Ten years, the second month, and the seventeenth day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, the second month, and the seventeenth day after the Great ReSynchronization.
(Nine months and two days since the moment of arrival).
When the delegation of activists from the Karthakk sector entered the negotiation chamber, Captain Vivant unconsciously tensed.
Just three people—who would, one way or another, deliver their verdict on the proposal that had been made.
And their decision would determine whether he had succeeded… or failed.
The ship's commander glanced at the chief engineer, Nick Reyes, seated beside him.
The man was aboard the Endurance solely as a technical consultant—to assess the starships of the Karthakk Sector Forces from the standpoint of their professional suitability for further service with the Dominion.
Of course, only if the negotiations went according to plan.
Otherwise, the Endurance—having undergone emergency repairs and restored ninety percent of its combat capability after the recent battle in the Musson system—would simply reduce those starships to cosmic dust.
Then an emerald-green rain of turbolaser fire would fall upon the surface of Ord Selbus.
Orbital bombardment would erase any trace of planetary fortifications from the face of the world.
Afterward, stormtroopers would land on the sector forces' base and finish what had been started.
Only then could organized resistance in the sector be considered eliminated.
The remaining numerous pirate bands, outcasts, adventurers, slavers, and other criminal scum would be hunted down and flawlessly destroyed.
Dominion Intelligence had been operating in the sector ever since the capture of the Karthakk system.
They already knew most of the threats.
The rest would be mopped up once a blockade was imposed.
That would, of course, require sending several Interdictors or Immobilizer 418s here, but the security of the base on Lok demanded that the sector be subdued at any cost.
"Captain Vivant," the middle-aged man wearing colonel's insignia addressed the commander of the Endurance. His appearance, posture, and bearing openly proclaimed a military past and present.
Vivant decided to simply call him "Colonel" in his own mind.
Because the names these people bore were so long and ornate that you could break your tongue and tie it in knots twice before pronouncing one correctly.
"The Karthakk Sector Forces command has studied the Dominion's proposal," the man continued.
"I'm glad to hear it," Vivant replied, striving to keep his voice calm. "What is your answer?"
"First we would like to clarify a few points," the delegation leader warned. "The demands you have presented… they are rather unusual."
"Not demands," Vivant corrected. "A proposal."
"Nevertheless," the interlocutor grunted. "They have been presented to us. And we would like to understand what lies behind those words."
"Tavira said the document on joining the Dominion was written in plain, understandable language," Vivant thought with an inward grimace.
Negotiating at this level was not his specialty.
He felt far more comfortable on a bridge commanding a battle than in all this chatter.
"Essentially, it is built on Imperial postulates," the man went on, "but with significant changes. So… what exactly is your form of government? There is so much mixed together that our lieutenant-political officer nearly lost his mind trying to figure it out."
"I'd like to figure it out myself," Vivant silently admitted.
Aloud he said something entirely different:
"What exactly is unclear to you?"
"Let's go point by point," the Colonel nodded to the officer seated on his right. "Better let the major…"—again those endless names—"explain it in simple terms. I don't understand a bantha's worth of it anyway."
"Welcome to the club," Vivant thought.
"So, there are several historically established forms of state structure," the Major began. "Many of them exist now only nominally, yet still retain real…"
"Keep it short, Major," the Colonel demanded.
"From the text of the provisions on the political structure, two mutually exclusive points can be identified in the Dominion," the Major continued. "The admission of new territories into the state on the basis of a corresponding treaty—that is a hallmark of a contractual federation. The election of local self-government bodies—city heads, district heads, settlement heads—all the way up to planetary governors—also points to federal features. Yet at the same time you have the hallmark of a unitary state: the appointment of sector moffs. I finished my political-science courses long ago, but combining two types of territorial structure like this is simply impossible. You end up with a relatively decentralized unitary state. But it cannot be unitary because you have administrative-territorial divisions—sectors and systems. That again points to federalism. It feels as though you took the most valuable elements from the experience of the Empire and the Old Republic, somehow tied them together, and presented it as a completely new form of territorial organization the galaxy has never seen before. Some kind of super-republic or half-Empire…"
"What exactly is the complaint?" Vivant asked, his head already beginning to ache from the conversation.
"We are trying to grasp what simply does not fit in our heads," the Colonel explained.
"You can't just take 'something good' from one state, graft it onto another, implant something from a third, and so on!" the Major insisted heatedly.
"Why not?" Nick Reyes suddenly spoke up. "It is perfectly possible."
"How is that possible?" the Major threw up his hands. "It isn't written in any historical or political-science textbook!"
"If you keep living by one textbook alone, you won't live long," Vivant declared. "Whatever this system of government is called…"
"Form," the Major corrected.
"What?" Vivant didn't understand.
"Form of state structure," the Major repeated. "There is no such thing as a 'system of state structure.' You can speak that way, but it's illiterate and you'll simply be…"
"Major," the Colonel interrupted his subordinate's tirade.
"Yes, sir?"
"Shut your mouth," the senior officer ordered. "You will open it only when addressed. Understood?"
"Perfectly, sir," the Major deflated.
"Very well," Vivant continued where he had left off. "Let the political scientists figure out the form of government of the Dominion. I have my own tasks. The main thing is that it works—the inhabitants of the planets themselves elect those who will handle their local issues. The Triumvirate appoints moffs at its discretion—those who are capable of controlling events in their sector, establishing order, solving planetary-government problems, and getting the economy running. In all the time the Dominion has existed there have been no issues with this. Everyone knows their part of the work and performs it. And if someone fails to perform with full dedication—counterintelligence comes for them. And a new sentient appears in the place of the one who faltered."
"Yes, one more thing I wanted to ask," the Major piped up. "The treaty states that national settlements—enclaves—for members of various species are permitted. Does that mean you have national autonomies?"
"If by autonomies you mean signs of sovereignty or an independent foreign policy—no," the commander of the star destroyer Endurance replied. "National enclaves are limited at most to individual planet-systems governed by elected planetary governors."
"Fine, but there is still a question about the form of government," the Colonel said. "Major, your turn."
"Thank you, sir. So, it turns out that you have a supreme official—the sentient holding the post of Grand Admiral of the Dominion. He is simultaneously Supreme Commander-in-Chief and guarantor of the rights and freedoms of the inhabitants and citizens of the Dominion. Yet at the same time there is the Triumvirate—composed of representatives of the executive branch: the Grand Moff, the head of the special services, and the commander of the Armed Forces. Or their deputies are appointed to those posts. At the same time the Grand Admiral possesses something akin to unlimited power. Yet the Triumvirate also handles a broad range of tasks. In effect we are talking about a kind of duelist monarchy. But in the classic understanding of the term, the power of the head of state must be limited by a constitution or other laws—yours is unlimited. How does that even work?"
"Simply," Vivant said grimly. "It just works. The Grand Admiral sets tasks for the Triumvirate—they carry them out."
"You mean 'set'?" the Colonel asked.
Nick Reyes coughed into his fist.
Vivant once again mentally listed everything he thought about his dear self.
"That is correct," he agreed. "I think we, as military men, should all understand that the Dominion was born on the ruins of the Empire and was created from the standpoint of military efficiency. So it is foolish to look for clear political doctrines or terminology here."
"I'll buy that," the Colonel said. "Very well, let us move on to the Armed Forces. As far as I understand, you have dualism in the army and the navy?"
"That is correct," Vivant confirmed. "There are the regular Armed Forces, and there are the Defense Forces. The former are formed exclusively on a voluntary contract basis. The latter—on a voluntary conscription basis."
"Why make it so complicated?" the Colonel frowned. "The Empire conscripted everyone in sight into the Armed Forces and never had any problems forming whatever it needed."
"We do not possess the capabilities or resources of the Empire," Captain Vivant replied. "That is precisely why military service is exclusively voluntary. Conscripts who have served in the Defense Forces receive citizenship of the Dominion and, with it, expanded rights and duties. From the government's point of view, every patriotically minded inhabitant of the state who is prepared to defend its borders and internal stability should have more advantages than those who wish to remain in the rear and not take up arms."
"Defending the state is the sacred duty of every man," the Colonel nodded with understanding. "That we get and accept. But why not everyone? Why not total conscription? That would allow the creation of a multi-million—possibly multi-billion—army in the shortest possible time."
"That statement contains the very problem," Vivant said. "In the Dominion any sentient living on the territory of the state may volunteer for military service."
"Regardless of medical category?" the Colonel frowned.
"No restrictions," Vivant declared. "Service in our Armed Forces is not only front-line duty. A sentient with poor health may be unfit for combat infantry service, watch-standing, or guard duty. But he can easily serve as a technician, doctor, medic, flight coordinator, cargo-transport driver, and so forth. Civilian professional specialties are also taken into account during assignment. We have a large number of medics who are not human—almost seventy percent of the military-medical service. And they perform superbly in their roles, providing treatment and rehabilitation for our fighters. A considerable number of non-humans have joined the Dominion Reconnaissance Corps—they conduct survey and mapping of planets within the Dominion, primarily those that were not properly explored during the Empire or the Old Republic. Many non-humans unfamiliar with complex technology serve as guards on newly settled worlds. Or as construction workers. First reconnaissance droids enter a new planet, then the sentient contingent arrives and carries out the actual work. When they finish in one world, they move on to the next."
"From myself I can add that a considerable number of civilians have signed contracts with the Dominion Engineering Corps and work at factories and shipyards, repairing ships and equipment far from the front," Reyes said. "Their lives are in no danger. Many such civilian specialists choose alternative military service—in which case they are sent not to training units but to defense-industry enterprises in their specialty. During their service they receive all the guarantees given to regular conscripts, and if they wish to extend their service into the regular forces and meet the requirements, they are transferred to enterprises also under military oversight. There you can't slack off—military acceptance does not allow slipshod work. Those are not civilian state standards in technical-control departments; those are military specializations, military norms, requirements, and responsibility for failing to meet them."
And both men had experienced all the "charms" of those norms on their own hides not long ago.
And continued to do so—failure to meet scheduled state-task deadlines was something the Dominion did not forgive.
"Not to mention that it is the volunteer conscripts who serve as the personnel operating orbital defense stations and customs control," Vivant added. "As well as planetary anti-air and anti-orbital defense systems. Under the supervision of regular Armed Forces officers, naturally."
"Then what is the difference between the Defense Forces and the regular Armed Forces?" the Colonel asked in bewilderment.
"Layered defense of worlds is Dominion tactic," Vivant explained. "But for an enemy to reach our planets they must first pass through the regular army and navy. And there serve only those who fully understand what war is. Who have combat experience and the corresponding length of front-line service. The Defense Forces cannot boast of that—their training is primarily theoretical. They gain combat experience during service under regular-force officers. While patrolling Dominion systems there are periodic clashes with various armed groups—pirates, slavers, criminals, and other scum. In time, after serving the minimum term, receiving appropriate recommendations or earning distinctions, a fighter gains the right to sign a contract with the regular Armed Forces. Then follows intensive theoretical and practical training in the army and navy academies within active units."
"If I understand correctly, the Defense Forces handle direct rear-area security, while the regular forces conduct combat operations on the borders and beyond the Dominion?" the Colonel clarified.
"In general terms—yes," Vivant confirmed.
"In that case, the armed forces of systems and sectors that join will be assigned to the Defense Forces?" the man pressed.
"Upon demonstrating combat experience and meeting requirements, a request for transfer to the regular forces may be submitted," Vivant explained. "Practically all military personnel from newly joined sectors exercise that right."
"And they go straight into the regular forces?" the Colonel asked.
"If their qualifications match—yes; if not—into training units and institutions."
"Why not simply train everyone the same way?" the Colonel wondered. "Even at the conscription stage sort sentients into regular-force training units and prepare them to regular army and navy standards."
"The difference is in the intensity of training," Vivant said. "For regulars it is far higher and more grueling. Not every yesterday's farmer can endure twenty standard hours of continuous simulator training or drill that pushes you to exhaustion. Not all are medically fit even for general training."
"Broadly understandable," the Colonel said after a moment's thought. "The system, though complex, allows sifting those motivated to serve on the front from those who only want to defend their homes and nothing more. However, a differentiated approach based on health categories and professional skills is something new. The Empire simply rejected those who did not meet fitness criteria."
"And as a result there appeared people who harbored grudges against the Empire," Vivant reminded. "Not everyone can serve on the front. Traveling the galaxy inside a star destroyer isn't for everyone either. But if a sentient is unfit for front-line service he can take a post in a staff, an operations-tactical center, or rear services. Fill a vacancy that under other circumstances might have gone to someone fit for service on a destroyer or in an AT-AT regiment—simply because staff assignment happened faster than transfer to a combat unit."
"Yes, military bureaucracy is as imperfect as civilian," the Colonel grinned. "So I assume those who served in the regular forces receive more benefits than those who served only in the Defense Forces?"
"Of course," Vivant agreed. "Regulars receive full medical insurance for life. Conscripts—only for injuries sustained during service. Regulars, once on civilian status, have priority over conscripts when applying for state or state-private enterprises. Both during and after service they are exempt from all types of taxes—the exact category depends on contract length, merits, wounds, rank, combat participation, personal distinctions, etc. Conscripts are largely exempt only from territorial and sectoral taxes levied by local administrations."
"Not to mention that regulars are paid more, right?" the Colonel smirked.
"Naturally," the commander of the Endurance agreed. "A sentient who joins the regular Armed Forces not only receives a higher salary but is absolutely certain that in the event of his death the state will take care of his family. And during service they want for nothing—the same unlimited insurance applies, their children get into schools and kindergartens faster. In truth there are so many advantages to serving in the regular Armed Forces that we wouldn't have enough of a day to list them all here and now. Frankly, I myself don't remember or even know more than half of them. A regular need only present his service card listing his merits at any government office and the officials will tell him everything he is entitled to and help choose the best option. Preferential bank loans, for example, are very popular among young officers. And mid- and senior-ranking commanders are not averse to them either. Though the longer you serve, the more it becomes an interest-free installment plan. Pay back exactly what you took. Given the stability of the Dominion currency, even talk of inflation is negligible. The real sector of the economy allows it to be crushed if it tries to raise its head above hundredths of a percent."
"'Bank'?" the Colonel clarified. "The Dominion has only one bank?"
"For state employees—yes," Vivant confirmed. "All state payments to officials, military personnel, and social-sphere workers pass through it. Civilian state employees also enjoy significant benefits compared to the private sector, but that is dictated by the responsibility they bear for the functioning of the state apparatus and the implementation of state objectives. Naturally there are dishonest officials—counterintelligence punishes them mercilessly. In the best case such people face lengthy corrective labor with confiscation of all property and hefty fines—"
"In other words, serving the good of the Dominion is profitable," the Colonel said dreamily.
"First and foremost—honorable," Vivant corrected. "The Dominion is above all else in this galaxy. That must be understood, accepted, and lived by. For military personnel the honor and authority of the state come first. The truly lavish bonuses for good and proper service are a pleasant addition that gives you the understanding that you are not wasting most of your life in space killing the Dominion's enemies for nothing."
"Still, I don't understand how with such an approach to manning the Armed Forces you manage to deftly operate dozens of ships," the Colonel frowned. "It takes years to turn a greenhorn into a real soldier."
"That is exactly why I said not everyone can endure regular-force training," Vivant explained. "Our training programs are grueling, lengthy, and extremely effective."
"And we have clones," he added silently. "That is why the Dominion will never lack a combat-ready core for its forces. Clones see themselves nowhere except in military service. Benefits and salaries are largely irrelevant to them—being on full state support they need nothing else. Even when wounded clones always strive to return to the Armed Forces—if not to front-line units, then at least to rear ones."
"What about the economy?" the Colonel asked.
"All major enterprises capable of producing dual-use—civilian and military—products are in state-private ownership with state oversight," Vivant explained.
"Including those involved in the production, maintenance, and repair of military equipment?" the Colonel asked in surprise.
"No," Reyes said. "Those are exclusively state-run. Which in turn allows workers not to worry that their rights will be infringed. Salaries at such enterprises are higher than in the private sector. But only Dominion citizens are admitted—those who have completed either voluntary conscription service in the Defense Forces or its alternative civilian variant. For example, Arakyd Industries, which produces both civilian and military droids, landspeeders, and spare parts, operates entirely as a state-private partnership. And they are perfectly content—Dominion technical-control standards are high even in the civilian sector, but that allows Keldabe to sell very high-quality goods at premium prices galaxy-wide. And having the Dominion as the sole customer for military hardware also brings them serious money without worrying about conscription of their employees even in the hypothetical event of full mobilization, which could adversely affect production and profit."
"Yes, mobilization is exactly what I wanted to discuss next," the Colonel said. "That is a relic of the Empire. Is it really necessary?"
"At the moment it is nothing more than a law the government may resort to only when the state is on the brink of destruction," Vivant clarified. "There must always be a reserve plan. No one is eager to conscript billions of men and women at once just to watch victories on the battlefield and economic stagnation in the rear due to the loss of competent personnel. Qualified soldiers should fight, not civilians. But if the regular army is destroyed or suffers excessive losses, mobilization remains the only way to defend the state. Rest assured—we have enough regular troops and Defense Forces to repel any threat without resorting to mobilization of the Dominion's population. There is no enemy yet that we could not handle."
Vivant did not voice it, but he perfectly understood that if the threat of Palpatine's armada or the Yuuzhan Vong—of whom the Grand Admiral had spoken—remained and was not reduced to an acceptable level, mobilization would have to be considered.
No matter how severe the consequences for the Dominion's economy.
Industry can be rebuilt.
It is difficult, lengthy, but possible.
But creating a state from ruins is far harder.
"The treaty contains a note that if worlds within the Dominion refuse to assist with conscription into the Defense Forces, their taxes will be increased proportionally," the Colonel clarified.
"That is correct," Vivant confirmed. "If a local government does not wish to aid in its own defense by sending citizens for military training, they have another choice—to help train other, more conscientious inhabitants with financial contributions. Such clauses are used mainly by trade worlds and economically developed planets. Though not all. On Makem Te, for example, there are a great many volunteers for both the Defense Forces and the regular Armed Forces. At the same time the government, in order to support the Dominion that provides them protection and active trade opportunities, sends considerably more credits to the state budget than required by law. Surprisingly, local self-government officials exploited loopholes and reservations in tax legislation to slightly raise tax rates among the population and thereby increase budget revenue."
"Rather strange behavior for merchants," the Colonel said suspiciously.
"More than," Vivant agreed. "But once you understand that Makem Te is one of the most remote peripheral worlds of the Dominion, alongside Keldabe for instance, their initiative in larger contributions becomes clear. Their governments fully understand that no one except the Dominion will protect and support them so actively. The more credits they send to the state budget—the stronger their protection will be."
Given that some of the strongest defensive lines in the Dominion have been built in orbit around Keldabe and Makem Te, and the largest and most combat-capable squadrons maintain combat patrol in those systems—the compromise is worth accepting with a clear conscience."
"Sounds too good to be true," the Colonel said after several minutes of reflection, voicing what lay on his heart. "The Empire never behaved this way. Indulgences, popularization of service, provision of layered defense. All of that costs enormous sums!"
"From the Dominion government's perspective it is perfectly rational," Vivant countered. "The population works for the good of the Dominion. The Dominion works for the favorable existence and protection of its population. The more you give the Dominion, the more it gives you."
"And what happens to those who do not work for the Dominion?" the Major asked, earning a disapproving glance from the Colonel. "Your document states that labor is voluntary. What do those who do not wish to work receive? Unemployment benefits? Labor camps?"
"The latter are reserved exclusively for criminals and prisoners of war," Vivant replied. "Yes, you are right. Completely right. There are always those who do not wish to work honestly. Anyone who wants to work will always find a suitable option. If they cannot find employment themselves—local authorities will help. There is always plenty of work; one need only find what one enjoys."
"And what do you do with inveterate parasites?" the Major persisted. "Crime lords, for instance, will never work officially. Especially not for the state."
"Of course they won't," Vivant readily agreed. "That is why we have law-enforcement agencies—to deprive all sorts of bandits of the opportunity for illegal and criminal earnings. And counterintelligence tracks down and eliminates organized crime. Sometimes with the support of regular Armed Forces."
"Even in the Empire's day there were beggars who saw no other way to survive except charity from more fortunate sentients," the Colonel said. "Undoubtedly they exist in the Dominion sectors as well. There are plenty in Karthakk too."
"In that case they must choose—either find work, or hope they can feed themselves that way," Vivant said laconically. "The state did not support and will never support parasites and idlers. He who works—eats. He who does not wish to—that is his choice."
"But some are so ill that they would not qualify for even the lowest-paid jobs," the Major persisted.
"Where there's a will, there's a way," Vivant said. "The Dominion meets those who wish to work halfway. Health can be restored, prosthetics fitted, retraining provided, or transport arranged to another planet with a suitable vacancy—simply apply to local self-government bodies. A treatment loan will be provided, to be repaid by the future worker after employment. And the payments are so small that repayment can stretch for years, even decades. One need only overcome one's laziness and ask an official how state employees can help."
"I would send such people to forced construction duty on newly settled planets," the Colonel admitted. "No point cluttering the streets and spoiling the view with begging."
"The Triumvirate—and the Grand Admiral—hold different views on the matter," Vivant said coolly. "I will repeat what I already said: 'He who works—eats.' And that is not merely a phrase—it is Grand Admiral Thrawn's resolution imposed on the bill concerning the voluntary labor of the Dominion's population. No one will be forced. If you want to live—get your rear off the pavement, walk to the nearest public-information point, listen to the Dominion's support and rehabilitation programs, and take a step toward changing your once-miserable life. But if you don't want to—then survive as best you can. Why should the money of taxpayers—honest workers who are inhabitants and citizens of the Dominion, who pay taxes—be spent supporting idlers who only wish to parasitize on others' backs?"
"Sounds logical," the Colonel reluctantly acknowledged. "Well… Now the most important question. The Karthakk Sector Forces agree to become part of the Dominion. But we are not responsible for the entire sector—a significant portion is under the control of pirate or gangster groups. Spice smuggling has reached threatening proportions, and the money from its sale attracts large numbers of mercenaries, adventurers, cutthroats, and other criminals here. Often they possess ships and armament equal to—or superior to—ours. The sector forces, diminished after the battle in the Musson system, are clearly insufficient to deal with them. Even if we are reorganized into Sector Defense Forces, a very large force will be required to rid ourselves of them."
Captain Vivant allowed himself an inward sigh of relief.
That the Karthakk sector activists would accept the offer of voluntary annexation had been the most likely outcome of the negotiations.
But not absolutely guaranteed.
The activists had weakened; the bandits had grown bolder.
Having armed themselves at their own expense, the Sector Forces had practically exhausted their resources.
Had the New Republic provided timely support, they would undoubtedly have refused.
But now they were left to their own devices.
And they perfectly understood that without outside help they could never improve the situation in their native sector.
The Colonel understood perfectly well that the hopeless fight against crime would sooner or later either lead to the destruction of his group—as had happened during the previous incursion by the Zann Consortium into the Karthakk sector—or to desertion by those unwilling to engage in labor that yielded no visible results.
The leak of information and their appearance on the battlefield had clearly been orchestrated so that the Karthakk locals would join the Dominion after seeing the looming threats and realizing their own helplessness.
As well as the fact that no other state—except the Dominion itself—cared about them at all.
"Take my word for it—that is the easiest part of the job," he said with a smile, rising from the table and extending his right hand to the Colonel, who mirrored the gesture. "Welcome to the Dominion. Believe me—neither you nor your people will regret it."
"We shall see in the fullness of time," the Colonel said cautiously, returning the handshake. "So where do we begin, gentlemen?"
"For starters," Nick Reyes took the floor, "I would like to inspect your logistics and supply base in order to understand just how deep the black hole of your provisioning runs."
"And we will also bring your base on Ord Selbus up to standard," Vivant added. "We need a reliable rear now more than ever."
The fact that the Dominion already had a base in this sector was far too early to reveal.
First let intelligence and counterintelligence thoroughly study the loyalty of the Dominion's new members.
Only then would come the time for disclosing secrets.
If it came at all.
***
Like most worlds located in the territories of the ancient Tion state, the planet Jaminere possessed a rather rich history.
More than two and a half decades ago it had been the capital of one of the ancient states of the Tion Cluster: the Kingdom of Jaminere.
Then came several transformations—both voluntary and forced—during which Jaminere was part of such polities as the Three Allied Kingdoms, the Empire of Xim, and later the empire of Xim the Despot.
Following the latter's collapse, the planet became the capital of yet another interstellar state—the Jaminere Frontier.
That was one of the warring states that arose in the Tion Cluster from the ashes of Xim the Despot's empire a century after his death.
In subsequent centuries Jaminere's rule extended from Emaril and Dezargorr to Amarin and Argai, and its influence on neighboring systems persists to this day.
Many years ago Jaminere and the entire Tion Cluster joined the Galactic Republic.
In the final years of the Old Republic the worlds of the cluster joined the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and later were conquered by the Galactic Empire.
In retaliation for their loyalty to the Separatists, the Empire carved up the Tion Cluster—called by local radical aristocrats nothing less than the Tion Hegemony—into several insignificant sectoral states whose governments quietly bickered among themselves, eager to curry favor with the Emperor and obtain from him the right to conquer their neighbors.
The experienced intriguer Palpatine, unwilling to create problems under his very nose out of nothing, accepted the attention and gifts of the local aristocracy from the divided territories, but had no intention of allowing any of them to grow stronger either militarily or politically.
On the contrary, he did with the local governments exactly what he did with his own officials—he pitted them against one another, forcing them to bog down in petty regional feuds and disputes, thereby preventing the restoration of the Tion Hegemony on its historical scale.
Thus the planet Jaminere became merely the capital of a sector.
Moff Gronn, formerly just one of the administrators of the Allied Tion sector, unexpectedly rose after Grand Admiral Thrawn began acting contrary to Orinda's wishes.
A fervent Imperial, he had clearly had been promoted solely so that the Grand Admiral could not sway Allied Tion to his side.
Well, it could be said that the Imperial Ruling Council succeeded brilliantly.
Moff Gronn commanded sufficient armed forces to control the sector's key systems.
His tacit agreement with Liana—series TIE technology in exchange for protection and non-interference in planetary affairs—bore certain fruit.
The sector's bases possessed enough TIE starfighters to maintain a nominal armed-forces presence.
Despite the industrial development of Jaminere and several other planets in the Allied Tion sector, speaking of sovereignty would have been overly optimistic.
Allied Tion could barely feed and supply itself—and even then only thanks to shipments from Orinda.
Having separated from Imperial Space, the sector faced inevitable economic and many other problems.
Problems that were already manifesting—now that it had become widely known that the bulk of Moff Gronn's fleet had vanished from the sector without a trace.
All manner of dealers, adventurers, and unscrupulous merchants were diligently seeking approaches to corrupt officials in order to squeeze the maximum from the visibly withering sector economy.
Torin held out a piece of meat to the baby nexu at arm's length.
The predator blinked all its eyes, sniffed noisily, trying to determine whether its owner was offering a truly tasty treat.
"Delicacy," Torin prompted. "You behaved well in my absence, so here's your reward. And crawl out from under the table—I need to work."
He had no desire for the little one to start gnawing on his boots.
The kitten had clearly missed him in solitude (the scratches on the walls and shredded sofa upholstery spoke for themselves) and was intent on playing with the owner who had finally deigned to return home.
He had to spend a lot of time traveling the sector's systems to assess the real state of affairs.
The reports of Dominion Intelligence agents operating in Allied Tion were, of course, useful.
But it was better to check the situation personally.
And the situation was far from pleasant.
He heard the eager gurgling issuing from the baby's maw, perfectly aware of what would follow the predator's display of hunting instincts.
The kitten slipped out from the shadow beneath the desk for a moment.
But by no means to partake of the prey.
He had quickly learned the trick Torin used to lure him out and now would not so easily fall for the dilemma of a tasty dinner versus remaining in his shelter.
A whip-like snap of the thin tail struck Torin's palm, knocking the meat from it.
The moment the treat hit the floor, claws scraping against parquet with a screech, the nexu dashed for its prize.
Hunting instincts and the desire to vary its diet with something more entertaining had prevailed.
After all, it was so interesting—attack the master, knock the yummy from his hand, grab it, and return beneath the desk to devour it with relish.
Perhaps the human was stupid or generous enough to repeat this intriguing game again.
Or twice.
Or more.
Which of them needed the kitten to come out from under the table?
Clearly the human—the nexu was perfectly comfortable there.
Dark, dry, close to the heating radiators where one could stretch out and doze.
The problem was that Torin needed to work alone—and with a bored nexu that would be impossible.
Even small, its claws were razor-sharp, and its tail struck very, very painfully.
The fluffy little rascal slid across the keramogranite where the meat had fallen.
Unable to stop despite trying to brake with all four paws and claws, the baby slid across the polished surface and predictably ended up seized by the scruff.
Torin unceremoniously lifted the several-kilogram beast to eye level.
The nexu cub hissed, curling up and swiping a couple of times menacingly with its paws, trying to intimidate the larger opponent.
"And just who did you think you were fooling?" Torin asked rhetorically.
The nexu blinked all its eyes, baring needle-sharp teeth.
Its tail lashed around, but the dense fabric of the uniform dulled the unpleasant sensations.
"Little con artist," Torin shook his head, picking up the fallen meat with his free hand.
Holding the kitten in one hand and the meat in the other, the agent headed for the stairs to the ground floor.
Passing the scratched and literally splintered double doors of his study, he calmly descended.
The cage in which the nexu was supposed to spend most of its time when its owner couldn't give it attention gleamed invitingly with metal in the darkest corner of the living room.
The rascal hissed, realizing it was about to be returned to the two-by-two-meter enclosure, meaning no longer able to wreak havoc everywhere or sharpen its claws on every vertical and horizontal surface.
The walls, for instance, were a perfect place to hone claws.
And stretching to full length while standing on stretched hind legs was incredibly convenient.
There was no such space in the cage.
Just lie on the comfortable bedding, gnaw bones, eat meat, and be bored—who would like that?
"Give me a couple of hours to work in peace," Torin requested, tossing the little monster into the cage and locking the door. "And then we'll definitely play. If you're a good boy—I'll let you out into the courtyard and let you hunt the critters."
The nexu hissed—offended yet delighted—for emphasis giving an irritated mewl.
Though when it grew up that childish "waaaow" would turn into a menacing roar that could soak one's underwear.
"Smart boy," Torin commented on the cub's behavior.
Having resigned itself to the fate of a prisoner, it sulked, paced its bedding, then flopped down, turning away from its owner's gaze.
"Now organize an unsanctioned rally so I feel guilty," Torin smiled.
Oddly enough, this little one evoked more emotion in him than any problems in life.
Including the emotions of other sentients.
With a predator Inek could drop all emotional pretense and simply be himself.
The baby tried to copy his behavior, but did so with animal naïveté that could not help but charm.
Inek returned to the stairs, intending to head back upstairs.
"Moff Gronn," returned from a "secret inspection tour," had presented him as his adjutant who handled most routine problems and delved into all the mundane questions instead of the ruler himself.
Who was occupied with who-knew-what, locked away in his palace.
Behavior entirely consistent with the previous Gronn, except that formerly one could obtain a personal audience.
Now all negotiations on his behalf were conducted by Torin.
This had been necessary because the current "Moff Gronn" was merely the outward appearance of the sector's former master.
A clone, created in Dominion laboratories.
Considering that the predecessor had also been a clone, the lack of data about his previous behind-the-scenes life could seriously harm the entire operation.
The current "moff" knew absolutely nothing of what the real Gronn should have known.
Therefore the appearance of an adjutant served as an information sponge—any message intended for the moff had to pass through Torin himself.
This allowed them to gradually reconstruct the picture of events in the sector and gather intelligence.
And now Torin intended to analyze data on the quartering of the fifty-one new legions purchased on Carida across the planets of Allied Tion.
Some places required expanding old bases.
Others—restoring ancient ones.
Still others—building anew.
Not to mention establishing logistics chains and the rest.
While the "moff" racked his brains over decrypting and analyzing the impressive library of info-chips from his predecessor's personal collection, Torin took upon himself all the current work.
And he had just set foot on the first step when the front-door buzzer sounded, announcing a new visitor.
"Uninvited guests at two in the morning," Torin glanced at the chronometer above the door. "What could possibly go wrong?"
Checking the combat knife secured to the inner surface of his forearm and the blaster at his belt, the agent headed for the door.
He lived in the government quarter, in a modest two-story mansion granted by the "moff."
Neighbors—exclusively officials and plutocrats who had obtained their homes by one semi-legal means or another.
Once this area had housed aristocracy, from whom the previous moff had ruthlessly rid himself.
Visiting one another was not customary here.
Gaining entry to the isolated cottage compound was an even more unrealistic task.
Inek opened the carved wooden door, ready at any moment to engage in combat.
But what he saw made him genuinely surprised.
More precisely not "what"—not the cavalcade of speeders that had occupied every parking space in front of the house.
Not the multitude of armed mercenaries cordoning off the approaches.
Even the BX-series commando droids positioned on either side of the front door interested him least of all.
But the enormous carcass beneath whose weight even the permacrete steps and porch creaked—yes.
"At last," rumbled in Huttese the owner of a mountain of muscle, fat, and revolting mouth odor.
The Hutt impatiently shoved the door and pushed past Inek with his entire mass, oozing (if such a word could be applied to a mass exceeding two hundred kilograms) into the living room.
The commando droids followed, but they did not get far.
Torin stabbed one in the base of its metal neck, severing the power conduits.
The second he shot right between its optical sensors, sending the pair to lie on the threshold.
The mercenaries tensed considerably but refrained from acting, preferring to listen to the booming laughter of the Hutt.
"Master Mi-Ha wishes to convey…" began the voice of a protocol droid that appeared from behind the doorframe.
"Get lost," Torin replied in Huttese, slamming the door in the protocol droid's face.
It seemed the fun was beginning.
The Hutt, with surprising agility, reached the living room and attempted to climb onto the wide sofa.
But hearing it begin to collapse under his weight, pretended that was the plan all along.
"You're a real piece of work," the crime lord said. "They assured me you'd soil yourself the moment you saw commando droids. By the way, you owe me twenty thousand credits for their destruction."
Torin specialized in assassinations, storm operations, and sabotage, but not in infiltrating criminal organizations.
The latter required narrow specialization and understanding of the laws by which the underworld lived.
Inek lacked the patience for undercover work in such vile structures—it was far simpler to blow them all to the Hutt or shoot them one by one.
However, in the current situation he had enough wits to realize that agreeing with the claims or arguing with the Hutt would mean taking the position of the weaker party in the dialogue.
That could not be allowed under any circumstances.
Mi-Ha was the king of the criminal world, controlling a significant portion of the black market, illegal deals, and organized crime in Allied Tion.
He and his dark dealings had provided the previous "moff" with the capital that the latter had used at his discretion.
The absence of bookkeeping made it practically impossible to trace the financial flows—both income and expenditure—of the previous clone who had ruled the sector.
But immediately destroying, cutting out the criminal organization at the root would also be foolish.
At the very least because, according to Imperial Intelligence data, Mi-Ha Hutt had long been connected to Black Sun.
And where Black Sun was involved, the "ears" of the Zann Consortium were present—who with a high degree of probability had created the clone of Moff Gronn that had governed the sector in the recent past.
Mi-Ha Hutt.
Torin and "Moff Gronn" had for some time been trying to determine the extent of Mi-Ha's involvement in sector affairs, but so far had encountered only traces of his extremely deep entrenchment.
"In that case you owe me another five thousand," Torin said without fear, pointing to the ruins of the sofa.
"Ha!" the Hutt snorted.
With incredible speed he thrust a blaster forward, aiming it at Torin's chest.
Nothing to fear here—Mi-Ha, for all his power, would not kill the moff's trusted agent, even if that agent was a Zann Consortium lapdog.
Because Torin was officially a military man.
And the sector's armed forces were the only thing still not subject to decay and criminal influence.
The bandits had already regretted several times trying to eliminate certain captains who interfered with spice and arms smuggling—star destroyers had turned two dozen ships with spice to powder, causing significant damage to the criminals.
That was probably why the moff had been replaced with a clone—the military obeyed him, if reluctantly.
"Fire away," Inek suggested, switching to the informal you. "You know the consequences."
"I do, human," the Hutt rumbled, raising the blaster upward and lighting a foul-smelling cigar from its muzzle.
Where he had kept all that on his enormous body was unknown.
Torin was not sure he wanted to know.
"What do I owe the honor?" the adjutant asked.
"Your master did not clear the routes for two caravans carrying very expensive goods," the Hutt explained in his native tongue. "And he started stationing his 'dolls' on the planets. We had a different agreement."
"Stormtroopers don't bother you," Torin said cautiously, sensing he was receiving new intelligence. "On the contrary, we are strengthening sector defense."
"Better if you brought your destroyers out of wherever you're hiding them and stopped causing uproar on the planets," the Hutt grumbled. "Withdraw the troops. They interfere with my partners and make them nervous."
"No," Inek shook his head. "The moff has decided to reinforce planetary defense. I already discussed it with him—he refused. Our neighbors from the Tion Hegemony…"
"I bathed in a bantha puddle your neighbors!" the Hutt declared, raising his voice. "Your patrols changed schedules. Two of my ships have already been stopped, searched, and their crews arrested."
So we're talking about those transports carrying disintegrators to the sector periphery.
"I regret it, but until everything calms down we must demonstrate strength to our rivals…"
"And you owe me demonstrations of submission," Mi-Ha puffed smoke in his face. "Your master has gotten too big for his britches lately. Doesn't answer calls. Refuses to meet. I have many other matters—meeting some servant is not on the list."
"Those are the moff's new rules," Inek said calmly. "He also has his hands full."
"His matters interest me least of all," the Hutt growled. "Release my ships, my cargo, and my people. Immediately. And henceforth—do not detain them! Ever!"
"I regret, but according to our information the Tionese from the Hegemony intend to arm our radicals," Torin said. "We cannot allow free movement of ships throughout the sector…"
"I don't care what you can or cannot do, human," the Hutt spun his blaster-lighter on a fat finger. "Your master has gotten too big for his britches. And his guards that don't let my people through—either. Tell him this: either he obeys my partners, or in a couple of weeks my fighters will be playing ball with his head. Am I making myself clear?"
"It would be better to coordinate new schedules and routes with me," Torin suggested. "The moff is busy and I will not disturb him over such a trifle. I don't want his guards playing ball with my head."
"Gronn has gotten too big for his britches lately," Mi-Ha thundered. "He used to be compliant—until he flew off to save Liana. And now he dragged you in, his mercenary bodyguards, new rules nobody likes, and an entire army. Where did it all come from?"
Hutts did not bother with delicate conversation toward those they neither respected nor feared.
And they feared practically no one.
Earning respect from them was extremely difficult.
Especially for a human.
For Hutts there was only one law—Hutt law.
Human laws they did not even consider as rules and considered it their duty to break them wherever possible.
A kind of special Olympics among the galaxy's crime kings.
"That is not my secret," Torin shrugged. "Ask the moff…"
"And I am asking you," the Hutt menaced, drawing closer.
"I have no answer," Inek spread his hands, demonstratively testing the sharpness of his combat knife's blade. "And even if I did, I would not reveal it without the moff's permission."
"Your moff is my puppet," the Hutt exhaled stench and smoke into his face. "I don't know what's wrong with his brain, but he is interfering with serious people to whom he should be loyal. Tell him that if everything does not return to the way it was—posthumous retirement awaits. Black Sun does not joke with those who try to play their own game."
More than informative and clear.
"I heard the proposal," Torin said without flinching, gazing at the monstrous scar and milky eye on the Hutt's left side.
For a moment he considered whether the Hutt deserved another matching scar—for symmetry.
But restrained himself—the interests of the Dominion came above all.
And at the moment they did not include eliminating a crime lord who could be replaced in short order.
Until all the knots were untied—better not to rush.
A web of conspiracy is not torn—it is burned.
Wholly and at once.
"In your own interests, human," the Hutt said, swallowing the still-lit cigar. "You don't lack courage or audacity. But better not cross me and do as you're told. I am an omnivorous sentient. And if you bore me, I'll devour you and leave no bones."
"Don't," Torin advised. "I am a bilious and vindictive man—heartburn will haunt you to the end of your days."
The Hutt stared at him with a heavy gaze for several seconds, then smirked and slowly slithered toward the exit, not forgetting to shove the adjutant with his bulk so hard he nearly flew aside.
"You have a nice house, human," he said, turning on the threshold. "It would be a pity if it burned. Along with your clawed ball of fur. Though roasted nexu is easier on the stomach. Fail to do as I say—your pet will be the appetizer before I devour you. Clear enough?"
"Quite," Torin replied. "I hope you heard my words too. We need to coordinate new schedules and routes."
And thereby learn where and from where you are shipping the disintegrators that the Zann Consortium has adopted.
"Don't stand in my way, human," Mi-Ha threatened. "I'll crush you. And devour you."
With those words he leaned his full weight on the front door, smashing it along with the frame.
Further proof that quick-build mansions were complete rubbish, built from shoddy materials.
Without even pausing, the Hutt crawled forward toward his enormous speeder, into which he barely managed to squeeze, occupying the entire rear section including the cargo hold.
Torin saw the "guest" off with a promising look.
Glancing at the now-subdued nexu cub, he sighed heavily.
And pulled out his comlink to contact the "moff."
Time to change residence.
The knot of intrigue in this part of the galaxy had begun to unravel, but it was already "smelling of roast."
***
Having skimmed the reports from Karthakk and Allied Tion, I allowed myself the traditional few minutes of silence and mental brainstorming.
So, one sector is formally ours—and a task force must be dispatched there for cleanup.
In the second, shipments of Zann Consortium weaponry and direct activity by their front forces have been discovered.
Considering Mi-Ha the Hutt's actions, it can be assumed that the changed behavior of "Moff Gronn" displeases someone in the Zann Consortium.
Consequently, this is already a certain reaction that should have come earlier.
The enemy is biding time, pretending our strikes do not concern him at all.
But at the same time he is nervous about events in another part of the galaxy.
The part closest to the eastern grouping.
That means Tyber Zann's nerves are fraying after all.
And where nerves appear, mistakes follow.
Time to yank the rancor by the sensitive spots once more and force a reaction.
Or at least weaken him on the future line of contact.
The holoprojector flickered with static as usual before the figure of Counter-Admiral Shohashi fully materialized.
"Grand Admiral," he saluted crisply, by the book.
"Counter-Admiral," I addressed him. "The time has come. Begin."
A shadow of a smile touched Shohashi's face.
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," he promised, and disconnected.
Well, a sufficient quantity of combustible material has been added to the foundation.
Time to light fires everywhere.
Next I activated the other addressees…