Ten years, the second month, and the thirty-fifth day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, the second month, and the thirty-fifth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Nine months and twenty days since the arrival.)
An Executor-class Super Star Destroyer, the flagship of the Dominion's regular fleet, moved soundlessly and not particularly quickly through interstellar silence and darkness. Ha
Its long, narrow hull—like the tip of some gigantic archaic spear—was shoved forward by powerful engines, making the warship trace imaginary circles around three positions where the other ships of the detachment were stationed.
Someone might have thought the commander of this ship had gone mad, forcing a vessel of that size and armament to act like a chained guard dog circling its small herd, as if afraid that someone among them—three Interdictor-class Star Destroyers, or three Venator-class Star Destroyers—might decide to run away.
It would also have been easy to assume the crews were growing weary from the mere fact that they had to sit in merciless space at an immense distance from the nearest inhabited system.
But those guesses had nothing to do with reality.
Every member of these ships' crews felt perfectly fine during the operation underway.
More than that: sentients off watch crowded every available viewport to watch the Guardian, surrounded by a dozen Crusader-class corvettes, perform simple maneuvers.
Course changes, changes of echelon, sharp "jinks" in different directions.
Over and over, fighters from the Guardian's own air group came in on the gigantic ship from different angles, simulating an attack.
One squadron after another, trading off, intended to strike the ship.
And for the most part, they failed.
Low-power laser fire couldn't break through the ship's thick deflector "hide," while in return the Guardian's own laser cannons and those of its escort discharged just as often—fire that was nearly as harmless to the TIE interceptors' energy shielding.
The one who commanded the Guardian watched these actions calmly, standing on the flagship's bridge and listening to the training engagement directives from the sentient seated in the command chair at the center of the main dais, wearing a white uniform adorned with a grand admiral's rank plaque and matching grand admiral's epaulettes.
"With each run, they're getting better and better," Thrawn commented on the pilots' performance.
"Yes, sir," Captain Pellaeon replied in an emotionless tone. "A great deal of time was allotted to training the Guardian's crew, just as it was for the Punishing Sword's team, and it was time put to practical use."
"Combined with the fact that the Guardian's crew is staffed with the fleet's finest specialists, including clones, the result is acceptable," the grand admiral said. "End the maneuvers. Give the pilots rest. Rotate the battle watch—soon we will need them at full strength."
A battle watch was the portion of a ship's crew that, regardless of which routine watch a given crew member was assigned to, was considered the best suited to represent the warship in combat.
In the event of a battle alert, they were the first who had to take their places according to the battle station roster and fight either until death or until the battle ended.
In either outcome, they were replaced by comparable specialists from the routine watches, with slightly less impressive service records and talent.
That was how it had been on ordinary Star Destroyers.
In the days of the Galactic Empire.
At least, that was the knowledge Pellaeon had received at cloning from his original—the current deputy to Grand Admiral Thrawn, Vice Admiral Gilad Pellaeon.
And he saw no reason to doubt it.
Just as he did not doubt that, thanks to cloning, ships of the Dominion's regular fleet now had not one battle watch in large numbers, but at least two or three.
Which meant that even in the hottest battles, they could maintain the tempo of attack or defense if the "first number" was lost.
Pellaeon—having never come up with a name to distinguish himself from his original—had no doubt that the Dominion's creation of clones was the best of all possible options.
As on the other ships of the fleet, the Guardian (and in large numbers) also had career officers and enlisted, specialists and petty officers who were not clones.
And if at first there had been a large difference between clones bred for service on this ship and the sentients gathered from across the regular fleet, the best specialists in their fields, that difference shrank during training and exercises.
The battle in the Galaanus system demonstrated that the Guardian's crew was sufficiently trained and prepared to bring the ship into the regular fleet and place it on combat duty.
At the moment, Grand Admiral Thrawn was staging training alerts to keep the Guardian's crew and the crews of the escort and screening corvettes at the necessary level of readiness.
Pellaeon preferred to interpret the Supreme Commander-in-Chief's words about his team's progress as a positive assessment of the entire crew's performance.
But at the same time, he understood perfectly well that there was always something to strive for, and something to improve in his subordinates' skill.
"All systems have been brought to combat readiness," the report came to the ship's commander from Central Control. "New teams have taken the watch. The start of a full inspection of the artillery, launch systems, defensive systems, and other equipment has been confirmed."
Pellaeon duplicated the same report to the grand admiral.
"We're beginning the final check," the commander of the Guardian said. "Estimated time to report: six hours."
"Excellent, Captain," Grand Admiral Thrawn nodded in reply, stroking the ysalamiri comfortably settled on his snowy-white trousers. "Inform me when everything is finished. Notify the ships of the formation to shift security level to yellow. Training battle alert is canceled. Those off watch may rest."
"Yes, sir."
A prearranged audio signal rolled through the compartments, and the bluish lighting of the bridge characteristic of battle alert immediately gave way to the full brilliance of the white lighting panels.
The bridge watch, if only slightly, exhaled.
Pellaeon pivoted on his heels over his left shoulder and marched with crisp steps toward the communications station.
The grand admiral's unbreakable, everyday composure was somewhat disconcerting to Pellaeon.
As it had been to his original.
But the commander of the Guardian had been created shortly before the beginning of the operation at Sluis Van.
Despite the largest (at that time) losses of the Dominion's regular fleet, that operation had not been merely a successful raid into the enemy's rear.
Not a local sortie, which the New Republic, though prepared, still couldn't do anything about.
It wasn't even a slap that left a ringing in the head and sobering consequences.
It was a real, direct blow to the head, from which the New Republic barely managed to stay on its feet.
But for that, it had to endure many disappointing minutes of realizing what the consequences would be.
The Sluis Van operation had been planned and executed by his donor—Vice Admiral Pellaeon.
…And his clone wouldn't have minded being brought into existence only after that magnificent specimen of military tactics had been carried out.
Simply to feel, "in the first person," the difference between what Gilad Pellaeon had done at Sluis Van and what his clone was about to do in this pitch-black place in the middle of the Perlemian Trade Route.
Because the greatest fear of clones serving in the Dominion Armed Forces was to be less effective than the original.
And the commander of the Guardian was no exception.
He simply knew how to keep tighter control over his emotions.
Fortunately, both original and clone Pellaeon had excellent experience in restraint and self-control while working with Grand Admiral Thrawn.
And the commander of the Guardian greatly hoped his work would be assessed by the Supreme Commander-in-Chief no worse than the real Pellaeon's merits at Sluis Van.
Galaanus was only the beginning.
Almost like the operations in the Dufilvian sector.
The operation near Lantilles was the next stage.
A small step on the road to the same kind of military triumph for the Dominion as Sluis Van had been for Gilad Pellaeon.
It was assumed that, like any operation under Grand Admiral Thrawn's command, the reason the formation led by the Guardian had appeared in this part of the galaxy would be an example of an effective and powerful, crushing and elegant operation—the result of a brilliant warlord's work.
But Thrawn did not explain what, specifically, the essence of the maneuvers was.
However, Pellaeon—having his predecessor's experience—understood anyway that using three Interdictors and three Venators of the Sunburn project unambiguously indicated an operation against large enemy forces.
Which the grand admiral planned to capture.
Otherwise, why would they need as many as three ships of each type, and why were the Guardian's holds crammed with deactivated B1 battle droids?
Which in the past had been used as a temporary crew for ferrying captured ships and stations, just to be clear.
When transmission of the orders to the ships was completed, Pellaeon found a communications officer beside him, who quietly informed him that an incoming request had arrived from the Allegiance—an Allegiance-class battlecruiser on which Vice Admiral Pellaeon was flying his flag.
"To whom is it addressed?" the commander of the Guardian asked.
"To the Commander-in-Chief, sir," the comm officer added. "Vice Admiral Pellaeon is waiting on channel eighteen."
Unusual.
The commander of the Guardian glanced toward the grand admiral, but he was engaged in conversation with the senior gunnery officer.
Not the best idea to distract him right now.
In the end, the flagship's captain was also the commander's aide.
If the vice admiral's call had been urgent or confidential, Gilad Pellaeon would have gone straight to Thrawn's comlink.
"Notify the grand admiral," Pellaeon said. "I'll take the call in the tactical compartment."
Heading into that part of the bridge, he ran his hand along the metal rail protecting the edges of the "pits" on ships that had undergone modernization.
In any case, that was not the only novelty in the Guardian's interior—and in that of the Punishing Sword, which was of the same type.
Dominion engineers and the technical services of the regular fleet had done thorough work, turning the Executor from a flying city into a solidly sized warship that posed a real threat, gaining additional weapons and defensive emplacements.
Ideally, thanks to multiplying the number of anti-aircraft laser cannons from the original five hundred to a thousand by installing beam-type laser cannons similar to those mounted on Crusader II-class corvettes and installed on Star Destroyers and other ships upgraded under the Troika program, the Guardian, like the Punishing Sword, did not need escort and screening corvettes.
The additional armament let them employ one more defensive perimeter, leaving the battery laser cannons to defend against small ships at medium ranges, and the beam weapons to intercept kinetic munitions and enemy fighters in the close perimeter.
The weapons engineers promised that a new type of missile would soon enter service. Externally—anti-ship missiles, but in fact—one large container for delivering shaped-charge, homing micro-missiles meant to counter that same enemy fighter force and corvette- and frigate-class starships.
Reaching the tactical compartment, designed specifically to be a place for discussing the plans of military campaigns, Pellaeon gave his subordinate operators an unambiguous gesture ordering them out.
Which they did.
Left alone with the holoprojector, Pellaeon activated the device and waited for the volumetric projection to form.
"Grand Admiral, sir," Vice Admiral Pellaeon began briskly, pulling his gaze away from somewhere off to the side and looking directly at his interlocutor. "The Allegiance is in posi—"
The deputy to the Supreme Commander-in-Chief cut his report short, realizing that the one in front of him was not who he had intended to speak to.
"Vice Admiral Pellaeon," the commander of the Guardian addressed his original as an official greeting.
"Captain Pellaeon," the other answered in restrained formality, and it was noticeable that the original was slightly thrown off at the sight of his duplicate.
That was not uncommon—among the sentients subject to cloning, there were those who never fully accepted the policy of their "duplication."
It was psychologically hard—to know that you had never had a twin brother, and then in a single corridor you could meet a whole dozen technicians or pilots who look, and sometimes even behave, exactly like you.
Young officers and specialists treated it fairly calmly, which was to the credit of an unossified psyche and stress resistance.
But officers with years of service and rank plaques higher than those of a typical commodore—especially Star Destroyer captains…
They perceived such cloning games…
Ambiguously.
That was why Fleet Headquarters preferred to separate clones of the same "type" at least by different ships or watches.
Fortunately, starships were large, and sometimes you could go years of service without running into someone even from your own watch.
Not to mention other crew members.
As far as the commander of the Guardian knew, out of all the Star Destroyer captains judged loyal and competent enough to be cloned, Vice Admiral Pellaeon had not all that many "doubles" compared to the other senior officers of the regular fleet.
And it was not because the vice admiral somehow failed to meet the selection criteria for the cloning programs.
Simply, for reasons of his own, Grand Admiral Thrawn believed that the Dominion should have orders of magnitude fewer clones of Vice Admiral Pellaeon than, say, "doubles" of Rear Admiral Dorja or Captain Stormaer.
"My call was for Grand Admiral Thrawn," Gilad Pellaeon stated in a rather sharp tone.
Familiar by nature with this man's intonations, the commander of the Guardian understood perfectly that he felt uncomfortable speaking with his own living copy…
…A copy that was repeating Pellaeon's own fate—commanding the grand admiral's flagship.
And therefore participating in the most important battles the Dominion's regular fleet fought.
"The Supreme Commander-in-Chief is occupied at the moment," the commander of the Guardian explained. "I have already notified him through the communications officer. If you wish, Vice Admiral, I can convey—"
"Out of the question," the vice admiral said. "The message concerns the grand admiral directly."
Behind him came the muted hiss of the entry hatch.
"As you say, sir," Pellaeon replied calmly to Pellaeon. "I will make sure that—"
"Everything is fine, Captain," the commander of the Guardian heard the Supreme Commander-in-Chief's voice. "Your message has been relayed to me. Thank you for your prudence."
Under other circumstances, the commander of the Guardian would have received the information meant for the grand admiral and delivered it to the addressee.
But Gilad Pellaeon wanted to speak to Thrawn face to face.
There were probably specific motives for that.
"With your permission, sir," the commander of the flagship Super Star Destroyer addressed the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, "I will oversee the diagnostic work."
"Of course, Captain," his superior replied in a tone as if asking for the table to be set. "I expect your report immediately after you receive it from the section commanders."
"Aye, sir."
The captain turned toward the exit and left the tactical room at an unhurried pace, without looking back at the holographic terminal.
If the conversation was meant to be confidential, then that was the command's will.
All that remained was to carry it out.
***
The Humbarrine sector could boast that the Trellen Trade Route ran through its capital system.
This most important regional corridor linked such developed worlds as Commenor, Trellen, and Humbarrine.
And at the same time, it provided access to the largest galactic hyperspace arteries.
And with them, any corner of the galaxy could be reached in short order.
The proximity of worlds such as Neimoidia, Kuat, Balmorra, and also—at somewhat greater distance—Corellia, Duro, Coruscant, allowed this sector to develop for millennia.
…Humbarrine (to the right of Kuat).
The industrial and economic growth of the Humbarrine sector allowed it, centuries before the Clone Wars, to become one of the richest and most developed parts of the Galactic Republic.
In technological and economic leadership, Humbarrine could compete only with Kuat and Corellia—its closest neighbors, also located in the Core Worlds.
Despite its power and influence, during the Clone Wars the sector—though it had reliable defensive forces—was invaded by the Confederacy of Independent Systems.
The Republic's failed defense tactics for this treasure vault led to many of the sector's worlds first defecting to the Separatists.
And then, two years after the Clone Wars began, the sector capital—planet Humbarrine—was subjected to a devastating orbital bombardment by General Grievous's forces.
The result of that barbarism was the total destruction of the capital world's surface.
The few survivors fled the planet, which ultimately led to the desolation of the entire sector.
The remaining enterprises barely managed to find orders for themselves and keep their personnel employed.
The Humbarrine catastrophe was a hard lesson of history that the galaxy never learned.
The Galactic Empire did not give a damn about this sector—they limited themselves to formal displays of concern.
And small interventions, just so the situation would not slide into the abyss.
To be honest, Admiral Duplex did not have information on whether Humbarrine had joined the New Republic's territory or not.
But at the moment, when a dozen Republic-class Star Destroyers, supported by two dozen star cruisers and strike frigates, materialized in the capital system of the sector, he thought only about how to win the coming battle.
The enemy clearly had not expected to be attacked by such large New Republic forces.
Divided into three identical task forces under Admirals Duplex and Sei'lar, the New Republic ships found themselves in a position of superiority over the enemy from the very first minutes of their presence in the Humbarrine system.
The repair and supply stations deployed in orbit of the dead planet reacted sluggishly to the incursion.
Even more slowly, one Victory II-class Star Destroyer and three dozen Vindicator-class heavy cruisers and Dreadnoughts, corvettes and frigates, threw themselves toward the attackers.
Despite the parity in raw strength, Duplex did not even need that proverbial Jedi Force.
Even without it, he could see that the enemy was demoralized by the previous rout.
And whoever commanded them understood perfectly that even half of these forces would be enough to destroy the Pentastar Alignment's starships without the slightest problem.
Not without damage, but victory was assured.
And before the enemy could even grasp what was happening, a third of the fleet—the strike frigates—jumped away into hyperspace again.
Straight to the sector's industrial systems.
From which strings of ships with equipment and metals for repairing the enemy fleet were drawn.
Thanks to reconnaissance, Admiral Argentis knew perfectly well that even a single strike frigate was enough to ensure New Republic control over the sector's territory.
All that remained was to destroy the Pentastar Alignment fleet.
And that would happen soon enough.
"Launch the fighters," Admiral Duplex ordered. "Grind the Imperials into stardust."
The Humbarrine slaughter of the Empire began.
***
"Problems have arisen, Vice Admiral?"
The voice—like Grand Admiral Thrawn's appearance—was flawless.
But that did not change the fact that problems really did exist.
And ignoring them now was not the best course of action.
"Yes, sir," Gilad answered. "More precisely—one problem."
Well then. No more fear.
Thrawn could be told everything as it was, without worrying that he would use Darth Vader's trademark method and cut off Pellaeon's oxygen, as sometimes happened on Death Squadron ships.
"I take it this problem has white hair, wears aristocratic outfits, and adores expensive wine?"
Gilad's breath caught in his throat.
He glanced past the projector, where the source of the entire Allegiance crew's problems was positioned.
As always, Thrawn was right down to the smallest detail.
Before the assault on Serenno, the decision had been made to take aboard the flagship the sector D'Astan's legitimate ruler.
The notorious Baroness Feena D'Asta.
And along with her, about a hundred servants and advisers of the aristocrat came aboard the Allegiance.
And an entire container of that same wine, and two more—of outfits.
"For your information, Grand Admiral," the baroness stepped into the projection field so that her white-and-blue figure, a quarter of her true height, would appear before the grand admiral, "my hair is not white. It's pearlescent platinum."
"Baroness," Thrawn addressed the new participant in the conversation, and not a single muscle in his face twitched. "To what do I owe this?"
"The assault on Serenno is being prepared," the headache of the entire Allegiance crew declared. "I would like the leaders of the rebellion to be taken alive. And their property—palaces, production facilities, and everything else—not to be harmed."
Either the holoprojector was faulty, or a shadow of irritation had just crossed Thrawn's face.
"May I ask what caused such a desire?" Thrawn asked.
"I consulted my entourage and concluded that the public condemnation and execution of the rebellion's leaders would have a major public resonance among the sector's population," the baroness explained. "And after the peoples of the systems that make up the sector see the proceedings through holonet broadcasts—that the rebels have been convicted and face an inevitable, real punishment—this will protect the sector from future uprisings. Sentients will understand that armed rebellion is not the answer, because it is tied to real punishment. And any disagreements will henceforth be resolved through compromises and negotiations among all interested parties."
"I understand your thought," Thrawn declared. "But I must disagree with you."
"Oh, really?" the baroness predictably raised her voice, applying verbal pressure.
Pellaeon smirked to himself.
Earlier, the baroness could still rattle the Allegiance crew's nerves, since she was ostensibly the master of the flag under which the Dominion itself fought through hired hands.
And the more the Dominion's intervention shifted the front line, the more the baroness "grew feathers" and voiced her demands.
It was unclear why Thrawn had ordered her brought aboard the flagship before the final assault and full control of the sector were completed.
But she had caused Pellaeon more moral torment than she weighed.
She had chosen the wrong rhetoric.
Thrawn would not forgive that.
So it was possible to relax and watch the Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the Dominion literally smear an obnoxious woman into a thin layer.
"Yes, Baroness," the grand admiral stated categorically. "I cannot agree with your demands. Your assessment of the consequences of keeping the rebels alive during the investigation is not objective. It is impossible to eliminate any uprising as long as the leaders are alive. A humane trial and time under investigation will allow the population to regard these sentients as martyrs. Investigation, trial, and subsequent punishment—whatever it may be—are only delaying the inevitable. You will give the enemy additional opportunities to use the court proceedings as a tribune from which, in their defense speeches, they can continue inspiring their followers who remain unpunished."
"Are you absolutely sure of that, Grand Admiral?" the baroness asked acidly. "All political and legal theories say the opposite. We must show that the D'Astan sector is a state that is not afraid to try criminals openly."
"Any state must demonstrate its strength and the seriousness of its intentions through actions, not talk," Thrawn objected. "Because any delay between crime and punishment is a grave mistake. The longer the process drags on, the more those watching it believe the state machine is weak if it cannot resolve the problem quickly. Thus, your theories are mistaken…"
Pellaeon nodded in agreement with Thrawn.
Why all this fuss, when everything is clear already?
There is an enemy who raised an armed rebellion.
Effectively—initiating a civil war among the peoples of a single sector.
What trial and investigation could even be discussed?
Kill them on the spot, step over the bastard's corpse, and shoot the next one.
Fast and reliable.
"I am not mistaken, Grand Admiral Thrawn," the baroness cut in haughtily. "I believe this will be better for the whole sector. In your Dominion you may dictate the line of power from the shadows, but I have no reason to hush up what is happening. I demand that the rebel leaders be found and placed under arrest!"
A brief pause hung.
Pellaeon, grimacing, imagined the baroness's lifeless body hanging by the neck from one of the Allegiance's antennae.
Of course, not because she had spoken so brazenly to the grand admiral in the presence of a subordinate.
And not even because she had utterly unwisely interrupted Thrawn's speech—which he also disliked—but perhaps the dumbest thing she could do right now was contradict the ruler of the Dominion.
"Excellent, Baroness," the holoprojector's speaker burbled softly. "Issue the appropriate order."
Feena D'Asta opened her mouth, ready to object, but apparently she had absolutely nothing to say in response to Thrawn's unexpected reaction.
To be honest, even Pellaeon was taken aback.
"But… how… to whom," the woman clearly could not grasp what she was supposed to answer. "After all, the unified force is commanded by Vice Admiral Pellaeon. And he is your subordinate, and…"
The woman wilted.
"I know that your armed forces and the Dominion's troops are under Vice Admiral Pellaeon's command," the grand admiral continued, not the least bit embarrassed by the circumstance. "Evidently, you have a short memory, Baroness. You have forgotten that the Dominion's direct intervention occurred because your military proved incapable of reclaiming the sector. Even with our supplies of weapons and equipment. You agreed that our forces would act under a single command, and that the commander would be from the Dominion. That allowed your sector to be liberated in a short time. I find that your recent words, which diverge from the position of the unified force's command, are caused by dizziness from the successes of the current campaign. And if our positions diverge, then have the courage to say so openly."
The baroness was silent.
But her look made it clear she was thinking something through.
"I think it is worth helping you think a few steps ahead," Thrawn offered good-naturedly. "The moment you declare that our alliance is breaking apart, all Dominion armed forces—ships, crews, army, equipment—will immediately return to territory controlled by our state."
"I already understand that, Grand Admiral," the aristocrat muttered, interlacing her fingers. "You decided to stoop to blackmail? You want to remind me that most of our army flies your upgraded fighters, fights with your weapons, and in general does not possess any serious forces to finish what was started? I understand perfectly well—if you leave now, we will not be able to win."
"I simply want to be sure you will not try to use the Dominion in your own interests again, Baroness," a faint threat broke through the grand admiral's social intonations. "I find it distasteful to believe that the daughter of Baron Ragez D'Asta could come to me at the moment when her right to rule the sector and all her legacy were in danger only so that, at the end of the entire campaign, you could announce that you wish to seize the reins of command and present additional demands. Demands that will lead to unnecessarily heavy losses among the Dominion's ground and space forces. Because, let me remind you, your own armed forces do not pose a significant threat to the enemy remnants."
The aristocrat pressed her lips into a thin line.
"You are making me look bad, Grand Admiral," the baroness said darkly. "I already told my advisers it would be exactly like this."
"I am not urging anything, Baroness," Thrawn said. "You have already made it clear you have a completely different vision of how this conflict should end. Well then, a fruitful partnership did not work out. A pity. Vice Admiral Pellaeon, prepare to withdraw our forces."
"It will be done, sir," Pellaeon confirmed, not without pleasure.
Looking at the baroness, he barely held back the urge to tell her to her face, "Well? Eat that!"
"If I remember correctly, right now only your ships are blocking all routes out of the Serenno system to other parts of the sector," the baroness said. "And if you withdraw them, then the enemy can easily escape my ships and resume atrocities anywhere in D'Astan! That is unacceptable, Grand Admiral!"
"Of course. We will not allow that," Thrawn noted. "Vice Admiral Pellaeon will do everything so that it does not happen. Immediately after he withdraws our forces to territories under our control."
Gilad blinked, stunned.
What was that even supposed to mean?
Instead of pushing this idiot from Nez Peron aside and finishing the enemy, then dictating his will afterward, Thrawn decided to make a grand farewell gesture?
Let the rebels' ships slip away and hunt them down across the sector, thereby making it easier for the loyalists to take Serenno?
Thrawn couldn't possibly do that!
Gilad was as certain of it as he was that there was more gray in his hair than after the information raid on the Great Jedi Library on Obroa-skai last year.
Which, in fact, was where it had all begun.
No, no, no!
Thrawn could not do that!
That would be absolute stupidity.
The grand admiral never acted rashly, which meant there was some other meaning here.
It simply had to be seen and…
Gilad could not suppress a smile.
During the conversation, the grand admiral had repeatedly ordered the Dominion's troops withdrawn to "territories under our control."
A very interesting turn of phrase.
If there was one thing Gilad understood better than anyone else, it was that in the grand admiral's words one had to look for a second—if not a third—layer beneath the surface.
"As you command, Grand Admiral!"
Pellaeon unconsciously drew himself up.
Would the baroness understand, one wonders…
"You're hiding something, Grand Admiral," suspicious notes entered the aristocrat's voice. "What exactly are these territories under your control? Why do you speak of them, and not of withdrawing the ships to the established borders of the Dominion?"
"Because the Dominion's intervention in the civil war in the D'Astan sector has expanded those borders," Thrawn declared flatly. "At the moment we control more than half of the D'Astan sector's star systems. Dominion personnel shed blood to liberate them, and therefore these territories belong to us. Naturally, we will not allow rebels or other sentients hostile to the Dominion to penetrate them. But the star systems that are under the control of the forces loyal to you, Baroness, can of course continue to be considered as such."
Feena D'Asta opened her mouth soundlessly, unable to control her extreme shock.
"But… This is…" the "problem" could not seem to find the right words. "You… You are occupying us?!"
"Not at all. All sector D'Astan systems under our control will enter the Dominion with all rights and the obligations that follow from them," the grand admiral declared.
Pellaeon watched the baroness with grim triumph; she was morally crushed by the revelation that had fallen on her head.
The vice admiral even felt that, by being involved in the grand admiral's plan, he himself had become taller.
"You do understand you will look like a conqueror?" the baroness asked suspiciously. "The population will not accept the fate prepared for them as outsiders and observers. Will you suppress uprisings by force, kill civilians to hold power?!"
That certainty nearly made Gilad laugh.
Looking at the grand admiral's hologram, Pellaeon could almost see Thrawn's gloomy smile.
"The answer to your second question is 'No.' The answer to your first question is identical to the first," Thrawn replied. "I will assume the population will be extremely outraged by the fact that territories came under the Dominion's control precisely because it was the Dominion who reclaimed them. In your interests, Baroness. I am sure they will be offended by the fact that the D'Asta family's wealth was insufficient to pay for deliveries of military equipment, weapons, and uniforms for your army, since we had to enter the war. I will modestly refrain from mentioning the fact that my subordinates died so as not to allow your own abduction and murder. I will also refrain from reminding you of certain curious information regarding your origin. We are merely receiving payment for our services. In star systems."
A long pause followed.
"The baroness isn't a fool," Pellaeon decided.
The aristocrat understood perfectly what the grand admiral meant.
For all those months the Dominion had supplied what was necessary to the D'Astans' ingloriously defending army, not a single credit had been received as payment.
Yes, the Dominion used this conflict to advertise its military equipment—how effectively the assets of the Grand Army of the Republic could be modernized.
And that ensured stable orders for such deliveries.
But facts were stubborn things.
Nothing comes free.
The baroness had to understand that by accepting the helping hand, she remained in Thrawn's debt.
And deeply.
She took that risky step to preserve her power.
A power to which she did not particularly have rights, given that she was a clone of the real baroness.
Any DNA analysis would confirm that.
But the worst part for her was something else.
The moment the sector's population learned she was merely a copy, her entire war would look not like a liberation movement.
But like an attempted usurpation.
And no one would care that she did not possess full information about her own origin.
That she herself was a victim of circumstances.
It would be absolutely unsurprising if responsibility for the real baroness's disappearance and Baron D'Asta's death were placed on her.
The situation was so delicate that the consequences would be, to put it mildly, irreversible.
Ordinary sentients would find it practically impossible to dig out the real truth.
And Thrawn had already shown more than once how deftly he manipulated facts and came out ahead.
Unlike most of the galaxy, the grand admiral knew how to wage hybrid wars—and win them.
"What do you propose?" the disgraced, morally crushed baroness asked quietly.
"It's simple," the grand admiral answered. "The campaign continues and ends according to plan. No prisoners among the rebel leadership and no show trials. We bring you to power over the sector, and you initiate the accession of the territories to the Dominion. The details of the sector's status will be discussed later with Grand Moff Ferrus."
"So, I take it your ships and the Dominion's armed forces will not leave?" the baroness asked in a hollow voice.
"That is correct," the grand admiral confirmed. "Where the Dominion's flag has been raised even once, it will never be lowered again."
Pellaeon coughed, hearing the last phrase.
Now that's something.
Those were words an emperor of some state with a vast army and fleet might say.
But such a declaration from Thrawn—who was, supposedly, dead—and whose Armed Forces (as Gilad knew exactly, being the chief of staff) suffered a monstrous personnel shortage…
The military equipment, ships, combat vehicles, weapons—most of it existed, was produced, or was being modernized.
But there simply were not enough people to crew all Dominion trophies into the fleet, or even any meaningful portion of them.
With the approach of a two-tier Armed Forces model, mass scale would be impossible in the near future.
And it seemed Thrawn had decided to stretch the Dominion's borders even further, drawing them already along the Hydian Way.
But…
Doing it now?
Openly?
When it was understood that everyone who could be bothered was watching the Dominion, and on the borders they would soon have to fight along almost the entire north of the Hydian Way, finishing off the satellites of the Zann Consortium—this was not the most logical step.
If the galaxy did not know Thrawn was dead, this move would work—enemies would think twice about trying to counterattack the Dominion.
Simply because they would believe Thrawn had prepared traps for them in case of a rematch.
They were unlikely to fear Pellaeon just as much.
"Is that everything?" the baroness asked in a completely broken voice.
"The details will be specified in the alliance treaty, but if you are so interested, then I can tell you that the sector's armed forces will no longer be subordinate to the D'Asta family, but will pass under the Dominion's control," Thrawn continued. "This is as inevitable as the state's participation in the major production campaigns located in the sector. I think you understand that all rebel property and enterprises will be transferred to the Dominion without any additional conditions on your part?"
"Including my family's merchant fleet?" The baroness's eyes sparked with anger. "You're going to take that into your possession as well?"
"Your family's?" Thrawn clarified. "In my view, the emphasis is misplaced. Still, I believe I can agree to leave you control over certain lines of activity that formerly belonged to House D'Asta. Naturally, in exchange for concessions on your part, Baroness. Perhaps, if you do not drag out the integration process and do not try to oppose the Dominion—understanding the advantages in regional development we will provide—a moff will not be appointed in D'Astan. You may govern the sector. In our name. Under our attentive guidance, of course."
Judging by how the aristocrat's lips had gone pale, pressed into a razor-thin line, she had never been in a position like this before.
Humiliated and powerless.
And perfectly aware of what was happening.
First, the Dominion gained direct control over the defense forces and stationed its own troops in the sector.
Then it subordinated the largest businesses as co-owners—and most of those belonged either to aristocrats who were as good as dead, or to House D'Asta.
Which in turn meant total control over the production of foodstuffs, weapons, equipment, military hardware…
Blink, and the entire sector would become one big storeroom for the Dominion's war machine.
And the former aristocracy would be reduced to a chorus line.
There was no doubt that the very fact Thrawn was prepared to return control of the remnants of the sector's merchant fleet to the baroness already meant her income would be obscenely high.
The only problem was that they would never see, as their own, anything that had belonged to the House and had been nationalized by the rebels.
But the alternative was to stand there, biting your tongue, and watch the sector be taken right out from under you, leaving nothing behind.
If the new borders ran through sector territory, then the Dominion's isolationism would also apply to the systems the baroness intended to try to keep under her own authority.
It would not be a year before those worlds rose up—who would want to live under a blockade by the Dominion fleet?
Thrawn would clearly take care to ensure that traffic between the systems the baroness was counting on would be cut.
It would only mark a delayed end to the reign of Baroness D'Asta's clone.
On the other hand, she was being offered the option of stepping away from power in the sector and focusing on simple business.
Yes, it had to be understood that pacifying the sector during the occupation of territories would require time, strength, and resources—but the Dominion had them.
The baroness would certainly have supporters who had gained experience during the fighting of the civil war.
And they would surely try to fight.
They would fail—there would simply be more space debris and more deaths.
And to conquer the baroness's planets, Thrawn would not actually need that much effort.
It would be enough to demonstratively destroy resistance on one planet during the military campaign, and the rest would become prudent.
That was exactly what Thrawn intended to carry out on Serenno.
But now—for the entire sector.
To destroy every budding seed of discontent in a single blow.
Fast, ruthless, and entirely in the grand admiral's style.
A multi-move combination with only one winner.
And don't pretend the grand admiral got himself into the civil war in the D'Astan sector without considering this outcome.
Pellaeon could not find an answer to what he himself would do, if he were in the baroness's place.
But her lot was unenviable.
Either lose almost everything, but stay in power—albeit greatly diminished.
Or lose everything, and pile up mountains of corpses besides.
It was unlikely that, in the latter case, someone would not simply put the baroness's clone down.
Possibly even the Dominion's intelligence services.
And not "possibly," either.
Most obviously, that was exactly what would happen.
"Fine, Grand Admiral. I agree to become your puppet for the sake of the Dominion people's lives," the baroness finally said; resignation and defeat could be heard in her voice. "But before we proceed to integration, I want guarantees that I will not serve as a mere icon to soothe the sector's populace and ease it into soft submission."
"Of course," Thrawn agreed readily. "I guarantee you immunity, provided you comply with every single clause specified in the integration treaty."
Pellaeon thought that most senior Imperial officers in that situation would not have been able to resist gloating.
This was diplomacy at its peak—to start a conversation over a trifle and bring it to the capitulation of one's opponent.
And without any threats to carry out a Base Delta Zero order!
How did the saying go?
"Is a word stronger than a turbolaser?"
It seemed that piece of folk wisdom had found its real embodiment.
But the grand admiral's small courtesy, as the captain knew, was calculated just as meticulously as the preceding strike. Permission to surrender while keeping one's dignity—and no one would resist the Dominion until it was far too late.
"Emissaries will be sent to you; they will discuss with you the details of our agreement," Thrawn continued. "Including the guarantees clause. And the responsibility in the event it is violated. Immediately after the assault on Serenno is completed and the rebellion is suppressed. Until then, our ships will exercise full control over all the sector's star systems."
"Of course, Grand Admiral." Pellaeon could feel, in his gut, that the baroness was bursting with a caustic tone—full of venom and malicious triumph. "But any document can be circumvented. You've already shown me how that's done. I need guarantees of another kind."
Pellaeon felt a chill run down his spine.
That happened only in those moments when he commanded the Chimaera and Thrawn revealed the nature of his traps for the enemy.
It looked like the baroness had shaken off the shock, and now the spiteful harridan inside her had awakened—one who would not let her advantage slip.
Only what else did this white-haired lunatic want besides a treaty and its clauses?
"Explain yourself," the grand admiral ordered. "What would you like to receive as more reliable guarantees?"
"One way or another, there will still be discontent," the baroness's voice rang with triumph. "The sector's population has always supported the aristocracy—in one measure or another. If not one House, then another. I think you understand that weakening my House's position will be perceived strictly negatively—since soon there won't be any other Houses left in the sector. And you, in conditions of conflict, have no need for distractions caused by unrest in your rear. Especially in D'Astan, which is so conveniently located between the Dominion and the Hydian Way."
"Let's assume," Thrawn agreed in an everyday tone. "Your proposals, Baroness?"
"In that regard, the aristocracy long ago invented a mechanism that will unquestionably guarantee fulfillment of the obligations by both sides of the agreement," the baroness said, a smile appearing on her lips. "A legal document is fine. But for D'Astans, different relationships between those in power are far more customary."
Her pearly teeth seemed to Pellaeon like polished metal, with which she meant to sink into Thrawn's throat.
"And what relationships would those be?" the grand admiral's expression did not change, but it seemed to Pellaeon that he had somehow grown bored.
The baroness was rather clumsily winding up for some kind of fiery line—something that was probably supposed to strike them all down…
And it did.
Dead center.
With a single sentence.
At that very moment, Gilad witnessed what he had considered impossible.
He saw Grand Admiral Thrawn falter—coughing in surprise at the words of the triumphantly smiling aristocrat.
Despite the idiocy of the situation, Pellaeon felt uneasy.
If Thrawn did not know what to answer, it had the smell of a Death Star explosion.
Or something worse.
And it was all because Baroness D'Asta said:
"Marry me, Grand Admiral Thrawn."