One had to acknowledge the obvious.
The sight of former Imperial servicemen, now prisoners in Kessel's spice mines, was depressing.
Compared to the stormtroopers of the 501st Legion, an impenetrable wall guarding the spacious parade ground in the center of the penal facility, and the army troops crawling out of their armored vehicles' hatches—what one might call "earth and sky."
Even the dregs—the surviving mercenary units and rescued Kessel fleet pilots—looked far more presentable.
Clad in pitiful rags, torn or rotted, incredibly emaciated, exhausted by hard labor, the Imperials tried somehow to perk up, seeing that at least in uniform they were surrounded by brothers-in-arms.
But as soon as one of them noticed the golden "cogs" on the stormtroopers' pauldrons—relieved sighs turned to grimness.
"Your people did good work, General Cain," I informed the ground forces commander.
He merely nodded silently in thanks for the praise.
The thing was, the penal center's territory had been practically destroyed and littered.
To accommodate the people and other sentients being brought out of the tunnels anywhere, they had cleared space in the center from debris, dirt, tech fragments, and remains.
And thus learned that there had once even been a parade ground here.
"Well, I think it's time to begin," I said, heading down the shuttle's ramp to the street.
Unlike the other sentients present here without sealed armor, I wore no respirator—I stepped straight under the atmospheric shield dome erected by technicians specially for this moment.
I waited several seconds to let the bewildered crowd take me in fully.
Judging by the crush among the prisoners, Thrawn's appearance was familiar to most of them.
And the remnants of the administrative building, on whose roof my shuttle now stood, allowed viewing me from all sides.
"I think you all know me, or at least have heard of me," I said. "For the rest, I'll introduce myself. I am Grand Admiral Thrawn. Supreme Commander and ruler of the Dominion. Perhaps some of you have heard that in the past six months, with a modest fleet, I have managed to capture or irretrievably destroy a quarter of the New Republic's space defense forces…"
"And we also heard that you're dead!" came a shout from one of the prisoners somewhere in the crowd's center. "This isn't Thrawn, it's a doll…!"
In the next instant, he fell with a headshot.
"Interrupting is rude," I warned the crowd, which reacted to their comrade's death with considerable indifference. Well, on Kessel, they were short a few every day—the local energy spiders loved feasting on live sentients. "And sometimes, as in the case of disobeying an order—fatally dangerous. This is the first rule you must hear. There are others, and many of them. A bit later, you'll be told all of them, as well as what you need to know."
Making a brief pause, I continued:
"The Dominion has freed you not just like that. We don't play at nobility—Kessel is ours now, and it's up to you whether you'll continue working in the mines or choose another path."
The situation practically suggested that the corresponding question would sound now.
But, strangely, dead silence reigned in the assembly area.
"So, the options," I said. "First. You stay here on Kessel. And your fate henceforth depends on the Dominion's decision. None of you will return to positions in the garrison, guard, or penal facility administration. One riot has already proven your complete inability to protect the entrusted facility. If you can't even manage something so minor, then don't take someone else's place. No mercy or leniency. No chance of escape—including that. Nor counting on your friends or employers arriving for you. Kessel gathers the galaxy's biggest scum—and that applies to all of you, regardless of what uniform you wore before."
The former Imperials clearly hadn't hoped the first offered option would be so harsh.
And now awaited the continuation warily.
"Second," I did not keep them waiting. "Those who wish may enlist in the Dominion's service. We do not uphold the New Order, which means human, Duros, Verpine, Twi'lek, Rodian, and other races are equal in rights. If you want to labor for the Dominion's good—you have that right. The laws, overall, remain Imperial, but aimed at citizens' welfare. At present—you are no one. The right to become a Dominion citizen must be earned—military service for the state will help. You won't enter the regular forces—the right to that must be earned. You'll go to special units for those like you—ones given a second chance to escape their situation. I need soldiers to operate where the Dominion's aurodium cog is unwelcome. I offer you to become those soldiers. It won't be easy—you'll enter hell. And there you'll fight, atoning past crimes and earning a chance at a new life. You'll receive pay—higher than under the Empire, but lower than in the Dominion. What I need most is soldiers, of which you are the majority. I know there are pilots too— I have fighters for you as well. War awaits you, and at its end—a chance at Dominion citizenship and starting life anew. Without dying in the mines extracting glitterstim. Six months in the auxiliary forces—and you'll get citizenship. If you want—you can return to a peaceful life as a law-abiding citizen. If you want—you'll become contract soldiers in your units, fighting for Dominion interests where our troops aren't. The choice will be yours—but only after six months of merciless and danger-filled frontline life, where your life depends solely on your military skills and ability to kill the enemy."
The crowd began whispering quietly.
What there—even among the army troops, the same "ferment" started.
Because such an offer had never been discussed and never become the subject of gossip.
Forming military units from prisoners—something new for this galaxy.
Well, being in the innovator's skin was nothing new to me.
I needed additional forces I could send to conflict zones without attracting attention.
Ruthless prisoners with nothing to lose—an extra way to preserve my own troops.
If it works on Kessel, I could deliver the same speech to the Dominion's other prisoners.
The metropolis has plenty of low-tech races that in the past were used as "cannon fodder" on the battlefield.
They are devoted to the Dominion without reservation and will serve as the restraining force for the prisoners if they intend to flee or betray.
And that such "individuals" will appear, even if they agree now, is beyond doubt.
"No one and never will give you such a chance," I continued. "Few leave Kessel upon serving their sentence. Remains aren't transported to relatives either— the spiders dispose of everything. Mass escapes from Kessel haven't happened in the past, and after we gain control over it—won't happen at all. You have a chance to remember that. For which you donned uniform and took up arms. Not for the Empire or New Order—for protecting the population. This is the path I offer you to continue. Five minutes for deliberations and discussion. If there are questions—ask them now."
This offer fundamentally differed from those made to other Imperials freed from captivity across the galaxy.
But there was a big difference between those here and those held as prisoners of war.
Here were those who couldn't even keep the prison and allowed the capture of both the penal facility and the Garrison Moon. And on the latter was only an Imperial garrison and heaps of military hardware.
On Kessel—only occasional arriving freighters and unarmed ships.
The guards' small arms quantity—too little to take the Garrison Moon by storm.
The Imperials on Kessel's moon simply surrendered when the coup occurred.
Without any prolonged resistance or the like.
A decision made for unknown reasons.
"And what if we agree first, then realize this war isn't for us?" came a voice from the crowd.
"A shot to the head and a mark in the personnel file: 'deserter,'" I said. "The same will happen to you in case of any order disobedience or attempt to surrender. This is the second rule—no one runs. Third—no looting or abusing the local population. Fourth—targets are military only. But if a civilian wants to kill you—kill him first. No nobility—only efficiency in combat."
"And is there a fifth rule?" another new voice from the crowd.
"There is," I agreed. "If you become our servicemen, you won't be forgotten in case of wounding or death. If you don't run from a spice spider, no one will even look at your personnel card."
"And what places are provided for moffs?" came yet another, but utterly grating voice.
I looked toward the sound's source, seeing a small group of sentients whose very appearance expressed complete contempt from the other prisoners.
Even the former soldiers of the Imperial garrison on Kessel's natural moon.
And these guys were despised by nearly everyone.
Who could be worse than those who voluntarily surrendered to a numerically inferior, weakly armed foe?
"Name yourselves," I ordered.
"Moff Muzzer," the first announced his name.
A squat fat man with shifty eyes.
"Moff Thistleborn," the second reported.
Middle height, no longer young, but lively, with a gaze full of hopes and egoistic plans.
"Moff Dunhausen," the third introduced himself with a hint of superiority and self-assurance.
The complete opposite of the first: tall, thin as a rail, with a gaunt, wrinkled face.
From the first glance, it was clear the last was the group's unofficial leader.
Cunning and ruthless.
One might ask—what are three moffs doing on Kessel?
"Sir," Colonel Tierce appeared to my right, handing over a datipad with text on the screen. "These three—formerly prominent members of the Central Committee of Grand Moffs."
Well, now.
Now everything was clear.
Now no questions remained.
I knew of this Imperial governing body's existence after Palpatine's death.
Once, the now-known and deceased Wilhuff Disra had been part of it, whose death brought me fruitful and mutually beneficial relations with Ardus Kaine.
As for this self-appointed governing body's activities, I learned from studying Imperial Intelligence data obtained after capturing the real Isard and Sate Pestage.
The Central Committee of Grand Moffs represented a splinter faction from the Galactic Empire, formed in the fifth year after the Battle of Yavin by most grand moffs in an attempt to undermine Ysanne Isard's claims to power in the remnants.
Breaking away from the weakened Imperial Ruling Council, the committee used the tale of a direct descendant of Palpatine—a three-eyed mutant—to consolidate power.
They found a suitable mutant matching the description—Trioculus—who had direct ties to Kessel.
And using vague omens from various charlatans, rumors, and other unconfirmed facts, made Trioculus the nominal figure in their alliance.
Ruling him from the shadows.
The committee organized the assassination of Grand Admiral Rufaan Tigellinus.
They used Kessel as a base to advance Trioculus's claims to the Imperial throne.
But they failed—the Central Committee of Grand Moffs' leadership was destroyed.
These three ended up in the mines, Trioculus, also responsible for Grand Admiral Miltin Takel's death, is dead, Disra fled to Kaine…
So many strange and interesting stories are born and die on Kessel.
Take, for instance, the prisoners found in the mines.
I know for sure that among them are at least a couple of Jedi—one trained, the other merely learning the craft: Kyp Durron.
A headache and sea of problems for the future New Jedi Order, now aboard the Chimaera in company with ysalamiri.
Not to mention that this kid, with only the basics of Force control, managed to plot a safe course through the Maw Cluster to a base guarded by Admiral Natasi Daala.
The second Jedi—a woman who trained him.
Vima-Da-Boda.
A member of the old Jedi Order.
Also a not-unknown "character."
Who left Kessel.
Yes, just like that—she's gone.
How and where the old Jedi lady could have gone—unclear.
But even after so much time since emptying the mines of workers and setting up motion detectors, surveillance droids—not a single sign that she could have hidden deep in the shafts.
"So that's how it is," I said slowly, averting my gaze from the datipad and looking back at the moffs.
According to Imperial Intelligence data gathered by Isard, this trio had no substantial military force behind them.
All their activity boiled down to wanting to use the Central Committee's forces to subjugate various planets for themselves.
Dunhausen—Tatooine, where he proposed erecting a new Imperial city for personal control over the desert planet's shadow economy illegal revenues.
Thistleborn—proposed something similar for Bespin, intending to subjugate Cloud City and its tibanna gas extraction industry.
Muzzer, meanwhile… facilitated Miltin Takel's death.
"So what cushy job do you have for us, Grand Admiral?" the last spoke up. "We are moffs, behind us power, knowledge, experience…"
"…And a list of heinous crimes against Imperial servicemen," I cut him off.
The trio exchanged bewildered glances.
"Behind the squabbles and incompetence of these sentients lie hundreds of human lives thirsting for vengeance," I said. "You have no forgiveness, no right to a second chance."
With a wave of my hand, I watched as three precise sniper rifle shots punched new holes in the sentients' heads.
"Using official position, attached forces and weapons to achieve personal goals—is punishable by death," I explained to the stunned prisoners and their former guards. "This is the sixth mandatory rule you must hear from me today. You had time to decide. Five minutes are up. All who intend to join the Dominion and fight for it, to clear their names, for a chance at a new life—move to the right. The rest—to the left."
For a long ten minutes, I watched as crowds of prisoners—Imperials and their former jailers, criminals and Zann Consortium mercenaries—mingled, determining their fate.
When the ferment ended and decisions were made, I could see four-fifths of the total number who had stood before me now in the right formation.
Among those remaining on the left, as expected, were Zann Consortium fighters, some former prisoners, Morut Dul's underlings…
A little over a thousand sentients decided to stay on Kessel.
The choicest scum, ruthless thugs, murderers, rapists, saboteurs, terrorists, spice dealers…
"Well, the choice is made," I said. "As already stated—no leniency or mercy. Legion!"
The snow-white barrier of stormtroopers sprang into motion.
With crisp synchronization, the 501st's fighters brought weapons to ready position, aiming at the left-side crowd.
Several sentients, realizing what my words truly meant, bolted toward the right formation.
The very one where the sentients watched in stunned horror at what was about to happen.
Colonel Tierce gave the command, and the 501st Legion's blasters opened fire in unison.
Crimson plasma bolts stung the panicking prisoners who had thought themselves above the unique offer.
Perhaps they still believed they could impose their own order here or stage another uprising.
No, it would not be so.
Those who crossed to the right column needed to remember as well that their lives depended on their decisions.
The mass execution took a mere minute and a half.
After which, cleanup teams, marching straight over the bodies, began "checks," finishing off any of the "left" who had somehow escaped the fatal shot.
"Throw the bodies into the shafts," I ordered, returning to my shuttle's ramp.
Kessel is ours.
And the Dominion will not leave here.
For some time, the market will still haggle over spice and glitterstim stocks in the dealers' warehouses.
But then—done.
The Dominion does not recognize sentients' right to self-destruction.
While spice is in our hands—it is solely a medical substance.
And the bodies of the "dissenters" will make fine feed for the energy spiders, so this substance does not run out until a less dangerous extraction method for this invaluable material is developed.
***
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