Nine years, ten months, and seventeen days after the Battle of Yavin…
Or forty-four years, ten months, and seventeen days after the Great Resynchronization.
(Six months and two days since the arrival).
The Ammoris system in the Kwelli sector, like the entire region of the galaxy, was under the control of the Dominion.
For this reason, the task of dealing with the remnants of the Cavrilhu Pirates fell to counterintelligence.
Captain Shteben collided with a burly Rodian, seized him by the collar of his jacket, and forcibly turned him toward two other pirates who had decided to shoot the operative in the back.
The alien tried to wriggle free, squealing something in his native tongue, but Shteben slammed his head into the Rodian's face.
A combat knife flashed in his right hand — and in an instant, obsidian rivaled blaster bolts in the speed of creating extra holes in the pirate's body.
Moving toward the shooters, the captain shoved the corpse at one of them and hurled the knife at the other.
The blade sank into the Devaronian's throat up to the hilt, and the pirate, spraying the corridor of the Cavrilhu base with a fountain of blood, slowly slumped to the floor.
Shteben kicked the Nautolan emerging from under the corpse in the face, then drove the heel of his boot into the pirate's nasal bones, forcing them into his skull.
The criminal gurgled, twitched, but by the time the operative retrieved his knife and blaster, he had already gone still.
After firing control shots, the counterintelligence officer glanced at his scorched shoulder.
One of the pirates had managed to hit him.
Painful, unpleasant, but not fatal.
The operative pulled a bacta aerosol from his belt medkit and sprayed its contents onto the wound.
It stung, but the soothing coolness alleviated the pain.
— Third corridor cleared, — the operative said into his wrist comlink.
— First and second are clear too, sir, — the squad commander replied. — Levels one through three are under our control.
— Continue the sweep, — Shteben ordered.
This was the last Cavrilhu base.
Not just in the Ammoris system, but in the entire galaxy.
They needed to push harder to finish what they started.
The man, checking the charge in his blaster, continued on his way.
At the turbolift, he had to gun down a couple of pirates before he could use the elevator.
But his path led one level down.
To where, in an underground grotto, the Cavrilhu had set up a small hangar for a couple of speeders.
Counterintelligence forces and stormtroopers had securely locked down the perimeter of the pirate base, but Shteben was determined to prevent even the slightest chance that the leader of the Cavrilhu Pirates could escape.
Whether they shot down his airspeeder or not, it was no guarantee that Captain Zothip, the leader of the Cavrilhu, would die.
Too often, various adventurers managed to cheat death by faking their demise.
But not today.
When the turbolift doors slid open, Shteben pressed himself against the cabin wall to avoid being caught by a blaster barrage.
Remaining out of the shooters' line of sight, the operative unhooked a flash-bang grenade from his belt and tossed it through the open lift doorway.
The helmet's light filters reacted as intended, and unlike his opponents, the operative could still distinguish objects.
With a few shots, he sent the pirates to their ancestors.
Leaping over their bodies, he took cover from a barrage behind a transport container.
— Die! Die, Imp! — Zothip shouted, firing from the cockpit of an airspeeder.
Shteben quickly oriented himself.
With a short dash, he moved behind another container.
The shots shifted toward him.
The operative detached a thermal detonator from his belt and lobbed it over his head toward the shooter.
They were separated by about fifty meters, but Shteben wasn't counting on luck — the projectile wouldn't hit the airspeeder.
It didn't — the explosive detonated halfway through its arc.
The blast echoed, and for a moment, the shooting stopped.
That was enough time for him to change cover again — this time, he was five meters closer to his target.
Pirates weren't known for perfectionism, so the transport containers with unknown contents were scattered haphazardly across the makeshift hangar.
Some were open, revealing looted goods inside.
Others were sealed, their contents a mystery.
But why bother speculating?
Once the pirates were eliminated, investigators would handle the searches and inventory.
The operative had a different task.
— Pin him down, pin him down! — Zothip again.
Shteben caught sight of one of his lackeys circling from the side.
A shot to the chest — and the Rodian, resembling an assassin, collapsed to the floor.
The operative broke from cover and switched positions just as a thermal detonator landed nearby.
The explosion was significant.
Small fragments clattered around — the transport container he'd just been hiding behind was thoroughly shredded.
For a moment, the blaster fire ceased — it seemed the pirates hadn't noticed that Shteben had escaped death.
Thirty meters to the airspeeder.
The operative peeked from behind his new cover.
The pirates were trying to stuff jewels into the cargo compartment, pouring them from a small crate.
Understood.
They decided to grab a small haul of valuables to avoid leaving empty-handed.
Before Zothip, armed with a blaster carbine, could react to the new movement, Shteben shot him in the leg.
Screaming and cursing, the pirate collapsed onto the floor of the open airspeeder.
Leaping from cover, the operative sprinted toward the vehicle, firing his blaster pistol on the move.
He managed to gun down one pirate at the cargo hold — the second ducked behind the vehicle's frame.
A red bolt flashed over his head from behind.
The operative belatedly realized there might still be enemies at his back.
Taking advantage of the pirates' confusion at the airspeeder, he spun around and, with a short burst, ended the life of a human with a rifle.
Hearing the roar of the airspeeder's engine starting, he turned to the vehicle.
Zothip had climbed into the driver's seat and clearly intended to escape.
Considering the valuables in the cargo hold, shooting him down wasn't the wisest option.
He couldn't be allowed to escape the cave.
The operative, calculating the pirate leader's flight path, rushed to intercept.
He managed to grab the edge of the rear seat just before the vehicle sped past.
His wounded arm screamed in pain, so to avoid falling, the operative had to drop his blaster and grip with both hands.
Straining his muscles, he pulled himself into the cabin of the airspeeder convertible.
— You! — Zothip roared, swerving the vehicle to throw off the counterintelligence officer.
— Yes, me, me, — Shteben held on, grabbing the headrest of the driver's seat.
With a swift motion, he drew his combat knife from its sheath and slashed the muscles of the pirate leader's arm, rendering it useless.
The airspeeder veered and crashed into a pile of transport containers.
Grouping himself, the operative was thrown from the airspeeder but managed to avoid serious injury from the rough landing.
Muttering curses under his breath, he got to his feet.
A sharp pain shot through his right thigh, but it didn't stop him.
The man limped toward the wrecked vehicle.
Zothip had just peeled his battered face from the dashboard.
His bleeding lips began muttering an offer to reward the counterintelligence officer if he let the pirate escape.
— A whole cargo hold full of jewels… — the Cavrilhu leader whined, glancing at his leg, trapped by twisted metal. — It's all yours…
Shteben, realizing he had no weapon left, grabbed Zothip's hair at the back of his head and slammed his face into the dashboard with all his strength.
— Wrong, — he said, pulling the pirate's head back to its original position. — All of this belongs to the Dominion.
After the second blow, Zothip's face was drenched in blood from a head wound.
— And I've got a salary, — Shteben slammed the criminal again. — When will you, — another blow, — scum, — another blow, — understand, — tough bastard! Alright, one more time! — There are things worth more than jewels.
— Wha? — Zothip mumbled through his toothless, battered mouth.
His relatively intact arm drew a blaster, but Shteben executed a counter-move, seizing the weapon and breaking a couple of the pirate's fingers in the process.
— Honor and self-respect, — with a punch, the operative knocked the Cavrilhu pirate leader unconscious.
Exhausted, he slumped to the cave floor beside the wrecked airspeeder, patting his pockets.
Finding a pack of cigarettes, he opened it and placed one in his mouth.
Reflexive actions and the stress that turned a reminder of a healthy lifestyle into a source of tobacco were infuriating.
But the shock of nearly dying, smeared across the cave during that airspeeder chase, was stronger than his own principles.
— Bastard, — Shteben muttered, glancing at the unconscious pirate. — I haven't smoked in five years!
Searching for a lighter, he couldn't find one.
Shteben brought the blaster barrel to the cigarette's tip.
He pulled the trigger — and a red bolt shot into the ceiling.
The cigarette's tip glowed.
Taking a drag and exhaling clouds of fragrant smoke, the counterintelligence officer activated his comlink.
— Zothip is secured, — he said. — I'm in the hangar. There are a couple more pirates here.
— Sending a support squad, sir, — the stormtrooper commander replied. — Do you need assistance?
— Yep, — the operative took another drag. — Bring a lighter.
***
The planet Demezel was located in the star system of the same name in the Meram sector.
This world attracted visitors with its vast grassy plains and short day — only twenty-two standard hours compared to twenty-four on Coruscant.
Once a thriving trade world in the Outer Rim, founded by a consortium of Galactic Core enterprises, it had lost its significance since the Rebel Alliance clashed with the Galactic Empire, turning into a planet that, while still profitable for the local government, was no longer a safe destination for casual visitors.
The issue wasn't the conflict between democracy advocates and Imperials.
During the Galactic Civil War, as the Empire recognized the scale of the problem called the Rebel Alliance, it relegated the fight against crime to planetary governments. The fleet and armed forces focused on combating the rebels.
This allowed one particularly cunning criminal to form his own gang, establishing his headquarters on Demezel.
The "Glasfir Ring" — that was the name of this gang.
Despite their small numbers, they quickly and bloodily eliminated competitors on the planet, including minor gangs under Hutt control, using terrorist tactics.
The crime lords of the Hutt Cartel didn't even notice the loss of this planet — it was too far from their territories. The Hutts deemed it beneath their dignity to fight for it.
They simply ensured that Demezel ceased to interest potential investors, traders, and smugglers.
In a few years, the world transformed from a prosperous trade hub into a stagnant backwater.
The local government tried to combat the Glasfir Ring, but the criminals swiftly eliminated dissenters and intimidated the rest.
With the government under their control, the impoverished local population was forced to work for the criminals, and the youth swelled the ranks of the gang.
Terrorizing their own people.
The leader of the Glasfir Ring, a Defel named Glasfir'a'lik, was once a Hutt mercenary.
However, the Hutts, true to their nature, skimped on his payment, which greatly upset the mercenary.
In retaliation, he waged a three-year campaign against the Hutts, eliminating all their agents.
The Hutts took note, squeezed the planet tightly, and, to rid themselves of the troublesome Defel, placed a bounty on his head.
Sixty thousand credits — a substantial reward for a mid-tier bounty hunter. Many set out for Demezel.
Where they met their end at the hands of Glasfir'a'lik's thugs.
A paradoxical situation arose: anyone daring to come to Demezel for Glasfir'a'lik's head was promptly killed by his bandits.
The gang leader himself avoided risking his hide, never leaving the planet, knowing that in the wider galaxy, many would be eager to kill him.
He effectively became Demezel's ruler, leading to a sharp rise in crime. Rare attempts to eradicate the scourge resulted in Glasfir'a'lik forming an alliance with the Thalassian slavers, providing them a safe haven on Demezel.
On the planet, he commanded significant forces for such a backwater world, and in space, the slavers protected him, to whom he occasionally sold his debtors.
This situation had been unfolding for years.
The locals had fully resigned themselves to their fate, learning to live under the criminals' heel.
Much of their compliance was due to Glasfir'a'lik's Defel heritage.
Since his kind were so rare in the galaxy that most citizens had never heard of them, Glasfir'a'lik became infamous on Demezel for his cruel nature and mysterious abilities. Superstitions arose around the "monster" ruling the planet's underworld.
Legends were told of his ability to vanish into thin air and remain invisible.
However, unlike the locals, Captain Tiberos knew more than enough about his enemy.
He ought to thank Dominion Intelligence for that, but they'd manage without.
Glasfir'a'lik was nothing more than a petty thug who used cruelty and his species' uniqueness to his advantage.
Defels hailed from a high-gravity planet orbiting the ultraviolet supergiant Ka'Dedus. With no ozone layer, ultraviolet light reached the surface freely, while other wavelengths were mostly blocked by heavy atmospheric gases.
Thus, all lifeforms on the Defel homeworld could see in ultraviolet ranges but were blinded by all but the dimmest light in other wavelengths.
This was why Defels typically wore visors off-world, expecting to be outdoors at their destination. Compared to other species, they could see exceptionally well in the dark.
Their relatively compact size allowed them to blend into shadows easily. Their fur absorbed light, enabling Defels to remain invisible by simply standing still in a shadow.
This was the creature Captain Tiberos was now facing.
He stood in the middle of a large room, gripping his vibro-axes tightly.
The absolute darkness he'd entered while pursuing Glasfir'a'lik played to his opponent's advantage.
Unfortunately, the Defel had knocked the mask off the privateer's face almost immediately.
He'd planned to take it off along with Tiberos's eyes, but the Force warned the captain just in time.
Silently growling with tension, Tiberos strained to listen to his senses, trying to pinpoint where the enemy would strike.
In vain — Glasfir'a'lik moved silently.
Hutt-spawned creature.
Tiberos was furious — right in the middle of battling Thalassian slavers, he'd been informed of Eymand's death.
His old friend had fallen at the hands of Luke Skywalker during his search for Jedi history.
Rage boiled within the privateer, and he knew exactly where he'd go after this fight.
— Stop hiding, you furry lump, — the man hissed, sharply swinging his vibro-axes in a circle around himself.
Unfortunately, his assumption that the enemy was close didn't pan out.
— I won't kill you painfully, — he promised the Defel. — I'll just bash your thick skull with my vibro-axes and make a fur vest from your hide. It gets cold in space sometimes…
At the last moment, the Force warned him of danger, and the privateer twisted, avoiding a lethal claw strike to his liver.
Just a few scratches — nothing more.
But what angered him most was that he'd missed.
Again.
The Defel didn't react to insults or threats, knowing his voice would betray his position in the empty space.
Cunning scoundrel.
Glasfir'a'lik (that black fuzzball in the center).
Tiberos tried again to strain his hearing.
In vain — he reacted at the last moment again.
And again — thanks to the Force.
He gained matching wounds on his lower back.
If not for his thick jacket, the injuries could have been far worse.
Glasfir'a'lik was starting to irritate him.
A wave of rage rose from the depths of his soul, mixing the pain of his friend's loss, hatred for the black-furred Defel, and the stinging sensation of his wounds.
His hands itched to drive the vibro-axes into the gangster's hide.
While his men were clearing the planet and Glasfir'a'lik's bases, their captain could bleed out from dozens of cuts the furry bastard intended to inflict.
No, he'd picked the wrong target.
Just let me hear you…
— Use the Force, Tiberos!
The unexpected voice startled the man, nearly causing him to drop his weapons.
The voice, so familiar, so clear…
The voice of a dead man!
— Eymand?! — Tiberos exclaimed, stunned.
Anger gave way to conflicting emotions.
How was this possible?
Could he have been deceived? How could he hear someone killed by Darth Vader's son, setting himself up for an unscheduled meeting with the vibro-axes of one very angry privateer?!
— Remember what I taught you!
Don't piss against the wind?
Clean the blood off your weapons? Don't trust the promises of Hutts, the word of a Jedi, or the tears of a Twi'lek?!
Which one?!
Tiberos frantically searched within himself, sifting through memories, losing his vigilance for just a moment…
Suddenly, the world seemed to slow.
The darkness around him flared with the lights of life.
Something long forgotten, something Tiberos had barely touched, opened to him.
The Force, flowing through him, expanded his consciousness more powerfully than the purest spice.
But unlike drugs, the Force gave him something else.
The sensation of an approaching spark of life, radiating blind malice and intent to pierce Tiberos's kidneys with a single precise strike.
— Not today, — the privateer grinned, spinning and striking flat with his right vibro-axe.
With a distinct crunch, the heavy weapon smashed into the Defel's jaw, breaking it into several pieces.
The opponent whimpered like a bantha violated by a rancor and collapsed to the floor.
Calm gave way to rage.
The world shifted again, taking on shades of red.
A blood-red haze clouded his vision, and the man, savoring the fear and pain emanating from the Defel, slowly advanced, toying with his vibro-axes.
Glasfir'a'lik mumbled something, but his broken jaw prevented coherent words.
But Tiberos felt what he couldn't say.
— No, my little furry friend, — at that moment, Tiberos felt he could explode a star — so fiercely did his rage make his blood boil.
Adrenaline surged through his body at hyperspace speeds, and the privateer began breathing deeply, practically devouring the oxygen around him.
Glasfir'a'lik mumbled again.
— No mercy, — Tiberos declared, stepping on the Defel's feet and crushing them with his weight.
The Defel squealed like a wounded Gamorrean, for which Tiberos kicked him hard in the ribs, stepping slightly to the side.
— Don't give in to the Dark Side…
— Not today, Eymand, — Tiberos brushed off the voice.
He grabbed the meter-and-a-half-tall Defel and brought his face close to his own triumphant one.
Even through the darkness, the privateer saw the pitiful grimace contorting his opponent's face.
The Defel mumbled again.
— Mercy? — Tiberos repeated.
Glasfir'a'lik nodded vigorously.
— How many of the thousands you sold to slavers on Demezel begged for mercy? — Tiberos asked, choking on the power of the Dark Side. — How many families did you destroy to instill fear? How many did you kill, becoming a terror in the eyes of hundreds of children who watched you gut their parents in the dead of night?
The Defel desperately tried to say something, but Tiberos was tired of listening.
— If you kill him in anger, you'll fall… — Eymand's fading voice reached him.
He always spoke in that tone when his young apprentice disappointed his horned mentor.
Tiberos shook his head, dispelling the vision.
The red hues began to fade, and his mind cleared.
Indeed — why had he decided to kill this scum?
Because he executed locals?
Or to satisfy his thirst for killing, triggered by the loss of a close sentient?
Killing the criminal wouldn't bring Eymand back.
And this blasted Force had shown up at the worst possible time…
Though, that was unfair.
Without the Force, Glasfir'a'lik would have killed him long ago.
— I won't kill you, — Tiberos said, heading toward a window sealed with metal shutters.
Glasfir'a'lik wailed, expressing gratitude and assuring his assailant he held no grudge for his injuries, begging forgiveness…
One mighty swing of the vibro-axe was enough to knock the latch off the shutters.
Prying the metal open with the blade's tip, Tiberos flung the window wide.
He took a deep breath of fresh, clean air.
The midday sun didn't blind him — the Force aided his eyes.
— It doesn't count as falling to the Dark Side if you don't die by my hand, right? — Tiberos grinned, tossing the Defel out the window with one motion.
A screech rang out, cut short after a few seconds by a dull thud.
Tiberos leaned out, confirming that the fall from the third floor hadn't turned the black fuzzball into a bloody, hairy rag.
Then his gaze shifted to the townsfolk gathered near Glasfir'a'lik's house.
The lavish estate stood in the city center, surrounded by a cobblestone plaza.
Now, it was littered with hundreds of bodies of Glasfir Ring bandits, cut down by the privateers.
And one black, furry figure struggling to its feet.
— What are you standing there for? — Tiberos roared, looking at the townsfolk. — There's your oppressor, the murderer of your kin. Just a creature of flesh and blood.
The townsfolk were silent, but pitchforks and bayonet shovels began appearing in some of their hands.
What else would simple farmers hold?
Not a plow, surely.
— You have until I come down, — Tiberos warned. — Do with him what you see fit. The Dominion didn't order me to take him alive.
Turning from the window, he found his knocked-off mask.
Picking it up, he heard the dull thuds of heavy objects striking flesh.
Accompanied by gurgling squeals, they marked the end of the Defel's tyranny on Demezel.
Tiberos, feeling calm in his soul, headed for the exit.
And he walked very, very slowly.
***
The footsteps echoing through the depths of the underground base sounded muffled.
Even though two of the three humanoids walking down the freshly painted corridor, gleaming with new lighting fixtures, wore boots with heels.
And one individual's heels were distinctly feminine.
Yet somehow, the Snowdrop Queen managed to move almost silently, setting down the toes of her boots first, then the heels.
Though there was no need to conceal her presence from me, Rukh, or the guards in black-and-gold armor lining the corridor, the woman employed subtle stealth techniques.
Likely, this habit was ingrained at the level of conditioned reflexes, like blinking or covering one's mouth when yawning.
— You know, Grand Admiral, — the clone of Isanne said softly, casting me an intrigued glance, — I've never been invited to visit a state's secret facilities without absolute certainty of my loyalty.
— There's a first time for everything.
— Or perhaps it's a gesture of trust on your part, — the woman pressed her point.
— More likely, it's your insatiable desire to outmaneuver me with simple operational provocations, — I replied in an unchanged tone.
— Oh, come now, — she smiled. — I learned your warning the first time — not to test you.
— In that case, don't make the same mistake with my patience, — I advised.
— As you wish, — dublIceheart said amicably. — I'm quite pleased with the warming of our relations — after all, you brought only one bodyguard. I'll take that as a sign of trust.
This woman was a provocateur by nature.
She knew full well I could have forgone Rukh entirely — the laboratory was guarded by a battalion of sentries capable of shredding a small army if one ever dared land on this planet.
We continued our journey in complete silence.
The guards stationed at every intersection, part of the secret facility security detail, stood like statues, motionless.
Not a single movement, no hint they were even alive.
I suspect these men could teach the guards of the English queen a thing or two. As I recall, those prim sentries occasionally showed signs of activity.
But Grodin Tierce's clones? Not a chance.
Until intervention was required, they convincingly played the part of furniture.
We crossed several corridors, ignoring the locked doors leading to various laboratories and offices.
Today, my interest was focused on a specific department of the secret base.
I doubted that in the short time since the facility's creation, the staff had settled in and begun research.
But I was certain one particular laboratory was fully operational.
And that was our destination.
Spotting my approach, a pair of sentinel guards silently unlocked the passage, allowing us entry.
We stood in a spacious hall, where scientists worked at laboratory and worktables arranged along the perimeter.
Without the usual white coats but in comfortable light uniforms, three dozen sentients quietly conversed, discussing project details.
They paid us no more attention than they would a shift in the local sun's position.
Work-obsessed fanatics — they're forgiven.
— Oh, — I heard a young female voice, thick with a rough accent, coming from the right. — Grand Admiral. Unexpected.
Turning my head, I saw the voice's owner.
From her rounded cheeks and vigorously working jaw (and thanks to the holographic photo in her file), I recognized the young woman.
— Greetings, Third. Bon appétit.
Isanne, with a slight squint, studied the seemingly frail woman. I'd wager that right now, the Snowdrop Queen was trying to answer how a service jumpsuit could hang so loosely on a woman casually eating a juicy steak. And clearly not for the first time.
In person, Third struck one with her thinness.
I don't know what's up with her metabolism, but I suspect her body structure was altered by the monks of the order she belonged to.
— Thanks, — Third said, swallowing a piece (apparently without chewing, as tears welled in her eyes from forcing food down her stomach). She looked regretfully at the fork with an uneaten piece of meat.
Resolutely setting it aside — on a stack of papers with some diagrams — the laboratory head wiped food residue from her face with her jumpsuit sleeve (causing the Snowdrop Queen's crimson eye to twitch).
Casting a wistful glance at the steak, Third met my eyes:
— Want to eat?
— I don't make a habit of taking food from those in need, — I said.
Isanne let out a barely audible snort, continuing to glare at Third.
The latter, glancing at dublIceheart, quickly shifted her gaze to me:
— If you need something, just say it, 'cause I don't know why you're here, right?
— I'm sure it's related to your current projects, — Isanne's voice cut in. — This is a laboratory, isn't it?
Seeing the smile on her face, Third hiccuped in fear.
Isanne's nose wrinkled in displeasure.
Curious.
Even in her "limbo state," the Snowdrop Queen managed to instill fear in those around her.
Who didn't even know who stood before them.
— Actually, an operating room, — Third blinked. — The laboratories are behind that door, — she waved toward the only entrance.
— How interesting, — Isanne squinted, glancing at me again.
— I want to know the patient's condition, — my voice seemed to give Third courage.
— Oh, he's fine, — the young woman nodded vigorously. — The operation was successful, no rejection.
— I'd like to see him myself.
— Yes, of course, — Third said distractedly, pointing to one of the spacious doors leading from the hall.
It took a few minutes to reach the desired room.
It resembled a high-tech hospital ward.
One bed, atop which lay a middle-aged man's body, surrounded by numerous medical devices and droids filling nearly all the free space.
We were in an adjacent room, separated by a one-way mirror, preserving the post-operative ward's sterility.
There was little point in standing beside the patient — I'm no specialist in such matters. Deciphering the instruments or verifying the former monk's words was beyond me.
I could only hope the laboratory head's report was truthful.
Though she'd never been dishonest before.
— He's sleeping, — Third explained, noting the oxygen mask on the patient's face. — We're administering nutrient solution and bacta aerosol to speed healing and reduce risks of headaches, post-operative shock, and so on. Readings are stable. Droids checked reflexes and organ function stability. Nerve endings in his arms and legs respond to external stimuli within human physiology. In a couple of days, we'll bring him out of the induced coma. After that, we'll conduct cognitive and physical tests, but I can already assure you the result is achieved — the transplant was successful. As always.
— No issues with accelerated metabolism? — I asked.
— None at all, — Third shrugged. — We're keeping him on nutrient solutions — maintaining the body medically. Once recovery's complete, he'll need a strict diet initially, but it's a standard process, nothing excessive.
— Thank you, — I said. — Will you leave us?
— Yes, of course, — Third replied, her eyes darting behind me. — Call if you need me.
If I'm oriented correctly, she was eyeing the uneaten steak left on the service documents.
The clone of Isanne curiously studied the unconscious body, then looked at me.
— As I recall, General Veers didn't look so youthful. And judging by your scientist's words, sensation in his lower limbs has been restored.
— Do you have questions? — I inquired.
— More like theories, — Isanne squinted. — This isn't a clone — otherwise, all these machines wouldn't be needed. Yet the body is younger — by ten to fifteen years, if not more. It's not cybernetic prosthetics — Veers was against altering his body with cybernetics. That leaves one option — your scientist from the B'omarr monks is involved.
Is it that obvious?
— You're quite erudite, — I noted.
— It's the job, — Isanne said. — Thinness, insatiable appetite, a small tattoo on her earlobe — she's from the Order. And clearly not a mere acolyte.
— A specialized expert, — I confirmed, continuing to watch the droids attach another IV to Veers's body.
— The monks transfer brains into droid bodies, — Isanne reminded me. — But here… I wouldn't be wrong to assume you transplanted the general's brain from his paralyzed body into a clone?
— No, you're not wrong, — I confirmed. — That's exactly it.
— How intriguing, — Isanne said, crossing her arms and leaning against the one-way mirror. — Grand Admiral, I must admit, you know how to captivate an intellectual. The B'omarr don't exactly advertise the possibility of transplanting brains into non-droid bodies. I won't ask how you learned of it. I'm far more curious about another question.
— Ask, if you're truly curious, — I said.
— This facility was built recently, — Isanne noted.
— Construction was recently completed, — I clarified. — It began almost immediately after the Dominion's formation. It was intended for another project, but this one took priority.
— You're so forthcoming, — dublIceheart tilted her head. — That's unlike you. As is letting me leave the palace on Ciutric IV. And now, not only are you sharing information, but you've brought me here, shown me your capabilities, and let me see that this process is clearly not experimental…
— So, what's the crux of your question? — I looked at the woman.
— What are you planning, Thrawn? — the clone asked. — You're not bragging — you're trying to intrigue me. I'll admit, you've succeeded. I feel like a little girl eagerly waiting for her father to return from work and tell her what birthday gift he brought.
Oh…
Unexpected information.
Honestly, I don't recall encountering details about how such celebrations are held in this galaxy.
But if dublIceheart is to be believed, it's much the same as in my past.
— I have reasonable doubts that you ever felt such emotions toward Armand Isard, — I said.
— I didn't, the original might have, — she corrected herself. — But that's irrelevant. Just memories I can't erase from my mind.
— Well noted, — the woman was practically devouring me with her eyes. — We're ready to strike at the real Isard.
— Wonderful, — the clone smiled faintly. — But we're not here for that news, are we?
— Correctly observed, — I agreed. — During our collaboration, you've proven yourself valuable. You even found a way to overcome your desire to seize the prisoners of Lusankya.
— Oh, that conflicting feeling burns me every night, — the clone admitted. — But I'm not eager to die carrying out someone else's will. Unless you've changed your mind and want to hand me over to Shohashi.
— I've reviewed your proposals for reorganizing the intelligence service and other critical areas. They're commendable.
— Is this your way of thanking me for the tip on the Ubiqtorate operatives? — Isanne clarified.
— Among other things. The real question is different. I intend to keep my word — Isard will die. That's non-negotiable.
— I'm among the first who'd want to see her lifeless body with a hole in her head, — the clone said. — Shohashi needs revenge — and I support him. But there's still the issue of me, isn't there?
— Including the question of your loyalty, — I said. — As we know, anyone can be programmed. Including for delayed actions.
— You have the means to verify that — capture Isard alive and copy her memory, — the clone said. — If there are hidden commands or programming in me, eliminate me. That would be the most rational solution.
— That's in the plans, — I agreed. — However, consider another scenario. Isard's memory shows no dangerous programming in your mind. You work for the Dominion's benefit. After the real Isard's death, any legend tied to your appearance will be untenable.
— You want to transplant my brain into another body, — the clone nodded. — Bold. I'll admit, I'd never dare such a thing myself. But what then?
— Wrong question, — I replied.
— What's the right one?
— "What happens before the transplant?" — I clarified.
DublIceheart laughed softly.
— Grand Admiral, I can't contain the excitement I feel from your pragmatism, — she said. — Don't take this as flattery or anything like it. Such traits are foreign to me, and I'm being sincere. Your genius deserves praise. Capturing me, healing me, making me work for you by manipulating the possibility of eliminating the original and remaining the only one. I've done much for you, but clearly not enough to earn a new body.
— One such transplant costs as much as a third of a Bellator-class dreadnought, — I said. — The reagents and chemicals are custom-made. I trust you understand such expenses aren't made lightly.
— More than understood, — Isanne smiled. — So, what do you want from me, Grand Admiral?
I glanced at Veers again.
— Are you familiar with Delta Source? — I asked.
— A sophisticated listening device installed in the vestibule of the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, — Isanne answered quickly. — The original used it to know everything on the planet. The Emperor personally gave her the frequency to access it.
— Not just her, — I replied.
— How charming, — Isanne said. — And so?
— The latest batch of reports from the Palace is striking in the level of Republic planning, — I said. — They know Isard is alive. And they assume she plans to seize Lusankya once it's ready.
— She's doing it for Palpatine, — the clone said.
— Precisely, — I confirmed. — Moreover, they plan to lure Isard to the same super star destroyer, then me.
— Oh, the Republic decided to use the "disinformation and ambush" tactic against its creator, — a chuckle escaped the clone's lips. — How ill-considered of them.
— These are only the broad strokes of the plan, — I said. — Details will be discussed on Bel Iblis's flagship in Coruscant's orbit. Each part of the plan — on a different ship.
— Prudent of them, — Isanne nodded. — They're fragmenting the information and assessing what we'll learn. I'm sure the overall plan differs significantly from what's being discussed.
— Yes, that's logical, — I agreed. — The issue is, after the Ubiqtorate's destruction, an opportunity arose that I don't want to miss. And it's directly tied to Isard and Lusankya.
It took the Snowdrop Queen just three seconds to piece it together.
— Oh, Grand Admiral, — her eyes sparkled with mischief. — An intrigue on the edge of audacity. Honestly, I thought you'd use that slime Sate Pestage as a double agent. I've already started breaking him. Soft as molten plastic. And just as revolting if you dig deeper.
— If I can use Pestage, why would I need you? — I asked.
— A fair question, — Isanne agreed. — And you have no reason to trust me or my actions. Including in breaking Pestage. Or other sentients. Including Councilor Fey'lya.
— Well noted, — I agreed.
— But you do trust me, — dublIceheart stated. — And you're offering me a role in your plan against Palpatine. You're not at all afraid of my betrayal?
— Despite everything, you've had every opportunity to betray me before, — I noted. — Yet you chose loyalty to me, my cause, and the fight against your own programming.
— True, — the Snowdrop Queen confirmed. — A game on a knife's edge.
— Dangerous times call for dangerous decisions, — I said. — Now I'm interested in your answer, Isanne. Are you with me?
The woman winced, hearing the name she preferred to distance herself from.
But she didn't break eye contact.
Her eyes — ice and hellfire — looked at me as if trying to pierce my skull, invade my mind, and read every thought within.
And I'll be damned if she didn't understand what was prepared for her.
— It'll require significant preparation, — she said.
— The mechanisms are already in motion, — I replied. — I need only your consent. And your desire to prove your superiority over the original in operational matters.
The woman stepped away from the one-way mirror and stood directly before me.
I saw her calm, emotionless expression. Ice and flame in her eyes.
Her nostrils inhaled the filtered air, her chest heaving strongly.
It seemed her crimson uniform might not withstand the strain.
I could practically feel the electric tension in the short distance between us.
Even Rukh, his gray shadow in my peripheral vision, had drawn his blades, ready to pounce.
— You're pointing me to a rabbit hole and asking me to dive in headfirst, for you and your goals, Grand Admiral, — she said with a husky voice. — Playing on my professional pride. You know that if this is exposed, your plans will fail?
— I understand that clearly.
— I could betray you, — dublIceheart reminded me. — You haven't dismissed the thought that I've been pretending all this time, harboring my own plans. And you're essentially handing me a weapon capable of destroying everything you've built.
— You've been a co-author of many of my recent achievements, — I reminded her. — And yes, I have no desire to trust you: the example of Prince-Admiral Krennel still looms large. Your original was close to Palpatine, and there's no guarantee you won't follow in her footsteps.
— She was in love, — dublIceheart clarified. — And for her strange love for the Emperor, mixed with fear, adoration, and ambition, she was ready for anything. Ambition isn't foreign to me — that metaphysics can't be overcome. I worked for you and derived near-physical satisfaction from it. Like simple sentients, I feel fear — though I'm just a clone, human emotions aren't alien to me. I fear you — and what you could do to me.
— Only one ingredient remains in this diabolical cocktail, — I noted. — Adoration.
— Indeed, — dublIceheart said with a breath. — You know it would take me just a fraction of a second to rip the belt from my uniform and slit your throat with the sharpened buckle?
Rukh tensed like a coiled spring.
— One move, and the threat to Palpatine's dominion would be eliminated, — I confirmed, holding her gaze.
— I could snap your neck, — the Snowdrop Queen continued.
— Or pierce an artery in my neck with your sharpened nails, — I confirmed. — Or take me hostage, escape the facility, seize a shuttle, and flee anywhere.
— Oh, you noticed my special manicure, — dublIceheart replied without a trace of a smile. — And yet you got so close that even your bodyguard wouldn't react in time.
— It's a matter of faith, — I noted.
— In a slave or subordinate? — Isanne asked with interest, still boring into me with her gaze.
— In an ally, — I clarified. — You're devilishly dangerous and unpredictable, deadly and cunning.
— But you trusted me, — her gaze warmed by a fraction of a degree.
— I have every reason to. After all, adoration of Palpatine is foreign to you.
— No, — Isanne agreed. — You know the Emperor never stayed alone with even the original. Even with his mistresses, he ensured they couldn't harm him.
— I have Rukh, — I reminded her.
— At this distance, he's useless, — Isanne countered.
Her right hand, with sharply honed nails gleaming with metallic polish, pressed against my stomach.
— You didn't even wear a flak vest, as you did before, — surprise flickered in her gaze.
And admiration.
— As I said, this conversation is a matter of trust, — I reminded her, catching the scent of her perfume.
It smelled of fruits and herbs.
A light, unobtrusive fragrance.
Not even pheromones, which have a distinct sharpness.
— I'm impressed, Grand Admiral, — dublIceheart's hand slid up my torso and rested on my command bar. — Such composure, such self-control…
DublIceheart licked her lips with the tip of her tongue.
The movement of her eyelids and the cold in her eyes became the light of distant stars, approaching which threatened incineration by stellar radiation.
The woman took a step, pressing herself against me.
Her face nearly touched mine.
She was only a couple of centimeters shorter, but her heels, embedded with stabbing spikes, compensated.
— Twenty minutes ago, I thought this was mere delusion, — she said, placing her other hand on my chest.
Her metallic-glinting nails pointed straight at my unprotected neck.
— And what is it really? — I asked, holding her gaze.
The Snowdrop Queen's hands slid higher, resting on either side of my neck.
— Adoration, — she whispered, before our lips met in a brief kiss.
Judging by the clatter, Rukh's daggers fell from his hands.
And his jaw dropped.
If dublIceheart's thumbs weren't supporting mine, it would've followed.
Gravity, you heartless wretch.