Nine years, seven months, and thirty-four days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or forty-four years, seven months, and thirty-four days since the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and nineteen days since the arrival.)
As in the good old days, they walked side by side through the corridors of a warship, with crew members bustling around them, pausing their frenetic pace only to offer a crisp salute before hurrying off to their urgent tasks.
But this was no longer the Great Temple on Yavin IV, nor Echo Base on Hoth, nor any other base they had occupied during their long service in the Rebel Alliance.
They were striding across the deck of a New Republic warship, en route to Elom, having just emerged from hyperspace.
Wedge Antilles' task force was returning to home ports to lick its wounds and continue fulfilling its duty.
— I don't like this one bit, — the youngest general of the New Republic finally said. — Every time trouble's brewing, you take off on your Jedi business.
— Unfortunately, that's inevitable, Wedge, — Skywalker said with a smile. — I've left military matters behind to follow the path of a Jedi.
— Yeah, but you could, in true Jedi fashion, help us give the Imperials a good thrashing, — the Corellian grumbled.
— I thought Admiral Ackbar ordered us to steer clear of the Empire, — Luke said warily. — At least until the situation becomes clearer.
— That's the thing, — Wedge sighed. — But you know how it is... Why would Ackbar recall starships that are only half-armed to the shipyards?
— No idea, — Skywalker admitted.
— They'll take two crippled ships and turn them into one unarmed and one armed, — Wedge explained. — As was planned from the start. Thrawn's strikes on our logistics chains have nearly ground intergalactic trade to dust. Now we'll have to catch up at an accelerated pace. The most combat-ready ships will keep serving, while the least fit for duty will return to hauling cargo.
— That doesn't seem like the soundest strategy, — Luke said as they rounded another corner. — Thrawn caught us off guard with this approach once before. He could do it again.
— Uh-huh, — Wedge agreed. — But now, single ships won't travel alone—we'll form convoys and protect them with capable fleet units. Command believes Thrawn won't dare poke his head out of his burrow, as the other Imperial Remnants will surely try to seize the Ciutric Hegemony from him. With its industrial might, it's a tempting prize for any Imperial warlord. That means this grand admiral will have to work hard to hold onto it. Ackbar wants to use this breather to help Mon Mothma fill the coffers, bolster our defenses, and regroup the fleet, pulling in reservists for escort and protection operations. I have a feeling that once my ships are repaired, I'll be joining those raids too.
— I wish you luck with that, — Luke said sincerely. — A lot depends on your actions.
— That's for sure, — Antilles said bitterly. — Sadly, it won't bring the guys back.
— Are you sure it's really that bad? — Skywalker asked, his tone somber.
— A dozen X-wings, including the entire Rogue Squadron, vanishing without a trace? — the Corellian clarified. Luke nodded. — No, buddy. There are no coincidences like that. The guys were captured—I wouldn't be surprised if Thrawn's behind it.
— They could be dead, Wedge, — the young Jedi cautioned gently.
— No, — Antilles said firmly. — If that had happened, I'd know.
Luke nearly tripped on flat ground at that moment, almost disgracing the entire Jedi legacy. Fortunately, Antilles' reflexes were as sharp as ever, and the Corellian caught him.
— Sorry, maybe I'm missing something, — Luke said with an apologetic smile, freeing his arm from the grip of the New Republic's youngest general. — But when did you sign up to be a Jedi?
— That's the last thing I need, — Antilles shuddered. — No, Luke, I mean something else. When you fly with someone for a long time... I can't explain it. I just know they're alive.
— And you have no ideas about what might've happened to them? — the young Jedi pressed.
— Not a clue, — Wedge said sadly. — Worst of all, Ackbar explicitly forbade sending any search parties into the Hegemony. So as not to provoke the Imperials.
— I'd bet you're already thinking about resigning, grabbing an X-wing, and speeding off to find the guys, — Skywalker said.
— Is it that obvious? — Wedge asked with a sigh.
— I've known you long enough that I'd be less surprised by a banner waving above your head with those exact words than by your quiet resolve to save your pilots, — Luke said, extending his hand as they reached the flight deck next to the Jedi's fighter. — Thanks, Wedge. I owe you a lot. If I can, I'll help find the Rogue Squadron guys.
— If you need anything, just let me know, — Antilles returned the handshake. — And, uh, take care of yourself out there, wherever the Force calls you.
— I will, — Luke promised, climbing the first steps of the ladder to the cockpit. — May the Force be with you, Wedge.
— Yeah, yeah, yeah, — the Corellian waved dismissively. — Same to you, and in the same place.
Chuckling softly, the young Jedi climbed into the cockpit and settled into the seat. The canopy began to close as he pulled on his helmet and fastened the chinstrap.
— Get us into space, R2, — he asked the astromech, wrestling with the harness.
His faithful companion responded with a whistle and confirmed readiness. The X-wing glided over the deck on its repulsors.
Luke, leaving the starfighter's controls to the droid, reached into his flight suit pocket and pulled out a small metal talisman on a chain.
The very one he had taken from the body of a clone of a Jedi Master, killed by Corran Horn.
The very one Grand Admiral Thrawn needed. Just as much as the old lure Luke had found on Dagobah.
Strange... It's all so strange...
Yet Luke clearly understood he had a chance to resolve some of the questions gnawing at him. All he had to do was hand this medallion to a sentient who had just confessed to a dozen crimes against the state Luke was sworn to protect.
"Jedi of the past would never have sullied themselves with such deals," he sighed, shaking his head and slipping the trinket back into his pocket. Despite his words, he wasn't certain of his own conviction. If nothing else, the Force was in no hurry to confirm or deny the young Jedi's thoughts.
It's all so strange...
— R2, — the young Jedi called to his faithful astromech as their X-wing pulled a safe distance from the New Republic ships. — The long-range antenna's been repaired, right?
The droid responded with an affirmative beep.
— Good, — Luke replied. — Well then... let's give the Empire a call, shall we?
If the New Republic couldn't resolve the issue of exchanging his sister and friends through its channels, he, as a brother, friend, and Jedi, had to step in. Thrawn had said...
He'd said a lot. Time to test the weight of his words.
A small holographic figure of a blue-skinned humanoid with glowing red eyes appeared above the fighter's control panel. He wore a pristine white uniform, hands clasped behind his back.
— Jedi Skywalker, — Grand Admiral Thrawn nodded briefly in greeting. — To what do I owe the call?
— I have the medallion, — Luke replied. — I'd like to meet and discuss the release of my sister and close friends from your custody.
For a moment, the Supreme Commander was silent, his gaze piercing. Then, as if remembering to respond, he said:
— Very well. Coordinates and a time for the meeting will be sent to you. I advise you to hurry and come alone.
Without a farewell, the hologram dissolved.
— R2, — Luke called to his astromech. — Did we receive the data?
The droid confirmed the receipt and upload of the new information into the ship's database. But then...
— You've got to be kidding, — Luke muttered, staring at the coordinates on the navicomputer's display.
And then the X-wing vanished into hyperspace.
***
There are plenty of things that can irritate a noblewoman in Imperial Space.
Take social galas, for instance.
You may have to attend one even if you don't want to. The people you meet there might make your stomach churn, but your status and title force you to swallow your pride. So you spend hours in front of a mirror while maids lace you into an unbearably uncomfortable dress, tailored to the evening's theme, and head to a place you organically despise.
As the sages of old used to say: "Nobility is not just privileges but also duties. And it's not always easy to tell which outweighs the other."
In modern times, it's safe to say the duties take precedence.
Especially when you're a member of the Imperial Ruling Council.
So, whether you like it or not, you must endure an entire night in an uncomfortable dress, perched on treacherously fragile heels, with a ridiculous hairstyle, conversing politely and with dignity with every attendee, sparing at least a few minutes of your precious time for each. And even if you're nauseated by the sight of people dressed like peacocks—men and women alike—bowing to officials and military personnel, extending courtesies to their companions, the show must go on until the very end.
Per those same unwritten rules.
Because otherwise...
Well, no aristocrat even considers what would happen if one of them broke those unwritten rules and acted like an ordinary person.
Everyone understands there's a difference between "want" and "must."
Despite the galaxy's vastness, with thousands—perhaps hundreds of thousands—of noble houses, only a handful of aristocrats are truly free to do exactly as they please.
But the Empire is in danger. It has been for six long years.
And it's every aristocrat's duty to do everything in their power to preserve what remains.
**Baroness Feena D'Asta (spoiler—she has a skeleton in her closet)**
Tearing off the detestable lace skirts with vengeful loathing for the lavish black-and-red dress, tailored exclusively for the recent gala, Baroness Feena D'Asta took a moment to relish shoving the garment into the waste chute with her foot.
Smiling at the thought of that monstrosity burning in the incinerator, the young woman sent the decorative lace adornments after it. Finally, the magnificent black shoes, which had rubbed her feet raw, followed suit. But before they disappeared into the rectangular maw of the chute, the baroness indulged in petty revenge, snapping off the heels that had made her feet feel like they were falling off. If she'd had something sharp, she would've sliced the soles into tiny pieces.
Well, let those torture devices consider themselves lucky.
Forget it like a bad dream.
Shaking out her silvery platinum hair, she wrapped herself snugly in a warm robe, sat on a soft pouf in front of her vanity, and spent a few minutes removing the wretched hairpins, clips, and other metal contraptions that had given her hair that wild yet splendid look at the gala.
Only after shedding everything she despised did the aristocrat wipe off her light makeup, erasing the last traces of festivity.
Reaching her luxurious sofa, the baroness climbed onto it with great satisfaction, stretching out her slender legs to let them rest. Picking up a vase of fruit from the nearby table, she began devouring ripe berries, savoring their taste.
Stupid rules.
Stupid gala.
Stupid corset!
Because of those three idiotic things, she'd been starving since the previous evening, from the very start of the reception hosted by the Imperial Ruling Council. The rules wouldn't even let her sneak a Hutt-damned tartlet to eat! She had to converse with every puffed-up, garishly dressed ku-pa trying to impress the young daughter of the baron who controlled the D'Astan sector.
Savoring the fruit and sipping wine from her glass, she felt near-celestial bliss.
No, if paradise truly exists, let it have wine, fruit, and a soft sofa.
Though she had strong suspicions that after death, they'd all end up in hell.
Wearing lace dresses with corsets, teetering on high heels, bowing, smiling, and making idle chatter while surrounded by the flames of an infernal cauldron...
Her musings on the profound were interrupted by the signal of her holographic communicator. The expensive little device lay on the same table as the fruit and wine.
Not many sentients knew the frequency of this device.
And of those who did, she didn't want to talk to a single one right now.
Considering whether to spill her wine on the holocomm, the baroness decided not to waste a single drop of the vintage, which cost over ten thousand credits a bottle. And the age... These bottles were sealed back when Jedi were cutting down Mandalorians on Galidraan.
An elegantly aristocratic, manicured finger touched the holocomm's activation key. Instantly, an image of an older man in a military tunic appeared above the projection plate. He wore it more out of old habit than necessity.
So, a conversation loomed with the one person she least wanted to speak to in the galaxy. No, that was self-deception. There were fools on the Ruling Council she wouldn't even want to breathe the same air with.
— Hello, Father, — she took a deliberately large sip of wine. Her penchant for indulging in alcohol always irritated him. — As always, your timing is impeccable. I've always dreamed of greeting an Orinda sunrise with a glass of wine, a bowl of fruit, and a chat with my dearest parent. Doesn't it bother you that I've been on my feet for two days straight and that business can wait until I've rested?
— Your wine can wait, but I cannot, — her dearest parent snapped. — You're not twenty anymore for us to keep up this bickering.
— And you're not Emperor Palpatine to disregard others' personal lives and call whenever you please, — the baroness huffed. — Oh, how wonderful it was when you went out of your way to avoid talking to me.
— Insolent girl, — her father growled. Feena merely smiled.
— Thank you, my dear father, — she gave an exaggerated smile and took another sip. Playing on her father's nerves had become almost her favorite art form in recent years. — So, what do I owe this time?
— Can't I just talk to my daughter? — Remiz grumbled.
— Let's skip the sappy nonsense, shall we? — she grimaced. At least with her father, who only remembered her when it suited his interests, she could speak freely. — That worked on me fifteen years ago. Now, forgive me, Baron, but your little girl has grown up.
— And kept her insufferable attitude, — her father lamented.
— Entirely your doing, dear parent, — she grinned. Being a shrew was easy when there weren't many other options. The kind, altruistic, and saintly didn't last long in this galaxy. Especially not in aristocratic families.
Baroness Iran Ryad could attest to that. Except she was just a tad dead. Which only proved the rule.
— Enough, — the baron's hologram waved a hand. — I need information.
Feena rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue.
— Just when I start thinking you might, for a moment, stop being a pragmatic bastard, dear Father, you prove me wrong, — she said with a strained smile.
— More respect, young lady, — the baron said menacingly.
— Or what? — she asked with a smile, raising her brows. — Will you put me in a corner? Send me to clean the stables? Assign me to help the maids for a week? Dear Father, I'm a bit past the age when such threats would work.
— Regardless, — Baron D'Asta's lips twitched. — I want to know what the Ruling Council decided at the gala.
— We'll index payments for certain government employees, introduce new measures to combat inflation...
— Feena! — the baron growled threateningly. — Stop clowning around! We don't have much time on this encrypted line.
— Oh, forgive me, Baron, for wounding your proprietary feelings, — the young woman laughed. — Don't worry, no one's planning to cancel contracts with your transport companies over your reckless moves.
— "Reckless moves"? — Rages repeated, narrowing his eyes slyly. — Is that what they're calling it?
— What did you expect? — she said, surprised. — That they'd kiss you and crown you Emperor for practically declaring war on the New Republic single-handedly by orchestrating the attack on Hast's shipyards? Honestly, dear Father, did you think the Council is full of fools who wouldn't find out...
— And you didn't, — the baron chuckled. — Not until he announced it to the entire galaxy.
— Yes, the whole Ruling Council laughed at that childish stunt, — Feena smiled. — Your favorite alien isn't as brilliant as you thought.
— No, — the baron smirked. — You're the ones who can't see past your own noses. That's why the Empire is in the cesspool it's in, which they want to wipe from the face of the galaxy...
— Can we skip your grandiose speeches? — the baroness suggested to her father. — Your alien has thoroughly disgraced himself. He's essentially spat in the face of everyone who allowed him to wage war against the New Republic. His seizure of the Ciutric Hegemony doesn't sit well with anyone.
— So it would've been better if, after that sadist Krennel's death, that Remnant had gone to the New Republic? — the baron asked.
— Thrawn was given clear rules, which he broke when he started seeking political allies, — Feena said coldly. — And your interest in him was noted. But you didn't even consider that the cancellation of your contracts in the past was just a gentle rebuke and a warning: "Stay out of it!" While everyone thought that lunatic Krennel was behind the attacks, no one had any concerns because the Hegemony was a thorn in our side. Now, your glorious alien just walked up to the sabacc table and, instead of joining the game, punched the dealer, slammed every player's face into the table, and then flipped the table over. Do I need to mention that he's been sheltering deserters from the Imperial fleet?
— He's a Grand Admiral of the Galactic Empire, — the baron countered. — And Supreme Commander...
— Enough, — Feena swirled the wine in her glass. — Stop spouting that nonsense. The Ruling Council is unhappy with the situation. The Hegemony will either come under our control or...
— Or what? — the baron asked curiously. — You'll take it by force?
— If necessary, — the baroness shrugged. — We have plenty of ships...
— And only two grand admirals in the entire galaxy, — Rages reminded her. — One of whom is in the other's custody. And that last one crushed one of the New Republic's four fleets. Hutt's sake! Do I really have to explain such basic truths to my own daughter? If Thrawn hadn't come to the Hegemony's aid in time, it would already be part of the New Republic! And all your orders and shipments would be gone!
— Everyone understands that...
— And do your colleagues understand that moving against Thrawn would, at best, leave our fronts vulnerable and make dozens of star systems easy pickings for the New Republic, just out of spite for the parade of sovereignties breaking out across the galaxy? — Baron D'Asta pressed.
— Five sectors, and peripheral ones at that, are nothing to the New Republic, — Feena said. Truthfully, she didn't believe that. But she wanted to bolster her stance with a more authoritative, rational perspective. Given the chaos in the Imperial Ruling Council, only her father could sound like the voice of reason.
— That's just the beginning, — the baron warned. — My sources say Thrawn issued an ultimatum to the New Republic regarding prisoner exchanges. The Ciutric Hegemony is practically an inexhaustible source of loyal manpower for him. Not to mention that, after crushing the New Republic in the last battle, he now commands the third-largest fleet among the major Imperial Remnants. For a moment, consider that this is only the start of his campaign! Palpatine knew how to pick talent. He wouldn't have brought a sentient close who lacked strategic genius.
— I can name at least a few grand admirals I could defeat on the battlefield, — Feena smirked.
— Because I taught you how, — the baron reminded her. — And political instinct. Talk some sense into your colleagues. If they can't see simple truths, try another angle. Thrawn's stepped out of the shadows—he's drawn the New Republic's attention...
— With resources we gave him, — Feena interjected. — And Grand Moff Kaine. It's easy to reap rewards with others' hands.
— Then do the same, — the baron said firmly. — Let Thrawn do what he does best—fight. You do what you do—build strength. Your goal, as always, is to retake Coruscant, isn't it?
— Sometimes I wonder what's leakier in our state—our borders or our ability to keep secrets, — Feena muttered, her mood souring almost instantly. Her father knew far too many details of the Empire's "inner workings" for someone who'd stepped back from politics years ago.
— That's irrelevant now, — the baron declared. — Get the Council in line. We don't need to fight each other—it only weakens the Empire. The New Republic grew because we fought among ourselves while they picked up the scraps. Now they have the largest territory. Let Thrawn continue his campaign without your petty nitpicking, and he'll bring the New Republic to its knees. In less than three months, he's captured a huge number of their soldiers and generals. What'll happen by year's end? The New Republic will start cracking at the seams. All the Empire needs to do is toss the New Order into the trash heap of time and learn to live without xenophobia. You've considered crowning Thrawn, haven't you? And he's, notably, not human. That would be a brilliant PR move.
Lately, the idea of choosing a new Emperor had somehow fallen off the agenda.
— I can't say you're entirely wrong, — Feena conceded, pleased that her thoughts aligned with her father's. — But this benefits you most of all, doesn't it?
— I'm sure I could secure some solid contracts with Thrawn for food supplies or other necessities, — the baron didn't deny. — After all, I'm looking out for our sector's prosperity. The one you'll inherit someday. Having an ally like Thrawn is advantageous in every way. If I were you, I'd already have paid him a visit, established personal contact, opened a dialogue...
Feena felt a sour taste in her mouth.
— You're at it again, — she said flatly. — And here I was wondering why you're hyping this alien!
— I don't know what you're talking about, — the baron said, feigning innocence.
— Enough, — Feena said firmly. — I won't tolerate meddling in my personal life. I'm not a sniveling girl anymore...
— But I'm still cleaning up your messes, — her father noted. — For once, think beyond tomorrow in that Council of yours. The war can't go on forever—resources will eventually run dry. As will the desire to wave blasters around. If Thrawn can bring the New Republic to its knees by then, we'll have a chance to demand peace terms in our favor.
— Of course, — the girl declared. — You only think about brokering truces with everyone, so long as it doesn't interfere with your precious trade and transport.
— Every agreement must benefit both sides, — the baron stated. — Go to war against Thrawn, and you'll lose the support of the people and your own forces. No one wants to be steamrolled by Thrawn's fleet. So be reasonable!
Feena was silent for a moment before saying:
— I hear you, Father. I'll bring the idea to the Imperial Ruling Council. I might even push for it, but I won't overdo it. The Council's already tense. Maybe I can smooth things over with your advice.
— Don't forget my suggestion to meet him in person, — Baron D'Asta smirked.
— Uh-huh, — the young woman said. — Definitely. I'm already running—hair flying back.
— Feena! — Her father didn't get to finish his thought—she poured the contents of her glass onto the communicator.
Leaning back on the sofa, she began to ponder, steadily reducing the number of berries in the bowl.
***
If, in the past, descending into the dungeons of the moff's residence on Tangrene had struck me as grim and unwelcoming, the underground of one of the palace wings of the prince-admiral forced me to concede the crown.
This place was so oppressively bleak that my first instinct was to flee without looking back.
How, in this enlightened age, could the dungeon of a palace brimming with electronics, belonging to the head of an interstellar state, be damp? Apparently, it could.
Damp, wet, and reeking of mold. I wouldn't be surprised if there was fungus somewhere.
The dim light from barely functioning lamps didn't hinder me or my steadfast companions—Rukh and one of the Tierces in the guise of an Imperial Guard. Ahead, as a force for any unforeseen circumstances, marched the Fourth Stormtrooper Squad in full combat gear, armed as if preparing to storm an enemy citadel.
In some cases, that's exactly what it was.
The dungeon's wardens and interrogators were stubbornly foolish, attempting to resist trained soldiers accustomed to carving their way to their objective no matter the opposition.
Is it any surprise they were eliminated at the slightest hint of resistance? No, it isn't.
The transition of the Ciutric Hegemony under my protectorate and the shift in internal and external policy toward openness and equal rights under the law had been announced across the state's worlds yesterday, as soon as an agreement was reached with Commander Vict Darron and the other commanders of warships and ground units for full obedience to my orders.
Surprisingly, this, combined with dispatching ship detachments to the Hegemony's systems, effectively quelled potential unrest and bloodshed.
Then came the time to delve into Krennel's secrets.
Mister Zakarisz Ghent worked tirelessly, cracking encrypted data. Progress was slow—say what you will, but that man knew how to keep secrets.
Overnight, Ghent managed to decrypt just a couple of files.
And one of them piqued my interest greatly.
Some time ago, Krennel had ordered one wing of the palace cleared of outsiders, installing guard droids and sealing all entrances and exits. Entering without his biometric data would trigger alarms throughout the complex.
What could be so heavily guarded?
Without knowing the prince-admiral's backstory, it could be anything. But knowing who his ally was and how crucial it was to keep that secret, it's a different matter. Hence the armed escort.
That woman was capable of pulling off something nasty.
And deadly.
The catacombs in this wing weren't connected to the palace's main underground network, which only heightened my unease.
In fact, at every corner, corridor, staircase, and turbolift station, clones from the GeNod project stood guard. Why them?
Because they're unwaveringly loyal. And effective.
Even with reduced combat skills, they still outmatch regular stormtroopers. For now, at least.
Which means no heterochromatic snake would slip past them.
This dungeon was built long before the rest of the palace—evident from the massive, hand-hewn stone blocks forming the foundation and walls. Not permacrete, duracrete, or ferrocrete—relatively modern materials used for centuries, if not millennia. Actual stone.
Yet amidst this antiquity ran modern power cables, communication lines, and more. A hint that this part of the palace, and its dungeons, was used extensively.
When we encountered cells designed for solitary confinement in harsh conditions, the dungeon's purpose became clear.
This was a prison for Krennel's most dangerous enemies, likely political.
But that was only its original purpose.
If there's a prison, where are the jailers? Not a single droid or living warden had crossed our path.
Which increasingly convinced me I was on the right track.
At least following the trail.
Another turn greeted us with blaster fire.
Judging by the volume of shots, at least ten rifles were firing.
The Fourth Squad, halting our group with a gesture, went to work.
I now had the chance to see them in action firsthand.
First, one of the clones, on orders from Sergeant TNX-0297, deployed an optical probe to assess the situation from around the corner. The firing stopped as soon as the forward pair of troopers moved out of sight, suggesting advanced automation responding to movement or equipped with limited artificial intelligence.
The stormtroopers, wasting no time on chatter, communicated via hand signals. I could use a translator here...
— Droidekas, — Tierce clarified, as if reading my thoughts. — Four of them. B2 battle droids. Distance—seven meters.
— Thank you, — I said. — Their actions?
— Neutralize them, — the man behind the guard's mask replied simply. — In the most efficient way.
Almost simultaneously, the stormtroopers, moving one by one with practiced ease, began rolling ion grenades toward the source of the fire. Three troopers, with the sergeant leading.
The corridor lit up with white-blue flashes as artificial lightning struck the metal combatants.
A quick check, and TNX-0297 stepped into the corridor first.
A brief pause to ensure the path was clear, and the trooper signaled to proceed.
Half the squad moved forward, the other half fanned out through the corridors for security.
As we rounded the corner, we were met with the sight of disabled droidekas and B2s lying on the floor, neutralized by specialized weapons.
From what my Chiss physiology allowed me to discern, the droidekas and B2s weren't from storage. Not a scratch or dent—they looked fresh off the assembly line.
Intriguing.
Meanwhile, the stormtroopers worked to bypass a clearly armored metal door using electronic lockpicks. It took a good ten minutes, during which I studied the droids with curiosity.
I concluded these were not the outdated models we'd acquired from the Colicoid Swarm.
I wasn't mistaken—these were modern. Built recently, with no signs of wear or use. I don't buy into careful storage or amateur upgrades. These were factory models.
How many factories in the galaxy produce droidekas on order? Exactly.
If Krennel had such resources, we'd be tripping over them. At least in the palace. But he left them here, guarding something more valuable than the entire palace.
Curious.
Thermite paste burned through the locking mechanism, and the stormtroopers, covering each other, slid the metal panel aside, revealing a...
Living space.
Clearly a former cell—even the drapery and cosmetic repairs couldn't hide that.
But it was several times larger than the others we'd seen.
The furnishings were modest, almost Spartan. Nothing superfluous, only the essentials.
Most of the space was empty, even of furniture. Hints of exercise equipment—at least one corner was dedicated to it. A stiff-looking sofa.
No carpets, curtains, lamps, or decorations. As if this wasn't a home but a minimalist's office.
So we hadn't come to the wrong address.
Bare floors, only red fabric stretched along the walls instead of wallpaper. A few separate rooms provided the minimum conditions for a sentient's existence.
Who, for some reason, was absent.
I began to suspect that Ysanne Isard's clone had escaped. That's bad. Because it's unclear when she got out, why the guards remained, and where she is now.
— Search the room, — I ordered.
Nothing here suggested the clone of the former Imperial Intelligence Director had worked in this space. It's hard to imagine Isard, even a clone, outside the information sphere.
Intelligence is, first and foremost, information. Relying on agents alone is too slow and renders much operational data obsolete by the time it reaches her.
Imperial Intelligence had well-developed, redundant information channels. I doubt someone like Isard, even a clone, would overlook them. Nor would she willingly hand Krennel access to her illicit agents. The notion that this woman could be broken, tortured, or subjugated against her will is unconvincing. Thus, she must have at least a cheap computer terminal. So where is it? And where is Isard herself?
I recall that in the events I know, she tried to outmaneuver Krennel but failed due to Rogue Squadron's intervention, lethally ending the clone Ysanne's life cycle.
Now, with her absence in this "hotel room," the question arises—did the clone escape in this reality?
There are several counterarguments.
First, given such security measures, I doubt Krennel would let Ysanne leave her confinement.
Second, she couldn't have left the planet during the Bothan attack—the planetary shield was up. The only craft that left the surface were interceptors, all either destroyed or returned to their bases. My pilots are currently scouring the battle zone, including ion cannon bunkers, for "deserters." But their searches have yielded nothing. I trust my pilots' competence, so they wouldn't miss any crevice where Ysanne might hide if she'd commandeered a ship.
Thus, she's on the planet.
And likely, given the guards at the entrance, she's here.
It took five minutes of searching to find a hidden door leading to a dimly lit room.
It strongly reminded me of my own command center, doubling as my living quarters.
Dim light obscured the room's dimensions. Computer monitors lined a semicircle above a desk. Server terminals...
All this equipment was brutally destroyed, as if someone had taken a hydraulic hammer to it. Or crushed it with a mechanical hand.
But the smell was the worst. Rotting organic matter, blood, stomach acid... If you've ever attended an autopsy, you can't forget that stench. It's like radiation—imperceptible but lingering in your system for life.
— There's a body, — Stormtrooper TNX-0333 reported in a flat voice, drawing attention to the far corner.
Rukh slipped past the trooper into the darkness like a gray shadow. I took a couple of steps in that direction before hearing a raspy laugh.
Like metal scraping glass.
— What a pleasant surprise! Grand Admiral Thrawn, in the flesh, — the voice was female but strangely guttural, as if her trachea was damaged. — And with his pet Noghri in tow.
A metallic clank, and a faint light panel illuminated the dark corner, revealing a medium-built, distinctly feminine figure.
She sat on the bare floor in a tattered red uniform, resembling those worn by senior fleet officers. But it looked like it had survived an encounter with rabid plants, each branch betting on which could tear off the biggest, best piece.
Through the shredded fabric, blooming bruises on her ribs, swollen arms, and legs were visible. That doesn't happen by accident—those are the swellings of broken limbs.
Two white streaks of hair, heterochromatic blue and red irises, a scar across half her temple. Split lips, torn hair strands, bruises across her body, a distorted lower jaw, multiple abrasions on her sharp-cheeked face...
And a pool of bloody vomit she was sitting in, with great difficulty.
— Ysanne Isard, — I said. Let the mind games begin. Revealing all my cards now would be foolish and fruitless. — Judging by your appearance, you need medical attention.
— The best thing you could've done for me, Grand Admiral, you've already done, — she said. — You, a loyal servant of the Empire, are here. May I, for old times' sake, ask for one favor?
— I'll do what's necessary, — I said. She'd clearly endured some of the worst moments of her life, yet hadn't yielded an inch. They call such people flint. In reality, she's an extremely dangerous, vengeful sentient with knowledge of ways to cause trouble most couldn't imagine. — Though I don't recall anything resembling friendship between us.
Her heterochromatic eyes narrowed, nearly closing under swollen lids.
— Oh, how could I forget, — her crusted lips twisted into a chilling grimace she thought passed for a smile. — You don't have friends.
— I'm not alone in that, — I said, glancing at Rukh, who signaled no weapons were near Isard. — What happened?
— Oh, a little demonstration of superiority from Prince-Admiral Krennel, — she smiled. Gods, how repulsive. But I know I can't look away. Thrawn wouldn't. — Though a day has passed, so... How's Krennel? Coughing up his guts yet?
— Hard to confirm, since he and the senior officers of the *Reckoning* were atomized by a Republic volley, — I informed the young woman. She's young—forty at most. I recalled images from my past life of a cold, emotionless predator ready to pounce. But with this one... something's off. Either she's playing me, or Krennel damaged her cloned brain. I distinctly remember that in *Isard's Revenge*, it was the clone, not the original, Krennel manipulated in the Hegemony. The scar on her temple makes it easy to tell.
— Is that so, — disappointment crossed her battered face. — Had I known, I wouldn't have... Grand Admiral, would you be so kind as to help a lady retrieve an antidote? It's hidden in a secret compartment under the desk. You need to press an inconspicuous bump, like a casting flaw. I'd do it myself, but... my arms are a bit broken from wrists to collarbones.
Interesting.
— I'd like to hear the full story first, — I said, but gave the order. The stormtroopers began retrieving the serum.
— Can't it wait? — she asked. — In two minutes, I'll have another seizure. I doubt you want to see me spill my rich inner world.
That's the last thing I'd want right now.
The stormtroopers didn't bother with buttons, ripping the hidden drawer from its slot.
A small plastic vial with purple liquid landed in my hands.
— This it? — I asked.
— Do me the honor of pouring it into my mouth, — she smiled. — And I'd be grateful if your Noghri stopped pressing his foot into my back.
Handing the vial to Grodin Tierce, I silently watched as, for a split second, Ysanne's heterochromatic eyes widened at the sight of the Imperial Guard.
Tierce approached her unceremoniously. Before she could speak, Rukh grabbed her hair, yanking her head back to force her mouth open. The guard crushed the vial between two fingers, letting purple drops flow into the mouth of the young but extremely dangerous woman.
Emitting a couple of truly revolting swallowing sounds, Ysanne spat a shard of glass that had slipped through Tierce's fingers into his visor.
The guard didn't react, stepping back.
The Noghri released her, and the Iceheart clone's face turned its searing yet icy gaze back to me.
— Thank you, Grand Admiral, — she said. — It was an unforgivable oversight not to anticipate Krennel breaking my limbs. Otherwise, I'd have managed myself.
— The story, — I reminded her.
— Oh, — she squinted again, smiling. My stomach nearly revolted. How repulsive. — You won't even try to patch me up? You'll interrogate me right here?
— I see no obstacles to that, — I said.
— Neither the smell nor my appearance bothers such high command? — Her game seemed to be feigning friendliness to gain trust. I know why.
— I've seen worse, — I admitted. True, those were nightmares and Hitchcock films in my past life. — What were you doing here, Isard?
— I needed to keep something here on Ciutric IV, — her tone shifted instantly from ingratiating to dry, formal, devoid of emotion. Now *that's* the Iceheart. A clone, of course. — Prince-Admiral Krennel was kind enough to assist.
— In other words, you used him to hold *Lusankya* prisoners on Ciutric IV, — her swollen eyelids lifted, revealing surprise. — While using him to settle your scores with the New Republic and Rogue Squadron. Krennel eventually realized it and expressed his displeasure in the most logical way he knew—beating you.
— He's unbelievably dim and straightforward, — Isard scoffed. — Poisoning him was easy. He had some mental disorder tied to an attraction to me. I think he was very upset that, instead of getting what he wanted, he had to assert dominance with his fists. Still, he left satisfied.
— The *Lusankya* prisoners, — I reminded her. — Where are they?
— I've always held your intellectual abilities in high regard, Grand Admiral, — another attempt at flattery. — I must admit, you're perceptive. Excessively so.
— That's not an answer, — I noted.
— And you won't get one, — she said firmly. — The *Lusankya* prisoners are my leverage for further revenge...
— It's not your revenge, — I said calmly. — It never was.
— You can play with your toy soldiers all you want, Grand Admiral, but...
— You're a clone, — I said evenly. Her battered eyes darkened.
— The real Iceheart created you to watch over the *Lusankya* prisoners while she finished her work on Thyferra and fought the New Republic. After that, you were no longer needed, and she tried to dispose of you. That scar on your temple came from that.
— Nice story, Grand Admiral, — the Iceheart's lips stretched into a grotesque smile. — But too far-fetched.
— In your place, I'd believe it with every fiber of my being, — I advised.
— You'd never want to be in my place, — the clone smirked.
— Undeniable fact, — I agreed. — Because, in truth, working with me is your only chance to survive.
— Oh, really? — Her lips kept that same smile. Whatever antidote she took was clearly helping. — Not very logical. If I'm a clone, that's all the better for me. I'm not Ysanne Isard, so anything done in the past doesn't concern me.
Now, the real test—the extent of knowledge the original Iceheart instilled in her clone.
— Do you recall the terms under which you handed Baron Soontir Fel to me? — I asked.
— A memory test, Thrawn? — the clone asked in a bored tone. — You gave me advice on capturing Thyferra.
— Exactly, — I confirmed. — Then you surely remember using the 181st Fighter Group for your internal squabbles with Imperials who posed problems for you?
— Thrawn, I've done worse, — even in her current state, she didn't lose her edge. Broken, battered, stripped of everything, yet that regal nature... — Planning to scare me by exposing old secrets?
— No, — I said. — I don't need any of it. But one specific thing... You surely remember the *Red Star*, Director?
The smile vanished from the Iceheart's face.
— What are you getting at, Thrawn? — she hissed.
— Simple, — I replied. — Either you work for me, or I'll delight Captain Erik Shohashi by handing you over as the real Isard. I'm sure he'd love such a gift. Perhaps even more than Baron Fel's head. After all, getting to the one who gave the order is a far more desirable target for the revenge that's been eating him for years than turning Fel and his beloved TIE fighter into stardust. I can well imagine that revenge would be the catharsis to restart his life in new colors. And Baron Fel's fate would no longer interest him.
— So that's your game, — the clone snarled. — You're setting me up to save your favorite pilot from execution? Since when did you get so sentimental, Thrawn?
— Life doesn't stand still, — I noted philosophically. — Especially for those who aren't clones created for a single purpose. Tell me, Isard, what's it like living for months with the thought that the galaxy has become a tiny prison, where you're the sole jailer with no alternatives? Never wondered why you cared about preserving Republic prisoners who, in the past, wouldn't have warranted your attention, let alone your effort to keep them alive? Just one defeat, and now you're merely a guard. Classic Iceheart, isn't it? Who else in the galaxy could be trusted to preserve such a valuable asset to lure Rogue Squadron at the right time and place? But what did you plan to do with them?
Her face now showed no trace of emotion.
— Destroy them, — she said confidently. — Or break them and make them my agents.
— How? — I asked. — The *Lusankya*'s brainwashing equipment cost billions. There's nothing like it anywhere else in the galaxy.
Isard's face darkened.
Her posture suggested she'd lost all desire to continue the conversation.
— Take her to my ship, — I ordered the stormtroopers and Major Tierce. — Discreetly, of course.
— It will be done, Grand Admiral, — Sergeant TNX-0297 reported, grabbing the Iceheart by the scruff without hesitation or fear. The remnants of her uniform tore but held. The trooper, unceremoniously, fired a white-blue stun bolt at the galaxy's most dangerous woman's clone, then ordered his subordinates to place her body in a cadaver bag. TNX-0333 deftly pulled out the thin but incredibly strong packaging material from his armor kit.
They placed the unconscious body inside, zipped it shut, and carried it out to deliver to my personal shuttle. And then...
Things will get interesting.
The operation to recruit Ysanne Isard's clone to swiftly locate the real Iceheart is officially underway.
Pitting one Isard against another.
A clone with limited motivations but Isard's mind, combined with my resources, against the true Iceheart...
Yes, it'll be a clash of titans.
All that remains is to methodically, cautiously, and productively play on her sense of pride.
While avoiding "kicking the bucket" myself.
Dangerous games you've started, Grand Admiral Thrawn.
But it's the only way to gain quick access to Isard's knowledge, which surely holds many secrets.
And which of them to hand over to Shohashi in the end...
We'll see who offers what for my cause. For starters, it'd be nice to learn how Isard created her clone—and clearly not over years.
But those are thoughts for the distant future.
First, I need to finish purging the Ciutric Hegemony of pirates and take steps to defend it.
***
— So, — Mazzic didn't look pleased after watching the latest news, Grand Admiral Thrawn's galactic debut. — What does this all mean?
— I don't know, — Talon Karrde admitted. — We need more information. Thrawn never does anything just for show. I'm afraid he's planning something big. Truly big.
— You mean everything this grand admiral's done so far was just small-scale intimidation? — Mazzic whistled in surprise.
— I'm certain of it, — Karrde confirmed. After a moment's thought, he added:
— Set a course for the Yag'Dhul system, — Karrde ordered. — We need to talk to someone and decide whose side we're on.
— Until Thrawn decides we're a threat, we'd better secure the backing of someone more powerful than the Empire, — Karrde said. — Especially since I've heard Thrawn has some project at the Yag'Dhul shipyards. I'd like to take a closer look.