Ten years, one month, and thirty-four days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, first month, and thirty-four days after the Great ReSynchronization.
(Eight months and nineteen days since arrival.)
Bossk's approval was no reason to relax and assume the job was done.
Neither was the fact that Sergius, along with several other pilots, had been entrusted with a "responsible assignment."
It was nothing more than a test.
As a specialist in countering and infiltrating criminal organizations, Sergius understood that perfectly.
He also knew that hundreds of his clones had been embedded in various gangs across the galaxy, gathering intelligence and dismantling those structures from within.
Had the Empire truly wanted to, it could have eradicated every last pirate and their rabble in the years Palpatine held the heights of power.
But it hadn't.
Why?
Not because it couldn't—most pirate gangs were just scum who didn't even know the meaning of operational security.
The Empire—or rather its local representatives—might have wanted to be rid of the annoying criminals, but it was highly impractical.
Because until the Rebel Alliance appeared, moffs and governors could call in the Imperial Navy to deal with them, and the fleet would obediently carry out any task assigned.
And while they were at it, they could line their pockets with some lucrative illegal deals—something imperial governors had become quite skilled at.
Covering for criminal activity, especially piracy, brought handsome dividends to those involved.
And little by little, it destabilized the Empire from within.
But that was all just rhetoric, with no bearing on the assignment given to Sergius and the eleven other pilots Bossk had recruited.
Probably none.
Because none of the pilots knew anything about their mission except the final coordinates.
A trust test—if fewer ships emerged from hyperspace than entered, it meant not all the recruited pilots were ready to obey command blindly.
Those who survived the mission would be admitted to the core activities of the gang Bossk controlled.
Unlike ground units, a pilot had a chance to break off combat and desert.
An infantryman who tried ignoring orders could always be easily and simply "put out of circulation."
The hyperspace tunnel shattered into fragments, and on his instrument panel Sergius counted only seven friendly blips besides his own Headhunter.
So four ships had decided to desert.
Clear enough.
They were inside an uninhabited star system somewhere in the Tamarin sector.
Exactly where they were supposed to be.
"Well, we've arrived. What now?" came the disgruntled voice of one of the pilots.
No need to comment.
Talking in a situation like this was just an attempt to show bravado or indifference amid rising panic.
Every single pilot Sergius had flown with to the target was piloting a Headhunter.
True, of various models and years.
A couple even looked, by their appearance, to have fought in the Clone Wars—if not earlier.
A short click in his helmet headphones told him a new caller had joined the common channel for the eight pilots.
Given that Bossk's people had issued the frequency, it was no surprise someone knew they were here.
"You made it," the Trandoshan hissed into the comm. "Good. Not as many of you as I'd hoped…"
"Not everyone likes being used blind," declared the same voice that had complained about the lack of prospects.
Sergius stayed silent again.
If he wanted to keep figuring out what was going on, he had to walk the line.
Know when to show his defiant temper and when to keep quiet.
Criminals, by definition, didn't know the meaning of discipline.
But crime lords loved two things (besides women and valuables): unquestioning obedience and underlings who had brains in their heads.
"That's their problem," Bossk stated flatly. "Your job—attack and disable the ship that will appear in the system soon."
"What kind of ship?"
"Is it armed?"
"What about escort?"
"How will we know it's the right starship?"
Questions poured out one after another.
Bossk was silent, which didn't fit his authoritarian nature as a pirate leader and bounty hunter.
And that was a good chance to stand out.
"Shut your traps," Sergius said in a bored but firm tone. "We were ordered to attack a ship and hold it here. So we wait, we attack, and we don't let it leave. Keep everything else to yourselves."
Judging by the satisfied hiss he heard in his headphones, the Trandoshan was extremely pleased with that reaction.
Which meant Sergius had once again caught Bossk's attention.
Good.
The more "right" things he did from the Trandoshan's point of view, the faster he'd rise from the ranks of ordinary pilots to "officer."
As everyone knew, simple grunts—even in pirate gangs—weren't trusted or let in on leadership plans.
But section leaders and commanders, big and small, knew a little more.
The higher the rank, the closer to command—the easier it became to access the enemy's secrets.
"You shut your own trap," the same restless pirate snapped at him. "Who made you commander, huh? Why are you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong? Who the hell are you anyway?"
It took Sergius less than a minute to pinpoint the troublemaker.
A good commander had to know not only how to silence loudmouths in the unit but also how to instantly suppress any challenge to his authority and orders.
Two missiles and a burst from the Headhunter's laser cannons—and the troublesome pilot became a fireball.
Without even managing to react properly to the attack.
"What… was that?" one of the pilots asked.
Sergius saw the remaining six pilots trying to keep their distance from him, suspecting they might be next.
"I don't tolerate panickers under my wing," Sergius said. "Bossk, any more instructions?"
Laughter hissed in his headphones.
"Now you're the squadron commander," the bounty hunter said, and for a moment silence hung on the channel. "I've sent the target vector."
The instrument panel flashed, confirming receipt of the data packets.
Immediately after, all contact with the Trandoshan vanished.
Now they were on their own.
"That's just great," another pilot's voice rang out.
"Shooting our own—and a promotion?" another marveled.
"If anyone doesn't like it, feel free to try shooting me down," Sergius offered. "If not—take the target vector, jam systems a few units from the exit point, and wait."
No one challenged his leadership.
Half an hour was all seven Headhunters needed to prepare for the unknown.
Already it was clear that pilots, to Bossk's gang, were nothing more than expendable material.
Slightly more valuable than infantry, but not by MUCH.
Otherwise, how to explain using them blind?
No briefing, no data on the ship they were about to face.
From all this, one conclusion: they'd continue to be used as cannon fodder whose lives and deaths meant nothing.
All the more reason to climb the gang's hierarchy as fast as possible and figure out why one of Tyber Zann's lieutenants was wasting his time here, on the galaxy's back end.
Either Bossk, who had never been truly loyal to Zann, was acting on his own, or this was part of something bigger.
No answer here and now.
He had to keep working.
Sergius gave the pilots only the broad outline of the attack, knowing he had neither time nor means to plan details—there was no universal tactic for attacking any starship type.
To minimize losses and maximize success, he needed to know at least what the ship was armed with or what class it was.
But there was nothing—Bossk had thrown them into the water and demanded they swim the river.
Those who managed it might become something more than mere pawns, but the odds for ordinary pilots were slim.
Not for Sergius.
The target appeared suddenly, though they'd been expecting it.
A Corellian CR90 corvette.
A tough opponent.
For a professional squadron—not the worst target.
For a ragtag bunch with no concept of combat cohesion—practically unsolvable.
The first thing that caught the eye was the ship's paint job: solid red, something no fleet in the galaxy did en masse except the Old Republic.
If Sergius remembered correctly, a red hull had been the symbol of diplomatic immunity in pre-Imperial days.
No one did that nonsense anymore—paint was expensive for anyone who wanted to stand out.
The Empire didn't even mass-apply unit insignia to its starships to save costs.
And besides, ships moved between units far too often.
Sergius and two pilots dove toward the corvette's stern, hammering its rising deflectors with everything they had.
Two other pairs struck from the flanks.
The very first salvo took out the comm antennas and cut the target off from contacting anyone.
But the first strike cost them dearly.
"Four" exploded, taking a direct hit from the corvette's twin turbolaser.
Green blasts turned its cockpit into a blooming flower, petals scattering across space.
Then "Five's" ion engine blew, and along with his wingman's debris, three "uglies" came streaking in.
The computer tagged them hostile, so the five remaining Headhunters shifted targets.
Leaving "Six" and "Seven" to harass the corvette's guns and keep it from spooling up for a jump, Sergius led "Two" and "Three" against the uglies.
The corvette's guns filled the space around the target with energy bolts.
The pair of Headhunters worked to silence the enemy artillery for good, but so far it yielded no results.
Sergius sized up the uglies facing them.
TIE cockpit grafted onto the fuselage and engines of a proven Rebel Alliance "wishbone."
The flying abomination had rightly earned its nickname "ugly."
And it had inherited the worst from both parents.
If the TIE impressed with speed and maneuverability, and the wishbone with power and protection, these uglies took only the downsides.
Clumsy and sluggish, they resembled wild nerfs set upon by a pack of taopari.
Deflector field—more joke than real protection.
Greedy engines sucked massive power, so their laser cannons couldn't match even the Headhunters' rate of fire.
They lasted less than five minutes, though it could have ended much sooner.
Sergius, chalking up four uglies to his score, noted his hastily formed squadron had shrunk by two more ships—"Two" and "Five" were gone.
Sergius rolled twice over his wing and dove on the nearest ugly.
The last two enemies broke off from the corvette and came at him, trying to catch him in crossing fire.
Spinning the weapon selector with his thumb, Bravo-Eleven waggled side to side, showing the others his flank, then straightened his Z-95 and squeezed the trigger.
The missile slammed into the lead ugly's left engine plane.
An orange flash marked the hit, and the next instant the ship disintegrated into millions of fragments.
"Three" backed him with cannon fire, and flashes appeared on the forward shield of the last enemy as it absorbed the hits.
The shield held, but the bright flash blinded the pilot and kept him from aiming. His return fire flew wide of "Three's" fighter, and while he blinked, another shaped-charge missile tore him apart, showering the Corellian corvette's hull with shrapnel.
Meanwhile "Four" was out of the fight too—the corvette's guns first took off his left wing, then caught the tumbling ship.
Accurate enemy fire left only two Headhunters on the field.
Sergius ordered the attack and loosed his remaining missiles at the engines of the red-painted starship, scoring two kills and damaging three more.
But that hardly mattered with eleven engines on the corvette's stern.
"Three" desperately backed his lead and emptied his launchers—half the corvette's engines went dark, the rest flickering.
Sergius and "Three" switched to picking off the enemy gun ports, knocking out one or two turrets per pass.
Several times the agent came within a hair's breadth of death, but his piloting skill proved superior to the enemy gunners' accuracy.
After a few minutes the enemy ship, trailing a smoky plume from its stern and unable to fight back, began ejecting escape pods into space.
No orders to destroy them came, so Sergius simply tagged them as secondary targets so the onboard computer wouldn't lose the pods in the heat of battle.
"Three" worked to finish crippling the enemy engines.
Sergius found a simpler solution.
He punched through the main reactor, forcing the crew to shut it down to survive.
From the corvette's bridge they requested a cease-fire, asking the attackers' demands—which Sergius didn't know—so he simply ordered them to drift and await further instructions.
He didn't have Bossk's comm frequency or any guidance on that.
All that remained was to wait, because the agent had no doubt—if anything was happening in the system, his employer was certainly watching remotely.
And if this really was a test, everything would soon become clear and…
"Uh… boss," "Three" stammered. "I've got weird readings on vector six."
Sergius turned his sensors in the indicated direction and felt his mouth go dry.
Along the exact same vector the unknown Corellian corvette had entered the system came another starship.
And no matter how confident Sergius and "Three" were in their skills, they could not win.
No way in hell.
Bearing down on them, launching TIE fighters, was an Imperial-class Star Destroyer.
And the Headhunter's onboard computer helpfully informed him that heavy turbolasers had locked on.
***
The hologram flickered into existence above the projector pad.
It stuttered several times due to objective interference before stabilizing into the image of the caller with whom I was speaking over encrypted channels for the first time.
Being under a cloaking field caused certain problems for all systems.
In particular—hyperspace comms, the backbone of transmitting data packets across thousands of light-years.
I don't know what the Chimaera's comm officers had to invent, but despite all the difficulties of routing the signal through a drone outside the cloaking field and then along fiber-optic cable to my flagship, the transmission finally cleared the static.
"Master clonemaker Zyix K'zzt," I addressed my caller. "Is the GeNode-Dominion project experiencing problems?"
The rugged face of the ex-stormtrooper turned brilliant geneticist looked puzzled by my question.
The brief pause was enough for me to note the difference between Zyix K'zzt's facial expressions now and during our meeting in the presence of Rear Admiral I-Gor.
Now there was no practiced sternness, no "blank stare," none of the other hallmarks of stormtrooper obedience.
Broad face with sharp cheekbones, straight features, regulation short haircut…
Powerful build, no longer encased in under-armor and Stormtrooper Corps plating, but dressed in plain uniform without insignia except medical-service chevrons.
A lab coat over it made him look like an ordinary doctor, but this "doctor" was far more important to the Dominion than all the rest.
"I wouldn't say that, Grand Admiral," the clonemaker replied. "But I think I should report my observations and opinion on the project's current state."
"You've already reviewed all the documentation and reports?" I didn't let surprise creep into my voice.
Only seven days had passed since our meeting, several of them spent traveling to the central laboratory.
A standard week to digest documents, files, and the current state of affairs.
Unusually fast.
"Your medics follow the GeNode and Spaarti protocols I'm familiar with," Zyix K'zzt grimaced. "No point rereading hundreds of data chips that haven't been updated since I ran the projects. I studied the current reports from the moment you restarted them on Mount Tantiss. And I sleep little due to my body's peculiarities and hybrid consciousness. Stormtroopers need only minimal recovery time—me included."
In that case the timeline made sense.
"Then report."
"I'll start with the positive," the master clonemaker decided. "The Kaminoan geneticist team is quite competent, and they know Spaarti equipment. As I understand, you haven't admitted them to the GeNode program yet?"
"Their task is to grow healthy bodies," I reminded him. "For the rest, I have you and senior geneticist Orun Wa."
"Yes, I've seen his carcass in the Kaminoan tank," Zyix K'zzt confirmed. "Clone development is proceeding normally, but copying his memory… I'm afraid there will be issues. You only have the cloning setup, no Kaminoan fast-learning system. Kaminoans developed it for every species they worked with, including their own. Spaarti flash-imprinting tech won't work for them. Brain chemistry and structure are too different for memories to transfer correctly."
"We have experience creating my clone," I said. "Body grown via Kaminoan protocol, mind copied and edited using GeNode. I believe you understand my species is not entirely human."
"But it has much in common," Zyix K'zzt countered. "That enabled partial success. The longer your clone functioned, the more cascading errors would have accumulated. Of course, an autopsy would have given me far more data on your physiology…"
Zyix K'zzt stopped, meeting my gaze.
"I meant the clone," he blinked rapidly, visibly panicking. "Not your autopsy, the clone's…"
"Let's assume so," I allowed. "Which clone do you need?"
"Grown by which protocol?" the geneticist perked up. "Definitely Kaminoan. Spaarti would produce an unstable clone."
"You have preliminary permission to use the Kaminoan setup to create and study my clone," I said. "Full genome analysis and all possible lab tests. I need to know exactly how my species' genetics differs from human and how we can weaponize that advantage."
"Understood," Zyix K'zzt stammered. "Differences… clearly evolutionary, because there's no doubt we share a common ancestor…"
"Unlikely I was born in a cloning tank."
"Ah…" Zyix K'zzt's gaze drifted to something off my hologram. "Right…"
"Back to using GeNode for Kaminoan mind-copying," I suggested.
"That's a major problem. Unlike a human brain, Orun Wa's won't survive multiple passes. After the fifth, tenth at most, we'll damage his synapses and irreversible changes will begin. Two passes have already been done. As lab director I ordered the process halted until I receive your exact instructions."
Good news?
So we can't copy a Kaminoan's mind and implant it into a clone as originally planned?
That's bad.
Very, very bad.
A Kaminoan geneticist is as vital to me as air if I intend to restart the Republic Commando clone program and replenish storm-commando ranks.
"Does Orun Wa know?" I asked.
Zyix K'zzt thought for a couple of seconds.
"Doubtful," the geneticist declared. "To my knowledge Kaminoans never worked with Spaarti cloning cylinders. So they'd only know the peculiarities by hearsay. At least from talking to the team, they only dealt with first-generation Spaarti cylinders on Smarke, and those, while minor, do differ from the ones you originally had."
An alarm bell rang in my head.
"Explain," I demanded.
"Smarke had seven thousand two hundred first-generation Spaarti cloning cylinders; you have twenty thousand of the same but third-generation," Zyix K'zzt repeated. "I'm seeing these for the first time, but the differences are only in a few technical solutions for power supply and nutrient delivery. Oh, right—technically you have only sixteen thousand third-generation cylinders. Four thousand were repaired, but crudely. Their technical specs were simplified and effectively correspond to first or second generation, not third."
New information.
Until now I'd thought all cloning cylinders produced on Cartao were identical, then the factory was destroyed.
"How significant is the difference?"
"In terms of clone production?" Zyix K'zzt clarified. Receiving a positive reply, he explained:
"None, actually. Changes affected only power-consumption optimization and nutrient usage. First-generation, for example, required more frequent nutrient medium changes than third."
Something similar had been mentioned by Kaminoan technicians during interrogations before my talk with Orun Wa.
The four thousand crudely repaired cylinders were those Colonel Selid fixed to restart the GeNode program when he was Mount Tantiss commandant.
"All Spaarti cloning cylinders were manufactured on Cartao," I said. "How did seven thousand two hundred first-generation units end up off-planet?"
"How should I know?" Zyix K'zzt stared. "I only worked with Arkanian tanks built on second-generation Spaarti cylinders. I didn't even suspect third-generation existed."
More and more interesting.
"Arkanian tanks," I reminded him. "Their condition?"
"Mind-copy hardware is too damaged," Zyix K'zzt sighed. "Honestly, I wouldn't recommend using it for its intended purpose. Whoever used it on Wookiees and other species was a genuine techno-fascist. Logically, we could cannibalize them to repair some units, but that's just a guess. I'm not a mechanic or engineer… But I think the Kaminoan technicians could manage it."
"Are the Arkanian tanks themselves ready for human mind-copying?" I clarified.
"Not everything is perfect there either," Zyix K'zzt admitted. "Numerous damage, crude repairs, system errors. Logically, we could disassemble…"
He fell silent, looking at me.
"And from the four thousand partially defective cylinders assemble fewer working ones?" I finished.
"Yes," the clonemaker confirmed. "Otherwise those tanks are useless—parts aren't available on the open market, only custom order. And it's highly specialized equipment unique to this genetic tech. Plus we're only talking about tanks with damaged Arkanian components. The base Spaarti mechanics and systems can't be restored—only replaced. But the critical parts of cloning cylinders are the Spaarti tech. Tamper with those and we risk ruining entire tanks or groups."
In other words—if we buy spare parts from anyone capable of making them, sooner or later someone will notice.
And realize someone in the galaxy has cloning cylinders.
"You have technical divisions at your disposal," I reminded him. "Assign them to repair every possible tank via cannibalization."
"And what about the ones we strip for parts?" the clonemaker asked, clearly cheered by my words.
"That should not concern you," I stated. "It will be far safer to destroy them."
"Yes, such technology in foreign hands is dangerous," the geneticist nodded. "I completely agree, Grand Admiral."
In reality it was simple.
Those units would be moved to storage.
Then a front company would manufacture the missing Arkanian-origin parts.
That way we could secretly restore additional cylinders for supplementary purposes.
For example—covert expansion of elite or guard units.
The only question was how many would remain after cannibalization.
But everything I'd heard increasingly raised the question of how, when, and under what circumstances first-generation cloning cylinders from Cartao fell into the hands of Makus Kaynif and his associates.
Which meant one thing.
Astarion would have to intensify work with key prisoners, including the Kaminoan scientist.
Thanks to Zyix K'zzt I now even knew how.
"What about clones with non-native mind matrices?" I asked.
"That's actually good news," the scientist-geneticist declared. "I did promise to start with the positives…"
"Get to the point."
"Dementia in most clones is within reversible limits or margin of error," Zyix K'zzt explained. "Data shows stormtroopers were used as the base. Physique and individual organism characteristics allow memory wipe and loading of original matrices. Yes, they'll be slightly inferior to the clones you already have, but the difference is negligible."
"Are there prospects for such research?" I inquired.
After all, the clones had initially shown good results despite the consequences.
Perhaps there was a way to reverse or halt dementia—Zyix K'zzt himself was proof a foreign body could accept a non-native mind-print.
Not to mention the GeNode program itself allowed creation of entirely new artificial personalities, not just loading existing memories.
"Research is needed," the geneticist said. "In my case I managed to merge minds, but it was more lottery than pattern. If we overlay one personality on another it could trigger identity crisis. I prepared both body and host mind for the transfer because I knew they were hunting me. The changes cost millions and it's unlikely anyone is willing to spend that to create soldiers whose appearance doesn't match the data loaded into them. Far simpler to use Kaminoan cloning methods."
"They involve creating new personalities during maturation," I reminded him.
"Yes, but of all known cloning methods Kaminoan clones show the best results," the geneticist acknowledged. "Your current tactic—Spaarti-grown bodies with ysalamiri shielding and GeNode memory editing plus hardcoded loyalty—is the best we have. Fifteen days and the clone is ready; just train him to 'remember' what he knew before. But accelerated aging is the key drawback. If Jango Fett copies and others aged twice as fast, Spaarti…"
The geneticist hesitated.
"Depending on the original organism's individual characteristics, aging can be three to five times faster than nature intended for humans."
In other words, in ten years I'd have an army of old men from "mature" to "elderly."
"You have a sample of Kaminoan technology," I said. "What is needed to put them into production?"
"Kaminoan parts," the geneticist answered instantly. "I have Kaminoan technicians capable of assembling and maintaining the tech. And fast-learning equipment. Again—don't risk integrating non-human mind-copies via GeNode."
"Another question: are you yourself viable for cloning?" I asked, studying the geneticist's expression.
I had the chance to study my own genetic heritage and at minimum learn how long I'd lived and how much time remained.
But I also had a broad-minded geneticist specialist who could become part of the program.
Creating clones of his type would remove the need for further geneticist searches.
"I hadn't thought about it," Zyix K'zzt admitted. "A cloned body is my curse, and I know in a decade I'll be fully aged… I'll run tests in my spare time on my compatibility with GeNode hardware. Any tank will grow a body—Kaminoan or Spaarti. The brain is what matters…"
"During my Imperial service I heard rumors that a group of Kaminoan-aided clone deserters defeated premature aging," I paraphrased what I knew from the Republic Commando books.
"Well, fighting clone aging is a famous tall tale for speculation," Zyix K'zzt smirked. "Grand Army clones were made by one tech, Spaarti by another. My Arkanian hybrid body is a third. I'm not sure defeating Kaminoan premature aging would translate to Spaarti clones even if the rumors are true."
"But research in this direction is necessary," I noted. "If we don't solve it, our cloning labs will produce one generation after another forever, given the accelerated aging."
"Well… yes, economically unviable to create clone armies every few years on this equipment," Zyix K'zzt said thoughtfully. "No one ever determined these cylinders' durability limit, and key parts can't be replaced… I understand, Grand Admiral. I'll assign several geneticists to study the problem. Kaminoan data would help enormously—if the rumors of defeated aging aren't just wishful thinking."
"I'll take your wishes into account," I said—no sooner than the current operation against the Zann Consortium concluded. "Anything else?"
"Yes, sir," Zyix K'zzt nodded. "I recommend auditing all genetic samples we possess. Select the optimal ones by efficiency and longevity criteria. That will yield genetic templates—possibly several for each branch: aviation, fleet, army, etc.—with both proven service records and longevity despite accelerated aging."
"That would extend clone service life," I nodded. "I support the initiative."
"Actually…" the geneticist paused a couple of seconds, then said confidently, "That's all from me, Grand Admiral."
"Good," I said. "Then you have one more task."
"Yes, of course…"
"We have a clone of Jango Fett, the bounty hunter who served as genetic donor for the Grand Army of the Republic," I informed him. "You are to study him for feasibility of recreating the elite commando project. Competent military experts will arrive soon."
"Sir, Jango Fett clones are subject to accelerated aging and genetic compliance manipulations," Zyix K'zzt grimaced. "I'm afraid age has not been kind."
"This clone is unaltered," I said. "We're talking about Boba Fett."
"Holy bantha shit…" the geneticist gasped. "An unmodified Fett clone! Of course I'll study him, Grand Admiral! I'll do everything in my power!"
Well… prospects defined.
As are tasks for counterintelligence.
One of which will be discovering why my geneticist was so overjoyed at the opportunity.
***
No point dying in a hopeless battle.
But not when capture meant torture and possible exposure of his "legend."
"Three," Sergius felt his voice waver, "prepare to repel attack."
"Boss, you're insane?" his wingman exclaimed. "They'll—"
"Bossk tasked us with capturing that ship," Sergius reminded him. "We'll do what we can. If it gets too hot—spool the hyperdrive and bug out anywhere. But I'm not handing over our prize without a fight."
"So it can get worse?" "Three" asked incredulously.
"They could have brought an interdictor cruiser," the Dominion agent reminded his wingman. "For now we have decent odds of jumping whenever we want—no hyperdrive on TIEs, no gravity-well generators on the 'Imperial.' Enough—stay behind me, cover my six, and try not to die too soon."
The enemy fighters were already closing to firing range on crossing vectors.
Sergius flew his Headhunter straight at the first imperial squadron.
A series of questions was ripening inside him.
Was the corvette connected to the "Imperial"?
If yes—why was it guarded by uglies instead of TIEs or any other imperial craft?
Why hadn't the two ships jumped together if the corvette had an escort destroyer?
How had the "unit" appeared here when the corvette lost comms in the very first attack?
Something didn't add up.
Why escort a corvette at all when anything valuable aboard could be transferred to the destroyer under better protection?
Why such a huge gap between the corvette's arrival and the Star Destroyer's?
Sure, after Endor—and especially in this backwater—discipline among imperial warlords had collapsed.
But that much?
If the "unit" really was escort, why had they given their charge nearly an hour and a half to become target practice?
Why hadn't the destroyer commander ordered the attackers to leave the system?
Did he really want a fight that badly?
But then why were the guns silent?
Everything happening was too implausible.
As was the fact that, reaching firing range, the TIE fighters—despite keeping them locked—never opened fire.
"No shooting first," Sergius warned.
"Wait till they get on our tail and carve us up?" "Three" protested. "No way, boss."
"Twitch and I'll shoot you myself," the Dominion agent warned, watching the first squadron roar past without even scratching them.
They reached the corvette, circled it from all sides as if studying the results of the Headhunters' raid.
On the scanner display it was already clear the "unit" had launched its full fighter complement.
Five TIE squadrons, clearly piloted by rookies—evident from the jerky flight paths and inability to hold formation…
There it was!
Sergius felt his mouth go dry.
Why did the "unit" have only five TIE squadrons?
They'd begun partially replacing them with TIE interceptors, and nearly all starships had received upgraded wings…
But not this "Imperial."
Something was very strange…
As if this ship had been stationed on such a remote frontier for so long that updating it was deemed unnecessary.
The Empire always tried to save on the combat capability of distant garrisons, supplying them obsolete gear or "forgetting" to modernize it.
Because why give frontier fleets modern fighters?
But the problem was that among the Imperial Remnants who still had destroyers, air wings were mixed, not so perfectly uniform…
A second wave of TIEs flashed past Sergius's Headhunter without even trying to shoot him down.
What kind of escort was this?
None at all.
Because it wasn't escort.
"Three, you can relax," the Dominion agent permitted. "They definitely won't shoot us."
"How do you figure?" his wingman asked.
"Because I have a certain suspicion…"
Static crackled in his headphones again.
"You've got nerves of durasteel, Ssserg," he heard Bossk's laughing voice—the agent had introduced himself to the Trandoshan by that name at their first meeting.
"Yeah, sometimes those tough parts get in the way of walking," Sergius replied as phlegmatically as possible. "So, mission accomplished, commander?"
"Of course," the Trandoshan answered. "Your kid can fly outside, but you head to the main hangar."
"Understood, commander." Sergius sighed in relief, pointing his ship toward the "unit's" belly and relaying the order to his wingman.
***
"You really are good," Bossk praised when a pair of bruisers in black-and-red armor escorted Sergius to the compartment where the Trandoshan intended to receive him.
Sergius kept calm, allowing himself no excess in the presence of high command.
But he didn't act like a beaten womp rat either.
Respect was earned through bold, daring deeds.
And lost easily—just stay silent and take an insult.
But oddly enough, in the current situation the right move was exactly that.
Right now the most important thing was to stay silent and listen.
"You hammered that corvette good," the Trandoshan praised. "Galactic Chance captured with practically no damage. A good omen that honors you."
"Glad to hear it," Sergius replied, mentally checking if the captured ship's name meant anything to him.
Vaguely, but he did recall something behind the name of this particular starship.
Oddly—he couldn't.
Which suggested the Galactic Chance had, until recently, not been linked to organized crime with ties to major syndicates.
"Did you ever hear of a gang called the Eyttyrmin Batiiv?" the Trandoshan asked.
Sergius, without flinching, indifferently assured him he hadn't.
Which was far from the truth.
"Once that gang numbered eight thousand fighters," Bossk recounted what Sergius knew well. "A year after the Rebels blew up the Death Star, the Empire wiped them out on Quimine…"
Sergius, better than anyone, could tell about that Imperial Navy and Ubiqtorate operation.
The Eyttyrmin Batiiv had emerged mere weeks after the Galactic Republic was reorganized into the Galactic Empire.
They operated boldly, professionally, and destroying them had taken a long time.
Dozens of agents infiltrated the group, which was extremely cautious.
Its core consisted of Clone Wars veterans—former militiamen and their commanders who waged war without rules.
Sergius had put considerable effort into locating and bringing the fleet down on the rebels.
That infiltration had required much work but ended with the expected result.
His greatest success, earning him promotion and assignment to Tyber Zann's Consortium.
Two Imperial Victory-class destroyers—Bombardier and Crusader—had eliminated over ninety-seven percent of the pirates.
Though the Eyttyrmin Batiiv knew an imperial attack was coming (some idiot had leaked it to a news channel), they were certain they could defeat a pair of Victories.
Instead of fleeing, the pirates massed their forces and dug in at Quimine.
The pirate armada numbered over one hundred forty ships, including about half starfighters, fifty rocket gunboats converted from yachts and civilian vessels, several dozen armed freighters, and nearly thirty stolen corvettes and patrol craft.
While Crusader provided long-range fire support, Bombardier's commander placed his Star Destroyer in the center of the enemy formation.
No wonder the designated ship took heavy damage.
But thanks to the bold imperial move, the battle began turning in their favor.
Using tractor beams, Bombardier captured several corvettes.
Turbolaser fire stripped the corvettes of most armament, and the helpless ships were turned to shield the Victory from other pirate vessels.
Jamming comms also caused panic among the pirates.
The pirates faced a choice—conduct uncoordinated attacks against ships holding their comrades or destroy them, thereby losing their capital ships.
That confusion allowed Bombardier's commander to send stormtroopers aboard the immobilized starships and capture them.
Gunners transferred to the Eyttyrmin Batiiv ships opened fire on the pirates, a "trick" that proved quite surprising.
For most of them—fatally surprising.
Most pirates, facing reinforced enemy forces, tried to flee the system into hyperspace.
But they were easily intercepted by Crusader, which had stayed at range precisely for that purpose.
Another pirate group fled to their surface base on Quimine, preparing a last stand.
The Eyttyrmin Batiiv who chose to keep fighting were annihilated by Bombardier and Crusader.
Quick thinking by a young pirate named Jacob Nive saved some survivors from certain death but couldn't change the battle's outcome.
After finishing the Eyttyrmin Batiiv fleet, Crusader—while Bombardier patched holes—delivered the final blow to the pirate base on Quimine.
Missile bombardment destroyed the base shields and the remaining pirates.
The Eyttyrmin Batiiv were completely crushed.
Imperial losses totaled only about ninety dead and fewer than two hundred fifty wounded.
Intelligence reported roughly three hundred pirates escaped, taking one CR90 corvette and several fighters.
The Eyttyrmin Batiiv lost seven thousand seven hundred fighters and their entire fleet, ceasing to exist as any kind of force.
Unlikely the corvette Sergius and his pilots attacked was that same survivor.
"A few hundred pirates managed to survive," the Trandoshan continued. "They swore revenge on the commanders of those ships…"
Bombardier had fallen to the Rebel Alliance shortly after Endor; its crew was in one of the enemy's prison colonies Dominion intelligence still hadn't penetrated.
The Star Destroyer itself had been captured by Grand Admiral Thrawn at the Battle of Sluis Van and now served in the Dominion regular fleet.
Crusader had long been under Thrawn, but with a different commander—after brilliantly destroying the Eyttyrmin Batiiv pirates, Crusader's captain Zleche Ounaar had been promoted to staff work; another officer took his place.
Sergius knew nothing more of his fate.
Bombardier's commander had taken command of an Imperial-class and been sent to Elrud sector, where he and the entire crew were killed by Rebel Alliance agents.
"…And now one of them, Captain Zleche Ounaar, has turned up aboard the Galactic Chance," the Trandoshan continued. "Someone on the Chance decided selling Ounaar would bring a bigger jackpot cockpit than the ship's own casino…"
"So it's a flying casino?" Sergius clarified.
"Yes," Bossk confirmed. "A parody of Booster Terrik's Errant Venture. Even painted red to piss him off. Since Terrik vanished and his ship fell to the Dominion, the Galactic Chance has no shortage of gamblers."
"Judging by the fact you're telling me this, there's some connection between us and all this," Sergius surmised. "And I'm supposed to do something since you shared this sob story. Right?"
"Smart man," the Trandoshan bared his teeth in a grin. "The Eyttyrmin Batiiv who escaped now follow Jacob Nive…"
"Shame they don't follow themselves," Sergius thought.
The situation frankly stank of ignited tibanna gas.
Especially the repeated mention of Jacob Nive—one of the sharpest lieutenants the Eyttyrmin Batiiv ever had.
Jacob Nive was the last person in the pirate world Sergius wanted to meet.
"They call themselves the Quimine Survivors," Bossk continued. "Based on planet Corkrus in the neighboring Quimin sector. Along with other pirate gangs they once served Leonia Tavira. Now we need to bring them—and the entire Quimin sector—under my control. You will deliver Zleche Ounaar in exchange for their loyalty to my gang."
Bossk was continuing to expand his forces.
But this time recruiting not just "meat" but established groups with their own ships and commanders.
This could mean either the two sectors—Tamarin and Rseik—had run out of cheap cannon fodder, or Bossk's ambitions were growing.
The former was unlikely—there was plenty of scum on the Rim.
The latter was obvious.
Most likely he was forming several combat groups.
One—"expendable credits" he wouldn't mind losing.
The rest—backup and guarantee the missions would succeed.
Or he planned simultaneous strikes on multiple targets.
Then recruiting already combat-cohesive pirate units was the most rational way.
"It'll be rough there," Sergius said indifferently. "Especially in a den of several gangs. Even if I want to, I can't deliver a prisoner in my Headhunter. But if we show them we have an Imperial Star Destroyer with full fighter wing…"
"Retribution has other tasks," Bossk hissed.
Familiar name.
Same as the late Moff Resuune's former flagship.
So the ship had indeed been captured.
Judging by the full TIE complement—taken with minimal losses to the attackers.
Or Bossk's gang had access to leftover Imperial military stores.
The only question was what had changed since Sergius passed command the intel on criminal recruitment in this part of the galaxy and the names behind it.
Now two sectors were known to be under Bossk's control.
If he subjugated the Quimin pirates, that made three.
Probably more in reality.
As well as greater forces at his disposal.
Things were increasingly displeasing.
"Well, if I'm not getting a cabin on the destroyer," Sergius yawned, showing deliberate calm, "I'll need something bigger. A freighter maybe…"
"Can you handle an imperial Lambda shuttle?" Bossk asked, fixing his reptilian eyes on the human.
"Don't think the controls are overly complicated."
In truth Sergius could fly one blindfolded, but his interlocutor didn't need to know that.
"Then you'll have a shuttle," Bossk declared. "I'll give you a couple of guys so Zleche Ounaar doesn't cause trouble."
Something in the Trandoshan's speech bothered Sergius—greatly.
His hissing accent was common enough, as was Rodians' atrocious Basic.
But the way Bossk occasionally "forgot" the accent was another matter.
As if the Trandoshan deliberately wanted to show he spoke Basic poorly.
Yet sometimes slipped and spoke cleanly.
Selective lisping.
A deliberate attempt to misinform about his own vulnerabilities.
It let an opponent think he'd learned something important about the Trandoshan, when in reality it was staged to draw attention and make him focus on nonsense instead of searching for real weaknesses.
All well and good, but this was an Imperial intelligence technique taught at the academy.
Had Bossk—and those behind him—obtained such critical information, or worse?
If so, no doubt Bossk at minimum had his own covert agents.
Most likely embedded in pirate gangs doing exactly what Sergius was—probing for weak points.
But not to destroy the gangs—to merge them with what the Trandoshan already possessed.
"Excellent," with every new order the situation worsened for Sergius. "When the shuttle's ready, just whistle and I'll be off. Can I at least rest before launch?"
"You may," Bossk nodded. "Don't fail me, Serg. Punishment for failure—death…"
Someone said it would be easy?
"Failure isn't my style," Sergius said with as much confidence as possible. "So let's talk reward. What do I get for bringing the survivors and the other Corkrus gangs under your banner?"
"Not long ago Marg Sonat freed up the spot of my right hand," another predatory grin. "Succeed—and it's yours. You have one week to get there and do it."
Perfect, just perfect!
"Deal," Sergius said without a tremor. "Prepare the first officer's cabin for me."
In response—another toothy grin.
Leaving the pilot briefing compartment, Sergius—despite his outward indifference—was ready to bang his head against the wall.
In a single mission that shouldn't have been problematic, he could leap ten rungs up the criminal ladder in Bossk's organization.
But problems, as always, came from where no one expected.
If he failed—he'd be killed.
If he succeeded—promotion.
The trouble was he couldn't succeed.
For one simple reason—both Captain Zleche Ounaar and Jacob Nive knew his face.
As the imperial agent who had very actively facilitated infiltration, intelligence gathering, and destruction of the Eyttyrmin Batiiv nine years ago.
And it was unlikely they'd stay quiet the moment they saw Sergius and realized exactly who stood before them.