Ysanne herself could not even twitch a finger.
Nor did she try.
Her fate was being decided now, and she could not provoke the Emperor's displeasure with a single action.
"The clone of the Iceheart, created to guard prisoners from the Lusankya," Palpatine said, savoring each word, stopping at her face.
She stared at the soft boots encasing the Emperor's feet, not daring to look away.
"You delivered her body to me, delivered her ship with a full complement of droids, even delivered the body of my Grand Vizier," the Emperor enumerated what she had done several weeks ago. "Remarkable, how badly you want to live, woman from the tube."
Ysanne remained silent, understanding that no one was actually asking her.
"And at this point, a question arises for me, you wretched fake doll," the Emperor's voice grew coarser. "What made you think you could replace the real Isard? Who put it in your head that you could just fly to me, throw the corpses of my closest allies at my feet, betray me a Star Dreadnought defiled by rebel spawn, tell me how you worked for Thrawn and plotted his destruction, and hope that I would spare your life?"
Perhaps they did not expect an answer from her.
The Iceheart silently endured as the Emperor Palpatine's soft boots struck her face, knocking out teeth and breaking facial bones.
She did not move, pinned evidently by the Force, and silently accepted the punishment from the Emperor.
She remained silent as he struck her with lightning, kicked her, hurled her across the throne room.
She did not shed a single tear after something in her back cracked from the next blow against a column.
She continued to be mute when her eyebrow over her right eye was sliced open and blood poured down her face, obscuring her vision.
She silently endured all that the Emperor could vent on her.
She made not a sound for her master's sake, understanding that Palpatine needed to vent his rage over the death of his closest allies.
She blamed no one for what was happening, not even thinking of herself as a victim.
Heading into the Deep Core, having rid herself of the Lusankya's crew imposed on her by Thrawn with combat droids, she understood she might not get what she desired—a place at the Emperor's side.
But she also understood she had burned all bridges behind her.
Moreover—this was a clone, whose life cycle was short.
The only one who could help resolve this problem was Emperor Palpatine, serving whom was an honor for her.
Especially by replacing the real Iceheart.
"You will never replace her," the Emperor sneered contemptuously, levitating her from the floor with a wave of his hand so he could look into her battered face. "You are just a tool that has delusions of grandeur. Your life is worth nothing."
"Then end it," Ysanne said quietly, looking fearlessly into the Emperor's golden eyes. "I did what the real Isard could not. I stole the Lusankya. I obtained the Dominion's minefield charts for you. I contributed to the death of the traitor Krennel and the rout of a large part of the Republic's forces. Even Thrawn did not see through me. But the real Isard he read like an open book. I delivered irrefutable proof of Thrawn's betrayal of the Empire."
"Your achievements are worthless," the Emperor snorted, dismissing her like a broken toy.
The woman fell onto the polished floor, biting her lip against the all-encompassing pain that washed over her.
"The minefield and asteroid barrier charts were delivered to me by Admiral Dobramu. Krennel held no interest for me in the Empire and holds none now. A pathetic worm, crushing whom presents no effort at all. And everything else you said there," the Emperor scorched the woman lying on the floor with his fiery gaze. "Thrawn's betrayal… That alien always acted solely in his own interests. He was useful as a vanguard of invasion and accomplished much. True, as always, he outsmarted himself. His betrayal is worthless—the Dominion I will swallow as an appetizer. I will burn their ships and catch welcoming smiles from the locals, who will be glad to greet me, while Thrawn's miserable sycophants didn't bother to do anything but hole up in their shell and divide his legacy."
"In that case," Isard said, helping herself with trembling hands to assume at least a semi-upright position. "Everything I have done is nonsense compared to your greatness. Finish me and turn this page, forgetting the last reminder of Isard, who is ready to serve you."
"Serve me?" the Emperor laughed. "What do I need you for, broken toy of the Iceheart?"
"Because I am as devoted to my master as she was," Ysanne said, wiping blood from her lips. "I adore and love him just as much. I am ready to step over myself for his greatness. And I will not rest until death, fulfilling his will."
"How interesting," interest returned to Palpatine's voice. And under the skin of Ysanne's scalp, she felt a light tickling, as always in the Emperor's presence. "You intend to serve me after what just happened?"
"Yes," Ysanne replied. "It cannot be otherwise. Such is my fate."
"Perhaps, perhaps," Palpatine replied with a smirk. "You lack no tenacity. Not a full Iceheart, but perhaps you can be of some use. However, what can you offer me here and now, besides what is already mine?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Ysanne saw Luke Skywalker stir.
Steam still rose from his body, but the young Jedi stubbornly tried to compose himself, eyeing the Emperor standing with his back to him.
"I can tell you about a traitor in the Empire who sent hundreds of thousands of your soldiers to slaughter," Isard said, watching Palpatine's face twist into the predatory mask of a maniac scenting prey. "And Skywalker is about to lunge at you, my lord."
Without turning, the Emperor thrust his hand backward, from which streams of white-blue electricity poured, piercing the Jedi who screamed in agony, making him convulse.
"Continue, broken doll," Palpatine said in a saccharine tone, not averting his gaze from her. "Tell me everything you know. For your sincerity and persuasiveness will determine your right to life."
And the Iceheart spoke, while the Emperor tormented his captive Jedi with lightning.
***
The planet Kol Atorn did not boast great size or exotic astrogation.
An ordinary world, from orbit revealing a single dead yellowish moon, vast seas, dense forests, numerous lakes, continents and islands…
One glance would not suggest that fearsome warriors lived on this planet.
Located in the eponymous star system of the Kanz sector in the New Territories of the Outer Rim, Kol Atorn, like other worlds of the sector, had recently joined the Dominion.
And, in fact, my arrival here was the second appearance of official Dominion representatives on the planet.
Last time, the local inhabitants had quite unceremoniously and unambiguously escorted the representative away, advising him never to return to avoid bigger problems.
Well, that word had been kept—no more officials had come here.
I had arrived personally.
And at the moment, I was in a small cantina not far from the spaceport, curiously studying the local gastronomic delights.
Throughout the small cantina, guards stood watch, eyes fixed on the sparse clientele who, upon our arrival, had intended to leave the establishment but were insistently invited to keep me company and not deprive themselves of the pleasure of an excellent meal.
If anything, they knew and loved to cook in this place.
Meat dishes—all as fine as could be.
Since my shuttle and escort force had landed, less than half an hour had passed before observers reported the locals stirring, actively arming themselves and regarding the stormtroopers of the 501st Guard Legion quite inhospitably.
Who had taken the spaceport under minimal control, including the locals' few starfighters.
No, we certainly hadn't killed anyone.
A massive shadow appeared in the wide doorway of the cantina.
Well, the time for resolution had come.
Continuing to enjoy the pie with the tenderest meat from some unknown animal to me, I paused only when a two-meter giant in heavy armor loomed at my table, clad from head to toe.
In his hands was a monstrous blaster rifle, a couple of generations behind cutting-edge technology.
And its barrel pointed straight at my head.
"Not letting a sentient enjoy the good food of this establishment's owner would be a crime," I declared, but still dabbed my lips with a napkin, gesturing invitingly to the wicker chair opposite me. "Have a seat, Mr. Spar—we have much to discuss."
Hedge Spar.
"Mandalorians have no custom of conversing with the dead," the owner of the spiked open helmet informed in a well-modulated bass.
So, what conclusions could be drawn from the first glance at this man?
At minimum, that the leader of the enclave of exiles and emigrants from the Mandalorian Sector residing on Kol Atorn spoke in an accented version of Mando'a—the native tongue of the Mandalorians.
With the latter, I had already familiarized myself during the flight here.
I had heard dozens of pronunciations from holonet recordings.
I was certainly not a native speaker, but I could definitely distinguish characteristic shifts in word stress and pronunciation peculiarities.
The planet was an enclave of Mandalorian culture.
One of the Mandalorian leaders, the Mandalorian Iceborn, had grown up in Kol Atorn's alleys and learned to speak Mando'a from the Mandalorians living here.
In the end, he was one of the greatest leaders of his people, though I had never heard of him.
And to learn this small tidbit, I had to thoroughly puzzle Mr. Pent.
Fortunately, he was glad to distract himself for an hour from searching for the "Eye of Palpatine" and engage in some alternative activity, however minor.
Moment number two.
The armor worn by Hedge Spar—this was quite old but still serviceable.
This was no modern replica, no fake.
Mandalorians on Kol Atorn might live modestly, but they had modern weapon samples.
Thus, one could conclude that the old armor, undoubtedly supplemented with elements of modern electronics and "gadgets," was clearly not just the height of Mandalorian fashion.
This was a tribute to traditions and customs, of whose observance Hedge Spar served as a symbol for the local inhabitants.
"Yes, rumors reached me that I had died," no, in the end, this pie was simply marvelous!
"They reached us too," the man replied, still holding his weapon and not taking his eyes off me. "And we also heard that your envoys promised not to return to Kol Atorn and intended to leave us in peace."
"And they kept their promise. No more diplomats have come to you. No one has bothered you until today."
"And what do we owe this honor to, that Grand Admiral Thrawn violates his own masquerade for us, flies in on his Star Destroyer straight to our orbit, takes our spaceport under control, and eats our fish pie?" Spar asked.
Well.
And this I did not like much.
"To be honest, I thought it was with meat," I traditionally did not hide the obvious.
"Everyone thinks so," Hedge revealed. "The owner can cook anything so deliciously that one wants to lick the plate."
"Honor and praise to the chef," I met the gaze of the establishment's owner, who was also the head cook.
"Maybe we stop beating around the bush and get straight to business?" Spar inquired with undisguised threat, slightly turning the weapon held on his knees toward me.
"That's why I came," I assured him. "And yes, I do not advise pointing your weapon at me. The guards are not skittish folk, but if they get nervous—everyone around gets hurt. And there are the Noghri besides."
"What Noghri?" Spar tensed.
"I am a Noghri," Rukh mewed almost in his ear, rising like a gray shadow beside him and with one precise motion detaching the gas cartridge and power cell from the Mandalorian's blaster rifle.
"Impressive tricks," Spar assessed in a menacing tone. "What do you want, Thrawn?"
"The same as all rulers and warlords," I said. "Kol Atorn is located in Kanz Sector territory. The sector joined the Dominion. Laws and obligations are established for each planet. Your world decided to thumb its nose at them and expel my envoys. When my subordinates are offended, I come to deal with the problem myself."
"And how do you see resolving the 'problem'?" the Mandalorian inquired, eyes fixed on Rukh, who had moved behind my chair.
"It's simple," I replied. "Kol Atorn either lives by Dominion laws, or you will have to leave this planet."
In the latter case, I was not particularly concerned about the migration of local inhabitants and the subsequent spread of rumors about my survival.
Mandalorians living on this planet, though former exiles and migrants from the Mandalorian Sector, were still heirs to their culture.
And loquacity was not a trait of the sons of Mandalore.
But stubbornness and reluctance to leave settled places—that was very much in their warlike spirit.
If they did not wish to settle the issue, combat operations between the 501st Legion and all armed Mandalorians would already be underway on the planet.
I could not even judge who would win the initial battles—though Kol Atorn was on the galaxy's edge, they loved and knew how to fight here.
But we simply had more soldiers and equipment, so the conflict's outcome was clear as day.
Only this would cost both sides many lives.
Hedge Spar understood this.
That was why he had come for negotiations.
"You propose my warriors become part of your army, like those Mandalorians who served the Empire?" he asked.
"I propose forming a new, exclusively Mandalorian unit consisting solely of natives of Kol Atorn and no others," I explained. "We can call this new formation the 'Mandalorian Brigade' or something like that. You will have your own commanders, your own training bases. No one intends to interfere with your ancient customs and traditions. The Dominion will provide you with all necessary equipment, including spacecraft for troop transport."
And under the last thesis, I assumed transferring to the Kol Atorn Mandalorians the Keldabe II-class battleship captured at Hypori.
One capital ship, transports, and several Crusader-class corvettes—not a high price for ensuring the mobility of an entire legion-equivalent of combat-ready troops.
And that Mandalorians were combat-ready was obvious without extra words—sufficient to look at the stormtrooper squads' reports on how quickly the locals mobilized and how coordinated they acted in taking positions for a presumed attack on the Dominion's stormtroopers.
One order from the leader sitting opposite me—and bloody carnage would ensue.
Or—he would give the order, and there would be no bloodshed.
And I would gain combat-ready troops that could serve as shock forces for defending Dominion interests in several galaxy sectors until the issue of forming new stormtrooper units was resolved.
In my head, the "division" of the Stormtrooper Corps had already taken shape, accounting for current realities.
All the legions I currently had, which were being filled out, were guard legions—a reward for their participation in last year's campaign.
They would continue to be filled with the best of the best stormtroopers based on the cloning process.
They would be equipped to the Imperial standard.
But as soon as the issue of additional cloning capacities and creating all necessary imprint matrices by specialty was resolved, genetic material from Boba Fett, whom we kept in a comatose state for constant blood draws, would go into production.
These "regular" stormtroopers would receive Phase II gear and be armed with Republic weaponry.
It might not be the freshest, but this did not negate its combat effectiveness and, notably, its greater lethality compared to Imperial arms.
"Sounds interesting, if we ignore the fact that you likely wouldn't make us such an offer if you weren't interested in increasing your troop numbers," Spar said. "Those who are strong do not invent special conditions for the inhabitants of some remote planet. Even if they are thrice warriors. From which I conclude that things are not as rosy with your troops as you want to tell me here."
Sometimes, especially after dealing with Republicans, I forget that in the galaxy there are people who can think for themselves and draw correct conclusions without relying on the vaunted Force.
"Suppose I really need troops that, at least initially, will not be associated with the Dominion," I agreed.
"And what do you need them for?" Spar asked.
"Many battles loom in which skilled warriors can glorify themselves and immortalize their names alongside Mandalorian heroes of the past," I said vaguely. "I think it's clear that in current realities, I need all the Dominion's peoples united to defend their state's interests. I have no habit of going into battle leaving an uncontrolled planet inhabited by hundreds of thousands of combat-ready men and women who have not voiced their stance on loyalty to the Dominion and me personally."
"In other words, you are obliquely telling me that either we are with you, or you will destroy us," Hedge Spar grinned with a white-toothed smile, as if he had heard something amusing.
"I already said—either you are with us, or you leave the Dominion," I had to correct. "I did not even mention orbital bombardments that would be applied to destroy a potential enemy to avoid greater risks of losses among ground forces."
In talks with warriors, uncompromising and ruthless, one always had to raise the negotiation bar, making clear that conducting conversation was hardly a show of weakness or fear, but merely "soft power" backed by big guns and the ability to use them at the first necessity.
Words of "serious intent" meant nothing without resolve to demonstrate those "serious intents" in practice.
"Talkers" were not respected, even if they had "big guns."
But those who unhesitatingly applied the force of their forged weapons to achieve stated goals enjoyed far greater respect, even from opponents.
Logically, Spar had decided to test my mettle.
"And am I to take your word for it?" he snorted.
"By no means," I assured him, raising the comlink to my mouth. "Captain Tschel, target number one, please."
In the next second, the cantina's windows flooded with white-green glow, the ground trembled, and through the open door came the ear-splitting roar of a turbolaser strike.
The Mandalorian did not even flinch, but through the open parts of his helmet, thanks to the shape of Spar's headgear, snippets of Mandalorian speech reached me.
Evidently, his subjects were reporting to the ruler on the results of the single shot.
"Well, that dilapidated building we intended to demolish anyway," he said nonchalantly. "Just wasted tibanna for nothing."
"Or," I countered, finishing the pie, "we have vividly demonstrated to you that from low orbit, controlling all your defense forces, we can surgically strike even buildings in the city center without harming surrounding structures. In my view, one might consider whether target one was merely a ranging shot, and whether targets two and three will be the power generator and the arsenal. Or the long-vacant Hall of Battle Glory of the local population."
The Mandalorian looked at me with such intensity as if trying to nail me to the chair back.
He had perfectly understood me, as well as that I had long since sized him up.
The local Mandalorians had not participated in major conflicts for a very long time.
All their tales of ancestral battle glory were so ancient that no one living even remembered the children of those heroes.
Compared to their "elder brothers" from the Mandalorian Sector, who though not gathering for campaigns as often lately still thundered across the galaxy, the inhabitants of Kol Atorn looked even worse than "poor relatives."
I had not mentioned the vacant Trophy Hall for nothing.
Precisely trophies, won in battle against a strong foe, not an exhibition of agricultural droids or coffeemakers stolen from peaceful civilians.
"You sure know how to negotiate, Grand Admiral Thrawn," Hedge Spar smirked, rising from the table and extending his hand to me as a sign of our mutual agreement. "My Mandalorians are with you. And we hope for worthy battles with a real enemy. Chasing down natives armed with slugthrowers you can do yourselves, but for real business, you need Mandalorians."
Bravado, self-praise…
Typical attributes of those who live for battles and dream that future generations will quote them to their children.
"Take my word for it," I smiled, mirroring Spar's actions. "What awaits you, your people will surely like."
"I look forward to it," the Mandalorian snorted, raising an eyebrow to show he appreciated the firm handshake. I tried not to show how difficult it was for me. But one could not yield. Thanks to daily physical exercises—they allowed me not to disgrace myself before this planet's Mandalorian leader. "Well, now to the details. What armament does the Dominion intend to gift us, for which we on Kol Atorn are all burning to fight?"
Oh, you have no idea what awaits you in the end.
At minimum—cloning the most distinguished…
***
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