Star Destroyer Captain Zleche Ounaar. Nine years ago he commanded the Crusader and, on my intel, together with the destroyer Bombardier nearly wiped out the pirate gang known as the Eyttyrmin Batiiv…"
***
The agent's report on the destruction of the Eyttyrmin Batiiv took half an hour.
Another half hour went to clarifying questions and accepting as fact that the reconnaissance operation targeting mercenary and pilot recruitment under the cover of Nar Shaddaa Shipping was at risk of total failure.
At the head of the group operating in the Tamarin and Rseik sectors stood the Trandoshan Bossk.
Bounty hunter, former disgraced lackey of the Zann Consortium leader.
Possibly still active.
In his possession—an Imperial-I Star Destroyer in peak combat condition.
Recruitment of infantry and pilots across two sectors.
Now spreading to a third.
And a dilemma.
If Sergius continued the mission and delivered Zleche Ounaar to the "Surviving Quimin," the latter would die.
And Sergius was personally known to the leader of the survivors, Jacob Nive—which spelled the agent's own death.
No time for a substitution.
Continuing the operation in this form meant the death of two men and exposure of Dominion involvement.
A death blow to tracking Bossk's group across three sectors.
Disruption of strategic intelligence on the link between Nar Shaddaa Shipping and Hoersch-Kessel, and the construction of Lucrehulks.
Aborting the operation now would signal the enemy that a third party knew part of their plans—leading to unpredictable actions in the region.
"Sir, if I may, I'd like to express admiration for how deftly you played everyone," Zleche Ounaar's voice cut through my thoughts as he clearly tried to backpedal from his deserter stance. "If permitted, I'd like to join the Dominion and…"
Personnel shortages were a difficult problem.
They forced risks in delegating recruitment authority to intelligence officers.
"Agent Bravo-Eleven," I addressed Sergius. "Your opinion on recruiting Captain Ounaar?"
The deserter shot a frightened glance at the man to whom, not long ago by Sergius's own account, he'd expressed his disdain for the Dominion.
Simply because he hadn't expected the agent's decision to actually matter.
"Captain Ounaar is a talented tactician and capable commander," Sergius replied calmly, without a hint of gloating or vindictiveness. "Nine years ago I would have recommended his recruitment without hesitation."
The Imperial snorted.
"Does your current assessment differ from the past?" I asked, more for formality and atmosphere than result.
If the operative didn't consider Ounaar worthy, he wouldn't have shown him to me.
But simple recruitment wasn't on the table here.
Sergius was playing a double game with the deserter, clearly wanting something unstated in the report.
"This man spent a long time in a staff position inspecting fleet arsenals," the agent continued. "Then deserted and went into hiding, selling off Imperial property. He never responded to a single Dominion recruitment offer."
"That was then!" the deserter protested. "I thought the Dominion was just like all the other Remnants, but I was wrong. Now I see the difference, and I'm ready to cooperate—especially since Grand Admiral Thrawn is in command, not Pellaeon…"
So that was it.
"Under what conditions would you recommend recruiting this individual, Agent Sergius?" I asked.
"In the Imperial Navy there existed a number of secret arsenals intended for special task forces like Darth Vader's Death Squadron," Sergius continued. "My opinion—if Captain Ounaar truly wishes to save his life and avoid the hands of the Surviving Quimin, he must disclose them all. As a gesture of good faith and genuine desire to serve the Dominion."
I looked at the deserter's hologram.
"I am inclined to agree with Agent Bravo-Eleven's proposal," the deserter's hologram shot a heavy glance at the operative. "Your loyalty to our forces must be proven by something substantial, not mere words, Captain Ounaar."
"Yes, of course," he smiled tightly. "I believe I can recall several hidden depots still holding military cargo and supplies worth millions of credits. I will gladly place them at your disposal, Grand Admiral Thrawn."
"In that case, consider the question of your loyalty to the Dominion settled," I said. "As soon as possible you will be transported to the nearest Dominion base."
"Glad to hear it, Grand Admiral," the officer brightened. "I always considered you the finest commander in the Imperial Navy."
"Thank you for the compliment, Captain Ounaar," I replied indifferently, shifting my gaze to the agent's hologram. "Your assignment remains unchanged, Bravo-Eleven. Proceed to Corkrus."
Seeing the former Crusader commander's face twist with fear and rage, I added:
"The Dominion will ensure you and your companion survive your visit to the planet. You will receive further instructions on Corkrus."
"Yes, sir. Continuing mission."
When the holograms dissolved, signaling the end of the transmission, I sat in complete silence for several minutes.
Then I made a few queries to the ship's database and leaned back in my chair, admiring holographic images of Trandoshan art bathing my apartments in golden twilight.
There weren't many such pieces in the galaxy, given the aggressive, warlike nature of the species.
They far preferred destroying to creating.
Thus the workstation displayed records including Trandoshan military campaigns and history.
Art could be not only material, but action.
But before delving into another species, a few orders were in order.
Orders concerning our new "recruit."
"Rukh," I addressed the dark corner by the cabin's airlock. "Contact the Noghri Overclan on Suarbi VII. Two death commando teams are to depart immediately for Corkrus. Their task—retrieve Captain Ounaar from Agent Bravo-Eleven and deliver him to the metropole."
"It shall be done, Grand Admiral," the darkness purred. "Specific destination?"
"Collection Point Seventeen for donors," I ordered. "This man is required for Project GeNod-Dominion."
"Executing, Grand Admiral."
From the faint breeze I knew the bodyguard had slipped out.
Of course no one intended to admit a deserter into the regular fleet or Dominion Defense Forces.
No matter how brave he'd once been, now he was a coward and traitor unworthy of respect.
Had he answered the call to join the Dominion of his own accord—that would have been the act of a man.
Even fighting against the Dominion, I would have respected him.
But he was a coward and traitor who fled with classified information and used it for personal comfort.
In that he was no better than the late Octavian Grant.
Grant had defected to the New Republic and handed over secrets that allowed the former Rebels to act against the Empire.
Captain Ounaar agreed to recruitment only because he had no choice.
Refusal meant delivery to the Surviving Quimin regardless.
He wouldn't survive—he knew and had seen too much.
Agreement gave him the false belief he was welcomed with open arms.
His speech—his desire to swear loyalty to me personally, not the Dominion—was nothing but sycophancy.
He cared nothing for his new homeland's needs—he felt entitled to judge those he disliked for purely personal reasons.
Sergius hadn't contacted me specifically for nothing—it only confirmed Ounaar's duplicity.
He would follow only a winner.
The moment the situation soured or leadership changed, he'd desert again—as he had in the Empire's darkest hour.
The question of refusing to serve an unpleasant superior was philosophical at best.
The armed forces were no kindergarten—disobey the teacher and you simply stand in the corner for not eating your porridge.
Discipline was everything.
Like it or not, orders were followed in service of state, not personal, interests.
Scanning and studying his biography would reveal whether he was truly as good a commander as claimed.
If yes, his clones would find bridge duty on many Dominion ships.
If not…
Well, at least we'd know where to look for arsenals he hadn't yet looted and sold.
But Captain Ounaar's fate was a minor side note in our campaign against the Zann Consortium.
More pressing was understanding Bossk's—and his masters'—plan.
And why Tyber Zann sent Bossk himself to the Tamarin sector instead of any other subordinate?
Why not one of the Defilers?
Did this Trandoshan possess unique knowledge or traits making him indispensable here?
From Imperial Intelligence files, Bossk was little more than a mediocre bounty hunter who made a name young.
His operations had tactical success but strategic failure.
He could win, capture the target, fight successfully—but not always complete the contract as required.
Touchy, vindictive, he'd feuded with nearly every "celebrity" in the galaxy.
Chewbacca and Han Solo, Boba Fett and Luke Skywalker…
Rumor had it he killed Hal Horn, Corran Horn's father.
The latter captured Bossk for justice, only for an Imperial agent—later close to the Iceheart—to free him shortly before Coruscant's fall.
While working for the Zann Consortium, Bossk had a traitor's reputation after stealing a holocron from Zann and selling it to the Empire.
After that, even the Ubiqtorate and ISB believed Bossk had ceased working for the Consortium and never reappeared in its operations, returning to bounty hunting.
Yet now we saw supply chains linked on one end to the Consortium—originating caravans of ore destined for Nar Shaddaa Shipping—and on the other, Bossk recruiting fighters for the same company.
And Nar Shaddaa Shipping was ordering massive numbers of Lucrehulks—by default for military transport.
Too cumbersome a structure for a single plan.
Especially one a Trandoshan could mastermind.
Thus only two possibilities.
The holocron theft and Bossk's disappearance were orchestrated by Tyber Zann to remove Bossk from "official" Consortium membership for covert ops. Possible, but implausible.
Several intermediate links were missing for the picture to be complete.
Moreover, Zann later undertook a highly dangerous raid on the Imperial Palace vault on Coruscant—unjustifiable risk.
Alternative—Bossk now acted independently, either unaware the Corporate Sector was backed by Tyber Zann, or using Zann for his own ends.
Also implausible.
Bossk simply lacked the capacity for strategic planning.
That trait was atrophied in his species.
Trandoshans were reptilian humanoids from the planet Trandosha.
Or Dosha, as some sources called it.
Biologically the species had eyes capable of infrared vision.
Also noteworthy was the ability to slowly regenerate lost limbs—up to middle age, after which age-related changes prevented it.
Anatomically they possessed a strong, heavy skeleton and powerful musculature, giving physiological advantage over most humanoids, including humans.
Like terrestrial snakes they shed skin of unusual durability.
Three-fingered limbs ended in sharp, strong claws used when needed.
Unlike some other reptilian humanoids—Barabels or Ssi-ruuk—Trandoshans lacked tails.
They were infamous across the galaxy as bounty hunters, slavers, soldiers, assassins, and other violence-related professions.
The Empire tolerated alliance with Trandoshans because it allowed the reptiles to continue their national pastime—hunting Wookiees in the same system—without sanction.
Trandoshan society, like Wookiee and Noghri, revered life-debt with particular fervor.
It was class-based, graded by religious devotion to the goddess Scorekeeper.
An unusual deity believed by Trandoshans to exist outside time and space, keeping tally of "Jagannath points" awarded for each kill.
Surprisingly, there was an explicable link between Wookiee-Trandoshan enmity.
Its roots were… religious.
"Jagannath points" were the cornerstone for all warlike Trandoshans.
The more prestigious or rare the prey, the higher its point value.
Skin condition was irrelevant—only kill difficulty mattered.
At some point Trandoshans collectively deemed Wookiees the prey yielding the most points.
Yet they knew adult, combat-ready Wookiees were deadly opponents.
Thus in recent years hunting Wookiee young and adolescents on Kashyyyk had grown popular.
Not quite cowardice.
Hunting Wookiee children stemmed from the rule that failing to kill or capture a high-value target reset a hunter's Jagannath points to zero.
In the eyes of kin, such a Trandoshan was "nullified" and had to rebuild reputation from scratch.
Exception—if the nullified hunter later killed the very target that had zeroed him, all lost points and respect were restored.
Now Bossk's maniacal pursuit of Chewbacca and Han Solo made sense.
As did one episode during the Yuuzhan Vong war.
Han Solo and Bossk met; the Trandoshan learned Chewbacca had died at Vong hands.
Since his lifelong enemy was killed by someone else, Bossk could never restore his standing.
Most of his life—wasted…
No wonder at that meeting he tried to settle scores with Solo.
And lost again.
Two-thirds of his earned Jagannath points—irrecoverable.
And now Bossk was building an entire army.
Beyond one Star Destroyer he undoubtedly had other warships.
Recruiting maximum untrained, disorganized military mass, he intended to absorb more structured, battle-hardened pirate groups.
With some assumptions, Bossk was building ships to transport this armed horde.
Pilots were recruited for fighters and Lucrehulks.
The only question—target.
Had the Zann Consortium decided to hit Kessel?
Or prepare a counteroffensive in the D'Astan sector?
Strengthen positions to avenge my strike on Smarck—no one had come to investigate the silent base?
Or something escaping my perception?
Either way, the upcoming breaking of Orun Wa and Makus Kaynif might clarify much.
But simply watching a massive criminal war machine gather strength mere sectors from the Jenasaarai and Noghri homeworld was morally untenable.
Bossk had mentioned recruiting pirate groups once allied with Tavira.
Unlikely they knew of Suarbi VII and the Jenasaarai, but risk was unacceptable.
Beyond Suarbi VII lay our rear base in the Karthakk system.
And the Zann Consortium had already tried to incite rebellion there.
Too many strike options for Bossk's force.
They could not be allowed to materialize.
I activated the holoprojector and waited for the image to form.
"Commodore Brandei," I addressed the regular fleet commander in the Karthakk system. "Status of your forces?"
"Grand Admiral, ships are in proper condition," Brandei reported. "Military acceptance is satisfied with the work quality. We are ready for the assigned task."
"Excellent," I said. "Then it is time to begin. But another front has opened for you and your men."
"We stand ready for any order, sir," Brandei assured.
Well then—time to move from test runs to tugging the rancor by sensitive spots.
I added several more subscribers.
As the holograms of regular fleet, auxiliary, and Defense Force officers appeared, I declared:
"We begin, gentlemen. Let the galaxy burn a little brighter."