Long awaited scheduled chapter
**
When the last joke faded and instead of hearty laughter, only polite chuckles sounded in the cramped cabin of the Katarn-class boarding shuttle — hidden from all sensors and nearly visually undetectable — Scorch winced and scratched the bridge of his nose.
"Listen to another one," he said. "So me and 'Three Thirty-Three' are acting like we don't see this one-armed bandit behind the bulkhead…"
"Six-Two," Fixer cut him off mid-sentence. "Could you do me a favor?"
"Shut up, as always?" the Delta squad's demolitions expert suggested laconically and not without reason.
"You're damn perceptive," the squad's technician forced a smile. "Ever thought of joining the Jedi? I think you're better at predicting the future than Arligan Zey."
"Cloudy our future is," Scorch said, wrinkling his wizened face, clearly parodying Grand Master Yoda. "See I do, how burns the backside of clone Galen Marek one. Learning that killed us he not, damaging fuel tanks, his backside will glow and burn, like a pulsar some…"
This time even Boss couldn't hold it in.
And though he hid his face in his hands, the characteristic sounds made it clear he was nearly choking with laughter.
The escape plan really was simple.
And Galen could have figured it out if he'd known what the hull of the Katarn boarding shuttles was made of when he ran past them.
The Katarn's stealth coating, food supplies, essential items on board each, weapons, and a bit of exercise in fleeing across the decks with firefights.
That was the whole simple math.
"Still, it's a shame about the Gozanti," Scorch sighed. "A nice ship, gotta admit. Handy for flying from mission to mission."
"I agree," Boss said, discreetly wiping tears from his eyes that appeared after the impromptu impersonation of a green stump with ears. "It's always nice to fly from point A to point B, getting to sleep in a real bed instead of bent double in a corner of a small shuttle's troop bay."
"We're just getting old," Fixer declared. "Thirty years ago, we wouldn't have cared about such trivialities. We've gotten used to relative comfort over the years of mercenary work."
"Can't argue with that," Boss agreed. "Sergeant," he addressed TNH-0333, who was sitting calmly opposite, leaning his back against the bulkhead with eyes closed, "does the Dominion happen to have small ships, like patrol boats or something, that are issued to Assault Commandos as a permanent base and transport? Some old corvette, or a rearmed freighter?"
The second sergeant in the squad opened his eyes and looked at the commander:
"Yes," he replied shortly.
"Brevity and accuracy are a sniper's muses," Boss recalled a saying from Walon Vau, "but right now I'd like to hear a bit more."
"With all due respect, Commander, chatting right now isn't the wisest idea," TNH-0333 shook his head. "We don't know for sure when our distress beacon will get a response. The shuttle's life support system isn't the best. It'd be best to leave one person on watch and let the rest sleep to conserve resources. I'm ready to take the first shift."
"Oh, yeah, and don't forget to scrub the galley until it shines," Scorch grumbled. "And polish the faucets in the washroom too…"
But TNH-0333's words made sense, and all the Deltas acknowledged it unquestioningly.
Boss gave a brief order, and the soldiers, twisting themselves around to settle between the precious cargo of rations, water supplies, power cells, and other necessary goods (especially the crate labeled "Thermal Detonators!" standing forlornly in the corner), assumed the most comfortable sleeping positions.
The Delta squad commander took the first watch.
He settled into the Katarn's cockpit, invisible both visually and by special means in the boundless, endless interstellar space.
The wearisome hours of waiting dragged on one after another.
Five minutes before he was to wake Fixer and hand over the post, his helmet's HUD registered a barely perceptible movement in the starfield.
It wasn't picked up by scanners, and certainly Boss couldn't have distinguished it with the naked eye.
The smart electronics singled out a stealth ship similar in optical invisibility characteristics to their own shuttle only because it periodically obscured several stars.
Over the internal channel, Boss activated an alarm signal that woke the other commandos.
He didn't dare use the shuttle's standard systems.
Not because he was afraid of being detected.
He wasn't afraid at all.
It was too late — the ship, resembling a TIE fighter but much larger with a long fuselage, was already heading their way.
"Evacuation team?" Scorch asked, seeing that Boss had switched off the distress beacon.
And the Delta commander had done it as soon as he noticed the stranger.
"I doubt anyone in such a backwater would need to use a 'stealth ship,'" Fixer remarked.
And Boss agreed.
As did TNH-0333, who, instead of a thousand words, simply began loading his flamethrower.
Then came what the clones least expected.
Their comm system holo-projector lit up, showing a tiny figure in light armor.
A human, male, with short hair, but with very, very familiar facial features.
"Is he still with you?" the familiar stranger asked instead of a greeting, using the same voice the Deltas had already heard.
"Hey there, buddy?" Scorch waved at him. "And who might you be, then? We're here, you know, waiting for a fair wind…"
"Is. He. Still. With. You?" the man who wished to remain incognito repeated, enunciating each word.
"We have no idea who you are or what you want," Boss took the floor, while Fixer, having pulled Scorch aside, was tapping his helmet with a blaster grip, reminding him not to butt into the conversation ahead of the father-commander, as that is punishable. "So I suggest we part peacefully and not cause each other any trouble."
"We won't part peacefully," the stranger snapped. "I've come for him. Hand him over and you'll live."
"Hmph," Boss grunted. "Come and get him."
"Foolish," the unfamiliar familiar man shook his head. "I'll blast your ship apart with cannons and then find what I'm interested in among your dead bodies. No matter how well you hide from me using the Force, if I can't see you, I can see the Force repulsion field you're generating."
"Well, I see you're quite the negotiator, kid," Boss chuckled, stroking his rifle. "My offer still stands. And yeah, don't forget that if you shoot us, your buddy dies too. And you, apparently, want to have a heart-to-heart with him, don't you, Yellow-Eyes?"
The uninvited guest was silent, but his face showed that Boss had hit the bull's-eye.
He thought for a few seconds, and those seconds played a cruel trick on him.
"He didn't spot the rancor," Scorch snorted with pleasure, watching as a Dominion main Star Destroyer emerged from hyperspace a couple of standard units behind the "guest's" ship.
Right on the bearing taken before the distress beacon was turned off.
Right with TIE interceptors already prepped for launch.
Just like with precision sniper shots from ion cannons, a second hit crippled the stranger's ship.
Of course, the same had happened to the Katarn, which had likewise followed the Star Destroyer's open hangar bay.
"And so much bluster," Scorch sighed, watching the unpleasant-looking vessel being towed aboard the Destroyer. "Two spits and the kid's done for..."
"I don't think it's that simple," Boss countered, glancing at his squadmates. "We don't know what the hell's going on, but that guy clearly didn't react to the attack for no reason."
"Looks like someone's trying to lead us by the nose," Fixer suggested.
"I believe the stranger wanted to get aboard the same ship we'll be on, along with whoever he came for," TNH-0333 reported, attaching a canister of fire mixture to his upgraded 'Devastator'.
The holoprojector crackled to life again.
"Delta Squad?" A young officer with captain's insignia looked at all four soldiers. "I am Captain Tschel, commander of the Star Destroyer Chimaera, regular fleet of the Dominion. I've come for you by order of Grand Admiral Thrawn. From this moment, you are under my direct command."
"Copy that, sir," a chain of recognition codes scrolled across Boss's HUD, transmitted alongside the signal. "Confirming. Sergeant Boss, ready for duty."
"At ease, Sergeant," Tschel ordered. "First, kindly explain what kind of Hutt attached itself to you, and why our Jensaarai nearly screamed in terror when he sensed its pilot?"
"You wouldn't believe it, sir," Boss shook his head. "We know as much as you do. But I'd advise against opening his ship's hatch until we get close to him. We have some experience with capturing beings like this. Literally — similar ones."
"Advice noted, Sergeant," Tschel nodded grimly. "Protector-Jensaarai Eles Dersen will meet you near our guest's ship. You have an hour while we return to base to get him talking."
Boss glanced at the tiny flame flickering at the tip of TNH-0333's favorite weapon.
"We'll manage faster, sir. But we'll need ysalamiri. We only brought a couple with us."
"And I have half a ship full," Tschel smirked. "Pick any you like, boys. And yes, welcome to service in the Dominion. I read about your exploits when I was young. Glad to have you with us."
With that, the Chimaera's commander cut the transmission.
"Well, well," Scorch drawled, "looks like we're popular with the youth... Think we're famous enough to request a Star Destroyer as our base ship?"
"Six-Two," Fixer sighed wearily. "Do us a favor..."
"Fine, I'll shut up, I'll shut up," Scorch replied, his voice full of the anguish of a soul whose subtle strings went forever misunderstood.
* * *
Major Kreb watched for a few seconds the figure in the loosened orange flight suit standing with its back to him, admiring an Incom T-65B that sat royally on the landing pad of the Avenger Squadron's bay.
"Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to come over?" the green-skinned Twi'lek woman asked without turning around.
The commander of the air wing aboard the Super Star Destroyer Guardian, flagship of the Dominion Starfleet, didn't answer.
Only after Dia half-turned, fixing him with a heavy, unfriendly look did he step up beside her.
"Didn't want to interrupt, ma'am," he said.
"If that were true, you'd have slipped out of the bay the second you finished checking the stabilizers on your Interceptor," she cut him off. "So save your 'excuses' for someone else, Major."
"Copy that, ma'am," Kreb responded.
After a moment's thought, he added:
"Need any help?"
The young woman sized him up with a suspicious look.
"Don't you have a briefing or somewhere else to be, Air Wing Commander?"
Dia Passik.
"No," Kreb said.
As the Guardian's wing commander, he had been notified of all upcoming missions well in advance. There were none currently scheduled, so his direct involvement wasn't necessary. The squadron commanders could handle organizing patrols and the duty squadrons' work, just as they could handle pilot training in simulators or in vacuum.
But he wasn't about to explain himself to some lady with an unclear status aboard the Guardian.
"Tell me honestly, you haven't been hiding from me this whole time, have you?" the pilotess asked him unexpectedly.
"Absolutely not, ma'am," Kreb replied, lying through his teeth.
He consoled himself with the thought that pilots of TIE Avengers didn't hide; they just repositioned to find the most optimal attack angles.
Or, you know, for an ambush.
But they certainly did not hide from people who had nearly killed them.
"That's what I thought," she snorted, tossing a lekku over her shoulder. "I owe you a drink."
"For what, ma'am?" Kreb asked, surprised.
"Are you sure you're Major Kreb?" she grimaced. "Not one of his 'alternatively born twins'?"
"Positive, ma'am," he confirmed. "And we don't use those terms in reference to clones."
"Right, you're not sensitive to others' feelings," Passik snorted. "What else would I expect from Imperials."
"We're not Imperials, ma'am," Kreb said. "And we're not afraid to call things by their names. Clones are proud of being clones."
"Because they were programmed that way at birth?" Dia jabbed.
"No, ma'am," Kreb shook his head. "Clones are copies of the Dominion's best specialists. And we highly value what you can achieve. Some have to earn it from their cadet bunks on command boards, while others skip childhood and youth, already entering the ranks of elite soldiers by birthright alone."
"Sounds disgusting," Dia Passik said, not hiding her revulsion. "How do you even live, seeing dozens of your own face at every formation?"
"Hundreds, ma'am," Kreb answered. "I'm the donor for all of the Dominion's TIE Interceptor pilots."
The young woman, who had been about to blurt something, burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hands stained with technical fluids.
This, of course, left marks on her face.
"Did I say something funny, ma'am?" he inquired.
"I was just thinking... there must be tens of thousands of them... So that makes you the most prolific father in the galaxy?" she asked.
Kreb thought for a second.
"I never thought of myself that way," he admitted. "But I guess... I guess it does. Though I'm pretty sure I'm the only one like that, ma'am."
The Twi'lek shook her head.
"You're such a bore."
"I'm sorry, ma'am?"
"That's what I mean. You know, when you came to my house, you were more... alive. But once you put on that black flight suit, it was like a droid wrapped in flesh. All your clones are the same — like they're detached from the world," she explained. "Do you know how insulting it is to hear 'ma'am' at my age?"
"Your age?" Kreb clarified. "And... how old are you?"
Passik closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, as if trying to contain something inside.
"Now I'm starting to believe that you and Tia could have gotten close," she said. "My little sister was a bit... off too."
Passik twirled a finger by her temple.
"I don't understand."
"Have you actually lived a life?" Dia asked. "Because I could forgive a clone bred for war, but not a man."
"Forgive me for what?"
"Didn't your mother tell you it's wrong to ask a girl her age, and especially wrong to rudely call her 'ma'am' when she doesn't look sixty and definitely isn't married?" Passik grimaced.
"No, ma'am, she didn't."
"Kreb."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you ever gotten drunk?"
"No, ma'am."
"Have you ever been hit with a hydrospanner? For educational purposes, of course."
"Not that I recall, ma'am."
"Want to try?" The Twi'lek produced said tool from a deep pocket of her flight suit.
"No, ma'am."
Letting out a heavy sigh, the Twi'lek handed the tool to an astromech that had rolled up to her — the same one Kreb had rescued along with her X-wing.
"Tell me you were just joking," she said.
"I can't, ma'am," Kreb admitted.
"Regulations forbid it?" she joked, throwing him a mocking glance.
"Yes, ma'am. Regulations forbid me from treating an enemy pilot with a sense of superiority, showing arrogance, or turning service matters into personal ones," Kreb began to list.
"Enemy pilot?" Dia repeated, surprised. "Does it matter that I've been stuck on board your SSD for days without leaving, and they've even stopped assigning stormtroopers to keep me company?"
"It doesn't matter, ma'am. You're forgiven."
Passik looked him right in the eye, narrowing her gaze until it resembled the viewing slit of a heavy infantryman's helmet.
"I need to find your ISB officer and tell him you're violating the Regulations, Major," she said.
"They won't believe you, ma'am," Kreb sighed, unable to stop himself from smiling. "I have a good record."
"So you've covered your ass," she smirked, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. "Yeah, now I get what Tia saw in you."
The smile vanished from Kreb's face.
"Sorry," Dia said, her own expression darkening. "I didn't mean to hit a nerve."
"It's fine, ma'am," he replied quietly. "I'm almost used to the fact that it's not easy to shoot me down. A few scorch marks on the hull are just the cost of an over-extended interceptor pilot's lifespan."
"That sounds like you're not happy that you guys don't die every fifth mission anymore," Passik said. "Have you heard the joke about why Alliance pilots never bother to learn Imperial pilots' names during a battle?"
"Different comm frequencies?" Kreb guessed.
"No. There's no need. Every sixth sortie in a TIE, it'll be a completely different pilot."
"Oh, I see," Kreb nodded understandingly.
The joke referred to the era when the main fighter of the Imperial Starfleet was the TIE fighter. The sortie statistics were such that a pilot died after every fifth combat mission. Those who lived longer became aces — untouchable by anyone or anything. Until the enemy fielded their own aces. Then it came down to skill and luck.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're completely batshit insane?" Passik asked him, scratching her nose with a dirty finger.
"Has anyone ever told you your lekku markings are running?"
"They're temporary tattoos," she shrugged. "They wash off over time. Not like the ones on my thigh and lower back."
Kreb coughed into his fist.
"Oh, for the love of... " Passik clapped her hands together in mock surprise, looking at him. "You're like some backwater aristocrat. Do you have an unlimited supply of that red face paint?"
"No, ma'am. I mean yes, ma'am. I mean..."
"Say 'ma'am' one more time and I'll start showing you my lower back tattoos right here," Passik promised.
Kreb snorted into his fist.
"I think the entire tech crew would rush over to gawk," he suggested. "Then again, considering you've practically taken your 'cross' apart bolt by bolt..."
"I don't want to say anything bad about your upbringing, kid," Dia Passik said, "but you're clearly a hell of a pilot to become an SSD wing commander while you're still wet behind the ears. But your personal life... You're just not cut out for adulthood."
"That stung, ma'am."
"You little shit," Passik growled. "If I box your ears, would that be a war crime?"
"Considering you're a reserve officer of the New Republic, it might even be an unprovoked attack," Kreb scratched the back of his head. "But I'm a pilot, not a diplomat."
"That much is obvious," Dia grumbled, turning away. "Uh-huh. Now I really don't doubt what was going on with you two. She definitely wouldn't have been able to resist such a blockhead. Though, I can't argue with her."
"I'm sorry?" Kreb didn't understand.
"I said I took the whole X-wing apart and still can't find where they hid the explosives," Passik added hastily.
"There aren't any," the Major said, startled. "I personally supervised the maintenance and overhaul."
"Why?"
"Um... Well... this fighter is precious to you, isn't it?"
"And don't the kill markings from downed Imperials on the cockpit hull make it obvious this is my combat machine?" Passik asked.
"Plus, the aggregate serial numbers made it clear," Kreb spread his hands. "I took the liberty of ordering a couple of spare parts from our stockpiles. Your flow regulator was glitching. And the injectors on the upper engines. The landing gear mechanism was practically scrap..."
"Uh-huh," Dia muttered. "Thanks to those malfunctions, plus a whole list of others, I managed to buy it off the New Republic at scrap value when I retired."
"And they didn't notice you'd swapped all the defective and faulty parts from your squadron's other X-wings?" Kreb clarified.
"Well, first of all, it wasn't me, it was the whole squadron working on it. Second, Antilles was signing off on the disposal, and he's protective of his people," Passik mumbled. "Kreb."
"Yeah?"
"You weren't joking when you said you have data on the serial numbers of our fighters' spare parts?"
"No. They're accessible to senior officers with the appropriate clearance. Why?"
"Well, that's... that's not exactly the kind of information intelligence usually gathers," Passik admitted. "Usually they just find out the number and types of ships, extra weaponry..."
"We work differently," Kreb answered vaguely. "If I know the enemy squadron commander's left stabilizer is glitchy, I'll keep breaking him left until he makes a mistake. If I know his guns haven't been cleaned in a month, I know he won't fire quadruple volleys because they'd blow apart. And so on... Um... Dia. You've got an expression on your face..."
"Don't mind me, Kreb. I'm just flabbergasted."
"Oh. And you've got used oil smeared all over your face."
"Don't mind that either. It's not the first time something's been smeared on my face. And judging by what you're saying, it won't be the last..."
"Um... Miss Passik. I'm from the Dominion, you're from the New Republic. Please don't look at me so hungrily."
"Too late, kid. My professional interest is piqued."
"Are you sure it's professional?"
"When have I ever lied to you?"
"Um... When we first met."
Passik laughed. Kreb exhaled in relief.
That semi-friendly banter had gotten a bit... intense.
With Tia, everything had been completely different. Smoother. More comfortable.
But talking to Passik felt like she was trying to devour him. Like she wanted to savor every second he spent near her.
Tia had shown hints of something similar, but Kreb hadn't recognized her maneuvers in time, and...
"OCC to Kreb," Passik the Elder snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Come in, Major, come in; you've stalled. I'm detecting blood loss from the head."
"I'm fine," Kreb excused himself. "Just... lost in thought."
"Right," his companion snorted. "How about a little flying, Major? What do you say? A training match, you versus me."
"No one's going to adjust the duty roster so we can goof off and play," Kreb dampened her enthusiasm.
"You do have pilot training simulators, don't you?" Dia clarified, nodding towards her fighter. "Besides, I'll be putting this X-wing back together for ages. It's a shame there wasn't a bomb in it."
"I'll arrange a guest pass for the simulators," Kreb said.
After all, flying against a retired veteran of the New Republic Pilot Corps would be useful for him too. New experience is never wasted.
"Excellent," Dia smiled. "Don't disappoint me, Major."
"In what sense?"
"You don't know?" Passik looked at him in surprise. "According to ancient custom, a man who defeats a Twi'lek warrior woman in combat is obligated to marry her, because her life belongs to him. I thought Tia would have told you..."
The convulsive swallow of a lump stuck in his throat was more eloquent than any words.
Yes, that would explain a lot...
Then Dia's cheerful, sincere laughter rang out.
"Oh, I can't," she said, doubled over with laughter, clutching her stomach. "You should have seen your face, Kreb... I can't... I was just joking, joking! Don't be so serious, Major!"
Alright.
"Let's see how funny you think it is when we're in the simulators," Kreb thought.
* * *
"You have an interesting career trajectory, Captain Kuorl," I said, setting aside the personnel file of the pilot I'd found on Yavin. "Graduated with honors, line unit in the Outer Rim, transferred under the wing of Darth Vader himself to Black Squadron, hunting rebels, scoring a kill, and ten years of hermit life... Am I missing anything?"
"You are inhumanly correct, Grand Admiral," the downed pilot smiled stiffly. "Half my life I fought, and now I'm nothing more than... what I am."
He glanced at his mangled hand.
Even if it were replaced with a prosthetic, his reflexes would be diminished to a certain degree. That could cost a pilot his life in combat. Where fractions of a second decide everything, imperfections serve as natural selection.
"You have already been presented with an offer, Captain," I said. "The choice is yours."
"They even promoted me," Kuorl chuckled. "To be healed of my injury," he looked at his crippled limb, "to return to flying, maybe even become a squadron commander or higher..."
"Talented beings are needed by the Dominion."
"They're needed by the whole galaxy," Kuorl corrected. "Including the Empire."
He had had the time and opportunity to familiarize himself with galactic history, which he had missed. In full detail.
"A pity the Empire doesn't need you," I remarked.
"They just don't know I survived."
"Is that so?" I clarified. "It seems to me that the ground operation to capture the Great Temple was accompanied by prolonged military action involving pilots. Surely they could have found the crash site and wreckage from the air."
He had no answer.
Kuorl simply didn't want to admit — though he knew it for certain — that his masters simply didn't give a damn about his life. Not even Darth Vader, his direct commander. All those years he had lived, nurturing a dream of returning to the Empire. It gave him the strength to fight for survival in that harsh, predator-filled environment.
And now I was shattering his carefully erected crystal walls, which shielded his consciousness from ruthless reality.
Why?
For the same reason Shohashi hadn't executed him.
Vader recruited only the best of the best for his squadron.
Kuorl, even if he wasn't as famous as the others in Black Squadron, was still a professional. With years of experience.
In the coming war of all against all, I couldn't rely solely on Kreb's genes.
Every plan needed another plan. And that one needed another plan too, preferably two. A safety net never hurt.
"How do you intend to fix my hand?" Kuorl asked. "In case I agree."
"We have beings with extraordinary abilities," I said. "Similar to Jedi."
"I'm not getting involved with that filth," he grimaced with disgust. "I don't even want to see traitors."
A common point of view. Everyone went through it.
"Then there are options for more conservative treatment," I continued. "We have a state-owned company, IsoTech-Dominion, which manufactures and installs the most advanced cybernetic prosthetics; their sensitivity and system response are on par with natural limbs."
"Go on," Kuorl bared his teeth. "Chopping off my hand and sticking a piece of metal in can be done in any backwater in the galaxy."
"You're unfairly dismissing the IsoTech option," I chided him. "We also have an experimental program to recreate the 'Dark Trooper' project," Kuorl paled. "Though, to participate in it, it would be better if you were an infantryman, but that's not critical. However, what you should pay attention to, besides the fact that the program is in early development, is that besides your hand, some other parts of your body would have to be removed..."
"No," the pilot rasped.
"There is an option to create a cloned body for you and transplant a healthy hand," I continued. "However, this raises a moral question. You see, we don't create 'dull bodies' for donation. We create thinking, feeling people. Cutting off their hand... Tell me, do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"No."
"Then imagine you did. Would you agree to take a hand from your closest relative in the galaxy, leave them a cripple, just so you could live comfortably?"
"Hell no, of course not! I'm a pilot, not a bastard!"
"Oh, I'm sure you are your parents' legitimate son. Don't worry, we have another option. More humane."
"Such as?"
"A valuable specialist works for the Dominion. A B'omarr monk. Have you heard of them?"
"I'm not letting them transplant my brain into a jar for a droid to carry around!" Kuorl got agitated.
"From your reaction, I see you have heard of them. No, don't get so worked up. We would transplant your brain into a fully cloned body. Then there would be an engraftment procedure, motor function recovery..."
"So it's less humane to cut off a clone's hand than to scoop out its brain?" Kuorl panicked.
Yes, he was mentally unstable.
"Robinson" had been lonely too, until he found Friday.
But in these well-known events, Kuorl's luck had only extended to Skywalkers and the Solo children. Admittedly, not great luck.
But for now, his only personal 'experience' was with Luke.
"It's your decision," I offered calmly. "Whether to take someone's life, turn into a cyborg, or cast aside your intolerance and allow our Jensaarai to heal you."
"You want to know if I'm a scumbag without principles, a beaten-down man who'd sacrifice his professionalism to survive, or someone who'd swallow his prejudices to keep flying?" Kuorl's eyes narrowed to slits.
An interesting fact.
This type of reaction is one of the most common among beings in this galaxy.
"Exactly," I didn't deny the obvious.
After all, he didn't even question whether the clone offered up for 'dissection' would truly have consciousness and not be an empty shell.
But I naturally wouldn't enlighten him.
"Get your Jedi in here," Kuorl growled. "I will never, ever give up flying. But don't forget, Grand Admiral, you promised me a fight with the rebels on the front lines. I want revenge on them for the ten lost years of my life!"
"I have a habit of keeping my word," the cold remark sobered Kuorl faster than the triumphant smile spreading across Asajj Ventress's face as she emerged from behind him, wreathed in a green haze of flame. "And you'd better bite down on something..."
Then Kuorl started screaming.
For a long time.
Strangely enough, those ear-splitting sounds didn't make the slightest impression on Rukh.
The bodyguard had the kind of expression on his face that suggested he'd "seen some shit."
And the "traveling slaughterhouse" didn't bother him at all.
Poor bastard.
* * *
Mereel slipped through the airlock into the wardroom, and Ordo fixed him with a heavy glare.
"Don't look at me like that — there aren't any blasters in your eyes," Null-7 said, settling onto the back of the couch and demonstratively popping a powdered-sugar-coated treat into his mouth. "There were these magnificent little doughnuts in the galley, and I couldn't control myself until I'd eaten them all. Sprinkles, powder, caramel, chocolate glaze…"
"All of them?" Prudii clarified.
"Of course! Tallisibeth," he winked at the young woman, a former Jedi Padawan who had been part of their clan as a dear sister to all the Skiratas since the final days of the Old Republic — "knows how I love sweets, and she made an old man happy."
"Those were doughnuts for everyone," Tallisibeth Enwandung-Esterhazy said, looking sadly at the "seventh."
"Oops," Mereel said, wiping the remaining powder off his face with the back of his hand. "Null-7 is innocent of all wrongdoing."
Tallisibeth laughed.
So did everyone else.
The tension had broken just as intended.
Better known in her younger days as "Scout," this Padawan girl hadn't had a strong connection to the Force, yet she'd shown enviable patience, perseverance, and the ability to think things through.
And also…
Mereel threw a sidelong glance at Darman, who was sitting with his son Venku on the same side as the rest of the "Omegas."
Old Man Skirata, the first time he'd seen "Scout" extracted from Coruscant to keep her from becoming a victim of Operation Knightfall — had shed tears when he saw how much the blond girl resembled the fallen Etain Tur-Mukan, the mutual friend of the "Omegas" and the Skirata clan.
Of course, Kal'buir later claimed he'd held back the tears — he was a Mandalorian, after all — but the "Nulls" knew the truth.
Tallisibeth had shown up at Kyrimorut after Etain died on Coruscant.
Even Walon Vau's strill — the one who belonged to the Hutt — had believed that "Scout" was Etain, returned to her people.
Kal'buir's old heart had wavered, and he'd taken the Jedi girl under his protection.
Even when the Altisian Jedi decided to shelter elsewhere, not considering Mandalore safe, Tallisibeth had stayed.
She'd become friends with the former Separatist mad scientist Ovolot Keile Uthan, the creator of the virus designed to destroy clones.
True, she hadn't finished the virus (which hadn't stopped the Republic from using it against Uthan's homeworld), but instead had switched sides to the Skiratas and was actively helping to invent an anti-aging cure.
And, thanks to her, the DNA of clones on Mandalore had been altered — just slightly — making them immune to that anti-clone virus Ovolot had been working on.
Over time, Tallisibeth and Ovolot had become friends; the girl became the scientist's assistant and lab technician.
And a little later, the grown young woman — the spitting image of Etain — had stayed in the newly formed family of Ovolot and Mij Gilamar as an adopted daughter.
Mij, a Mandalorian mercenary, one of those who had trained the Grand Army of Clones, an excellent field medic; Ovolot, a biologist; and Tallisibeth had absorbed everything her adoptive parents could give her.
But the persistent girl hadn't stopped there.
Bardan Jusik had completed her training in the Jedi path.
And even though Tallisibeth was weak in handling the Force, her character…
Whoa!
Mereel, a ladies' man and womanizer, had never even thought about making a pass at her.
Because he wasn't capable of a serious relationship, despite his age, and he didn't want to sadden the girl.
Besides, it risked having all his limbs broken by both Mij and the "Nulls."
And Darman would go so far as to toss something explosive into the toilet because "Scout" reminded him of the deceased Etain.
Venku would help too — just for the company.
And anyway, starting workplace romances, Kal'buir had called "a lewd and unworthy affair."
So even now, these three — even though they hadn't lived in Kilimorut for a long time — were still friends and allies of the Skirata clan.
"Don't do that again," Ordo said, shaking his finger at him in jest. "You're condemning us to death by starvation."
"I can't promise that," Mereel admitted.
"Just let him try," A'den said, narrowing his eyes.
"Boys," Ovolot interrupted them in a maternal tone, waving a datapad, "are you done? Grown men, but you act like you just crawled out of the incubators."
"The first hundred years of a clone's life are the hardest," Mereel noticed Ordo narrowing his eyes disapprovingly; he wasn't really angry, though. "Mama Ovolot, what are you treating us to today?"
The nickname, thrown out years ago, had stuck with Ovolot.
She didn't mind, though.
Having no children of her own, after so many years and adventures, she treated all the clones of the Skirata clan as nothing less than her own children.
True, the "daughters-in-law," while viewing it with suspicion, preferred to silently ignore such treatment.
Not all of them were Mandalorian by birth, but by character…
"Not much to be happy about, 'sonny,'" ah yes, Ovolot wasn't particularly fond of her nickname either.
Well, what could you do?
If she hadn't created a virus against clones, she wouldn't have met the clones and become part of their big family.
"Can you elaborate?" Ordo asked.
"It's written almost in Basic here," Ovolot snorted. "The Silri Syndicate really is engaged in cloning soldiers. On an industrial scale, if you're interested. And there are several versions of cloning — varying in both duration and quality."
"Where are my ten years?" Mereel said with mock sadness.
"Based on the legacy and data left behind by Ko Sai, it's all grim," that was the name of the Kaminoan traitor who had been kidnapped from the Separatists to cure the clones' 'premature aging.' True, she hadn't survived the realization of the weight of her sins and had hanged herself. That didn't change the fact that the clan had made gloves from her skin. Though they'd lost almost all of them. "The Kaminoans, even before the Clone Wars, were using some experimental cloning technology. The clones were produced quickly but lacked stability. Incidentally, they were clones of the Jedi Falon Grey, according to the records," Ovolot looked at Bardan Jusik.
As if asking whether he knew who that was.
"Rahm Kota's Padawan," he admitted reluctantly. "Unlike his teacher — not the biggest ass."
"So, on Kamino, a little less than ten years ago, when the Zann Consortium secretly took over the planet, Tyber Zann started millions of clones," all cheerfulness abruptly vanished from those present. "For any choice. Special forces, artillerymen, tankers, infantrymen, and so on…"
"A Clone Army, version 2.0," Mereel tried to lighten the mood again.
But no one was laughing.
"But that's only half the problem," Ovolot continued. "They're also using a program to create clones in six months…"
"Impossible," Niner forced out.
"Want to talk to Thrawn about it?" Prudii asked.
Niner did not want to.
"And there's another program that produces about fifteen hundred clones in a couple of months, belonging to some Darth Ziilenlos," Ovolot summarized. "Does anyone feel a twinge at that name?"
"Darth is a Sith rank," Jusik said. "The title of a Sith Lord. Palpatine was Darth Sidious, his right hand was Darth Vader. Before them were Darth Tyranus, Darth Maul…"
"And Asajj Ventress," Tallisibeth said quietly, whose past had already included an encounter with that Jedi killer.
A sad encounter.
"So the situation isn't very good, boys and girls," Ovolot said, smoothing her graying hair. "They've been churning out clones 'fast-track style' for years, by the thousands. And they have a multi-million strong army on the way. Mostly humans, if you want to know."
Safe from detection, they were sitting in the wardroom of a large Action-class transport with no identifying marks.
Though several other ships were docked to it — the ones their allies had arrived on.
The shuttle Thrawn had given them, the "Nulls" had naturally sent off to random coordinates as soon as they reached the nearest planet.
There was a strong hope that Thrawn would send someone after them, and then the "blue guy's" people would fly straight into a black hole near the Galactic Core.
But he'd found them.
"Osi'kyr," Kom'rk cursed.
"Problems?" Ordo nudged him with his elbow.
"I don't like that there's another Darth appearing in the galaxy, one who has a clone army and a planet-shipyard right next door," his brother explained. "This stinks."
"Maybe," Kov, the commander of the Yayax squad, said diplomatically. "What's it to us?"
"Shab," A'tin hissed. "Don't you really get it?"
Ordo slowly raised his hand to his mouth, hinting that it might be better to shut it before the "Nulls," out of old habit, pacified the commando.
Mereel, who had thought nothing could surprise him anymore, immediately revised his opinion about political maneuvering.
"So, what do we have?" Ordo asked. "Thrawn wanted to grab us under his wing, to make clone commandos out of us for his army. Which also has a ton of clones."
"Which he himself told us about," Mereel reminded him.
"And we saw his lab on Loka," Darman reminded him. "A few thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders. No more. A pittance."
"If Thrawn could churn out clones like hotcakes," Tallisibeth said, "why would he need you? Wouldn't it be simpler to clone the ones he already has? Or doesn't the Dominion have Imperial assault commandos?"
"He was winning our trust by sharing information important to him," Jaing said, trying to retrieve his boot from the old strill. "That he's alive, that his army is clones…"
"The Imperial is a bit stupid," Korr said. "That's something you should hide from even new allies for as long as possible."
"Let's not claim this guy is a fool," Mij advised. "With ten Star Destroyers, he put the New Republic in some very unnatural positions for almost a year. And at the end, by faking his death, he also robbed them of their Jedi. And an entire fleet. And created a state."
"Botched it from being too awesome?" Mereel suggested.
"Not at all," Jaing said. "He didn't reveal anything all that secret. Honestly, let's be frank. Even if we made this public, even if the galaxy suddenly believed all of it — then what? The Democrats just breathed a sigh of relief that Thrawn was dead. If we don't show him in person — no one will believe us."
"Nothing would change," Ordo agreed. "Except for the most blatant paranoids."
"Stop, stop, stop," Venku waved his hands. "Why should we be against Thrawn at all?"
"Because this guy intends to come to Mandalore," Mij said. "We can't just sit idle."
"Remind me — who destroyed Kyrimorut?" Darman asked. "I don't recall it being Thrawn."
"But we have no proof to the contrary," Ordo noted. "As already mentioned — this guy is cunning. The bomb going off near the Alliance diplomat's location could also be a planted trail. If there's one thing Thrawn is a galactic champion at, it's getting others to do his dirty work. But we shouldn't rule out the possibility that he isn't behind Kal'buir's murder."
"The only one who can answer why Fenn Shysa sent the Protectors after us is Fenn Shysa himself," Bardan Jusik noted after a few seconds of silence.
"Maybe he didn't know it was a setup," A'tin reasoned. "He could have been misled."
"I doubt we can find that out by just booking an appointment with him," Mereel concluded.
"But there is something we can do," Prudii said.
"Like what?" Jaing asked.
"Fenn wants to restore Mandalore and make it powerful and independent," Prudii reminded them. "Besides exporting minerals, MandalMotors products are the only thing we can do to help our people. And we know for sure that our technology is being produced on Rothana."
"And our fellow citizens are being held captive there," A'tin added grimly. "It's unlikely Fenn — even if he once cooperated with Zann or Silri — knows about this."
It was as clear as a Jedi's fall to the Dark Side — Shysa would never give away Mandalorian heritage, technology, or knowledge to outsiders.
He was a sensible man.
The most obvious scenario was that he would produce what the criminals needed on the company's facilities, without spending his own resources and certainly without cloning people in another part of the galaxy.
"Still, that doesn't solve the problem of why his people attacked us," Mereel said. "If the cantina could have been a mistake, then Kyrimorut…"
"Maybe Shysa was misinformed?" Tallisibeth suggested. "Kal'buir never revealed the location of his home to anyone except close friends. Fenn, even though he was Mand'alor, could never be considered one under any circumstances."
Kom'rk interrupted:
"I don't like this at all. None of us do. But we need to decide what to do about the clone army. Personally, I see it like this: the information that Silri and her cronies have replaced the Zann Consortium on some worlds, taken Mandalorian engineers into slavery, and are illegally using our world's developments — that's nothing less than a challenge to Mandalore."
"Talking to Shysa now is pointless, especially since we — and Thrawn too — have been led to believe he's a clone," Ordo continued his idea.
"Which only confirms the suspicion that he was misinformed about what happened in the cantina and who really owns Kyrimorut," Scout said.
"And if that's the case," Ovolot narrowed her eyes, "I see all of this as a way to try and pull the wool over everyone's eyes. To make us seek revenge on Shysa, for example."
"I think the same," Ordo nodded. "Which is easier? Deal with the army on Kamino and the shipyards on Rothana, or attack Mandalore's leadership, kill Shysa and his circle to avenge his supposed treachery? Logically, the path of least resistance is the second option."
"I would have done that," Niner admitted.
"So would I," Kov echoed.
Mereel smiled inwardly.
There was the difference between the "Nulls" and other clones.
He and the other five "Nulls" were smarter than their commando brethren.
"So we'll do the opposite," Ordo said. "The only one who benefits from us creating chaos on Mandalore is the Silri Syndicate. And since she's dead, the responsibility falls to her right hand — Darth Ziilen-what's-his-name."
"If I remember correctly, the central computer of Silri's flagship had information that he was also supposed to fly to Karthakk," Mereel reminded them. "But he didn't show. A cunning guy."
"Let's imagine for a moment," Tallisibeth spoke up, "that Darth Ziilenlos is behind all of this."
"All of this?" Kom'rk joked.
"The actions of the Silri Syndicate," Scout clarified. "A combination with various unknowns. The explosion in the cantina during negotiations with the Dominion — the primary enemy is either the Dominion or the Alliance. We start a war with either of them — suspicion is diverted from Kamino and Rothana. Shysa's people show up — it seems like he's against us too. We fight him — again, no one is left to search for the truth, Kamino and Rothana remain safe. I'm not saying that blowing up the Dominion agent and Shysa's people's involvement in the finishing blow could have provoked the Dominion to attack Mandalore — which Thrawn warned about, using his agent's words about Shysa being a clone. And then the Syndicate attacks the Dominion's secret base, but Darth Ziilenlos, instead of taking part in the battle, doesn't show up. Moreover," she pointed to other datapads, already reviewed and discussed — "we know he's maintaining contacts with dozens of subsidiaries of Kuat Drive Yards, actively purchasing weapons."
"You're saying Ziilenlos deliberately provoked us into fighting each other so he could, 'under cover,' snatch the Karthakk sector from the Dominion, finish building his armada, grow an army, and arm it?" Ordo clarified.
"To put it simply — yes," Tallisibeth said. "He set so many traps for us and the Dominion that only by the will of the Force did we avoid them and not start fighting the Mandalorians or the Alliance."
"Moreover," Mij joined the conversation, "we stopped by Mandalore before the meeting. And I have to say, there's talk that Shysa has blamed the Alliance for the terrorist attack in Keldabe."
"So the Alliance can forget about an alliance with the Mandalorians," Mereel concluded. "And that benefits the Dominion."
"As well as the Empire, the New Republic, Corellia, and only the Force knows who else," Bardan Jusik said sharply. "I don't remember such tangled combinations since the Clone Wars."
"A Sith way of doing business," Tallisibeth sighed, looking at her adoptive mother. "They dump a mass of contradictory data on us, and while we're trying to figure out where the minefield will hurt most, they're pulling their dark schemes behind our backs."
"So Ziilenlos benefits from Mandalore being isolated and at war with a strong enemy," Ordo said. "Or, as a fallback, a civil war."
Everyone present understood that if they had gone to war against Fenn Shysa, the Mandalorian Sector would inevitably have split into factions.
Gathered under one wing by Shysa and his predecessors with difficulty, the Mandalorians would have largely stepped aside, leaving the instigators of a civil war to solve their problems on their own.
After all, mercenary work was far more profitable than fighting for ideals.
But there would have been plenty of the latter as well.
Some would have supported the Mand'alor, some the Skirata clan.
It would have been a bloodbath.
Especially considering that the Dominion was nearby, leaving the Mandalorians only two paths — either neutrality or being conquered by the Grand Admiral.
Seeing what he had done to the New Republic in six months of active operations with limited forces surely made it clear that Thrawn would sooner sterilize every planet in the Mandalorian Sector than allow the Mandalorians to become enemies of the Dominion.
And it wouldn't be surprising if the New Republic, the Alliance, or the Empire joined that war.
Corellia wouldn't mind either — after all, the resources of the Mandalorian Sector, mined for over a thousand years in established mines, weren't lying around on the road.
Especially when there was no need to spend billions on their exploration, extraction, and building logistics chains for economically viable delivery to the end consumer.
Mereel looked at his brothers and the other allies of the Skirata clan, who were silently digesting the information they'd heard.
"So, as I understand it, the only sure thing we're capable of is striking Kamino?" he clarified.
"Whatever purpose that army being created there is meant to serve, it won't be good for Mandalore," Ordo Skirata confirmed his reasoning. "Darth Ziilenlos is deliberately trying to isolate us. I don't know what Mandalore did to bother him so much, but even if Fenn Shysa and the others aren't with us, we have no moral right to stand aside."
Those present silently agreed.
"Then," Mereel concluded, "let's blow up Rothana too, to hell with it? Why should anyone use our people's developments for hostile purposes?"
No one objected to that either.
"Even though we have access codes through the minefields protecting the approaches to Kamino and Rothana, it's going to be a hassle to break through to the planets without getting killed," Tallisibeth noted. "I doubt that with that kind of security, they don't track every starship entering orbit."
The "Nulls" exchanged glances.
"That's why we won't be staying long," Ordo decided. "At least not until the cities on Kamino are nothing but one big, miserable piece of debris."
"I'll probably regret asking, but, son, what do you intend to do?" Ovolot asked.
"Blow things up," the new head of the Skirata clan said firmly. "Often, repeatedly, and turning it into an art form. After we're done with Kamino, those gray-skinned narshah won't be able to create armies of slaves anymore."
"Isn't that too extreme?" Scout asked. "Cloning is the only way the Kaminoans make a living. If we destroy the cloning centers, we doom them to extinction."
"So what?" Jaing shrugged, demonstratively pulling on gloves made from Ko Sai's skin. "No one will be able to create clone armies anymore. A socially beneficial deed, by the way."
"For which the galaxy won't thank us," Mereel said with mock sadness, not entirely agreeing with his brothers' stance but actively supporting them in everything.
"Wouldn't be the first time," Ordo waved his hand.
"Wouldn't be the first time," the "Nulls" echoed.
All that remained was to discuss how a small detachment of Mandalorians and their allies could overcome the defenses of Kamino and Rothana.
They would also need explosives.
Lots of explosives.
An indecent amount.
And preferably, a little extra on top.
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