Ten years, first month, and twenty-third day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, first month, and twenty-third day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Eight months and eighth day since the arrival).
Ever since the Devaronians, more than twenty-seven thousand years ago, invented their own type of hyperdrive and ventured into the galactic expanse, many peoples considered them the living embodiment of demons from their religious—and almost always delusional—legends.
Devaronian males, in whose thick blood the irrepressible spirit of adventurism and exploration of all things new still lingered despite millennia of evolution, were encountered in every corner of the galaxy, tirelessly drawn forward to the unknown.
A Devaronian.
For Lieutenant Martok, commander of a commando assault trooper squad, the campaign in the D'Astan sector was precisely such a place.
Hundreds of systems where countless battles raged, each one a site where he and his Devaronian brothers could demonstrate their own valor and immortalize their names in glory.
And the remnants of the D'Astan army fighting on the baroness's side could snatch their piece of glory too.
Of course, compared to Martok's battle-hardened fighters, it would be simpler and healthier for those little humans not to charge into attacks, but to sit in trenches and guard bases.
Martok licked his lips as the droid waiter set a full mug of lum ale before him.
Now that was an excellent start to the day.
The two-liter vessel, gripped by the Devaronian's mighty hand, began to approach his face…
A massive shadow fell across the table before him.
"Lieutenant Martok," he heard a new voice say.
Male, authoritative, commanding.
"Well, that's me," the Devaronian replied, shaking the glass to knock off the foam while eyeing the figure approaching his table from the left.
As it turned out—not just one.
"Oho," he grinned. "Mandalorians have finally shown up in our systems. You're a bit late to the party, lads. This cantina's rented out by me for celebrating our latest victory."
Lieutenant Martok.
In truth, he was certain that only one of the two beings standing before him was a Mandalorian.
The one clad in armor from head to toe, with an impressive heavy blaster in hand.
But the second one…
Of medium height, sturdy build, military bearing, piercing gaze…
Dressed in simple field camouflage, blaster pistol on his hip.
Nothing unusual in these parts, really.
"Imperial, are you?" he asked the unarmored human.
"You can call me General," the man said, pulling up the nearest chair and sitting down. "I've been sent here to lead the joint command of the baroness's allied forces."
"No kidding," Martok took a swig of ale. "Did she sign off on you bossing me around from the afterlife?"
Instead of a thousand words and explanations of varying usefulness, the General placed a portable holoprojector before the Devaronian.
A small holographic projection appeared above it.
Martok snorted ale from his mouth in surprise.
"Bastard," came from beneath the Mandalorian's armor, on whom most of the drink had landed.
Accidentally, of course.
"Lieutenant Martok, as I've come to understand, after the battle for the Savarin subsector, you remain the senior among the officers loyal to the legitimate authority in the sector," the hologram intoned. "In light of this, without in any way diminishing your merits or relieving you of command of your assault trooper unit, I'm sending our new allies to you. Mr. General will assume command of our combined force groupings and implement the overall plan for liberating territories in the D'Astan sector occupied by bandit groups. I ask that you assist them in every way…"
"Baroness?" Martok scratched his chin with clawed fingers. "Well, suppose I saw the message. Am I to take your word that this is a genuine recording? Offhand, I know a couple of hackers who could whip up something like this for a couple of mugs of ale. And you couldn't prove otherwise…"
"Lieutenant," the "recording" said unexpectedly. "I strongly advise against interrupting me and sharing your undoubtedly profound thoughts on the nature of communication methods."
"Oh, blast my horns off!" Martok's eyes widened. "Baroness! You're alive, after all?"
"And I'll return to Nez Peron in the near future," the aristocrat declared. "By then, I'd like you to help Mr. General and our new allies resolve the issue of liberating those planets where our forces currently can't dislodge the enemy's garrisons."
"Er… Well, yes, of course…" the Devaronian faltered. "I serve to live…"
"The opposite," the General said.
"Ah, right, exactly," the Devaronian chuckled. "I live to serve."
"I count on it," the baroness's hologram faded away.
"You should've warned me," Martok tossed toward his unexpected guests, nodding to the Mandalorian toward a nearby table. "Grab a chair. Time for a war council."
A couple of minutes later, the trio settled around a small table in the cantina, silently eyeing several mugs of lum ale, simple but undoubtedly tasty snacks of various sorts, and a small deck with a built-in holoprojector that Martok had placed before himself.
"We'll pass on the drinks and food," the General said, surveying the abundance of offerings.
"That's not for you anyway," the Devaronian snorted. "It's my snack. I hate talking business on an empty stomach."
"I want to know the situation of the baroness's armed forces," the General said.
"Whatever the intent behind that question, the answer's the same: bad," Martok replied. "We control forty percent of the sector, and that's only because the Cavil Corsairs' fighters dug in and are holding every planet to the death. We hold the capital—Nez Peron, Ord Cestus, which has become, as in Republican antiquity, our headquarters and military depot. The Nalroni on Selanon also support us, and only thanks to them are we not cut off from the Hydian Way. The traders are fine with the current situation, with minimal oversight on them. In fact, thanks to the baroness's tax breaks, the Nalroni continue providing us with all necessary funding. If we lose that planet, we'll be cut off from the rest of the galaxy. That's why most of the baroness's remaining fleet is concentrated there. The enemy has made repeated attempts to seize the system, but we've repelled them with heavy losses for the rebels."
"You can't trust Nalroni," the Mandalorian said firmly. "We've dealt with that folk. If you offer them better terms, they'll betray you."
"Like any traders in the galaxy," the General stated, studying the sector map. "You hold the southern territories and systems of the sector, the enemy the northern ones."
"Mostly, yes," Martok agreed. "We have over half a dozen planets where ground fighting between our forces and the enemy's mercenaries rages nonstop. Our last attempt to counterattack in the Savarin subsector ended in massive losses—we lost all our heavy cruisers but gained no ground. We lack ships, but we have enough fighters to counter their raids. Intelligence says they now have no fewer than a dozen Kaloth-class battlecruisers alone—they arrived a few days ago, after getting bloodied in the Samarin subsector. But we took at least as much, if not more. Now the rebels are probing our defenses in several systems, sending scouts, but we're maneuvering our available forces to create the impression we have more than a hundred battle-worn corvettes."
"Are the enemy's initiative centers known?" the Mandalorian asked.
"You bet," the Devaronian snorted. "At the head are aristocrats from Serenno. As far as we know, they've had their own internal squabbles. Those who backed the D'Asta family—wiped out or taken hostage. The rest are alarmists demanding independence for themselves. The enemy controls the entire Valahari subsector, and thus their engineering and design capacities, including the shipyard. Our raider groups manage strikes on convoys and disrupt fighter production, but if they attach even a couple of 'Kaloths' to those convoys, we're in trouble. Our corvettes can't match their battlecruisers. And it'd take a ton of starfighters to really maul them, let alone destroy them. The Cavil Corsairs' light cruisers are good, but not against their heavy kin."
"In other words—your forces are small and nearly spent," the "General" said succinctly.
"What did I say?" the Devaronian grinned. "We try not to despair," he pointed to the half-empty plates on the tabletop before him. "Gloom doesn't aid digestion."
"Feasting after losing your battle brothers? Isn't that a bit cynical?" the "General" clarified.
"It was a victory," the Devaronian belched contentedly. "Especially since after all the hassle, you brought good news."
"Which would those be?" the Mandalorian wondered.
"Genius is simple," Martok drained one of the mugs. "Now you'll command this whole mess."
*
It seemed this conference room was due for a rename to "Negotiating Chamber."
How many had already been held here, and how many more to come…
"Hello, Senior Geneticist Orun Va," I said, addressing the Kaminoan escorted in under guard. "I'm Grand Admiral Thrawn. I'm the ruler and Supreme Commander of the Dominion. Our conversation is necessary."
As a typical representative of his species, Orun Va was quite tall—over two meters.
But due to his slender, by human standards, build, his weight barely exceeded sixty kilograms.
With majestic detachment, the Kaminoan settled into the indicated seat, making no remark whatsoever about my being alive.
Honestly, those exclamations had grown tiresome, but in faking my death, I'd understood the far-reaching consequences.
However, in the case of Orun Va and the Zann Consortium's base on Smarck, it was unquestionable that they simply didn't know who I was.
Given the isolation we'd imposed—quite logical.
Even if the Kaminoan was surprised to see the non-human Grand Admiral of the Dominion before him, he wouldn't show it—this race had unlearned emotion through its natural and directed evolution.
In general, emphasis on the biology of these beings was key to understanding their psychology.
From the information gathered here and known to me from the past, a coherent picture emerged.
The Kaminoans had evolved from their ancestors—some aquatic beings that inhabited Kamino's vast oceans.
And that was the key factor shaping them.
The Kaminoans retained much from their forebears.
Elongated body forms, tough epidermis that galactic layfolk whispered had luminescent qualities, glowing in the dark.
Powerful muscular framework and developed joints enabling bipedalism at such height.
The Kaminoans' almond-shaped eyes could also perceive colors in the ultraviolet spectrum. Thus, what appeared as white dwellings to ordinary sentients were actually shaded in hues humans and many other species couldn't see.
As I recalled, Phase I clone trooper armor of the Grand Army of the Republic bore special markings visible only to Kaminoans, allowing them to unerringly identify the numerical "names" of their genetic "products."
The distant past of Kamino held the secret behind their fascination with genetic experimentation.
In ancient times, the planet had endured an ice age.
Possibly—aftermath of internecine war, possibly—climatic regularity.
Establishing the fact reliably through interrogations of other Kaminoans hadn't succeeded.
And in general, few knew anything beyond their duties and work-related info.
Primarily—the geneticist specialists.
Technicians and operators were mere executors, minions treated in Kamino's caste system only slightly better than the "products" they produced. In fact—sometimes worse.
Returning to the ice age, which led to massive flooding from melting ice and permafrost retreat, it was worth noting that only through mastery of selection, genetics, and cloning had the Kaminoans survived.
The calculating survival instincts of the remnants left an indelible mark on their emerging culture.
Kaminoans were minimalists in design; perfectionists bordering on intolerance.
That was why the conference room held only a table and a pair of chairs.
However, from Orun Va's glances, one could infer even the table struck him as an impermissible and offensive luxury.
But he remained silent.
Primarily because Mara Jade stood behind me, bound to him by a brief but memorable acquaintance.
"Speak," the Kaminoan broke his vow of silence, betraying no concern through motion or tone about sharing the room with the Hand.
Hm…
Intriguing.
The geneticist sat in a closed posture.
But not the typical human "arms crossed over chest, legs crossed," but traditional for his people.
In reviewing interrogation data, I'd noted such a posture was characteristic solely of higher castes—geneticists, not mere workers.
Which raised the supposition: did Kaminoan geneticists, on orders from their government, tamper with the genomes of lower castes, thereby creating generations of unquestioning servants for themselves?
On one hand—my observations, bolstered by one geneticist's tale of how, thousands of years ago, Kaminoans experimented on their own citizens to create beings suited for galactic exploration.
Yes, a special case, and no other captives cited similar examples.
On the contrary—and this from the other side of the question—geneticists insisted they conducted no experiments on their own race.
But then, given the lack of directed behavioral conditioning in castes, how did they produce such docile service Kaminoans who even behaved differently, eschewing the geneticists' gestures?
Kaminoans in principle engaged little beyond their cloning, and interacted minimally with offworlders.
They had a separate caste for client negotiations—rulers and aides.
I'm no ichthyologist and know little of fish school behaviors, nor suspect if such patterns exist among them, but the picture evoked a beehive to me.
Not perfectly, but in many ways precisely that behavior.
Rigid caste divisions, each tending solely to its duties.
"I'm offering you and your group to work for the Dominion."
"Who manufactured your cloning cylinders?" the Kaminoan asked without preamble.
"They were produced by Spaarti Creations during the Clone Wars," I answered.
"Are we speaking of the ones you captured, or do you have more?" Orun Va inquired.
"We have more," I confirmed. "And I require geneticists to handle clone production tasks for my armed forces."
"My group possesses the necessary knowledge to operate equipment like Spaarti cloning cylinders," Orun Va said. "We can assist you in clone production. If you meet us halfway."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mara lean forward, exerting psychological pressure on my interlocutor.
By drawing attention to herself, she undoubtedly sought to remind him of their last encounter's circumstances.
Including the unambiguous hint at no bargaining for prisoners of war.
Curiously, she'd detailed the incident herself in her mission report on Smarck.
TNX-0333 had corroborated her words in his.
And the Kaminoans had recounted it verbatim under interrogation.
A certain causal element arose here.
Kaminoan psychology and economy centered on extracting profit and benefits for their race solely through genetic labor.
In the past, at the dawn of their gene experiments, Kaminoans conducted barter—providing services for imported goods.
They sought clients themselves; their number was limited but sufficient, the clientele wealthy enough that Kamino had all they requested from patrons.
In exchange, they received ideal clones tailored to needs and "specifications."
They produced any clone types: workers, miners, soldiers, assassins, prostitutes…
Kaminoans took great pride in their scientific discoveries but gave little thought to the ethics of their work or its consequences.
Their most infamous project was the design and development of the Grand Army of the Republic's clone troopers. Using Mandalorian bounty hunter Jango Fett as the template, the Kaminoans created and trained a vast clone soldier army on Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas's order. This work ultimately brought them to the brink of destruction again, as their world came under Separatist fire to halt clone trooper supplies. Kamino's defense forces, manned by specially trained clone troopers including ARC troopers, defeated the Separatist forces.
"As I recall, my Hand reminded you that prisoners of war don't bargain," I said.
"We are civilian specialists, hired workers."
"Who created clones used to undermine the Empire's foundations and destroy the Dominion," I cut in. "You're no better than those manufacturing weapons for our enemies."
"And who's to blame for that weapon being aimed at you?" Orun Va asked. "The producer or the one holding it?"
"Convenient and cynical logic," my comment had zero effect.
Well, no surprise there.
Genetics aside, I doubted even valuable specialists like Orun Va, assuming the Kamino government did experiment on charges, had their survival instinct "disabled."
"Your terms don't interest me, Orun Va," I clarified. "There are my terms. Whether you accept them as your group's leader, who they'll follow, or refuse as a potential prisoner, with the offer passing to the next geneticist in line—it matters little to me."
"My deputies lack my knowledge and qualifications," Orun Va said indifferently. "Imprisonment doesn't frighten me. Your soldiers and agent saw my clones in action. Loaded with only basic information in their heads, without training or preparation, they overpowered Smarck's garrison barehanded. I've demonstrated my competence in creating superior clones. My knowledge is in my head. Whether you lock me away or not, sooner or later you or your representatives will come to me and ask for such clones. I think it'll be when your Dominion teeters on collapse. But then my price will rise."
"By then you'll be dead," I explained. "We possess Spaarti cloning cylinders, as well as imprinting machines. Digitizing your knowledge won't be overly complex. We'll implant it in a clone. We've learned to build priority obedience and flawless order execution based on the GeNod program. As you see—my offer to let you live and pursue your beloved work is mere Dominion mercy."
What crossed Orun Va's face could be interpreted as a haughty smile.
"You're forgetting whom you're addressing, Grand Admiral," he said. "I've studied Spaarti cloning cylinder technology. They were created on Cartao solely for human clone production. They're incapable of anything else. You can't create a Kaminoan. Thus, my memories would be useless—I think in my ancestors' language, in images imperceptible to humans. Even if you try reproducing my memories—it'd look to you like no more than a set of beautiful wavy drawings."
Good, very good…
"Are you so certain?" I inquired.
Honestly, I even enjoyed debating and dialoguing with him.
Recruiting valuable cadres was like testing one's eloquence.
Different psychotypes.
Different races.
Different worldviews.
All that and more—a fine mental workout.
"I'm Kamino's premier geneticist since Ko Sai, creator of the Grand Army of the Clones, vanished," Orun Va said. "Every word of mine is precise and emphasized. You have no options but to agree to a deal with me…"
Of course.
I demonstratively focused on the deck.
I needed just one holofile from the Chimaera's supercargo databank.
An old file—several months old.
Some effort required.
"Continue," noting Orun Va had fallen silent, I looked up from the screen and gestured permissively for him not to stop. "Your terms. You're so insistent on them that I'm curious now. State them—perhaps they'll even intrigue me."
Orun Va barely perceptibly rocked his tiny head on his long neck, demonstrating superiority over his opponent.
"My people and I will receive substantial compensation for our work," Orun Va said. "We'll have comfortable laboratories and personal quarters. You won't oversee my work, won't look over my shoulder"—as if that were convenient—"won't use my clones against my people—I'll ensure that in their programming. Also, you…"
Found it.
"You're entirely right, Orun Va," I interrupted the Kaminoan's delusional demands, turning the deck screen toward my interlocutor. "We can't create your clone on a Spaarti cloning cylinder. And you seized the moment to simply demand terms for your cooperation with us. I heard your speech. Now hear me. Are you familiar with this exemplar of advanced genetic technology?"
The Kaminoan blinked.
For an instant, his pale lids closed over his almond-shaped eyes.
"That's a Kamino-produced cloning cylinder," the cloner identified infallibly. "And the knowledge-implantation apparatus we used during the creation of the Clone Wars."
"Excellent that you recognize it," I set the deck aside. "Given that Kaminoans once produced clones of hundreds, if not thousands, of races on this very equipment, I'm certain it'll suit Kaminoan cloning too. In general, I have a theory that's precisely how you create your technicians and other service personnel, who differ from clones only physiologically for you."
Now a bet on Orun Va's loquacity.
"Yes, you could make a Kaminoan clone on our equipment," the geneticist didn't disappoint. "But for that, you'd have to venture south of the Rishi Maze and subjugate the planet, as well as my kin. I think you'll have issues with that, given how long the Zann Consortium has held my world."
"That's precisely why I'm offering you a final chance at cooperation," I smiled politely. "You'll forget all your wishes and hear what I say. First—the Zann Consortium won't learn that you, offended by their inattentive treatment of your own genetic enhancements, demonstrated your clones' capabilities to us, effectively gifting us the Smarck base and everything left inside, including Spaarti cloning cylinders, and your own team, for future collaboration."
The Kaminoan sat silent, scrutinizing me intently.
He seemed intrigued.
Of course.
He surely understood that losing the Smarck base not on Makus Kaynif's terms would only enrage those behind him.
And a galaxy-wide hunt for Kaminoans would ensue.
"Second. After what's said in this compartment, you and your subordinates will work under tight oversight and monitoring by our specialists. You'll explain every action to them, elucidate every algorithm and DNA sequence. If it's learned you've tampered with my clones' genetics in any way—you'll be killed."
"I can alter their programming without touching their bodies," Orun Va blustered on.
Judging by Mara's emotionless expression, she was already mentally flaying the cool-headed one into strips.
Though, we'd conducted no deep probes on Kaminoans yet, so perhaps, like some of Mother Earth's aquatic dwellers, they were warm-blooded.
"I'll disappoint you. My people handle clone programming via imprinting machines excellently on their own. So that'll proceed without your involvement."
"You're imposing terms while directly dependent on me," the Kaminoan smirked again. "That's illogical."
"Continuing," ignoring his remark was again met with interest by the Kaminoan. Evidently, he'd grasped I held a certain ace up my sleeve and now hoped to hear it. "Your clone demonstration truly intrigued me. As did your role in the Null- and Alpha-class clone commando projects, which during the Clone Wars handled the most critical and dangerous missions. Successfully. You noted you'd corrected flaws in creating those clone types. I want to know which ones and how."
Kaminoans deemed themselves life's pinnacle form yet remained polite to outsiders.
Any species striving for self-perfection merited respect, but those who didn't, in Kaminoan view, were inferior.
And now I played on the geneticist's professional interest.
"For what purpose do you wish to know this?" he asked.
"To revive those programs," I explained. "As reported, you've already met my fighters from the Fourth Special Storm Commando Unit. And even rated one as promising for further study."
A bit of logic, no deceit.
Due to long isolation, Kaminoans were xenophobes toward other lifeforms, but most saw them as merely outwardly modest.
They also displayed great skill and care for their creations, yet treated them as products.
That was why I dangled the chance to continue personal research, to "hook" him.
They'd worked with humans before, so I doubted major issues resuming Colonel Selid's program…
"Your clone is decent," Orun Va said. "But imperfect. And never will be."
…would arise.
"Elaborate," I demanded, mentally cross-referencing reports of his Smarck base behavior with his current utterances.
"Every cloning candidate of mine is an art exemplar, selected by specific criteria. Your clone—a soldier. He's no object of my professional interest. Such work merits neither my attention nor direct involvement."
Bargaining.
"But that didn't stop you from cloning those delivered to you by Makus Kaynif," Mara interjected.
Her face showed she was at a certain boiling point.
"Because they were all originals," the Kaminoan continued. "Your clone is a product. You can't make a new product from a product. The laws of genetics and cloning are inviolable. Cloning a clone dooms the entire population to extinction. DNA chain degradation is subtle but destructive, afflicting the clone with dementia."
"In other words, TNX-0333 interested you not as a template for new clones, but as an individual platform for enhancement?" I clarified.
"Yes," Orun Va replied. "A singular specimen. I could work on him to address various human issues, like correcting your genetic errors, but that's mere diversion to kill time once the lab's operational. That's how I created enhanced-design 'Vulture' clones."
Well, well, well—this was getting interesting.
The sentient was off on professional tangents.
I saw his disdainful expression and understood his haughtiness and offended grandeur compelled him to explain such "simple" matters.
"The enhanced 'Vultures' were altered pre-cloning process," I inferred. "You intervened in the original's DNA or worked with provided blood samples?"
"The second option is more laborious and was used for the Grand Army of the Republic on Kaminoan equipment. There, embryonic development allows separating product streams for specific specialties. Spaarti cloning cylinders lack that. What you load into the autoclave is what you get out."
"In other words, your task was to use one genotype for all 'Vulture' subunits," I summarized. "And for time savings, you altered the original donor."
"That's what I said," the Kaminoan declared, clearly "adrift" in his work. "Using the original and observing sentient selection, one can derive a superior product. For instance, I could modify your Hand's genes," Jade flinched. "She'd become faster, stronger, more agile. Reaction speed would increase via nervous system and muscular framework modification. I'd make for you an ideal…"
"Over my dead body," Mara spat.
I could swear she gripped her lightsaber.
"Moreover," Orun Va stated. "I'd ensure all changes passed to her offspring hereditarily."
"You're speaking of instilling dominant genes," I said. "Which form through evolution."
"Precisely," the Kaminoan agreed. "Changes we make for clones are recessive. Even if they mate and produce offspring, none of the gene set we implanted in the clone will pass to its progeny."
Note that thought.
As I recalled, at least one descendant of a modified ARC clone and… a Jedi existed.
Curious what the Kaminoan would say to that?
Well, keep the useful info to myself.
As with the fact that Kaminoans could reverse all they'd done to human genes.
But naturally, they wouldn't.
Bad for business.
Accelerated aging program was the basis for rapid clone growth.
But some clones—the "Nulls" and those ARCs who'd joined them—had shed that affliction.
With the aforementioned Ko Sai's aid.
Thus—Kaminoans could grant clones normal lifespans.
But didn't in their "in-house" work.
Why?
For the same reason they didn't pass altered genes to clones' children.
Because the client might breed bastards to economize on future clone purchases.
Thus—the product appeared as an ordinary sentient but aged twice as fast.
Say, for a miner—his death was merely a matter of time.
From old age or unbearable work conditions—the question wasn't crucial currently.
Yet—he couldn't sire a child with the same traits Kaminoans had given him, who might later replace the father in the same labors.
And the mine owner would return to Kaminoans for new products—reentering the same cycle.
Given the costliness of genetic profiling research, one could say the cloners were quite comfortably situated.
"Well, your speech was informative, Orun Va," I said. "Beyond doubt, I won't yield my Hand to you under any pretext. I'm aware Kaminoans have experimented repeatedly with Force-sensitive sentients' genes. Certain that since you deem yourself successful with 'Vultures,' you hope to continue other research."
"Of course—I'm a scientist," Orun Va agreed. "You have the original of my 'Vultures.' Alter loyalty settings in training programs—and keep producing them. This woman is strong, enduring…"
"And dead," I added. "The Zann Consortium destroyed all cargo ships storing lifted cargoes and bodies upon retreat. Whatever you did with the 'Vultures' original, she's gone."
"Confirmed?" Now the Kaminoan was clearly puzzled.
"Your own 'Vultures' blew the ships to keep the precious cargo from our hands," I explained. "So you'll have to restart your work."
"That's laborious," Orun Va frowned. "New donor, new genes, new experiments…"
Intriguing development.
"I'm ready to commence the task of creating the clones you require," Orun Va declared.
He changed his mind quickly.
And I doubted personal "whims" were the cause.
No—this sentient was doing exactly what I was now.
"You changed your view on cooperating rather swiftly," Mara said.
She, as prearranged, played the destabilizing element, pointing out flaws in the Kaminoan's logic.
"Simply—now I'm certain you'll agree," the Kaminoan stated. "The 'Vultures' donor is destroyed, so you can't implant her imprint-machine data into other clones' minds—that'd cause degradation in short order."
Precisely why our Colonel Selid clones "ran out" so fast, after he stuffed his memories into four thousand varied clones. Only those whose incubators got the ex-Mount Tantiss commandant's own DNA lucked out.
The rest… "Perished on mission."
That's the official phrasing for how clones with the colonel's memories but lacking his body were culled from "circulation" upon dementia onset and frozen in carbonite.
Destroying or letting them continue missions—foolish.
Perhaps the process could be reversed…
"And you can't do anything about that degradation," Orun Va dashed (for now) my hopes. "You produce clones, and you succeed. But not all that well—otherwise, you wouldn't send your agent into enemy rear for capturing foe cloners. From what I saw in your storm commando unit—one clone and three normals—either you have equipment issues hence mixed units, or you've run out of suitable cloning originals for specific specializations. And you hope my group and I can restore the original's genocode and continue saturating your troops with specific clones. That can't be done—I've explained why. You can extract any info from your existing clones' heads, but implanting into other genotypes—you can't. Human genetics won't allow such experiments. The promised dementia will ensue. And wasting precious time producing clones who'll forget which end to grip their weapon from in weeks—profligate. You have no other options—you need my help. And you'll get it on my terms! Only thus!"
I calmly regarded the Kaminoan before me, mentally applauding him.
Yes, he'd grasped the essence of some of our issues in his superior field.
And drawn nearly correct conclusions.
The problem was—while he gleaned info from me during the talk, I'd done the same regarding him.
"All said?" I clarified.
"Yes," the cloner replied.
"Well, I can congratulate you—you've just proven your knowledge's value as a specialist," I said.
"As already stated—I'm essential to you!"
"Not you," Mara said, poorly concealing her moral satisfaction. "Just your knowledge."
"The problem is—you won't get it," the cloner retorted. "I won't yield it voluntarily; you can't force me to labor under torture. I won't work on foreign terms."
"And you won't have to," I stated. "Your clone will do it for you."
"Which you can't produce in your Spaarti cloning cylinders," the Kaminoan reminded me. "And even if you hurl forces at reclaiming Kamino, it'll take you ten years…"
"Four to five months," I corrected. "Yes, we're aware of ysalamiri's effect on accelerating cloning."
"But you lack the lizards themselves," the Kaminoan geneticist fished for arguments.
"To your misfortune—we have them," Mara barely hid the venom in her voice now. "Or do you think we clone by the year, as Spaarti protocol dictates? No. Fifteen standard days—and we have a combat-ready clone, whose skills and knowledge update perpetually via originals' successes."
"Your aid was needed only in certain aspects, which you obligingly detailed in this conversation," I said. "And thanks for the candor—working with you is dangerous. But your clone…"
"Conquer Kamino first," for the first time in our talk, emotion crossed the cloner's face.
Yes, spite and sarcasm, but still.
"And I guarantee no resident there will cooperate with Empire followers, no matter your terms," Orun Va continued with undisguised venom.
"Currently, I possess just over twenty-seven thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders," I admitted. "In two cycles, the Dominion can outfit a full squadron of ships or six stormtrooper legions. But that's details. The key—you won't see it."
"I'll live long enough till you conquer Kamino…"
"You'll live exactly," I said, "as long as needed to grow your clone in the Kaminoan cylinder I possess. And he'll obediently do as commanded."
"You're lying," Orun Va blurted. "You can't have such technology! It was never supplied anywhere and isn't now!"
"Then, perhaps you forget how much time the Empire spent on Kamino, absorbing your secrets," I said. "The cylinder is fully operational—I already created my own clone some time ago. And he successfully completed the task."
Pity that copying my memory failed to recover Mitth'raw'nuruodo's knowledge.
Seemed they were lost forever…
But nothing to grieve.
"Then why this meeting?" the clearly enraged Kaminoan geneticist leaned forward.
"Simply to obtain the info I seek," I shrugged. "And the necessary, valuable experience interacting with your caste representative, which gave all answers on making your subordinates work in your absence. Until the clone's ready, of course. After, I'll let you savor the moments as he, like a droid, obediently executes my orders. I won't hide it—I'm curious how severe your identity crisis will be when you realize you've shifted from 'producer' to 'product'?"
"You're conducting psychological experiments on me," Orun Va stated. "You're an experimenter seeking perfection too? Then you're my colleague, albeit in an adjacent field."
Even admiration tinged his voice.
It was so repulsive— hearing approval from his mouth—that I barely restrained a grimace of disgust.
When an engine mechanic calls a surgeon a colleague just because both work on a moving object's "heart," the mechanic either gets punched or offered to overhaul the engine while running.
In my experience, no "mechanoids" had succeeded yet.
Physics and biology were sciences, sure, but not of the same thing.
"Don't try ingratiating via fabricated commonalities," I cut off his psychic encroachments, eyes fixed on his. "And as 'colleague to colleague,' Senior Geneticist, I'll share a secret. Results from working with you and your fellows will let me devise the optimal tactic for engaging your kin. So they'll, unlike you, serve the Dominion willingly after liberation from Zann Consortium control."
"You're a monster," Orun Va pronounced. "Villain, murderer, racial identity destroyer like all Imperials!"
Mara laughed outright, making the Kaminoan twitch nervously and glance about.
These "final throes with accusations" always played like a comedic skit.
"You've no idea how right you are," I agreed. "Fortunately for us all, no one offered me the galactic hero slot."