Ten years, two months, and thirty-four days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, two months, and thirty-four days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Nine months and nineteen days since the arrival).
Vengeance dropped out of hyperspace just as strained and thoroughly ungraceful as it had entered it.
The starship's mechanisms worked as though through sheer effort.
And that unmistakably hinted that the destroyer's crew was, to put it mildly, not the most talented in technical matters.
And the condition of the ship's hardware, at the very least, invited complaints—especially the inertial dampers.
With small craft like Lambda-class shuttles, things were much better.
A smooth crossing of the lightspeed barrier, and an equally smooth return to realspace.
"We made it," Bossk reported, having slept through the entire flight in the adjacent seat like an ordinary passenger.
"Another course correction?"
"No," the Trandoshan declared, rolling his neck. "We've arrived."
"Where?" Sergius asked with feigned languor.
"Look out the viewport," the reptilian advised him, rising from his seat and heading for the cockpit.
Vengeance brought them to an unknown point in space, after which they continued on by shuttle.
The rough pattern of stars Sergius saw outside suggested they were somewhere in the eastern part of the galaxy.
And clearly either beyond the galaxy, but not far enough from the galactic disk for hyperdrives to start malfunctioning, or at its very edge, in the Unknown Regions.
But he could not calculate the direction and distance separating the route's starting point from its end.
Both Vengeance and the shuttle changed course more than once, dropping in and out of hyperspace.
Given that, only one option suggested itself: the enemy was deliberately misleading any would-be pursuers.
Perhaps they knew there was a beacon aboard the ship—which was doubtful. The frequencies on which it transmitted data packets about the Star Destroyer's location were considered "background," and it was quite difficult to detect information on them.
And just as difficult to localize the transmitter itself.
Most likely, this constant course-changing was a common method of ensuring a ship's security.
The criminals must still have fresh memories of the seizures of Star Destroyers and other Imperial ships carried out by Grand Admiral Thrawn across the galaxy last year.
Either way, Sergius would not have drawn conclusions with such limited data.
For now he knew only one thing.
Wherever they were taking him, it was a place of extreme importance to the enemy in the galaxy.
And ensuring its security was Bossk's top priority.
From experience, Sergius knew criminals treated only one piece of real estate in the universe with such reverence.
Their headquarters—providing them with everything they needed, and obtained by the criminals at a steep price.
Taking Bossk's advice, Sergius slid aside the nearest blast shutter and looked out.
The shuttle was already moving in orbit, and their destination was easy enough to make out.
A fairly massive planet they were approaching from the lit side, and it was easy to notice dense cloud cover hiding much of the surface.
In the upper layers of the atmosphere, the clouds were sparse, but they thickened closer to the surface.
Which, incidentally, as far as the eye could see, consisted entirely of an ocean's smooth expanse.
And it was not obvious that there could be islands or even continents down there—at least none were visible from orbit.
Which meant that if they did exist, they lay beyond what the human eye could make out from their current position.
Over his career, Sergius had been to hundreds of planets.
Maybe even a few thousand.
And ocean worlds were not particularly rare in the galaxy.
But if he matched all the facts he had already gathered—the planet's position in the eastern part of the galaxy, its distance from the galactic gravitational disk, the ocean covering a significant portion of its surface...
"Well? Recognize this place?" Bossk asked, flopping into his seat.
"This is bad," Sergius thought, with bleak regret, and wondered whether he should have anticipated such a scenario and brought a beacon with him.
Perhaps that would have given the Dominion data on the route the criminals used to get here.
But more obviously—he would have been exposed almost immediately as soon as he tried to plant the device.
It was one thing to hide it on a massive destroyer, and quite another on a tiny ship like a Lambda, where there was nowhere to hide from prying eyes.
"First time I've seen it," he said indifferently, meeting the Trandoshan's eyes. "Manaan, the Selkath homeworld?"
"No," Bossk replied with a crooked smile—apparently enjoying that his subordinate could not identify the planet. "Any other guesses?"
"Dac, the Mon Calamari homeworld?" Sergius tried his luck again, putting a thoughtful expression on his face.
"No," Bossk grimaced. "It's Kamino."
"Ah," Sergius reacted without interest. "Never heard of it. Kind of a dreary place. Of course, if we didn't come here to fish but on business, no complaints."
Bossk bared his teeth predatively, but said nothing.
Sergius, understanding he would not be told anything more than necessary, fixed a feigned indifferent stare on the viewport.
He seemed to be gazing unconcernedly at the endless surface of Kamino, but at the same time his mind was working.
Perhaps no one and nothing in Dominion Intelligence would be able to get this close to the planet anytime soon.
And so he had to catch everything that might have operational value.
He managed to make out at least five Golan II orbital defense platforms hanging in Kamino's orbit.
And no fewer than ten Crusader II-class corvettes patrolling orbit and keeping company with three Keldabe II-class battleships.
Ships not seen since the Hypori operation were, it turned out, based here—and not in the galaxy's northeast, in the Corporate Sector, as had been assumed.
However, there was no doubt this was only a small portion of the forces owned by Kamino's masters.
Dozens of fighters moved through the planet's atmosphere, though the разведчик could not determine their type.
The planet Kamino.
The ship dove into the atmosphere on the planet's daylight side, then picked up speed and headed for the opposite hemisphere.
Sergius noted how sharply the lighting and weather changed the moment they broke through the lower atmospheric veil of the planet's rain clouds.
Illumination dropped drastically, turbulence increased, and as accompaniment came the drumroll of a downpour that literally drenched every square meter of the ocean surface.
Large waves rolled in with steady regularity, and above them hovered large birds—because of their smooth skin and streamlined forms, more like flying ocean creatures than birds.
The Lambda set a clear course for a cluster of saucer-shaped structures mounted on massive, clearly metallic supports plunging straight into the ocean.
These "saucers"—or even "mushrooms"—glowed from within with thousands of yellowish lights.
Their support beams were constantly washed by waves that seemed intent on sweeping the buildings into the ocean—swallowing them, destroying them without a trace.
It sent a shiver through him.
Having never seen this world before, Sergius could only marvel at how anyone could live here at all.
"Tipoca City," Bossk said, pointing at the "saucers" Sergius was studying. "The capital."
Tipoca City, the capital of Kamino.
"A shabby place," Sergius said. "If you ask me, it's a bit damp here."
"The locals like it," the Trandoshan explained. "They don't leave Kamino. They live in isolation in cities like these."
"Must suck to be them," Sergius smirked. "Bet they fight mold every weekend."
Bossk laughed with a hiss.
"We're not living here," he clarified. "We've only got one meeting."
"You've got me intrigued," Sergius admitted. "And with whom, if it's not a secret, is this meeting?"
"With the boss," Bossk answered shortly, clearly showing he did not want to continue the conversation.
"That confirms what's obvious," Sergius thought. "The Trandoshan is clearly not the one in charge in this oceanic circus."
That left one question—who was in charge here.
Bravo-Eleven had a few guesses on that score, given the Zann Consortium's history.
So despite his outward indifference, he ran through, one after another, versions of how to counter the inevitable.
And it was drawing nearer—the Lambda was coming in to land, hovering over a large circular platform.
The ship began to descend, while the Dominion agent tried to find a way out of a difficult situation that was about to become catastrophic.
***
Jehan Cross entered the technical compartment.
The steady hum of operating equipment was periodically interrupted by the strained labor of restored mechanisms.
Several scouts lay near the equipment, having carved out time for brief but badly needed sleep.
Even the Jedi sat in a corner with his eyes closed, snoring peacefully and pretending the situation did not interest him at all.
"Is the beacon ready?" Cross asked his friend, Alessi Quon, who surfaced from beneath the control console.
"Almost everything's ready," the Sluissi replied. "Now all that's left is to connect to the computer network, process the information, and send a message to the distant stars."
"The sabotage teams are in position," Cross said. "We're only waiting for your go-ahead. Afar and his people have been ready for a long time to blow up a few Commonwealth targets."
The Sluissi snorted with laughter.
"And I'm waiting for our Jedi Master to say the time has come. I've run the system through the test programs five times already—stable operation is there. But the Mon Calamari keeps stalling, sleeping..."
"I am listening to the Force," Bre'ano Umakk answered—somehow appearing beside them.
Jehan frowned in displeasure.
He did not like it when someone could sneak up on him so simply and go unnoticed.
"And what does it say?" the Sluissi asked. "I didn't catch any of those emissions of yours..."
"Not everyone can feel the Force," the Mon Calamari objected. "And all the more so—it cannot be tracked."
"I'd argue that," Alessi nodded toward a box with a Force detector found in one of the Imperials' hidden caches. "But I won't."
"So what does the Force say?" Jehan уточнил.
"That we must postpone the launch a little longer," the Mon Calamari said.
"Why?" Alessi would not let up.
"Not the right time to let ourselves be detected," Umakk explained vaguely.
"In any case, our signal source—as well as the Imperial Palace intrusion—can't be hidden," Jehan Cross objected. "Why postpone the operation again?"
The postponement of sabotage and other operations had happened more than once—and always at the Jedi Master's insistence.
"The Force says we will soon be given a chance," the Jedi said calmly.
"And the best option is to listen to the Force," Alessi grumbled. "At this pace we'll sit on Coruscant until the Emperor comes back."
"Do you have a clearer explanation than the one you use again and again?" Cross asked.
The Mon Calamari shook his head.
"I'm afraid not," he said. "The Force does not grant a vision of the correct future. It only suggests options from which we may choose. By listening to the Force, one can understand which of them will be most suitable for all of us to survive..."
"The only such option would be some very powerful Holonet broadcast that would mask our signal and keep the direction-finders from locating the source of transmission," Alessi continued to grumble. "But I doubt there's anyone in the galaxy besides Grand Admiral Thrawn who can, with a speech, hold the attention of both Imperials and Republicans—not to mention neutral worlds."
Jehan understood what the Sluissi meant.
Not many transmitters like the Jedi's exist in the galaxy.
Its operation was like a lighthouse beam in pitch-black night.
But if something happened that drew the enemy garrison's attention on Coruscant, one could hope the transmission would either go unnoticed—or be discovered too late.
Otherwise the operation of a lone powerful transmitter on Coruscant would be recorded by the local relay station or communication satellites in orbit, after which triangulating the source would not be too difficult.
The longer they were all occupied with solving this problem, the more the plan's execution was pushed back.
And the more corrections were introduced due to technical problems not obvious at first.
"I don't know what will happen, but it will happen," the Mon Calamari stated. "In the near future. We simply need to be ready, at the right moment, to activate the system."
"Sure," Alessi snorted. "That's so simple—you just have to guess some suitable moment. Which will happen unknownwhen, unkniwn where, but something immaterial tells us it will definitely happen. Wonderful!" The Sluissi threw up his hands. "Why do we need physics, math, programming, and a dozen other sciences and disciplines if we can just wait for the right moment in time?"
Muttering something under his breath in his native tongue, the Sluissi wandered back toward the disassembled equipment.
"You do understand we can't just sit here for weeks waiting for something the Force likes?" Jehan asked.
"I understand," the Mon Calamari said. "But we have only a few options. The first is to do as you want—and we have no chance of success. The second is to do it my way—and we will certainly achieve our goals. And you will not lose your people. And most likely, you will be able to leave the planet."
Something in the Mon Calamari's words rubbed Jehan the wrong way.
But he had been on the knife's edge behind enemy lines for too long to understand the specific reason for his unease.
"Fine," he said. "We'll wait a little longer. Then we begin. Regardless of whether the Force agrees with us or not."
"As you wish," the Mon Calamari said unexpectedly submissively. "I will perform my duty in full."
He did not like this former Jedi.
He very much disliked what—and, most importantly, how—he spoke.
He would have to keep an eye on him.
And think about whether the Mon Calamari had gone mad in his drive to find the remaining Jedi.
***
Despite Bossk's assurances that someone lived here, the inside of Tipoca City looked least of all like a home for sentients.
The only things Sergius saw around him as he walked through the city's inner corridors were elegant interiors utterly alien to human understanding—and the endless raging ocean outside.
Sterile classrooms and barracks where, as he knew, clone soldiers of the Republic's Grand Army and then the Galactic Empire spent their first ten years of life—from infancy to maturity, after which military service began—appeared before him maximally utilitarian and no different from one another.
Despite the fact that as an agent he knew that during the era of raising clone armies the clones trained in various conditions and climate zones—from deserts and mountains to jungles and snow-covered plains—he observed nothing of the kind.
From that only one conclusion could be drawn.
Clone training was conducted—and most likely still is—directly in holographic halls.
He and Bossk, escorted by several fighters in closed white-and-black armor armed with heavy blaster weapons, moved through endless snow-white, in places transparent corridors within the "saucers" and "mushrooms" toward somewhere where those Bossk had dragged him to meet were waiting.
Sergius noticed empty halls on the lower levels built in amphitheater form with personal stations for individual learning.
Empty dining halls.
Empty training grounds.
Only in a small portion of them did fighters in white-and-black armor appear, but there were very few.
It gave the impression there were not that many clones here.
From time to time the agent saw massive round and cylindrical platforms hung with transparent autoclaves, inside which were human embryos.
"This some kind of nursery for twins, or what?" the agent asked innocently when an entire company of young boys—ten or eleven at most—marched past them, escorted by several fighters in the same armor as the guests' escort.
Dressed in uniform clothing, wearing identical regulation haircuts, they moved so smoothly and uniformly, as though they had spent their whole lives drilling and marching.
Same height, same build, a bland but clearly aggressive expression on angular faces, short hair...
"They're clones," Bossk explained. "The base of our army. These," he pointed at the children, "were created several years ago and haven't reached maturity yet. The second batch."
"And the guys in white-and-black armor are probably the first," Sergius realized, glancing at the dark matte transparisteel visor of the nearest soldier in white-and-black armor.
"Then why do you need the scum you recruit if you've got clones?" the agent asked.
"Meat," the Trandoshan said briefly. "Clones are expensive. And slow. Meat is needed for the hard directions."
As he had suspected, the mercenaries were destined to become the front line of any attack.
Judging by the number of cloning cylinders Sergius had managed to see during his journey, they were talking about hundreds of thousands, if not millions of clones.
Given that their existence was kept secret even within the organization—after all, Sergius had not seen a single clone or a single soldier in white-and-black armor since his "recruitment," not even aboard Vengeance—these first-generation clones were surely engaged in running the warships in orbit over Kamino.
And wherever those starships were built.
But something did not add up.
Kaminoan cloning technology requires ten years to make a clone.
Tyber Zann got out of Kessel shortly before the Battle of Yavin, which was about ten years ago.
If the eastern faction is not controlled by the modern Zann Consortium, then the question arises.
How is it that the first generation of clones, which ideally should have been programmed to serve Tyber Zann, now calmly serves his enemies?
Small details Sergius did not know at the moment put him seriously on edge.
Something was clearly happening on Kamino.
Cloning technology on Kamino clearly differed from what the Dominion used.
The latter loaded a genetic sample and three standard weeks later received a fully mature clone.
And here... children?!
Seriously?
So on Kamino, clone maturation proceeds differently?
Digging through his memory, Sergius recalled that Kaminoan clones grew up (and aged) twice as fast as unmodified sentients.
If there were children here...
Then it followed that the Kaminoans raised them in incubators up to a certain point, after which the clones grew outside the autoclaves.
While new clones matured in the installations.
If one took accelerated growth—twice as fast—as a constant, then the gestation time of a human fetus in a mother's womb had to be halved.
As an example, assume there were about a million cloning cylinders on Kamino.
In that case, roughly every half-year they would produce roughly a million clones, who would grow up twice as fast as human children.
The small clones he had seen were created several years ago, and by appearance they were no less than ten.
Which meant that...
What did it mean?!
That in ten years of controlling Kamino, the Zann Consortium could have created roughly twenty million clones?
Of which at least a couple million were already combat-ready?
And just as many more were on the way?!
Ten years had passed since the Battle of Yavin.
And six since the destruction of the second Death Star at Endor.
If one thought about it, then the "children" he had met were created after the Emperor's death above Endor's forest moon.
And therefore he should have seen not empty classrooms, training grounds, and dining halls, but corridors packed with clones of all ages, marching columns...
But...
Then why had he seen only two kinds of clones?
Children roughly ten years old, and the few soldiers in white-and-black armor?
That is, clones created right after Zann seized Kamino, and clones created after Endor...
Meaning the "children" were produced around the same time the Zann Consortium was destroyed by the Rebel Alliance and the Empire...
A very strange coincidence.
Of course, if it was a coincidence.
"We're this way," Bossk said.
Sergius, pulled from his thoughts, noted they had crossed the "technical zone" and were now in enclosed spaces.
Which looked most like administrative areas.
And here, in the corridors, alongside soldiers in white-and-black armor and Kaminoan specialists, the "children" were almost absent.
Apparently they were not allowed here.
"Interesting long-necks," Sergius snorted, gesturing toward the nearest Kaminoan.
He needed to maintain the cover story that he had no idea who stood before him.
"The locals," Bossk explained.
The door slid aside with a melodic sound.
Bossk ducked first into a short corridor that bent at the far end and disappeared from sight.
The soldiers behind Sergius made it clear he should move in that direction as well.
Well, there were no special options left.
He had flown right into the enemy's lair.
Most likely they were going to "approve" his кандидатуру.
If everything went smoothly—wonderful.
If not...
Then it was a one-way road.
Though that was always the way in an agent's life and work.
Sergius pictured a sabacc deck in his mind and began listing the cards' virtues, laying them out in an imagined order, adding and subtracting their values.
It was distracting, but it was the only method he could recall from Ubiqtorate recommendations for countering Jedi interference in his brain.
He walked down the corridor and found himself in a spacious circular chamber flooded with white.
"Lady"—plus thirteen...
About half a dozen sentients were present, most of them unfamiliar to Sergius.
"Serg," the Trandoshan addressed him, and his actions distracted almost everyone present from studying a holographic map of the galaxy, forcing them to look at those who had entered. "Allow me to introduce the leadership of our 'Syndicate.'"
"A five and a Lady make eighteen..."
Sergius looked at the only sentient present who did not even lift her eyes to look at the arrivals.
A tall woman with pale skin, a tattooed face, and a lush mane of hair.
On top of that—dressed in a frankly tight outfit, showing off her slender figure and the attractiveness of certain parts of her body.
She, like the other five present, wore at her belt the unmistakable hilt of a Jedi weapon.
With the sole exception that it was not a lightsaber.
Bossk was loudly introducing the five present, naming their names and ranks...
"A six and a two make eight..."
At last, when it came time to introduce the woman, she deigned to raise her eyes from the holomap.
"We've been waiting for you, Bossk," she said in a low, throaty voice, with a single look turning the Trandoshan from an arrogant "master of the situation" into a fawning sycophant.
Her speech practically dripped with a warning of danger.
But at the same time there was something mesmerizing in it—something magical...
"Queen of Air and Darkness and a Commander make ten..." Sergius crammed his brain with cards, feeling a tickle under his skull, as though someone had decided to make his mind laugh.
Possibly that huge, close-cropped, dark-haired brute with red tattoos—vertical stripes—on his face.
Or his girlfriend—the second red-tattooed woman in the chamber, but unlike the one who was speaking, dressed like the man—in dark blue closed garments with a red tint, whose cold beauty could rival Hoth's subzero temperatures.
And on her head was a strange headdress, like obsidian frozen into claw shapes.
Or anyone else here—any sentient clearly sensitive to the Force.
But those three worried Sergius the most.
"There were certain difficulties," Bossk wheedled. "Not all plans worked out... But I have a good candidate to replace Marg Sonat as my deputy."
"I know that without you, carrion," the Syndicate leader said in the same velvety, throaty voice. "Your incompetence is starting to irritate me."
Bossk bared his teeth.
"Don't you dare speak to me in that tone!" he hissed. "I stand at the Syndicate's founding right alongside you."
"Not anymore," the lush-haired woman declared, and with a single motion of her hand snapped out an energy whip.
A yellow band of energy coiled around the Trandoshan's throat.
And in the next second, the woman's hand jerked back.
With a hiss, Bossk's head separated from his body, and with a crash fell to the floor along with it.
With a characteristic sound, the energy blade vanished, and its hilt returned to the killer's belt.
"A three and a five make eight..."
The burned throat of the dead Trandoshan released its last breath.
"Tough guy," the woman in dark blue clothes with red tattoos on her pale face said. "Didn't even flinch."
For a moment, Sergius thought the strange headdress on her head moved.
"What a smart boy," she smiled like a predator. "He's counting cards so I won't crawl into his brain."
"Don't turn them into jelly, Kayrissa," the woman with the lightwhip warned.
Kayrissa.
"That's Ubiqtorate technique," thundered the brute with vertical stripes on his face.
With a single leap over the control console he ended up beside Sergius. Two lightsabers ignited in his hands, crossing before the Dominion agent's throat.
"We need to get rid of him," he rumbled. "His presence in the Syndicate won't end well."
"If he's a Ubiqtorate agent, that's better for us, Namman Cha," the lightwhip wielder smiled. "We badly need experienced agents in the Syndicate."
Namman Cha.
Sergius looked without fear into the eyes of the lightsaber wielder who could have beheaded him in seconds.
"So then, Serg," the owner of the lightwhip addressed him in a sickeningly gentle voice. "Who are you really?"
A good question.
And only one correct answer.
"We all have a past," he rasped. "Some are agents, some are Dathomiri witches," the pale-faced women exchanged glances, "and some," he looked into the eyes of the man with the vertical tattoos, "are former members of the Inquisitorius. Isn't that right, Inquisitor Namman Cha?"
"Ubiqtorate scum!" Cha roared, bringing his blades together.
Sergius jerked himself backward, somersaulted, swept the legs out from under one of the soldiers in white-and-black armor, yanked his weapon free, and aimed at Cha—when Cha's short blade cut the rifle into pieces.
Throwing the broken parts at the former Inquisitor, Sergius rolled forward and to the side.
While Namman dealt with the projectiles thrown at him, Sergius struck him hard with his right fist in the kidney area.
There came the sound of pelvis bones breaking, and the former Inquisitor collapsed to the floor with a cry of pain.
With a hiss, lightsabers appeared in the hands of the four sentients standing near the lightwhip wielder.
"Good boy," Kayrissa said. "Teräs Käsi at a high level. But you won't live long..."
"Put the weapons away," the lightwhip wielder ordered softly but with authority, smiling at Sergius as he stood under the aim of the soldiers positioned behind him. "I'm not finished with him yet."
"I'll kill you," Namman Cha rasped, trying to overcome the pain and rise.
Sergius kicked him in the tattooed face, sending him into a stupor.
"This is—!" Kayrissa protested, glancing at the second woman.
"Shut up," the second woman ordered, stepping out from behind the holo terminal and approaching Sergius. "Why didn't you kill him?"
She nodded toward Namman Cha lying on the floor.
"He's your subordinate," Sergius stated. "If you didn't kill him earlier, he's useful to you. And no order to kill him was given."
"And do you always do only what you're ordered to do?" the woman asked, stroking her lightsaber hilt.
"That's the minimum I do so my employers prosper," Sergius said. "If I can do more—I will, without thinking. And without asking permission."
The answer seemed to satisfy the pale-skinned woman.
She stared at Sergius, looking him over from head to toe, as if inspecting a new droid model, practically devouring him with her eyes.
But her gaze was oddly distant.
Even if approving.
And that clearly enraged Kayrissa.
"Consider yourself hired," the lightwhip wielder said, stepping aside. "You will take Bossk's duties."
"As you command," Sergius nodded.
"But he's Ubiqtorate, an Imperial!" Kayrissa protested, addressing the Syndicate's leader.
In response she received a sharp slap.
"Don't you dare argue with me," the leader declared. "I dragged you out of shit not for you to challenge my authority. Is that clear?"
"Yes," Kayrissa said, chastened.
"And now out of my sight," the lightwhip wielder snarled. "And take Cha with you! And all of you," she looked around at those present, "get out of here. I'll speak to the newcomer alone!"
A couple of minutes—and there were no soldiers left in the chamber.
For several minutes the woman said nothing, studying the galaxy holomap dotted with markings.
Then she looked up from under her brows at Sergius.
"Know why I didn't kill you?" she asked dully.
"I do," the Dominion agent answered in an even, emotionless tone. "Loyal people are always needed. Especially when those you raised out of the mud start opening their mouths out of turn."
"It's good that you understand that," the woman showed a white-toothed smile. "You have many enemies now."
"That's their problem," Sergius shrugged.
"Most likely," the woman snorted. "But either way, I have only one rule. 'You are loyal only to me. To the very end.' Whatever intentions you came here with, Ubiqtorate man—one wrong step, and death will seem like the best option. Understood?"
"Nothing new," Sergius shrugged. "That's how my average workday always goes."
The woman laughed.
"You'll go far," she said. "For now you can rest—someone will show you your rooms. I'll send for you when it's time for briefing."
"As you wish, my lady Silri," Sergius bowed his head in gratitude.
Silri.
"My lady," the Dathomiri witch tested the phrase on her tongue. "I like it. You definitely know how to find an approach with me, boy. I'll be counting on you."
"I will be ready to appear at your first request, my lady," Sergius bowed again.
"Dismissed," the Dathomiri witch hummed with satisfaction, returning to the study of the galaxy map.
A map with strike targets plotted on it.
Sergius glanced at it and continued counting cards in his head, to hide his worries from the large "Completed" marks over Dominion territory.
Only one mark glowed not red, but a neutral white.
***
"Ah," Fey'lya's face stretched into a satisfied smile the moment his hologram formed. "Vice Admiral Pellaeon."
"President Fey'lya," I greeted the Bothan in a restrained manner, mimicking Gilad's manner of speech.
"Rushing to congratulate me on my success?" the head of the New Republic purred theatrically.
"That as well," I replied. "But I am more interested in your fulfilling our agreement."
"Well, who would doubt it," the Bothan smirked.
His behavior indicated he felt like the master of the current situation.
"So, you repelled the Commonwealth of Five Stars' attack," I said slowly and confidently.
The Bothan's smile dimmed for a moment.
"Turns out we don't control information flows well enough," he snorted.
"Dominion Intelligence, as always, keeps its finger on the pulse of galactic events," I answered vaguely.
"I don't doubt it," the Bothan sniffed. "Yes, that's right. We defeated Grand Moff Kaine's forces."
"And in that battle, two dozen Mon Calamari star cruisers distinguished themselves," I continued, steering the Bothan into the verbal constructions I needed.
"The entire First Fleet of the New Republic Defense Force distinguished itself!" Borsk declared proudly.
"Which is what I congratulate them on. Now I am interested in you keeping your promises."
"Handing over the Reaper and Grand Moff Kaine," Fey'lya said, as if thinking.
Stage preparation.
A show of relaxation and confidence, as a hint at control of the situation.
As if the negotiations I conducted in my own name months earlier had nothing to do with it.
"That's correct, President," I added a note of impatience to my voice.
It was necessary to show a bit of uncertainty and nervousness.
Whatever Fey'lya had planned before our conversation, the option imposed on him would be far more interesting.
For me.
"There will be certain problems with that," the Bothan said, finishing his theatrical pause.
"What kind?"
"Oh, didn't your intelligence agents tell you?" the Bothan asked with feigned surprise. "Strange. Apparently they worked excellently only under Thrawn. Or is it all about your buzz droids you scattered on battlefields?"
Ignore the mockery.
It would give Fey'lya the hooks he needed for doubt.
"I am waiting for an answer, President."
"It so happened that during the boarding of the Reaper, Grand Moff Kaine tried to blow the ship up," he reported—rather interesting information, if it was true.
"And?"
"My operatives who boarded the ship were unable to take the Grand Moff alive," the Bothan put grief on his face. "I'm afraid, Vice Admiral, Ardus Kaine is dead."
"I thought we had an agreement, President!" Pellaeon is not restrained, not cold-blooded, when it concerns truly important things.
And the death of the Grand Moff—whom "he" had intended to trade for some purpose—certainly belonged to the category of important elements in the current negotiations.
"What can be done," Fey'lya spread his hands theatrically. "The operatives who failed to take the Grand Moff alive will, of course, be punished. But resurrecting the dead, unfortunately, I cannot do, Vice Admiral."
An interesting performance from the Bothan.
Supposedly regretful, promising punishment.
But there has been too much interaction with this sentient to know less about him than the real Pellaeon does.
Fey'lya is triumphing right now.
His behavior, his forced tone, demonstrates clearly that he never intended to take Kaine alive.
At the very least, he did not insist on it.
It seems likely his operatives never even received such an order.
Precisely so he could demonstrate this reaction: sorry, but the collapse of the agreement happened not by my will, but because of the executors' incompetence.
In truth, those executors probably did not bother much with Kaine during the personal encounter.
When the choice is between destroying the ship and fulfilling the agreement, extra options are discarded immediately.
"In that case, President, you must understand you have violated the conditions of our deal."
"Of course," the Bothan agreed quite easily.
"And its terms have now changed."
"Yes, you are absolutely right, Vice Admiral," Fey'lya replied without delay. "I would even say we need to make a new deal."
"There will be no deals! You will give me the Reaper, and all Kaine's captured ships, all prisoners of war, since you could not deliver me the Grand Moff!" I said. "And Kaine's corpse as well."
"I find," Fey'lya smiled sardonically, "those terms unacceptable, Vice Admiral. And I will not comply with them."
"What do you think you're doing, Borsk?! We had an agreement!"
"Did we?" the Bothan asked with bored interest. "Can you show at least one clause of that agreement, recorded with your and my signatures? No? Then there was no agreement."
"Without the ships I handed you, you couldn't have done anything against the Reaper's squadron! You owe me!"
"History does not have a subjunctive mood, Vice Admiral," Fey'lya smiled. "But since you've started talking about obligations... let's not forget that I have done the Dominion quite a few services. I placed on the New Republic the responsibility for raids against Lianna and the Commonwealth of Five Stars' convoys last year. We called ourselves the perpetrators of actions to уничтожение the Ubiqtorate. We called ourselves the authors and executors of the attack on the Imperial rear, thanks to which Orinda still cannot take Carida. And now, it turns out we received ships from you with which we defeated the Commonwealth. Do you think only idiots sit in the New Republic government?"
"Surprise me."
"No, my dear Vice Admiral," Fey'lya smirked. "I have been playing a long game of drawing you into my nets. I have all records of our negotiations and the agreements reached. How long do you think the Dominion will last after these records are made public? Just think—Dominion, a pro-Imperial state, takes measures to strike Imperial Remnants. Cooperates with the New Republic. Helps repel attacks..."
"You're a scoundrel, Fey'lya!"
"Thank you," the Bothan purred. "So, Vice Admiral, will you listen to the terms of the new agreement?"
"Even if you send those recordings to the Holonet, no Imperial Remnant has enough силы to—"
"Grand Admiral Thrawn believed that somewhere in the Deep Core Emperor Palpatine, risen from the dead, is waiting for his time," the Bothan said with feigned nonchalance. "It seems to me he has the力量 to grind your toy state into dust."
"No one will believe you!"
"Shall we test that?" the Bothan suggested.
"For cooperation with the Dominion you will lose political influence!"
The New Republic's President just laughed.
"You're called Grand Admiral Thrawn's student," he said. "But in reality you don't even understand half of what he pulled off. Accept it, Pellaeon: I have you on a hook. None of your excuses will help. And cooperating with you... yes, it doesn't adorn me. But it is against a common enemy. The New Republic cooperated with the Empire to destroy Zsinj—and very successfully. And after his defeat we thoroughly outplayed them, taking more than they thought. Same thing here. Not only will I not lose my position, I will be praised by the populace as a clever ruler who did not smash his head against walls, but made others do it. So let's not indulge in childishness. You do what I tell you, and I, in exchange, will refrain from publishing these recordings."
Excellent.
Now it remained to check how accurately I had guessed the brazen Bothan's intentions.
"What do you need?" I asked, adding a bit of hopelessness and a dulled gaze.
"Now we're talking," Fey'lya smiled broadly. "I want you to do something for me, Vice Admiral. A few tasks, after which you will receive the holorecordings."
"And what do you want?"
"It's simple," the Bothan smiled. "While I'm retaking Coruscant, do everything necessary so the Alliance does not receive reinforcements, does not gain new allies, and their armed forces are weakened. Better yet, it would be best if a couple of their newest starships are destroyed, and the rest end up in my possession."
"And that's all?"
"That's only the beginning, Vice Admiral," Fey'lya smiled. "A teaser to test our arrangements. I think you yourself don't mind a bit of war. You've been sitting there too long..."
"Fine, we'll carry out a few raids and rough up their patrol fleet..." I paused slightly to give Fey'lya the chance to add the crucial уточнение.
"No, Vice Admiral," he shook his head. "Old patrol tubs don't interest me. The Alliance will soon go to war into several sectors in the Tion Cluster. I want you to intercept and destroy their ships that will soon depart from Lantilles. My spies obtained the coordinates of their route; I am sending them to you."
The holoprojector blinked with an indicator of a received message.
"Don't delay execution, Vice Admiral," Fey'lya smiled, demonstrating his superiority. "And don't hold it against me. First the Dominion used the New Republic. Now it's time to change places. Destroy the enemy fleet as quickly as possible—before they reach Lianna. Otherwise, I will begin publishing the holorecordings."
The Bothan's projection dissolved, leaving me alone in the twilight of the apartments aboard the Guardian.
The dim light hid the outlines of the furniture, letting one blend into the half-darkness...
And it also hid the smile on my face.