Ten years and the thirty-fifth day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year and the thirty-fifth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Seven months and the twentieth day since the arrival).
The steady sound of heels on the polished surfaces of the floors in the Emperor's Citadel echoed like a metronome through the half-empty corridors.
Here, Imperial officials did not wander as they once had in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant.
Here, lively debates among senators, their aides, and secretaries were not held.
Here, there was no irritating gleam from protocol droids.
Here, nothing reminded one of Coruscant.
Because this was not Coruscant.
Ysanne Isard, clad in her unchanging admiral's uniform of the Imperial pattern, executed in the crimson tones of arterial blood, slowly crossed the Citadel in proud solitude.
She paid no attention to the stormtroopers marching behind her, their numbers clearly exceeding what was necessary for her destruction.
She didn't care about the Imperial Guards who began to appear more frequently in the corridors the deeper she penetrated into the magnificent structure rising kilometers above the rooftops of the tallest buildings on Byss.
Ysanne Isard was heading to her goal.
And not a single muscle on her face betrayed the tension that might—and should—have been inherent in one who had so recently fallen from the Emperor's favor.
For the first time since her birth, she had visited Byss.
Not as a valuable prisoner whose fate the Emperor Palpatine must decide.
Not as an invited guest who had responded to the call of the Emperor and his officials.
She had come here by the will of duty, an inexplicable magnetic connection that arose between a man and a woman on a platonic level.
Such actions were not dictated by logic.
They could not be assessed or measured.
They had no criteria for comparison.
They simply were.
Therefore, she was here.
On Byss.
The planet Byss.
For that portion of the population familiar with the name, Byss represented a mythical world of pleasures and freedoms that Emperor Palpatine had discovered and provided for his most loyal subjects many years ago.
He had charted hyperspace routes here, without knowledge of which no one could reach this paradise.
Located in the isolated and practically inaccessible Deep Core of the Galaxy for ordinary folk, Byss was the endpoint of a hyperspace route known as the Byss Run.
The latter was an artificial and carefully guarded hyperspace route, maintained by hundreds of non-mass S-thread accelerators, connecting the planet to the Core Worlds.
Otherwise, it was nearly impossible to reach the planet safely through hyperspace due to the high density of stars in the Deep Core and the constantly shifting patterns of the region's natural hyperroutes.
From these words alone, knowledgeable sentients could understand how generous Emperor Palpatine was in giving this world to his subjects.
Each S-thread accelerator cost as much as entire planets, and maintaining it in operable condition—not to mention using it—required colossal sums that many states had never seen throughout the galaxy's existence.
Positioned in the fifth orbital slot in the system named Beshqek, Byss was merely one of two habitable worlds in this corner of the galaxy.
But, reaching a diameter of just over twenty-one thousand kilometers, Byss accommodated just under two hundred billion inhabitants on its surface, the vast majority of whom (excluding a tiny percentage) consisted exclusively of individuals significant to the Empire.
Rellius, occupying the fourth orbital position, was smaller in size but equally hospitable.
To the hundreds of billions of people comprising the industrial, agricultural, military, and other potential of the Galactic Empire in the Deep Core.
Ysanne turned a corner and found herself in a large corridor, a significant portion of which—the ceiling and the right wall—were made of transparisteel.
Thanks to this sturdy yet transparent material, Ysanne could see all five small moons of Byss in the cloudless night sky, which at present had been turned into massive barracks and military factories ceaselessly supplying the Emperor's troops with everything necessary.
For this, minerals were plundered from planets throughout the Deep Core, but who had ever cared about that?
Likewise, through this transparisteel, Ysanne could see the horizon line sinking into the illuminated urban developments.
She might even see the blue-green glow of the Beshqek system's natural sun if she passed here during daylight hours.
But she walked at night because such was his desire.
From scraps of dropped words, the Iceheart had pieced together a unified picture of the mosaic fragments that seemed to be features of this planet.
Insensitive to the Force, she could not test a number of these claims in practice, but those members of the Dark Side Elite she had already met had casually mentioned that Byss was literally saturated with the Force, which the Emperor had turned into a source of the Dark Side by his will.
The Jedi, as she knew, used the Light Side.
And this fact alone confirmed the difference between the Emperor and the Jedi: they submitted to circumstances, while Palpatine subjugated the circumstances themselves.
It was no wonder that the greatness of such a man made one's head spin, and his achievements made the heart beat faster.
For those to whom it meant anything.
Ysanne was far more interested in the talk that the billions of Byss's population fed the Emperor with their life force.
And this claim was in the realm of Jedi metaphysics, but it was still another crumb of information.
She had spent much time studying this planet in the company of the Dark Side Elite, who served as both her guard and escort.
Until the Emperor found time to receive her.
The Iceheart saw that Byss's surface was dotted with chains of lakes and rivers inhabited by microscopic life forms, as well as wind-smoothed plateaus and canyons.
The planet's isolation from most of the galaxy had allowed its natural islands and ruins from the pre-Expansionist era to remain untouched for thousands of years.
She had visited the old ruins left on the planet by the Rakata race with interest, who had previously used this world as their forward base for further conquests.
But she had found absolutely nothing there—it was an empty, half-ruined structure.
Which, as she had managed to notice, was being hastily restored and furnished.
This ancient outpost was being rebuilt for someone significant to Palpatine.
The planet had no predatory flora or fauna, as one might have imagined.
No sentient species had ever arisen on Byss through natural evolution, and the living nature in this world was mostly nocturnal and harmless.
Byss also contained no rare earth elements or heavy metals, so there were no thousands of mines on its surface, as on many other planets in the Beshqek system.
The Emperor's secret throne world was indeed a resort—for those close to the Emperor.
For the billions of aliens and slaves brought here to work on constructing cities, assembly shops, and serving the needs of Imperial nobles, Byss must have seemed like a penal colony.
The planet's calm, mild climate and gentle seasons, from clear to rainy, were primarily due to its minimal axial tilt and stable geological base.
Severe phenomena such as storms and volcanism were extremely rare.
All this combined helped the Empire create the myth of a beautiful and mystical paradise world hidden from the galaxy as a whole, where blissful contentment awaited anyone who decided to apply for immigration to the aforementioned planet Byss.
Billions, if not more, sentients fell for this cheap and ancient trick.
They died here over many years, buried right on the construction sites where death overtook them.
The colonization of the world never ceased for a moment.
Mas Amedda, Palpatine's aide since the days when he was Supreme Chancellor, had once, during a confidential conversation with Isard after her arrival here, said that erecting the Emperor's Citadel, in which she now found herself, had cost the lives of more than ten billion sentients.
But they had created a masterpiece of architecture.
The Emperor's Citadel (planet Byss).
Slaves and their bodies were the very foundation on which all these richly adorned buildings with flashy exteriors and intricate resort complexes stood.
Year after year, billions died here, but new and new batches of migrants were delivered here at the Emperor's whim.
And their labor, their deaths, paid for the construction of the city covering the entire continent.
Any sacrifices for the Emperor's greatness—the sole indisputable and unquestionable organ of power on Byss.
As far as Isard had learned, full power on Byss, and indeed in the Imperial worlds of the Deep Core, belonged to the adepts of the Dark Side of the Force, commanded by Palpatine.
In essence, the Emperor had created a theocracy on the ruins of the Empire and placed himself at its head, ruling it absolutely according to his will, without any obstacles to implementing his decisions from the Senate or other vestiges of the Old Republic, as it had been on Coruscant.
After his death at Endor, the Emperor had turned Byss into a fortress planet, and judging by the identifiers of thousands of starships in orbit around Byss and in the system itself, the secret throne world had become a gathering place for the remaining Imperial Remnants and a base of operations for Palpatine's forthcoming conquest of the galaxy.
From what she had seen in orbit, it was clear that Byss had also become a construction site for numerous variants of Imperial superweapons.
She had seen dozens of starships of a class unknown to her, which literally devoured asteroids and the surfaces of other planets besides Rellius and Byss, producing ever new weapons from their internal factories.
Mas Amedda had called them "World Devastators" and assured her that they were indestructible.
She had seen both "Eclipse" vessels.
One, being built for the Emperor on Byss and stolen from there by Kuati engineers after the attack on the "Kuat Drive Yards" by the Zann Consortium fleet. Obviously, to complete the star superdreadnought here.
Its near-twin "Eclipse II" was practically finished—equally menacing and massive.
She had seen thousands of starships that were only mentioned in Imperial manuals but existed here in metal.
She had seen the under-construction "Assertors" and dozens of Allegiance-class battlecruisers, "Executors" and "Bellators," "Vengeances"…
And from the "Imperials" and smaller ships, one's eyes simply swam.
It wasn't even worth thinking that such an armada could be defeated, even in the most fierce battle.
Under Imperial rule, Byss had become one of the most secluded and heavily guarded worlds in the galaxy.
Most natural routes into the Deep Core were mined, and the rest were protected by the Imperial hyperspace security network—a system of gravity well projectors and hyperwave transceivers designed to monitor and control traffic entering and exiting the Deep Core.
Something similar, as she had heard from the same Mas Amedda, Grand Admiral Thrawn had applied to the capital of the Dominion he had recently created before his demise.
However, unlike the Core, whose key was known to few, the Emperor, it seemed, knew the way into the Dominion.
And as soon as the hour of destroying the traitors arrived, the worlds that Grand Admiral Thrawn had so carefully gathered together would blaze from orbital bombardments by the armadas that Palpatine was preparing to unleash on the heads of the galaxy's inhabitants.
Nowhere in the Empire had there ever been such security as on Byss.
As a fortress world, the Emperor's secret throne world was guarded by a array of security forces and technologies, all overseen by a specialized security service.
The Byss security zone, a defined area of space around the fortress world, was protected by a wide ring of Star Destroyers, and an entire sector fleet was additionally dispersed throughout the Beshqek system.
From her own experience, Ysanne knew that anyone approaching the protected zone, even if permitted to the Byss Run, received a warning for violating forbidden boundaries.
Any attempt to cross this invisible forbidden line met with uncompromising destruction by all available forces.
Giant probe droids "Hunter-killers" patrolled the skies over Byss and were used as platforms for capturing and detaining unauthorized ships.
The planet itself was surrounded by a planetary shield controlled by the Byss security service, and scanning systems were used to monitor movement across the entire planet.
The planet's orbit was guarded by hundreds of Golan III space defense stations, constantly on combat duty.
Byss Security Service personnel coordinated space traffic with scanner satellites scattered throughout the star system and the planet's atmosphere.
If any traveler was found to have forged documents, the Star Destroyers guarding Byss would unhesitatingly open fire to destroy.
The scanning stations also served as orbital defensive platforms for Byss, possessing firepower equal to some capital ships, and housed squadrons of TIE starfighters and other defensive forces.
On the planet's surface, surveillance and a large military presence were commonplace.
Stormtroopers were stationed on every street corner, every landing pad was guarded by a TIE starfighter, and Imperial Security Bureau agents were present in most public places on the planet to watch for any potential traitors.
In addition, shipyards, fighter bases, and military barracks large enough to house an entire army were present throughout the Imperial-controlled sector.
All these complexes were disguised as colorful plazas and public buildings, armed with the latest defensive turbolasers and shield generators.
It was terrifying to think how much time, money, and lives had gone into protecting this planet and system in such a manner.
The Golan III stations alone would have sufficed to secure several sectors.
But it had been done splendidly.
The population of Byss, as Isard could confirm, was fanatically devoted to the Emperor even after his first death in the Battle of Endor.
From conversations with the locals, she understood that none of them had believed in Palpatine's final death.
Judging by their words, they practically deified the Emperor.
And they could not be condemned for it, for what had been erected on Byss in the controlled part of the Deep Core truly had an aura of higher providence and unspeakable splendor.
Only the local inhabitants did not know that billions of deaths had been required to achieve all this.
However, Ysanne had no doubt about one thing: if the population of the Beshqek system learned the price of this splendor, even if it were proven that Palpatine was drawing their vaunted life force from them, nothing would change.
The population of the Beshqek system would do anything at their Emperor's command.
And, judging by the rumors, they were preparing to turn any planet that did not agree to believe in Palpatine's divinity as fervently as they did into molten slag, with his name on their lips.
As she approached the massive metal doors (made of beskar with cortosis plating, by the way), the Iceheart did not pause for a moment, did not stop.
The trained and disciplined guards flung the doors open for her long before she would have needed to halt.
Once inside, she entered a vast hall so enormous that an entire fighter wing from her Lusankya could easily fit here.
Polished to a mirror shine, dark glossy floors, gray walls, massive columns.
And in the center of it all—a huge galaxy map, dotted with numerous annotations.
Borders of states, positions of armed forces—allies and enemies, hyperspace routes…
Here was everything the Empire knew about the galaxy.
Isard calmly strode forward through the glowing haze.
No one stopped or challenged her.
She herself showed not a shadow of unease.
She was no guest here.
She was a loyal servant.
Servant to the one seated on the massive throne, an exact replica of the one the Emperor had on the Death Star.
But this man was younger.
And the fire in his eyes burned even stronger.
Reaching the massive steps leading to the rectangular platform abutting a huge transparisteel wall section, the woman froze upon seeing the body lying on the steps.
She recognized him.
A young man, light hair, plain face and clothing.
Very characteristic clothing.
As well as the weapon gripped in his hand.
"Do not mind my wayward apprentice, Iceheart," Emperor Palpatine said in an almost affectionate voice. "Luke Skywalker, despite the years since our meeting, has grown stronger. But, like his father, he is just as impulsive when it comes to making fateful decisions. His attempt to kill me is neither the first nor the last. The Dark Side has once again demonstrated its power to him, and soon he will understand how deeply he errs in his Jedi beliefs."
"Yes, Emperor," Ysanne bowed her head in unmistakable deference to Palpatine's words.
"Well then," the Emperor said, savoring each word, "the time has come to decide your fate as well, Iceheart."
Ysanne felt a monstrous pressure arise as if from the air itself.
Unable to cope with this irresistible affliction, the woman dropped to her knees.
But the Force continued to press down on her.
Isard collapsed onto all fours, but the weight only intensified.
Finally, her trained body gave way, and she lay sprawled on the mirror-polished floor of the throne room.
"Your ambitions are commendable," the Emperor said. "My cloning specialist has confirmed what you told me about your origins."
The voice of the Empire's ruler sounded closer, and his quiet footsteps echoed nearer, as if he were descending the stairs.
Ysanne herself could not even twitch a finger.
Nor did she try.
Her fate was being decided now, and she could not provoke the Emperor's displeasure with a single action.
"The clone of the Iceheart, created to guard prisoners from the Lusankya," Palpatine said, savoring each word, stopping at her face.
She stared at the soft boots encasing the Emperor's feet, not daring to look away.
"You delivered her body to me, delivered her ship with a full complement of droids, even delivered the body of my Grand Vizier," the Emperor enumerated what she had done several weeks ago. "Remarkable, how badly you want to live, woman from the tube."
Ysanne remained silent, understanding that no one was actually asking her.
"And at this point, a question arises for me, you wretched fake doll," the Emperor's voice grew coarser. "What made you think you could replace the real Isard? Who put it in your head that you could just fly to me, throw the corpses of my closest allies at my feet, betray me a Star Dreadnought defiled by rebel spawn, tell me how you worked for Thrawn and plotted his destruction, and hope that I would spare your life?"
Perhaps they did not expect an answer from her.
The Iceheart silently endured as the Emperor Palpatine's soft boots struck her face, knocking out teeth and breaking facial bones.
She did not move, pinned evidently by the Force, and silently accepted the punishment from the Emperor.
She remained silent as he struck her with lightning, kicked her, hurled her across the throne room.
She did not shed a single tear after something in her back cracked from the next blow against a column.
She continued to be mute when her eyebrow over her right eye was sliced open and blood poured down her face, obscuring her vision.
She silently endured all that the Emperor could vent on her.
She made not a sound for her master's sake, understanding that Palpatine needed to vent his rage over the death of his closest allies.
She blamed no one for what was happening, not even thinking of herself as a victim.
Heading into the Deep Core, having rid herself of the Lusankya's crew imposed on her by Thrawn with combat droids, she understood she might not get what she desired—a place at the Emperor's side.
But she also understood she had burned all bridges behind her.
Moreover—this was a clone, whose life cycle was short.
The only one who could help resolve this problem was Emperor Palpatine, serving whom was an honor for her.
Especially by replacing the real Iceheart.
"You will never replace her," the Emperor sneered contemptuously, levitating her from the floor with a wave of his hand so he could look into her battered face. "You are just a tool that has delusions of grandeur. Your life is worth nothing."
"Then end it," Ysanne said quietly, looking fearlessly into the Emperor's golden eyes. "I did what the real Isard could not. I stole the Lusankya. I obtained the Dominion's minefield charts for you. I contributed to the death of the traitor Krennel and the rout of a large part of the Republic's forces. Even Thrawn did not see through me. But the real Isard he read like an open book. I delivered irrefutable proof of Thrawn's betrayal of the Empire."
"Your achievements are worthless," the Emperor snorted, dismissing her like a broken toy.
The woman fell onto the polished floor, biting her lip against the all-encompassing pain that washed over her.
"The minefield and asteroid barrier charts were delivered to me by Admiral Dobramu. Krennel held no interest for me in the Empire and holds none now. A pathetic worm, crushing whom presents no effort at all. And everything else you said there," the Emperor scorched the woman lying on the floor with his fiery gaze. "Thrawn's betrayal… That alien always acted solely in his own interests. He was useful as a vanguard of invasion and accomplished much. True, as always, he outsmarted himself. His betrayal is worthless—the Dominion I will swallow as an appetizer. I will burn their ships and catch welcoming smiles from the locals, who will be glad to greet me, while Thrawn's miserable sycophants didn't bother to do anything but hole up in their shell and divide his legacy."
"In that case," Isard said, helping herself with trembling hands to assume at least a semi-upright position. "Everything I have done is nonsense compared to your greatness. Finish me and turn this page, forgetting the last reminder of Isard, who is ready to serve you."
"Serve me?" the Emperor laughed. "What do I need you for, broken toy of the Iceheart?"
"Because I am as devoted to my master as she was," Ysanne said, wiping blood from her lips. "I adore and love him just as much. I am ready to step over myself for his greatness. And I will not rest until death, fulfilling his will."
"How interesting," interest returned to Palpatine's voice. And under the skin of Ysanne's scalp, she felt a light tickling, as always in the Emperor's presence. "You intend to serve me after what just happened?"
"Yes," Ysanne replied. "It cannot be otherwise. Such is my fate."
"Perhaps, perhaps," Palpatine replied with a smirk. "You lack no tenacity. Not a full Iceheart, but perhaps you can be of some use. However, what can you offer me here and now, besides what is already mine?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Ysanne saw Luke Skywalker stir.
Steam still rose from his body, but the young Jedi stubbornly tried to compose himself, eyeing the Emperor standing with his back to him.
"I can tell you about a traitor in the Empire who sent hundreds of thousands of your soldiers to slaughter," Isard said, watching Palpatine's face twist into the predatory mask of a maniac scenting prey. "And Skywalker is about to lunge at you, my lord."
Without turning, the Emperor thrust his hand backward, from which streams of white-blue electricity poured, piercing the Jedi who screamed in agony, making him convulse.
"Continue, broken doll," Palpatine said in a saccharine tone, not averting his gaze from her. "Tell me everything you know. For your sincerity and persuasiveness will determine your right to life."
And the Iceheart spoke, while the Emperor tormented his captive Jedi with lightning.
***
The planet Kol Atorn did not boast great size or exotic astrogation.
An ordinary world, from orbit revealing a single dead yellowish moon, vast seas, dense forests, numerous lakes, continents and islands…
One glance would not suggest that fearsome warriors lived on this planet.
Located in the eponymous star system of the Kanz sector in the New Territories of the Outer Rim, Kol Atorn, like other worlds of the sector, had recently joined the Dominion.
And, in fact, my arrival here was the second appearance of official Dominion representatives on the planet.
Last time, the local inhabitants had quite unceremoniously and unambiguously escorted the representative away, advising him never to return to avoid bigger problems.
Well, that word had been kept—no more officials had come here.
I had arrived personally.
And at the moment, I was in a small cantina not far from the spaceport, curiously studying the local gastronomic delights.
Throughout the small cantina, guards stood watch, eyes fixed on the sparse clientele who, upon our arrival, had intended to leave the establishment but were insistently invited to keep me company and not deprive themselves of the pleasure of an excellent meal.
If anything, they knew and loved to cook in this place.
Meat dishes—all as fine as could be.
Since my shuttle and escort force had landed, less than half an hour had passed before observers reported the locals stirring, actively arming themselves and regarding the stormtroopers of the 501st Guard Legion quite inhospitably.
Who had taken the spaceport under minimal control, including the locals' few starfighters.
No, we certainly hadn't killed anyone.
A massive shadow appeared in the wide doorway of the cantina.
Well, the time for resolution had come.
Continuing to enjoy the pie with the tenderest meat from some unknown animal to me, I paused only when a two-meter giant in heavy armor loomed at my table, clad from head to toe.
In his hands was a monstrous blaster rifle, a couple of generations behind cutting-edge technology.
And its barrel pointed straight at my head.
"Not letting a sentient enjoy the good food of this establishment's owner would be a crime," I declared, but still dabbed my lips with a napkin, gesturing invitingly to the wicker chair opposite me. "Have a seat, Mr. Spar—we have much to discuss."
Hedge Spar.
"Mandalorians have no custom of conversing with the dead," the owner of the spiked open helmet informed in a well-modulated bass.
So, what conclusions could be drawn from the first glance at this man?
At minimum, that the leader of the enclave of exiles and emigrants from the Mandalorian Sector residing on Kol Atorn spoke in an accented version of Mando'a—the native tongue of the Mandalorians.
With the latter, I had already familiarized myself during the flight here.
I had heard dozens of pronunciations from holonet recordings.
I was certainly not a native speaker, but I could definitely distinguish characteristic shifts in word stress and pronunciation peculiarities.
The planet was an enclave of Mandalorian culture.
One of the Mandalorian leaders, the Mandalorian Iceborn, had grown up in Kol Atorn's alleys and learned to speak Mando'a from the Mandalorians living here.
In the end, he was one of the greatest leaders of his people, though I had never heard of him.
And to learn this small tidbit, I had to thoroughly puzzle Mr. Pent.
Fortunately, he was glad to distract himself for an hour from searching for the "Eye of Palpatine" and engage in some alternative activity, however minor.
Moment number two.
The armor worn by Hedge Spar—this was quite old but still serviceable.
This was no modern replica, no fake.
Mandalorians on Kol Atorn might live modestly, but they had modern weapon samples.
Thus, one could conclude that the old armor, undoubtedly supplemented with elements of modern electronics and "gadgets," was clearly not just the height of Mandalorian fashion.
This was a tribute to traditions and customs, of whose observance Hedge Spar served as a symbol for the local inhabitants.
"Yes, rumors reached me that I had died," no, in the end, this pie was simply marvelous!
"They reached us too," the man replied, still holding his weapon and not taking his eyes off me. "And we also heard that your envoys promised not to return to Kol Atorn and intended to leave us in peace."
"And they kept their promise. No more diplomats have come to you. No one has bothered you until today."
"And what do we owe this honor to, that Grand Admiral Thrawn violates his own masquerade for us, flies in on his Star Destroyer straight to our orbit, takes our spaceport under control, and eats our fish pie?" Spar asked.
Well.
And this I did not like much.
"To be honest, I thought it was with meat," I traditionally did not hide the obvious.
"Everyone thinks so," Hedge revealed. "The owner can cook anything so deliciously that one wants to lick the plate."
"Honor and praise to the chef," I met the gaze of the establishment's owner, who was also the head cook.
"Maybe we stop beating around the bush and get straight to business?" Spar inquired with undisguised threat, slightly turning the weapon held on his knees toward me.
"That's why I came," I assured him. "And yes, I do not advise pointing your weapon at me. The guards are not skittish folk, but if they get nervous—everyone around gets hurt. And there are the Noghri besides."
"What Noghri?" Spar tensed.
"I am a Noghri," Rukh mewed almost in his ear, rising like a gray shadow beside him and with one precise motion detaching the gas cartridge and power cell from the Mandalorian's blaster rifle.
"Impressive tricks," Spar assessed in a menacing tone. "What do you want, Thrawn?"
"The same as all rulers and warlords," I said. "Kol Atorn is located in Kanz Sector territory. The sector joined the Dominion. Laws and obligations are established for each planet. Your world decided to thumb its nose at them and expel my envoys. When my subordinates are offended, I come to deal with the problem myself."
"And how do you see resolving the 'problem'?" the Mandalorian inquired, eyes fixed on Rukh, who had moved behind my chair.
"It's simple," I replied. "Kol Atorn either lives by Dominion laws, or you will have to leave this planet."
In the latter case, I was not particularly concerned about the migration of local inhabitants and the subsequent spread of rumors about my survival.
Mandalorians living on this planet, though former exiles and migrants from the Mandalorian Sector, were still heirs to their culture.
And loquacity was not a trait of the sons of Mandalore.
But stubbornness and reluctance to leave settled places—that was very much in their warlike spirit.
If they did not wish to settle the issue, combat operations between the 501st Legion and all armed Mandalorians would already be underway on the planet.
I could not even judge who would win the initial battles—though Kol Atorn was on the galaxy's edge, they loved and knew how to fight here.
But we simply had more soldiers and equipment, so the conflict's outcome was clear as day.
Only this would cost both sides many lives.
Hedge Spar understood this.
That was why he had come for negotiations.
"You propose my warriors become part of your army, like those Mandalorians who served the Empire?" he asked.
"I propose forming a new, exclusively Mandalorian unit consisting solely of natives of Kol Atorn and no others," I explained. "We can call this new formation the 'Mandalorian Brigade' or something like that. You will have your own commanders, your own training bases. No one intends to interfere with your ancient customs and traditions. The Dominion will provide you with all necessary equipment, including spacecraft for troop transport."
And under the last thesis, I assumed transferring to the Kol Atorn Mandalorians the Keldabe II-class battleship captured at Hypori.
One capital ship, transports, and several Crusader-class corvettes—not a high price for ensuring the mobility of an entire legion-equivalent of combat-ready troops.
And that Mandalorians were combat-ready was obvious without extra words—sufficient to look at the stormtrooper squads' reports on how quickly the locals mobilized and how coordinated they acted in taking positions for a presumed attack on the Dominion's stormtroopers.
One order from the leader sitting opposite me—and bloody carnage would ensue.
Or—he would give the order, and there would be no bloodshed.
And I would gain combat-ready troops that could serve as shock forces for defending Dominion interests in several galaxy sectors until the issue of forming new stormtrooper units was resolved.
In my head, the "division" of the Stormtrooper Corps had already taken shape, accounting for current realities.
All the legions I currently had, which were being filled out, were guard legions—a reward for their participation in last year's campaign.
They would continue to be filled with the best of the best stormtroopers based on the cloning process.
They would be equipped to the Imperial standard.
But as soon as the issue of additional cloning capacities and creating all necessary imprint matrices by specialty was resolved, genetic material from Boba Fett, whom we kept in a comatose state for constant blood draws, would go into production.
These "regular" stormtroopers would receive Phase II gear and be armed with Republic weaponry.
It might not be the freshest, but this did not negate its combat effectiveness and, notably, its greater lethality compared to Imperial arms.
"Sounds interesting, if we ignore the fact that you likely wouldn't make us such an offer if you weren't interested in increasing your troop numbers," Spar said. "Those who are strong do not invent special conditions for the inhabitants of some remote planet. Even if they are thrice warriors. From which I conclude that things are not as rosy with your troops as you want to tell me here."
Sometimes, especially after dealing with Republicans, I forget that in the galaxy there are people who can think for themselves and draw correct conclusions without relying on the vaunted Force.
"Suppose I really need troops that, at least initially, will not be associated with the Dominion," I agreed.
"And what do you need them for?" Spar asked.
"Many battles loom in which skilled warriors can glorify themselves and immortalize their names alongside Mandalorian heroes of the past," I said vaguely. "I think it's clear that in current realities, I need all the Dominion's peoples united to defend their state's interests. I have no habit of going into battle leaving an uncontrolled planet inhabited by hundreds of thousands of combat-ready men and women who have not voiced their stance on loyalty to the Dominion and me personally."
"In other words, you are obliquely telling me that either we are with you, or you will destroy us," Hedge Spar grinned with a white-toothed smile, as if he had heard something amusing.
"I already said—either you are with us, or you leave the Dominion," I had to correct. "I did not even mention orbital bombardments that would be applied to destroy a potential enemy to avoid greater risks of losses among ground forces."
In talks with warriors, uncompromising and ruthless, one always had to raise the negotiation bar, making clear that conducting conversation was hardly a show of weakness or fear, but merely "soft power" backed by big guns and the ability to use them at the first necessity.
Words of "serious intent" meant nothing without resolve to demonstrate those "serious intents" in practice.
"Talkers" were not respected, even if they had "big guns."
But those who unhesitatingly applied the force of their forged weapons to achieve stated goals enjoyed far greater respect, even from opponents.
Logically, Spar had decided to test my mettle.
"And am I to take your word for it?" he snorted.
"By no means," I assured him, raising the comlink to my mouth. "Captain Tschel, target number one, please."
In the next second, the cantina's windows flooded with white-green glow, the ground trembled, and through the open door came the ear-splitting roar of a turbolaser strike.
The Mandalorian did not even flinch, but through the open parts of his helmet, thanks to the shape of Spar's headgear, snippets of Mandalorian speech reached me.
Evidently, his subjects were reporting to the ruler on the results of the single shot.
"Well, that dilapidated building we intended to demolish anyway," he said nonchalantly. "Just wasted tibanna for nothing."
"Or," I countered, finishing the pie, "we have vividly demonstrated to you that from low orbit, controlling all your defense forces, we can surgically strike even buildings in the city center without harming surrounding structures. In my view, one might consider whether target one was merely a ranging shot, and whether targets two and three will be the power generator and the arsenal. Or the long-vacant Hall of Battle Glory of the local population."
The Mandalorian looked at me with such intensity as if trying to nail me to the chair back.
He had perfectly understood me, as well as that I had long since sized him up.
The local Mandalorians had not participated in major conflicts for a very long time.
All their tales of ancestral battle glory were so ancient that no one living even remembered the children of those heroes.
Compared to their "elder brothers" from the Mandalorian Sector, who though not gathering for campaigns as often lately still thundered across the galaxy, the inhabitants of Kol Atorn looked even worse than "poor relatives."
I had not mentioned the vacant Trophy Hall for nothing.
Precisely trophies, won in battle against a strong foe, not an exhibition of agricultural droids or coffeemakers stolen from peaceful civilians.
"You sure know how to negotiate, Grand Admiral Thrawn," Hedge Spar smirked, rising from the table and extending his hand to me as a sign of our mutual agreement. "My Mandalorians are with you. And we hope for worthy battles with a real enemy. Chasing down natives armed with slugthrowers you can do yourselves, but for real business, you need Mandalorians."
Bravado, self-praise…
Typical attributes of those who live for battles and dream that future generations will quote them to their children.
"Take my word for it," I smiled, mirroring Spar's actions. "What awaits you, your people will surely like."
"I look forward to it," the Mandalorian snorted, raising an eyebrow to show he appreciated the firm handshake. I tried not to show how difficult it was for me. But one could not yield. Thanks to daily physical exercises—they allowed me not to disgrace myself before this planet's Mandalorian leader. "Well, now to the details. What armament does the Dominion intend to gift us, for which we on Kol Atorn are all burning to fight?"
Oh, you have no idea what awaits you in the end.
At minimum—cloning the most distinguished…