"Moff Harsh, report from reconnaissance commander..."
"Cut it short, stormtrooper," the Cauldron's star destroyer commander responded impatiently.
"Sir, we discovered a storage of cloning cylinders," came from Tiragga's second moon. "Several hundred. Serviced by droids."
"Condition?"
Triumph in Harsh's voice.
Cloning technology!
What luck!
Magnificent!
All losses justified!
"Sir, technicians say it's some scrap metal..."
Dreams shattered.
"Restorable?" hope, as always, last, replacing exultation backed by disappointment.
"Unknown, sir, unfamiliar technology."
"Incompetents," Harsh cursed, averting gaze from the holographic transmitter. "Anything else interesting?"
"Large number of empty medical equipment and supply containers..."
"Anything functioning?!"
"Several maintenance droids, sir..."
In rage, Harsh struck the projecting plate, shattering it at the impact point.
With a terrible crunch, cracks spread from the strike to the edges.
He cursed for several minutes before exhausting himself.
"Five squadrons, four shuttles, two stormtrooper companies lost to overcome that blasted minefield around the planet, and all to learn there's nothing working here?!" he roared in utter helplessness. "Why the hell did they guard this cursed moon then?!"
He shook with rage and fury.
The man and woman a couple meters away exchanged glances, as if confirming each Force adept thought the same.
From what they sensed—yes, thoughts aligned, identical.
"I've been played like Neimoidians play a Gungan," Harsh hissed through clenched teeth.
He stared ahead, then turned to the man and woman.
"So you could guide my navigators for precise jumps to emerge and blow enemy destroyers—but understand there's nothing here? No?" from his accusing tone, clear he sought a scapegoat for his failure.
"We warned the Force speaks of the moon..." the woman began quietly.
"Where did I see your Force?" Harsh asked. "You claimed your abilities unmatched?!"
"We are warriors first, not trackers," the man said firmly, voice indicating no tolerance for raised voice at his companion. "The Force does not always speak clearly. Sometimes mere hints..."
"Hints?" Harsh echoed. "Ditch Zann for your words of my power—hints? Defy orders, stuff supertransports with explosives not troops and tech, deceive Sykes-Six, use him as a fire ship to clear threat to the Cauldron—hints?"
"I advise against speaking to us thus," the man said sharply, hand on lightsaber. "We warned the Dominion no ordinary foe. They somehow screen the Force on some ship decks. Only our mastery let you blow their destroyers and reach the planet!"
"To what?" Harsh's changed tone showed backing down before the Force-sensitive man. "Encounter another minefield, lose nearly all wing, half landing assets, stormtroopers when I barely have a regiment left?"
"On the other hand," the woman said placatingly, "you achieved the greatest victory over the Dominion. Even Rebels couldn't destroy so many destroyers at Sluis Van..."
"I've seen those destroyers in a black hole, clear?" Harsh clarified, regaining composure. "You don't grasp the problem scale. Zann sent me with a transport caravan to evacuate everything from a Dominion secret base. I made his fleet die. My transports too. If Sykes-Six reported my betrayal to Zann—every bounty hunter from Sernpidal to Endor, Yaga Minor to Tatooine will hunt my ass!"
"No need to exaggerate," the woman advised. "Sykes-Six had little time to report—Dominion mines tore his fleet apart."
"Besides, who knows what difficulties arise en route to the prized system?" the man supported. "Crew loyal to you. Zann's fighters dead. Who tells him what happened?"
"So now your advice—return tail between legs?" the former moff bristled. "He has his man—the sector moff! He'll surely tell his master what happened!"
"Our advice—patience," the man clarified. "If nothing worthwhile, recall your people and withdraw."
"The Dominion won't forgive fleet destruction; soon their ships here," the woman continued.
"Withdraw to the Rift and regroup," the man stated. "There you're untouchable."
"Only through the Force can both paths to the Chiloon Rift be plotted," the woman added. "We plotted them for you."
"Not for Zann," the man confirmed.
"Only he invested tens of billions to set it up," Harsh grimaced. "And there a mountain of his fighters—on my facilities! And only a regiment of stormtroopers loyal to me!"
"And us," the woman calmly replied. "Each of us—an army incarnate."
"If Zann Consortium fighters won't obey, we'll force them," the man promised.
"Or destroy," the woman added.
Harsh ran a hand over face and bald head.
"You sing sweetly," he stated. "But with one destroyer, I won't hold against Zann."
"You won't be alone, Moff," the man reassured.
"We are with you," the woman supported.
"And all Chiloon Rift resources," Harsh reluctantly added.
Several seconds staring ahead, then resigned wave.
"Defeats happen," the traitor said, reconciling. "They make us stronger. Watch officer!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Recall surface groups!" Harsh ordered. "I don't want to be here when Dominion ships arrive. Nor risk my technicians longer than necessary. As soon as all aboard—withdraw to base!"
"Yes, sir!"
When the twice-traitor moff turned his back, the man and woman exchanged glances.
They could draw conclusions.
And listen to the Force.
***
When Major Tierce finished his report on events at Tiragga's second moon, Captain Tschel clenched fists so hard knuckles whitened.
Absolute silence reigned on the Chimaera's bridge, through which ventilation and workstation cooling systems were clearly audible.
"Information transmitted by spy droids?" I asked quietly.
"Yes, sir," Grodin confirmed. "Shadow Guard already en route to seize Moff Brinkan."
Consequently, Darth Maul and Streen would find practice for their training.
"Agent Shteben has begun work to capture Moff Nivers," Grodin continued.
Well, Zann Consortium clones played their role in manipulations for which they were not sent to slaughter.
Now, seemingly, they could be dissected, studying their past.
Let Astarian handle that—he would work against Makus Kaynif captured on Smarck.
But another problem arises.
Mieru'kar left open to enemy strikes.
Brinkan diverted defense forces south to keep Moff Harsh's fleet movements secret.
Unaware of tracking stations and listening posts, he ensured our troops and Tiragga's second moon remained unprotected.
"Good," I responded. "We proceed as planned, Major."
"Yes, sir," Tierce stepped aside.
"Sir," anger rang in Tschel's voice. "You... you're not just leaving our secret facility on Tiragga's second moon? We must do something about this butcher Harsh! We lost twenty ships in one battle! Twenty trained crews! Lost control of our base, and hell knows what else. We must urgently send troops there and finish this traitor and his crew!"
I turned my head toward the officer.
Yes, he is young.
And impulsive.
At his age, Anakin Skywalker had already slaughtered younglings in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.
Evidently, the galaxy has a special demand and plan for lack of sanity in such years.
"Our losses are known to me, Captain Tschel," I said in an icy voice, evidently cooling his impulsive certainty. "You correctly noted we lost control of Tiragga's second moon, and the enemy may begin landing on the planet anytime."
"Sir, forgive my heat, but how can you be so calm knowing the enemy is about to reach our secrets?" Tschel asked, mastering his voice.
"Moff Harsh is a cruel and purposeful man," I continued as if nothing happened. "He will undoubtedly land ground forces on the second moon. It was assumed to be stormtroopers even. But whoever lands, retribution will overtake them."
"Assumed?" Tschel faltered, grasping my meaning. "Sir, you mean you planned the enemy capturing our secret base in Mieru'kar sector? Allowed an entire sector fleet destroyed for this?!"
"Captain," I addressed my flagship commander restrainedly, "when playing combinations integrating enemy spies into state positions, I not only allowed but hoped they would land. And even—find the equipment there. And—return to their ships somehow, then—fearing our reaction—head back to the Chiloon Rift."
"This... This is provocation?!" Tschel goggled.
"It is," I agreed. "Ruthless and merciless."
"But at what cost...?!"
"The Tiragga system defense protocol provided for destroying a significant part of the enemy fleet and fighting withdrawal," I continued. "Rear Admiral I-Gor destroyed all ships entering the system, receiving information the enemy withheld part of forces. Our losses in that battle were not planned but occurred. Let's be honest, Captain—the enemy also has commanders who can calculate situations in their interest. And that's good."
"Good?" Tschel asked in a completely bewildered voice.
"Yes," I said firmly. "Our enemies show us our mistakes. We show them theirs. We learn from mistakes—that's how experience accumulates. Military command is not an end goal, Captain. It's a lifelong journey. And along it, challenges are thrown at officers. Each challenge—an opportunity to affirm oneself, overcome new obstacles, surpass possibilities. Satisfaction from victory over the enemy must be present, but forget not that lacking new problems and challenges means complacency. Every officer must understand smart enemies always were, are, and will appear. They must be detected, fought, destroyed. For the last, we need experience. And, as said, smart opponents."
"Sir, but from your words, we must destroy Harsh!" Tschel revived. "We have forces nearby; we can attack and avenge the fallen. After all, the Chimaera can be there in two days! We'll pursue since they have only one star destroyer left! With your genius, we'll destroy them in one battle!"
We can.
Of course.
But why limit to immediate revenge, chopping weed tops, when there's excellent opportunity to force it to destroy itself?
"Do you know the difference between a tactician commander and a strategist commander, Captain?" I asked.
"Um..." Tschel hesitated. "They direct operations. But each at their level."
"A sufficiently correct independent interpretation," I said, looking again at the white-blue tunnel through which the Chimaera pierced light-years toward the Galaanus system in Korvo sector. "But there is a nuance."
Awkward silence hung.
"A good tactician understands how solid the plan provided for execution is," I said slowly. "A decent tactician must predict how the transmitted plan will work before execution begins. Sentients lacking tactical knowledge do not understand or accept the prepared plan at all because it diverges from their acceptability criteria..."
Tschel watched me attentively.
His face again bore the expression when he tried hovering near me and Pellaeon to hear more from our reasoning.
"However," I continued. "There are also great tacticians. They create plans for good, decent tacticians, and those lacking tactical thinking."
"And... strategists, sir?" he asked. "Where do strategists fit in this conclusion?"
"Every great tactician can become a strategist, Captain," I explained, stroking the ysalamiri's tiny skull nape. "But only when foreseeing victory in the entire campaign. Even if knowing only bitterness of defeat along its course."
The silence persisting on the bridge is usually described by writers as "sepulchral."
Having never lain in a grave, confirming whether true was impossible.
"Victory over Rear Admiral I-Gor and capture of our resources on Tiragga's second moon will undoubtedly be avenged," I said. "In the cruelest manner, Captain. And when the enemy bleeds in his final minutes, knowing despair, complete and unconditional collapse of hopes and dreams, we will be there. So he knows for certain his end came by our desire."
"Yes, sir," Tschel said quietly.
Of course, he understood not a word of what was said about revenge on Moff Harsh.
But that changes nothing.
Harsh and all his subordinates will die, choking in their own blood.
Not long to wait.
"In twenty minutes, we arrive in the Galaanus system, Captain," I reminded. "Prepare my flagship for battle."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral."
Tschel's voice sounded more confident and categorical.
Momentary weakness passed.
His further professional suitability would depend entirely on actions at Galaanus.
A commander can share details of his strategic plan with subordinates.
But most often—no.
There is only a small group of trusted individuals admissible to highest-order information.
But in any case, subordinate obedience to commander must be absolute, immediate, independent of situation or subordinate conclusions.
This depends on trust degree between superior commander and subordinates.
Such trust earned only one way—confident and victorious command achieving operational success with minimal losses among those commanded.
Loyalty cannot be developed under punishment threats, fear aura, or destroying those voicing justified criticism of the commander.
Captain Tschel has full right to voice dissatisfaction with my actions, condemn them, disagree.
It is his right as subordinate.
But if he ceases executing them, regardless of whether he understands the end result or thinks he does, trust is no longer discussable.
And consequently, no more victories.
Lack of victories destroys trust remnants.
History shows one soldier can win a battle.
But statistically, never a war.
Behind those immortalizing their names in historical chronicles always stand thousands remaining nameless.
I glanced aside, catching the peacefully standing astromech at an auxiliary panel—my R7.
He immortalized himself in service to the Skywalker family and other sentients, performing actions no other droid could.
Reprogramming, wiping all information carriers, loading new personality did the job.
He is loyal to me, obeys me, became bearer of important secrets I previously held in memory.
But this did not make him my friend and comrade as in his past life.
He is merely a multifunctional service mechanism obeying me.
Programmed to trust and obey me under any circumstances.
Like the clones we create.
That is the difference between command and ownership.
"Sir," Major Tierce approached. "Spy droids report our ships' resistance in Galaanus system nominal. Patrol ships destroyed with droid crews, previously captured ships boarded. Enemy beginning planet landing, ignoring surrounding minefield. Their losses do not concern them."
"All the better," I replied. "For the plan, ultimately, it matters little how—from mines or on Galaanus surface—they lose assault forces. Very soon we arrive and put the final point on this group's existence."
***
Zann Consortium thugs rejoiced like children, easily destroying droids defending structures on planet Galaanus.
They had already captured starships once lost by their organization at Smarck and the failed attack on Red Star—at least ship names indicated they were from there.
Now a real feast and shooting gallery awaited.
B1 droids, metal dummies ineffective even in Clone Wars and later, evidently used for guarding due to cheapness in mountain-sealed tunnels and caves barely visible on organization ship scanners.
But now Zann Consortium troops attacked with whoops and merry laughter.
They expected automatic turbolasers, stormtrooper legions, armor...
But hit a deserted planet literally devoid of life and vegetation on Korvo's surface with no host resistance in the star system.
If not counting the orbital minefield—but that's headache for such losers who managed to explode in them.
About a third of all landing forces.
The rest luckier.
And by old organization rule, they could freely take much of what they found.
Except overly valuable items.
As commanders say—in these huge caves and tunnels sealed with armored doors lies what the Dominion army and fleet cannot do without.
Almost certainly weapons and equipment.
Likely old weapons from the Grand Army of the Republic arsenal, known to be plentiful in the Dominion.
And well modernized.
When droids were eliminated, fighters buzzing from combat stims flooding veins did not bother thinking about properly breaching gates.
How much time to breach all gates on huge mountains riddled with caves.
Far simpler to blow them.
So they did.
One after another, heavy metal hatches fell to ground, echoing surroundings with crashes.
Inside was dark.
So dark even daylight penetrated no deeper than a few dozen meters into each mountain depth entrance.
But when did that stop Zann Consortium thugs?
With great pleasure, acquiring lamps and illuminators, they rushed forward, expecting to loot properly.
They stopped only when hearing unclear cries from the darkness—bird-like.
"Birds in caves?" thugs wondered.
"Something strange here..."
"You know, I'm from Naboo, and these cries remind me of something. Native, familiar..."
"You're just spiced out!"
Such and similar conversations occurred everywhere, but nothing terrible happened, so on many directions thugs continued deeper into caves...
They advanced mere meters when front ranks were knocked down, trampled, torn apart by local cave inhabitants—months under Dominion will in dark caves, forced to feed on each other.
Second ranks could offer no resistance to a true tsunami of enraged non-flying birds.
The latter, pouncing on invaders, overturned them and broke free—to the liberty from which exiled months ago.
Thug field camps turned into blood-soaked battle arenas with bodies torn apart, eagerly consumed by escaped clodhoppers.
Clodhoppers.
Exactly what Zann Consortium thugs expected landing on planet Korva in Galaanus system happened.
With one critically important exception.
They were not the reapers of bloody harvest.
***
The assault on Moff Nivers's residence began with the first rays of local sunset.
No special units of the grand admiral or Dominion Security Bureau participated.
Only he, the operative.
And a stormtrooper detachment blocking retreat paths from the residence.
All else—road blocks, city exits, communications—unnecessary.
Thanks to his foul and quarrelsome character, the moff gained neither respect, gratitude, nor allies among locals and bureaucracy.
He was alone—only a few hired bodyguards guarded his reception.
Shteben had no claims against them—simple private security firm licensed by the government for such activities in Dominion territory.
No sense killing them.
For now, at least.
"Sir," one guard stopped him. "Visiting hours for the moff ended."
"It's night outside," the second reminded. "Come with your appeal in the morning. Reception hours..."
"Captain Shteben, DSB," the man showed his identification card.
"Sir," both straightened as on parade. "Forgive, but we cannot let you pass—moff's order."
"Good way" failed.
Pity.
"You have two minutes to leave the floor," Shteben said. "Otherwise, you will also be arrested on suspicion of aiding a state traitor."
Guards exchanged surprised glances.
"Sir, this is some misunderstanding," the first reported.
Shteben's gaze caught the second tilting helmeted head, as if speaking on comlink.
Actually so.
In defense forces helmets, comm device positioned inconveniently, requiring slight forward head tilt to activate.
Recently fixed in later models, but these clearly served Dominion long before this month.
And evidently, this armor modeled after defense forces conscript wear.
"Sir," clear clicks of safeties heard, "come in the morning. The moff ordered no one..."
Without slightest warning, Shteben lunged.
Right hand raised first guard's blaster, simultaneously shifting body aside and imparting inertia to opponent to stand between him and second guard.
The latter, reacting to something beyond his limited mind, fired to kill the intruder.
But only holed his partner's light cuirass.
Hands holding the fired-upward blaster relaxed with the death sigh, and Shteben seized the weapon.
The second guard momentarily stunned, struck by his own actions' result.
Without hesitation, the operative shot the last opponent's neck.
Simultaneously with the second corpse's fall thud, two more guard figures appeared at the reception's far end, by the stairs to lower floor.
"Hey, you, hands up! Ordered to arrest you!"
Pointless explaining in such situation.
Possibly a miscalculation, and the moff somehow gained their loyalty.
New guards clearly summoned by the second killed.
Thus, no time or desire for explanations.
So Shteben forced them back behind corridor corner with suppressive fire.
And slipped into the moff's office.
Blocking the armored bulkhead behind, he turned and aimed blaster at the office owner.
"In the name of the Dominion, you are under arrest, Moff Nivers."
The now-former Korvo sector administrator removed a cigar from his mouth and exhaled aromatic smoke.
Only now Shteben noticed the moff's desk empty, workstation monitor full of static.
The latter impossible if functioning.
Gaze found the transparent document/information chip destroyer bin.
It was full.
"You took long, Captain," the former moff said.
"Your personal guard delayed," Shteben explained. "If not secret, how did you sway them?"
"Only those two guarding me," Nivers smirked. "Traded loyalty for expediting house construction permit."
"Impossible," Shteben objected. "Handled by computer system; you lack access to databases or processing algorithms."
"You know that," Nivers smiled. "I know that. But those two—no. Do not underestimate human stupidity size, Captain. These people lived under the Empire and, by own experience or parents' tales, know systems can be bypassed by dealing with right people. That's your oversight, Dominionites. You created independent systems but forgot to explain to citizens how they work. Speaking of those two. I assume, from shooting sounds, they're dead?"
"Unfortunately."
Nivers's behavior did not fit his usual communication style...
Something wrong.
"Hand under desk," Shteben realized, noting he saw only the moff's left upper limb constantly.
"Stand up," he ordered, shifting so unreachable by shot from under desktop. "Hands on desk."
From the partition between desk's two load-bearing parts hiding legs and body below waist, the operative could not precisely say what was there and how it threatened.
"Sorry, Captain, but I won't," Nivers replied. Shteben did not repeat—perfectly understood something extraordinary occurring. Nivers no bluffer. So something under desk the operative won't like. "You see, I long suspected not all simple. Including your appointment. Too good an operative to seat on desk work."
"Made inquiries?" the counterintelligence agent clarified.
"Not only you have high-circle friends," the moff stated. "Don't strain so. In my right hand—a deadman detonator. So advise against shooting..."
"Bantha poodoo!"
Deadman detonator—a spring clamp manually held closed.
Two types existed.
First—closing, detonation on contact closure when hand-squeezed plates touched.
Second—opening, detonation on contact separation.
If Nivers—alive or dead—slightly relaxes grip, bomb detonates successfully.
Door, only entrance/exit—opens one and a half seconds.
But escape impossible—shock and blast wave overtake faster.
Twentieth-floor residence window jump—pure death.
Especially if Nivers tells truth about having a bomb.
Likely rigged to level the entire building.
Well...
Only one thing he can do here.
The operative pressed blaster hand to right belt side, hard pressing the hidden comlink activation button there.
Direct call to his secure server, access only to Colonel Astarian.
At least this way...
"How powerful?" Shteben clarified.
"Enough to atomize you, me, and the entire residence," the former moff stated.
Curse the bantha that shat this pile and keeps piling.
"How did you smuggle it here?" he asked.
"Made it myself," Nivers revealed. "With needed chemistry and physics knowledge, ordinary tech—no problem. Main thing—not rush part selection, buy with unremarkable goods; even trained eye won't suspect. Looks like repairing my dwelling, right, operative?"
Exactly what Shteben thought tracking Nivers's purchases.
"Not sparing the guards?" the operative continued buying time.
"I don't care about them," the moff stated. "Or you, or anyone around. My desire otherwise."
"Your program," the counterintelligence agent corrected.
The moff's lips twitched.
"So you know," he grimaced.
"That you are a clone of the real Moff Nivers, programmed for infiltration into the Dominion to inflict maximum damage?" Shteben clarified.
The clone nodded affirmatively.
"No, what are you, first I'm hearing."
The moff laughed, then drew deeply.
"You know what it's like when contradictions tear you apart, unable to fight?" he unexpectedly asked.
"No," Shteben admitted.
"Lucky you," the clone sighed. "You know... I considered myself him all this time..."
"The real Nivers?"
"Yes. Looked down on all, grimaced at flirting with aliens, etc. Then got into these moff affairs. Even enticed somehow. I really liked it."
"So let's call sappers and continue in more comfortable setting?" Shteben proposed.
"Sorry, Captain, can't," an apologetic smile appeared on the xenophobe's face. "Program won't allow. I tried fighting. Thought useful as moff. Didn't want this... Useless. You just cease being yourself. Like locked in dark room, see what's around, know you open mouth, speak, act. But understand it's not you, but the other..."
"Second personality?"
"Hell knows what it is," Nivers admitted. "I just woke one day and realized we're two. And he controls me, not vice versa. He knows we're a clone. Doesn't care—he does what he must."
"What exactly?" Shteben asked.
"Learn your secrets' locations, secret paths into the Dominion," the clone explained. "Divert troops far from targets designated when time comes."
"Target—Galaanus?" the counterintelligence agent clarified.
"Yes," the moff nodded. "Sorry... They evidently realized you'd want to arrest and learn secrets... Should have just shot me, Captain... This... Sorry..."
Sweat began flowing down his face, panic notes in voice.
Seems it dawned on him too.
He looked into the operative's eyes, who still hoped to cheat fate.
Surrender—not in counterintelligence rules.
"There is something they need there, Captain," his voice began trembling. "I... couldn't learn what exactly. Probably why ordered self-destruct after start..."
"Who ordered?" Shteben asked.
"D-don't know," the clone spoke with difficulty. "Voice..."
"Comlink? Messages? Holovision broadcast?" the operative listed. "How activated, Nivers?"
"Voice," he said. "Heard voice in head. Like lights out."
"Before or after our talks about Galaanus?"
"After. Literally days ago."
"What ordered?"
"Move defense ships far. Destroy all documents and traces of existence. All DNA samples. All files. I... didn't want, Shteben. But he did... I... Forgive..."
"Not scary," Shteben replied.
"I, the real me, wanted to help people so much, but changed when got power. Only enrichment, only for self. When started Dominion affairs, recalled dreaming as youth of happiness for all Empire citizens... Here, now..."
The enemy ordered the clone to self-destruct, realizing alive he could lead to his masters.
Who, judging by transmitting orders directly into the moff's brain, not so simple.
"You managed to overcome this second in your head?" Shteben asked.
"Won a little," tears flowed from the man's eyes. "I speak to you, but he controls hands... I want to scream for help, but he laughs in my head..."
"The second?"
In such situation, every extra phrase could be valuable.
Because never before had Shteben suspected such control method.
Assumed Brinkan and Nivers pre-programmed saboteurs who knew exactly what they wanted.
But here...
"Yes," Nivers swallowed. "He laughs, and it seems the voice owner laughs... I understand nothing anymore, Captain. I'm very scared... I... don't want to die... I'm alone... In darkness... like a spectator..."
"No one will die," the operative assured. "Now I'll approach..."
"And I'll release hands," Nivers said frankly. "Any help attempt—hands release. Try to escape—same. I... want... say... he won't let... Scanners..."
They hedged, unknown bastards.
"Fight!"
"Gladly," the clone sobbed. "I'm trying! Damn, I can't even wipe tears! Lungs burn from cigars, can't even cough! What's happening?!"
"You don't like tobacco?" Shteben wondered.
"I never smoked!" Nivers replied through tears. "Why do they do this, Captain? Why not just blow me? They've already started attacking Galaanus, right?"
"Started," the operative agreed. "Destroyed entry patrol ships, blew the dreadnought guarding planet Korvo, began landing on planet..."
"Thousands dead," tears streamed from Nivers's eyes, but right hand inexorably drew cigar to face, mouth making unnatural drag. "Because of me! Because of me!"
A herd of icy rancors ran down Shteben's spine, each size of a rancor.
Seeing a person before you, even if not personally but endured considerable crap, powerless over self, sobbing while body calmly drags expensive cigar...
The captain wanted to say patrol starships had droids, and on Korvo not so straightforward...
But fell silent.
Because a guess appeared about reasons for all before his eyes.
"Nivers," he said quietly, addressing the moff clone. "I know what they're up to."
The man who wanted to live looked silently at him.
His lips trembled, clenched like in epileptic fit.
Eyes unblinking, tears and burst capillaries speaking of control.
"Bastards," Shteben grabbed chair back, approached desk, turned it backward, sat facing Nivers's widened pupils. "I understood what you're doing, scum..."
Nivers's lips tried parting, futile.
"Scaring," Shteben said with cold gaze, noting bomb hadn't detonated despite sitting a meter from Nivers. "Showing how strong you are—controlling a clone who did nothing to you and dreamed of living for others' good. Showing we're no better than puppets to you. Toying with him, me, the Dominion to show we're nothing?! I've seen you and your games in a grave! If not me, others will find and finish you. One by one! We'll die ourselves, but you won't have the Dominion!"
"And what will you do, Captain?" Nivers's sobbing mouth twisted into arrogant smirk.
But voice not his.
Low, commanding, sepulchral.
As if speaking to a risen grave dead.
"Who will defeat us?" the unknown continued. "Thrawn—dead. Good riddance to the alien. He played his part. Did even less than expected. Pellaeon—a nothing, fearing losses and risk, master only of shameful retreats and defeats. His subordinates—one worse than another. Alderaanian stickler loving dead Iren Ryad. Traitor before whose eyes Ubiqtorate executed all crew families without letting revenge. Nez Peronian fancying himself ambush master. Former prisoners broken in Rebel captivity. Belkadanite with grasping hands taking all carryable. Circus, not military force. You'll all soon die in terrible agonies when time comes. All my puppets, begging death as release!"
"At least we live, not parasitize," Shteben jumped up, indignantly throwing chair away. "Don't make sentients puppets!"
"That's why you're trash under my feet," evidently habitually, the speaker laughed, tilting Nivers's body back, throwing head to let laughter echoes fill spacious office.
The operative understood no better moment.
Diving onto desk, extending arms to intercept device seen seconds ago.
Fingers closed on contact terminals a fraction before the realizing controller released Nivers's fingers.
"No offense," Shteben said, kicking the clone away.
Sliding to floor, he glanced at bomb.
"Didn't lie," the operative instantly understood.
Not only truthful, but size...
Explosive device built into desk, occupying all space under it.
About one and a half cubic meters, counting internally removed walls.
"Not bad," Nivers said, rising from floor.
But voice still not the clone's.
"Intelligence had many capable agents," he said. "You could have made good career, Captain."
"I said—no offense, but go to hell, cowardly bastard," Shteben stated, estimating what if clone under influence charges him. "Afraid even to name yourself."
The clone laughed again.
"I was wrong," he said. "You're an idiot. Ones like you should die for my greatness."
After these words, Nivers's body collapsed like felled.
"Moff, you alive?" Shteben shouted, seeing the man shaking like from electric shocks. "If you can—crawl to me."
Two meters separated them, captain simply not seeing clone's face.
"Mi... nu... ta..." the captain heard barely discernible syllables from the clone's wheezing mouth. "Fin... gers..."
With disgusting squelch, the clone's eyeballs burst, body convulsing like flimsi thrown into fire.
"Ru... n..."
Syllables formed words in the operative's head.
Words—thoughts.
Shteben looked at contact terminals.
Laughed, seeing fingerprint scanner elements inserted.
Looked at wrist chrono.
Forty seconds since wrenching them from moff's hands.
At least a minute to escape—but he blocked the armored door panel himself.
Now breachable only by laser cannon shot.
And window transparisteel even longer to break.
"So that's how," eyes stung, but he wiped tears with forearm. "Nivers, you still here?"
"Yes," the mutilated body wheezed. "Ru... n..."
Most humane and veeery approximate sketch of what Shteben saw looking at Nivers during described events.
"No," Shteben replied, not elaborating.
"Sca... ry..."
"I'm scared too," Shteben said in trembling voice. "Knew someday it would. But like this... Let's not fear together?"
"Ye... s..." the mutilated human replied with breath.
"And now we became friends," the counterintelligence agent smiled through force, trying not to let constricted throat tremble and add more fear to the dying. "Now—exhale and close eyes. We'll sleep, tomorrow new day. Better than today..."
"Ye... s... bet... ter... Fri... end..."
The clone who wanted to live right did not argue.
He too wanted to think good at the end.
Shteben, looking at the mutilated human, sobbed silently.
The minute passed.
And tomorrow never came for them.
But they no longer knew.
***
I can't reply to your comments because I've been shadowbanned, but if you ever notice a drop in chapter quality, please leave a comment — I'll fix everything as soon as I see it.
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