Ten years, the third month, and the first day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fifth year, the third month, and the first day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Nine months and the twenty-first day since the arrival.)
Amusingly, the Intergalactic Communications Center—the central node of the HoloNet in the galaxy—was about to live through something like this for the second time.
Located on the planet Praesitlyn in the Sluis sector, one hundred and fifty kilometers from the nearest continent, this center kept the entire communications network of the galaxy operational.
During the Clone Wars, the Confederacy of Independent Systems had already paid this planet a "military visit," taking control of the HoloNet's central relay.
At the cost of enormous effort, the Old Republic managed to retake this world and the most vital communications hub.
The planet, like most of the worlds in the sector, slipped out from under the New Republic's jurisdiction, declaring its independence after the rout at Sluis Van, when the Republicans' Defense Fleet was smashed.
There weren't all that many warships even in the sector itself.
And there were even fewer patrol starships in orbit over Praesitlyn—far fewer.
Literally one obsolete Marauder-class corvette, found somewhere on a galactic junkyard and brought back to life on what was left of the shipyards on the planet Sluis Van.
The Sluis sector tried to pursue an independent policy.
But they didn't have the means to create their own fleet.
And so the gap in their defenses, noticed by Dominion Intelligence, was used to implement the plan.
The cover ship, a Corellian freighter in such a miserable state that anyone who saw it would have sincerely wished its owner would stop torturing the ship and send it to the scrapyard, shuddered as it made a high-speed atmospheric entry.
Its hull metal groaned as friction turned the air into fire, and Lieutenant Colonel Tierce could watch the orange-red glow through the transparisteel cockpit windows.
He noticed the pilot clenching the control yoke with all his strength, trying to tame an uncooperative machine.
But that was exactly how it had to be done right now.
The heat, the descent speed, and ionized particles caused temporary sensor blindness.
Both theirs and those placed along the perimeter of the target.
But there was one more factor that helped throw off any potential observers.
Powerful dust storms—common enough on this planet—severely interfered with both visual surveillance and instrument monitoring.
"Everyone, get ready," he said when the fiery glow diminished and the ocean appeared ahead.
The pilot leveled the ship, set the course, and hurriedly swept the sky and space around them.
The sensors detected nothing.
And the dust storm—which, even by local standards, was anomalous—reliably blocked the operation of systems in the atmosphere.
The lieutenant colonel glanced at Mr. Pent, clinging to the chair's armrests.
"Ice Pick," squeezing the equipment case between his knees, pressed himself into the seat as hard as he could.
And with a pale face, he watched the goal of this entire journey draw nearer.
"Take your pills, Mr. Pent," Grodin said, accepting a cloak from one of the guards that concealed his armor. "Your working time is about to begin."
"Yeah," Pent agreed, hunted. "I… I'll be ready when you need me."
"No doubt."
Grodin watched the ship break through a thick, pink blanket of clouds and emerge ten kilometers from the communications center.
The nearest continent was visible in the distance.
Sensors began reporting that temperatures had dropped sharply in the lower atmosphere.
An icy crust started forming on the ship's hull, and snow, turning into hail, began to drum rhythmically against the starship.
The local sun, sinking behind the horizon line, lit everything around them in orange and red.
The restless, dark northern sea heaved below; uneven white circles of furious surf marked thousands of little islets protruding from the water, not shown on any charts.
To the west, fairly far away, he could make out the hazy edge of the continent with a mountain range covered in snow, its peaks higher than the clouds, the ridge itself stretching from north to south.
His eye caught movement beside the ship. A flock of web-winged gulls, too small to be detected by instruments, flew two hundred meters off the starboard side of the starship, well below it. Spreading their huge, compared to their bodies, webbed wings, they beat them slowly and flew against the cold wind toward the south.
Their formation resembled a curved bracket. They were flying south, toward warmth, and paid the ship no attention when it passed over them. Their black eyes were shielded from the rushing wind mixed with snow.
The pilot powered down the ion engines, and the ship's speed dropped even more.
The instrument panel on the main view display lit up with all necessary landing data.
Tierce tracked the ship's course and tapped a finger at the destination point.
"Armed soldiers on the platform."
"Transmitting recognition codes," the pilot replied. "Two minutes to landing—we're on repulsors."
That last clarification made it clear why the flight had suddenly become so comfortable.
The rhythmic, constant pounding of hail against the cockpit would have lulled anyone like a lullaby.
"Everyone, prepare to disembark," he ordered into his comlink.
Clicks on the channel confirmed that every single guardsman aboard the ship had received the order.
His hands automatically checked whether his blasters were charged, tightened the straps of his composite armor, and confirmed his concealment was secure, while his thoughts were occupied with something else.
The pilot banked into a steep turn, flying a wide arc around the islet, trying to get a look at the landing site.
No defensive turrets had opened fire on them yet, which meant the locals had, at minimum, received the access codes.
"The landing zone is safe," the pilot voiced his hope that it was so, encouraging himself. "Coming in to land."
Under the reverse thrust of the repulsor engines, the ship was shrouded in powerful vortices of sea spray and fine debris.
Grodin moved through the cabin, pulling his concealment closed so that there wasn't the slightest hint of his armament.
In the passenger compartment he found two sentients in black armor, identical to what the Guardsmen wore down to the last detail.
Only the color of the plating and the helmet visor differed.
One of the Shadow Guards sat right on the floor of the compartment, legs tucked under him.
The second sat in a nearby seat, repeatedly tossing the hilt of his lightsaber up with impatient little flips.
"Lord Maul," Tierce addressed the second. "Can you keep the dust storm going for as long as we need?"
The featureless helmet turned toward him, and for an instant Tierce felt a nearly forgotten pressure—the one he had felt in the Emperor's presence.
"Streen will control the weather for exactly as long as it takes to complete the mission," he said, rising from his seat. "I, however, will go with you in the assault."
The plan had been for Darth Maul to ensure the security of the ship and his partner while the guardsmen and the "ice pick" were occupied with the mission.
That was exactly what Tierce didn't fail to remind the Shadow Guard of.
"Leave a pair of subordinates for defense," the latter ordered. "I sense the site's security is far stronger than expected. I foresee you will need my help."
On that point, Grodin had no doubts.
After all, he was leading two dozen of his own clones into battle, each one a machine of death in the flesh.
But he didn't argue.
Shadow Guards, like the Jensaarai, read a situation far better than ordinary sentients.
Mission completion was the priority.
"As you wish, Darth Maul."
He headed toward the aft of the starship.
It was time to make history.
***
A Sullustan engineer from the Republic shipyards looked rested and cheerful.
She walked lightly down the ramp onto the landing pad of Rendili Spaceport, whistling a simple little tune, and looking around.
The last time she had been here, she had been able to admire shuttles, transports, packet boats, and other auxiliary craft to her heart's content—darting like mad between the surface and the slips, delivering cargo to the Republic-class Star Destroyers under construction.
Now everything around was clean and orderly.
But only because she had returned to the surface a little earlier than the usual end of her shift.
In an hour, you wouldn't be able to move here for all the sentients coming on duty and those being relieved.
But her position as an engineer had its advantages—under the pretext of speaking with planetary services, she could leave the yards earlier.
And not waste time on identity checks at the security posts along with thousands of other workers.
Passing the first cordon of security, she—as she had planned—stopped by logistics.
Where they thoroughly chewed her ear off with another round of reprimands: "If you need those Imperial spare parts so badly, then you fly to Kuat and Wohai every day and bring back whatever you need!"
As the chief engineer responsible for what had become a critically important New Republic project, the Sullustan always found the right words for negligent supply officers, and the matter would move off dead center.
Until the next cargo shipment.
And yet the Sullustan kept smiling and was satisfied with life.
It was good to be back on the surface.
And better still—not to have any problems with the law.
And at the same time—to have an excellent job, a clean record, and a weekly income that was simply indecent.
None of that would have happened if not for the Battle of Sluis Van, after which her kin declared neutrality and hurried to recall their citizens from the New Republic's technical and other services.
A small revenge for the fact that they had been unable to protect the Sullustans' homeland from Grand Admiral Thrawn's attack.
Recognized masters of shipbuilding and working with technology, the Sullustans—like the Verpine—were no longer frequent guests in the New Republic.
So the game had been worth the candle.
Still whistling, she headed for the second security cordon; once past it, she could freely get out into the city and spend the remaining time before her next shift resting however she pleased.
"Welcome back, Chief Engineer," a young second-cordon security officer saluted her jokingly, routinely checking her ID, casting a critical look at the personal items laid out in the tray, and gesturing for her to go through the scanner arch. "Hope you had a good shift?"
"Oh yes, quite," the Sullustan stepped out of the scanner, but only after the guard's approving nod did she take her personal items and tuck them into her pockets. "How's your duty, Sergeant?"
"Stable," the woman smiled brightly. "Routine."
"Like all of us."
"Well, not quite," the guard winked at her. "Some of us do more than the rest."
"All of us do our part," the Sullustan assured her.
"That's true," the guard nodded. "And… if it's not classified…"
She lowered her voice on the last part.
The chief engineer smirked, understanding the source of the interest.
"He's fine," she assured her. "Our Navy boys worked the Reaper over good, but we'll restore her. Not fast, but well. She'll be better than before."
"Can't wait to see him kick the imps' asses," the guard sighed dreamily.
"One day we will," the Sullustan promised, stepping beyond the cordon boundary and waving goodbye.
"Oh—wait!" the guard flung up her hands. "You've got a message."
"From who?" the Sullustan asked, surprised.
"A young woman," the guard winked. "Quite pretty. Asked me to pass along that you forgot something at her place when you were taking your break last shift-change."
"So that's how it is…"
The Sullustan was genuinely thrown for a moment.
Two questions immediately appeared at once.
What could she have left there—and not noticed the absence of her thing or things for so long?
And also: since when did workers from entertainment establishments go running after clients themselves to return something?
It was unlikely that it was something truly valuable—more likely some trinket meant to catch a steady customer in a small, cunning net.
Interesting. What was that about?
"She asked me to pass you this chip," the security officer added, still smiling as warmly, handing the engineer a data storage device.
The Sullustan took it warily.
"Don't worry," the guard advised her. "We checked it every way we could."
"And the contents?" the Sullustan asked, swallowing.
She didn't like any of this.
"It's just a holorecording with an address," the woman answered. "A house in a residential district."
"All right," the Sullustan forced out. "Thank you."
Pocketing the chip, she headed toward the hover-taxi stand.
The driver droid politely (which was already starting to irritate her today) asked her destination.
Without hesitation, the Sullustan inserted the information chip into the input slot.
The equipment read the data, and the transport jolted forward, merging into the traffic flow.
***
He unclasped the holsters beneath his cloak and pressed the button to open the bay.
The cargo ramp lowered onto the landing platform, and cold wind burst into the hold, filling everything with the smell of ocean and salt.
He heard the rasp of sand along the ship's hull.
He stepped out of the starship.
The setting sun's light blinded him for a moment, and the guardsman narrowed his eyes.
He, like his entire team, had flown under artificial lighting for several days, taking the most convoluted hyperspace routes to avoid running into any enemy.
His boots crunched on freshly fallen snow and sandy grit that coated the black surface of the landing pad.
Thick vapor poured from his mouth, immediately carried away by the wind.
Two men from among the visible guards moved toward him, and they met halfway between the ship and the building.
Both were humans, both bearded.
Both wore insulated uniforms—local defense forces of the center.
One was one-eyed, with a lightning-bolt scar on his cheek. Both had blasters on their belts, and like Grodin, their holsters were unclasped.
But they couldn't even guess he had weapons.
Shielding his eyes from the sun and snow with a hand, Tierce instantly assessed the disposition near the ship.
Two fighters in front of him.
Two more—at the entrance to the center.
Distance: twenty meters.
Armed with heavy blaster rifles.
On the second-floor balcony—another sentry.
This one had a heavy repeater.
If they wished, a squad like that could shred anyone who tried to attack the communications node.
It seemed Darth Maul had been completely right—his help would definitely be required.
All of it produced the familiar unpleasant sensation of an imminent fight and many deaths.
"Who are you?" the scarred man asked, and made a vague gesture toward the ship behind the guardsman. "Your junk heap isn't on the flight plan, friend. So be good and don't make any sudden moves."
The man without the scar stood beside him, shifting from foot to foot, and seemed nervous.
Grodin nodded, keeping an impassive face, but felt his body begin producing adrenaline, preparing for trouble.
"What are you doing here?" the scarred man asked.
"I'm delivering a shipment of equipment for the center," Lieutenant Colonel Tierce answered calmly. "Another courier was supposed to fly in, but he got lost somewhere along the way. I was sent as a replacement."
"As a replacement," the second sentient repeated, still shifting, and started to snicker softly.
"What's so funny?" Grodin asked, drawing his right hand back and folding his fingers into a specific pattern.
Stormtrooper Corps hand signals.
Before the second man could answer, the scarred partner asked roughly, "What's your identifier?"
The hand drawn back slipped under the cloak.
His fingers closed around the hilt of a throwing knife.
"Same as everyone else."
The scarred man grimaced.
"I don't like you, kid."
"Well, I'm not some Twi'lek girl to be liked by everyone," Grodin said, and smiled slightly. "Same as always."
The pair in front of him exchanged looks.
"Hand over your identifier and the cargo bills of lading."
As they spoke, their hands went to their blasters.
Grodin felt calm and peace.
He usually felt that way when danger was close.
When it was time to kill.
The lieutenant colonel made an imperceptible motion, and the knife in his hand slit the scarred man's throat.
He collapsed onto the landing pad, making dying, gurgling sounds through his cut throat, the black knife hilt jutting from it.
The remaining enemy fighters stirred.
Grodin rolled forward, drove his fist up into the opponent's chin, shattering his jaw and disorienting him.
Using him as a shield from the entrance guards' fire, Grodin lunged forward.
Blaster bolts screamed ahead and overhead—his other guardsmen, taking cover behind metal shields disguised as cargo crates, laid down suppressive fire.
For a brief moment there came the roar of something being torn free of its mount, accompanied by a soul-freezing scream.
Grodin, shoving the corpse into the nearest of the two entrance guards, yanked a blaster from a thigh holster and fired into the other man's face.
The enemy had time to take a step back in surprise and fell like a tree cut at the roots.
His mouth opened soundlessly, and his right hand was thrust toward the guardsman as if he wanted to stop the blaster shot that had already sent him to his ancestors.
The second entrance guard collapsed with a hole in his chest—someone else among the guardsmen got him.
And from above, splattering everything with blood and innards, the fifth shooter dropped, looking as if he'd been flayed alive.
The guardsmen, armored like mercenaries, broke through to the doors and formed a circular defense.
External side passages led here from left and right, and soldiers with small arms were already running along them.
The guardsmen picked them off one by one.
"Locked," the "ice pick" reported, brought to the door under the guardsmen's cover. "I need a couple minutes to open—"
In the next second the door metal squealed.
So plaintively that Tierce didn't believe at first that an armored bulkhead could make a sound like that.
Then the smooth surface crumpled—just a little, barely noticeable.
And a second later it turned into a massive, heavy wad, like a crumpled sheet of flimsi.
Only it weighed a couple hundred kilos.
"Done," Darth Maul reported, as if nothing had happened, slipping past the assault team and entering the main corridor first.
The other guardsmen followed, flooding the corridor with the fire of their handheld instruments of death.
His crimson blade sprang to life and became an elusive stream, blocking a hail of blasterfire.
The Shadow Guard advanced like an armored droid, deflecting every bolt aimed at him.
He thrust his left hand outward—and from the second-floor balcony in the central corridor, one of the enemy fighters flew over the railing and crashed down.
With a disgusting, wet smack he broke against the corridor floor, after which the bloody projectile, as if from a sling, was launched into two other fighters firing from cover.
Grodin immediately shot another enemy standing near a side corridor.
The man jumped aside and, ducking behind a fairing, drew his blaster and shouted something into the comlink on his wrist.
What exactly wasn't clear over the roar of battle.
But in the next second, an invisible force tore him from behind cover.
Two precise shots killed the defender while he was still in the air.
Darth Maul broke into a run and leapt to the second level, where several more sentients stood—each of them with hostile intent toward the attackers.
He split the first from head to waist.
The second he yanked toward himself and impaled on his lightsaber.
The third he lifted into the air with a clenched left fist, forcing him to claw at his own throat, then slammed him into the corridor floor with enough force to smear him.
Grodin took a blaster in each hand, raised his arms over his cover, and began firing toward the people running at him as fast as he could.
He couldn't see the results of his shooting, but it barely bothered him—only a couple of bolts were enough for a guardsman to gauge the direction of fire.
Besides, he was doing it so the defenders would start looking for cover, hiding from the shots.
Which would inevitably make them excellent targets for the rest of the guardsmen.
After he fired more than a dozen shots, and not a single bolt came back, he sprang from behind cover and rushed forward.
He reached the next opponent before the man could even process what was happening.
Sparks flew in all directions where bolts struck, and the stench of melted plastoid hung in the air, mixing with the salty ocean smell.
Grodin drove his elbow into the enemy soldier's face, crushing it with his armored element.
A finishing shot to the head—and the opponent went silent forever.
"Lieutenant Colonel," he heard the voice of one of the junior unit leaders. "Alpha Team is advancing along the north wall."
"Beta Team is along the east."
"Gamma has control of the west."
Each team had five fighters.
Of the twenty-one—two were guarding the ship.
Fifteen were holding external control.
Grodin and three other fighters were supporting Darth Maul, who was finishing off the last defender in the central corridor.
At that moment, he drove his blade into the armored door behind which the main server room and operations hall were located.
That was where they needed to go.
Rushing after him, Tierce ordered his squad to ensure Mr. Pent's safety.
He reached Maul just as the Shadow Guard cut a huge oval into the door, pulled it free from the wall, and slipped inside.
The lieutenant colonel followed right behind.
Just in time to see Maul cleave three enemy soldiers apart in a single blow.
"No one move, and no one gets hurt," the Dominion Guard commander barked, staring at the terrified faces of several dozen sentients huddled in the far corner of the room. "Order your security to lay down their weapons. Otherwise they will be уничтожены."
"We can't do that," a young specialist standing closest to Tierce declared.
"That's what you think," the featureless Darth Maul threatened, looming over the operator. "Think carefully before I start tearing off your limbs one by one."
"They're not our security!" the operator screamed, terrified. "They took us hostage a week and a half ago!"
Tierce met the eyes of the fighters who had come up behind him and gave the appropriate order with a nod.
One of the guardsmen—his face, like the others', hidden behind an opaque armored helmet—knelt beside the corpses that Darth Maul had just split.
After a quick search, the subordinates passed the ID credentials of each killed man to the lieutenant colonel.
"Crack it," he ordered Mr. Pent, who had already settled in at the nearest working terminal.
"Ice Pick," pulling out his gear, connected chips one by one to his datapad, and after a couple minutes gave an answer.
An answer Grodin didn't like.
Not at all.
***
By the time the taxi approached the specified address, the Sullustan already knew several things.
First.
She had never seen the woman who sat in the holorecording in a light robe, settled into a soft chair, in her life.
Despite addressing her by name and specifying with precision the place she had visited on her last off-shift, the Sullustan had never seen her before.
Even though the woman claimed otherwise.
Second.
It began to seem that this woman was just as much a victim of circumstance as she herself was.
During the recording, the woman kept looking at someone beyond the holocamera's field of view, as if she wanted to ask something or receive confirmation for what she was doing.
And third.
The recording itself.
"Forgive me for bothering you, but my conscience won't let me keep from you the fact that last time you forgot your вещи with us," her expression was sad, as if she were upset by something. She smiled sweetly, displaying a small chain with a pendant on it. "If you need this item, you can pick it up from me at the address…"
Nothing unusual.
Simple attentiveness.
But her final line changed everything.
"I still hope we'll see each other, because at the establishment you said this item ties you to the past, when you worked at other shipyards."
There was nothing improper here, either—certainly not for Rendili StarDrive Security.
They knew she had worked at the Sluis Van shipyards in the past.
But there was a problem.
She had worked at shipyards before she got hired on Rendili.
But not on Sluis Van.
And she had never owned any chain with a pendant.
And the only people who could know her real place of work were those she had worked for before.
If Republic Intelligence had found out about her double game, no one would lure her out.
They would simply come and arrest her.
No ceremony.
Which meant she had to be ready for the fact that absolutely everyone knew.
And for some reason her previous employers needed her.
In any case, she suspected why they had shown such interest precisely now.
Run?
Pointless.
She couldn't tell the situation to Security officers either—they would clearly guess her double life, and then everything she had worked so hard for would end.
So she got to the address, paid the droid.
It really was a residential neighborhood.
Quiet, cozy, calm, safe.
Huge high-rises where thousands of sentients lived, built with a pleasant design that didn't stand out from the cityscape.
The Sullustan quickly found the right building.
In the lobby she found the turbolift, asking a couple of workers tinkering with communications for directions.
This residential district had been built recently, and the contractors were periodically finishing certain gaps in their work left at the construction stage.
Or more simply: the contractors stole plenty during the project, and now it turned out the pipes were wrong, the wiring was cheaper, the lighting wasn't what the codes had required…
The developer, trying to save money, as always had to pay up and redo work they hadn't wanted to do properly from the beginning.
That was why almost no one lived here yet—who wanted to move into apartments where, from morning till night, the noise of "finishing works" never stopped?
"Oh," the woman-worker scratched her nose. "You need the turbolift, right?"
"Yeah," the Sullustan confirmed. "Can you show me where it is?"
"Come on," the woman-worker slapped her partner on the back. "We'll check and shut down the distribution panel on the maintenance level before we look for what caused the burned wiring in the lobby."
The Sullustan froze.
Were they serious?
What sane person goes to repair power lines while they're still live?
Even she, not being a building contractor, knew that!
"Yeah, let's go," the male worker sniffed. "Miss, the turbolifts are over in that part of the lobby."
"New ones, looks like," the Sullustan thought, judging by the unwashed, not-yet-worn uniforms of both workers.
All three entered the turbolift cab.
The workers decisively pressed the button for the maintenance level just under the roof.
The chief engineer, not overthinking it, corrected their intentions by activating the button she needed.
The turbolift doors slid shut, and the spacious chrome-glinting cab shot upward.
The Sullustan was lost in thought, barely listening to the two laborers' chatter as they repeatedly pulled equipment from their bags, arguing about whether the scanners were configured correctly…
"Careless of you," the woman-worker suddenly said, looking the Sullustan directly in the eyes.
"I'm sorry—what?" the Sullustan blinked.
"We don't forgive," the male worker answered, leveling a blaster at her. "Worse than traitors are only double traitors, Ten Dorne."
The Sullustan swallowed hard, a lump rising in her throat.
It seemed… it was even worse than she had thought.
***
They dragged her out of the turbolift on the maintenance level, tossing her into a corner like a sack of rags.
The engineer swept the room with a quick glance and realized the only way out was through a ventilation duct.
Outside.
And a flight under freefall acceleration all one hundred floors of the building.
Because the turbolift cab had been sealed by the "workers."
"Y-you've made a mistake!" the Sullustan babbled. "Y-you need someone else! I-I-I-I, I'm here on business!"
"Came for the chain?" the woman snorted, twirling on her finger the very item that a different unknown woman had displayed in a holorecording a couple hours earlier.
"N-no, what are you… I'm here to see acquaintances!"
"Is she an idiot, or does she take us for idiots?" the man asked his partner.
"What are you, what are you, how could I," the Sullustan stammered, scooting backward on her back as she watched the pair close in on her.
A deadly pair.
"Let's not waste our time," the man suggested. "For you, Ten Dorne, we had to travel a long way."
"I'm telling you, you're wrong!" the Sullustan babbled. "I'm not Dorne, I—"
A short, straight punch to the head sent sparks exploding behind the chief engineer's eyes.
"Don't waste our time," the man advised. "We know perfectly well who you are and what you are."
"If you want, I can recite it," the woman offered. "I had a good laugh reading your агентурное file, Dorne."
"You've got me confused with someone," the Sullustan tried to squeeze out a pitiful tear.
But it wouldn't come.
Inside, she was simply trembling with fear.
What she had wanted to avoid had caught up with her.
Where she least expected it.
"You are Ten Dorne, a Sullustan who worked on Admiral Gial Ackbar's project to create the heavy assault fighter known as the B-wing, or simply the 'blade,'" the woman said in an unyielding tone.
"You also worked on a device that could break tractor-beam locks," the man picked up.
"After that you defected to the Empire," the woman continued, circling the alien from the side.
While the man kept advancing straight at her, holding her in the sights of his blaster.
"You worked at the Vosteltig shipyards in the Oplovis sector," he said, naming another line from the Sullustan's true biography. "For which General Kraken put out a warrant for you as a threat to New Republic security."
"After which, as soon as the New Republic got serious about the sector, you ran," the woman took a long step and ended up behind the Sullustan. "And on paper it still showed you were on Vosteltig and working there."
"Only no one could find you there," the man said. "Not the Republic, not the Empire."
"You simply dissolved, as if you had never existed," the woman declared. "And the Sullustan you left on Vosteltig in your place, of course, knew nothing about you. So they paused the search."
"I'm just an engineer!" the Sullustan screamed, not really hoping it would help. "I just work on Rendili! And before that—on Sluis Van."
"You stole the identity of the Sullustan you used as your stand-in on Vosteltig," the man cut in. "And with those documents, thoroughly scrubbed, you 'surfaced' in the New Republic. Right after Sluis Van refused to do any business at all with the Republicans."
"Including exchanging information," the woman continued pelting her with facts.
"What do you want from me?!" the Sullustan shouted. "Yes, I made a deal, I saved my life! Yes, I got new documents—so what?!"
The man and woman exchanged a look.
"New Republic documents that passed enhanced checks strongly enough for her to infiltrate Rendili StarDrive," the man said, looking at his partner.
"You noticed that too?" she winked. "We couldn't pull it off to get you right on the slips. But you, without even a tiny bit of intelligence-service experience—managed it?"
"I had help!" the Sullustan said plaintively.
"And who was it?" the man asked.
"A friend! I don't know his name! He found me almost immediately after it became clear Oplovis was falling under New Republic attacks!" Dorne babbled. "Only a hologram—I didn't see anything else!"
The man and woman exchanged another look.
Judging by how their faces changed, neither of them was thrilled by what they'd heard.
"You're thinking of the same person I am?" the man asked.
"Uh-huh," the woman said, placing a hand on the Sullustan's head and, without the slightest hesitation, bringing a knife up to her unprotected throat. "Let me guess. In exchange for new documents, that 'someone' demanded you hand off the blade-wing work to his subordinates?"
"Yes-yes-yes," the Sullustan nodded rapidly.
She did it energetically, but very carefully—a blade at the throat never improved anyone's health during sudden movements.
"What else was part of the deal?" the man asked.
"Work for him," the Sullustan said. "Pass along information about what's happening on Rendili."
"And what have you managed to report to him already?"
"Nothing," the Sullustan whined. "I swear by all the gods of all peoples—nothing. I thought this invitation to a meeting was from him. Especially since they made me chief engineer on the repair of a captured Super Star Destroyer."
"Maybe, maybe," the man said vaguely. "But you got very lucky today, Dorne. I'm offering you a choice: either we leak your data to local intelligence and keep you in a snug place they're guaranteed to reach, find you, and deliver you to a tribunal…"
"After which they'll undoubtedly shoot you," the woman supplied, helpfully.
"And what's the second option?" the traitor-Sullustan asked quickly.
"Now it gets interesting," the man smiled at her. "Do what we tell you—and you'll never again have to think about getting caught by one intelligence service or the other."
Ten Dorne nodded in agreement.
Well, what else was there?
Not a bad option at all.
***
When Lieutenant Colonel Tierce finished his report, my first impulse was to ask a clarifying question: "Are these data accurate?"
But those immediate doubts dissolved as soon as I remembered the commander's discipline.
"Interesting," I said. "Well, that was expected."
In truth, it was nothing more than a supposition.
One hypothesis among hundreds.
But more than any other, it fit the context of what was happening, becoming another puzzle piece in the mosaic of one specific restless sentient's actions.
"A rather rash move on the part of the Republicans," Lieutenant Colonel Tierce shared his opinion. "A special-forces seizure of the HoloNet's central communications node is direct aggression against the Sluis sector government."
"Correct," I confirmed. "But the Sluis sector has neither the political influence nor a fleet large enough to present objections in any form beyond protest notes. Even so, such actions will clearly lead to certain consequences on the galactic stage."
"What are your orders, Grand Admiral?" the lieutenant colonel asked, fully aware that interfering in the enemy operation might entail changes in our actions as well.
There were many options for how to proceed in the current situation.
Very many.
But at the same time, this was no reason to be distracted.
On the contrary—it was a very, very interesting way to turn the situation from another angle.
"Continue the operation, Lieutenant Colonel," I ordered. "Be ready to withdraw your unit to the reserve base in the event of an invasion threat. Take measures to ensure the enemy cannot find traces of your interference, but does discover a different presence. Everything must be done with the mandatory preservation of the node personnel's lives and their evacuation to territories under our control."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral."
The lieutenant colonel's hologram dissolved.
I was left alone with my thoughts.
More precisely, with those of them that had been born only moments ago.
And it couldn't be said they were particularly new.
The HoloNet was a fairly old telecommunications system, but one still actively used.
During the Clone Wars, control over it had remained steadily in Old Republic hands.
Used, among other things, for communications, coverage of hostilities, and conducting propaganda and counterpropaganda operations.
The Confederacy of Independent Systems organized its own form of telecommunications: Shadowfeed.
For the same purposes.
Since then, several dozen variants of the HoloNet had appeared, with various limitations or scales of activity.
The New Republic had its own variant of the HoloNet, but once they became the galactic hegemon and gained many influential cartels as allies—including those responsible for the HoloNet—they simplified their work.
Well then…
The Sluis sector's departure from their control complicated life for the New Republic.
Now they could rely solely on their own communications network—the New Republic HoloNet.
So why attack a neutral broadcasting system?
The answer was simple: it had access to every corner of the galaxy, as a legacy of the Old Republic.
And with this communications node, it was possible to deliver a message to New Republic worlds, to the Imperials…
Not to mention neutrals.
A perfect method of propaganda and hybrid warfare.
We used such an approach last year—but to achieve broad coverage we had to literally bombard the information network with countless copies of the same recordings.
Some of them were destroyed, some reached their recipients.
Overall, even with great effort, the result was not especially extensive.
Fey'lya decided to use my own work against me.
Well, he shouldn't.
And why—this Bothan would learn soon enough.
A comlink sounded.
"Grand Admiral, sir, our Interdictors have yanked the enemy starships out of hyperspace," the commander of the Guardian reported.
"Excellent news, Captain," I allowed myself a faint smile. "Begin implementation of the agreed plan. I will join you shortly on the Guardian's bridge."
"It will be done, sir," Pellaeon snapped back.
When the comlink cut out, I stroked the tiny head of the ysalamir.
"Well, it has begun," I said, rising from the workstation and heading for the exit.
Considering all circumstances, it was even curious how the current events would unfold.
This was going to be very interesting.