Extra for reaching 50 reviews (extra chapter every 5 reviews).
***
Ten years, six months, and eleven days after the Battle of Yavin...
Or the forty-fifth year, sixth month, and eleventh day after the Great Resynchronization.
(One year, two months, and twenty-six days since the Arrival.)
The planet Ubrikkia was an industrial world in the Mid Rim, located in the Castolar sector.
Situated on a hyperspace route known as the Outlander Run, it had come under the influence of the Hutts from neighboring Hutt Space for millennia, having been a direct part of that domain five thousand years ago.
The planet itself could be considered one giant factory, as its surface was covered with numerous manufacturing and processing plants, all subject to the iron logic of the Ubrikkian Industries corporation.
Here, on the planet or in nearby space, were also the headquarters of both the parent company and its many subsidiaries.
However, there was another location in the Castolar sector that housed the administrative resources of the Industries.
The Kwenn system.
It sat on the outer edge of the Mid Rim, next to a major hyperspace route.
For this reason, shrewd businessmen realized that a space station located in this region would serve as a final major supply depot and refueling station for starships heading towards the Outer Rim of the galaxy.
And with that, the birth of the Kwenn space station was merely a matter of time and money.
The Kwenn Space Station.
It had a three-tiered structure.
At the top was a city-like structure housing entertainment venues for travelers.
Below it was a platform with dozens of space docks for small ships. These space docks had a modular design and could be easily reconfigured for starships of various classes and sizes.
At the bottom was a hexagonal lattice structure that served as a dry dock for large vessels.
Such as Star Destroyers, for example.
Inside, the station was traversed by tubes of repulsorlift elevators, which brought a traveler from the main dry dock and small docking bays to the main part of the station.
It was in one such tube, inside a duraplast box of a repulsorlift cabin, that Rederick was now.
The Dominion agent was calm, betraying no nervousness or any emotion.
He was completely indifferent to the employees of the Ubrikkian Industries subsidiary who had filled the cabin at one of the levels.
Five people, animatedly discussing how the office move from the parent planet to the station had affected them.
A rather notable fact, wouldn't you say?
First, a "daughter" of the Industries, in one way or another, transfers Devastator droids to the New Republic, and Vex dies from their manipulators.
Then, it turns out, the headquarters of this "daughter" has been moved from the planet to the station.
The number of security units on the decks of this structure has been increased to maximum.
Management, of course, understands that if they introduce total sentient recognition measures, they risk causing discontent among their clients.
Apparently, smugglers plying the galaxy's regions have chosen this place as a transshipment base.
Which, all in all, is logical—that's what the station existed for, was created and maintained for a long time.
Management is aware that the lion's share of their clients are on the wrong side of the law in almost any state.
But at the same time, they won't go against profit.
Consequently, any customs or police inspection will last exactly as long as it takes to establish the Dominion agent's cover story.
According to it, Rederick is both the owner and the pilot of a large freighter.
Which, for some time now, has been unable to leave the dock because "negligent workers have brought the ship to a sorry state with their barbaric treatment of the machinery."
Consequently, lengthy repairs were required.
And a new crew, of course.
What a coincidence that on this station you can find everything needed for repairs and to continue your journey.
Though, at the highest prices.
A real treat for the soul and the wallet!
For the owners of this place.
Rederick, playing the role of a medium-level trader, couldn't afford to buy spare parts on the station; even just paying for repairs would leave him without a credit in his pocket.
So his transport was waiting for spare parts delivery, while the locals, punishing him for refusing to spend all his money, jacked up the dock rental fee tenfold.
A hundred a week.
Twenty credits a day.
On a neighboring planet somewhere, you could find a berth for a credit a day.
But you'd have to fly there first.
And how can you do that when your hyperdrive is finally dead?
Besides, as a true penny-pincher, you have no desire to install a backup?
That's right—you just wait for friends to deliver the necessary parts.
And only then, after paying around fifteen thousand credits for replacement and repairs, you leave this hospitable little place.
Expensive, but what can you do?
It's not like you can just drift in open space all that time?
You could, but that would be the height of idiocy and stinginess.
Even the greediest traders wouldn't allow themselves that.
When you have a choice—wait in space or on a comfortable station—the decision is obvious.
So few people paid any attention to the most ordinary trader with smuggler airs.
One of the hundreds currently on the station.
Rederick reached his target level and followed the company workers out of the turbolift cabin.
As it happened, they were heading to the same establishment.
Pure coincidence!
Or maybe logic, because sentients with a couple of hundred spare credits in their pockets won't waste them in cheap cantinas full of the usual scum.
The cantina was spacious, well-lit, and the light music and cleanliness of the walls and floor even suggested that things were kept in order here.
Which was not surprising, given the large number of employees from the droid-manufacturing corporation inside.
Usually, there were many different travelers here, but now their number was minimal.
Nevertheless, it was enough for anyone with access to Dominion Intelligence databases to understand that this was a transshipment base for Republic military logistics.
And this was partly run by former smugglers and other shady characters.
Who, frankly, deserved a firing squad.
There were no innocents here.
Station administration preferred to usher visitors out quickly.
Reasons weren't given, but anyone with brains would understand after seeing just one or two familiar faces.
It was about the convoys of cargo ships that arrived to fill their holds with goods.
What kind?
No one knew for sure.
Almost no one.
Rederick, for example, knew.
But most of the station's guests, except for the pilots and crews of the convoy starships, had no idea what was produced here or whom the starships belonged to.
Nor did they know why a significant portion of the upper levels was closed to visitors.
But the number of company transports carrying raw materials, spare parts, machine tools, and assembly lines had increased.
Rederick had seen them, packed in shipping containers, during freight transport around the station.
Not with his own eyes, of course, but by taping into the space station's security systems.
The station had established production of the well-known Devastator-class battle droids.
And under the cover of a civilian facility with a known neutral-zone reputation, the New Republic received the military hardware they needed here.
Hardware that had already cost the lives of a considerable number of Dominion soldiers and officers.
At the memory of the raid on the Rendili StarDrive shipyards, Rederick felt a cold rage stir.
"Is this seat taken?" a voice sounded above the "trader's" head. "I don't want to sit with those corporate rats."
Turning, he met the eyes of a tall man whose right half of his face was covered by a cybernetic implant.
He looked like a seasoned cutthroat.
Which, in fact, he was.
In the Outer Rim, the difference between a smuggler, a trader, and a pirate only becomes apparent when the target has enough cannons to fight back.
If not, your neighbor will most likely attack you.
If you're strong, you'll part ways peacefully.
"No problem," Rederick glanced at the half-empty cantina hall, noting there were plenty of free tables.
But he wasn't going to take the bait either.
Certainly not in front of the five guards.
The guest practically collapsed onto a chair, grinning with yellowed teeth and flashing an artificial eye.
The rest of his face was disfigured, and his appearance suggested he was akin to the Tof space pirate race.
Still, any representative of galactic scum was welcome here—the origin of the credits in your deep pockets was prudently not asked about on the station.
Otherwise, they would have lost their customers long ago.
"It used to be better here," the "Tof" said. "Booze of any kind and proof, food from the whole galaxy. Pay up, and you'd feel as good as some pampered Muun."
Rederick had been doing his job too long to react to his interlocutor's unusual appearance in any way.
An interlocutor who had spoken the first part of the password.
Interesting... it seemed his undercover work on the Kwenn station was coming to an end.
All the better.
He was tired of being here.
"This is my first time here," Rederick admitted with the second part of the password. "Used to work in the Sluis sector, but there aren't many orders there now."
"Heard-heard-heard about that," the "Tof" belched contentedly and ordered several disgusting-looking and -sounding dishes from a waiter droid. "Got a friend who did business in that sector last year. Says after the Empire had its fun there, the Sluissi went wild and aren't very friendly to free traders anymore."
And there was the countersign.
Well, now only confirmation was needed.
"I'm not interested in their affairs anymore," answered Bravo-Three. "I just need to wait until my friend brings a hyperdrive to the station. The local prices will empty my pocket soon enough."
"So you need a hyperdrive?" the "Tof" asked, deliberately mispronouncing the key word so Rederick would be sure he was speaking to the right person. "You're in incredible luck, my friend! I have a couple for medium-tonnage ships. Second or third class?"
He was asking if Rederick had completed his reconnaissance fully or only partially.
"Second class," he hadn't just wasted budget money here; he'd been working hard. "Rendili model."
"Then you're incredibly lucky," two plates were set down in front of the "Tof" on the table, piled with small mounds of something that, by the looks of it, someone had already eaten. "Delicious... My friend, how about we go to your ship and discuss whether I can help you avoid having to stay here any longer?"
"Do you definitely have that hyperdrive I need?" Rederick inquired, directly asking the second Dominion agent if his mission was complete.
"I assure you," the "Tof" pulled an equally worn datapad from his dirty jacket, fumbled with it, and showed Rederick a holophoto of a Rendili second-class hyperdrive. "I have two. Taking them to the Outer Rim for sale, but I'm not sure I can sell both. One is already ordered, but the second..."
"Good," Agent Bravo-Three exhaled in relief, getting up from the table and finishing his glass of Corellian whiskey in one gulp. "Let's go, my new friend, and discuss the details."
Finally, it would all be over.
"One moment," the second agent called the waiter droid back and commanded it:
"Pack my treat into containers; I'll take it with me."
Once again, Rederick shuddered at the sight of those "dishes," marveling at his partner's fortitude.
"I sure hope he's not actually going to eat that," he thought.
* * *
"Nom," Third said, greedily biting off a huge chunk of the sandwich and noisily chewing it.
Zyix K'zzt lasted exactly three minutes. Then, the moment the former member of the Order of the B'omarr grabbed a sandwich twice the size of her own hands, he tore his attention away from the control display.
"Third, with all due respect," the head of the GeNod-Dominion project addressed the girl in an impatient tone, making it clear he was in a bad mood. "This is a laboratory, not a dining room!"
"I'm aware," Third said, freezing for a second just to utter those words before pouncing on the food clutched in her hands with the greed of a starving rancor, tearing off huge chunks of bread and filling. "But I'm so hungry I can barely think straight."
"I doubt someone like you possesses any higher nervous activity in the first place," Orun Va's voice was cold, devoid of emotion, and the Kaminoan didn't even look at the person he was addressing.
"That sounded insulting," the girl admitted, swallowing a piece she hadn't properly chewed.
This time, the Kaminoan stopped examining the embryo samples through the magnifying instruments.
He looked to the right, where several autoclaves containing people lay within the laboratory's snow-white walls.
A transparent one-way wall separated them from the scientific staff, behind which several guards in gold-and-black armor stood watch.
But that wasn't the most notable thing.
Through the transparisteel, one could see that each of them wore a strange contraption on their heads, made of thin metal ribs, wrapped in wires, and topped with sensor indicators.
Huge "donuts" were currently spinning around the parts of the autoclaves where the patients' heads were — the scanning equipment operated without any interruption.
Every man and woman was in a state of medicated sleep, which allowed the digitization of their minds to proceed smoothly without any obstacles.
The large laboratory space was filled with numerous pieces of equipment designed for delicate work.
Which was precisely what the team of Kaminoan cloners were doing.
"As if I'm some grubby ragamuffin who walked into a sterile box and started scattering microbes, foreign objects, and generally violating protocol all over the place..."
Orun Va and Zyix K'zzt exchanged glances without a word.
"That's basically exactly what you're doing," said Zyix K'zzt, drumming his fingers on the computer terminal at his workstation. "We maintain absolute sterility in here."
"Perhaps the Monks of B'omarr have a different idea of workplace cleanliness," said Orun Va.
"Are you implying they don't measure up to your level of professionalism?" the girl waved the stuffed bun she was holding. "In case that's what you were thinking, I suggest you remember who exactly found a way to extract information from the mind of a Republic commando. And anyway — my solution to the instability problem deserves a good lunch."
Zyix K'zzt looked at the chronometer.
"It's morning," he said.
"Then breakfast," Third replied, unfazed. "And that's the most important meal of the day, if you must know."
"I personally never expressed a desire for an unnecessary lesson in human physiology," Orun Va replied. "I am perfectly familiar with it. Perhaps Zyix K'zzt needs one..."
"What Zyix K'zzt needs is to not be distracted from the procedure of editing Fezra Fuon's memories!" the named scientist stated his position. "We're in the middle of copying the consciousness of one of the best Republic commandos!"
"And you can only do that because I found a way to suppress his aggression centers," Third took another bite of the sandwich and pouted sulkily.
How she managed to do that while simultaneously chewing food escaped everyone present.
However, no one else was even distracted from their work, except for Orun Va and Zyix K'zzt.
The other Kaminoans didn't even pretend not to be interested in what was happening in the laboratory.
They simply didn't notice it.
"That's a temporary process," Orun Va reminded. "My calculations show that suppressing the unwillingness to cooperate is practically impossible."
"For that same reason, only the best of those loyal to the Dominion have their minds copied and are cloned," Zyix K'zzt reminded.
"I know that even without you," Third said with slight offense, her mouth full, making her words barely understandable to both listeners. "But it worked on Boba Fett!"
Still, they were already used to the colleague from the "brain transplant shop" never parting from food.
"Only because he is a cloned template," Orun Va cut in. "And I have developments in genetic therapy that ensure subservience. Otherwise, Fett would still be imprisoned in an asteroid penitentiary."
"I think you're just jealous," Third said, having ravaged half the sandwich. "Male chauvinism, gender superiority propaganda, and so on."
The cloning specialists exchanged glances again.
"I don't understand," Orun Va admitted.
"She's saying that because we're men, we look down on female achievements in the professional sphere," Zyix K'zzt explained.
"Her developments are based on my gene therapy for the clones of Jango Fett," the Kaminoan reminded. "She only edited some genetic alleles and enzymes."
"I'm still here, you know," Third mumbled.
"We know," Orun Va said. "We don't care."
"That sounded insulting," Third sighed sadly.
"I know," the Kaminoan admitted. "I don't care. I'm not paid to pity people's feelings."
"You get paid?" Zyix K'zzt was surprised.
"Yes," the Kaminoan confirmed. "But not in money. I, like you, like Third, like the other scientists — am on full state support. Payment for my genius is the opportunity to conduct the experiments I've always dreamed of."
"Subjugation of the clones for the Advanced Recon Commando project," Zyix K'zzt nodded understandingly.
"And more," Orun Va replied, pointing to a pair of zygotes lying in the medical block. "Based on my research conducted while creating the 'Vultures' for the 'Zann Consortium,' I intend to improve the performance of the Dominion's clones."
"Could you elaborate?" Zyix K'zzt became interested, turning away from his instruments.
"Oh, go ahead and talk like I'm not here!" Third allowed. "I'm just a specialist in transplanting brains from outdated bodies into young, cloned ones, what could I possibly represent as a professional in your eyes? I, for your information, am in charge of an important line of work! You deal with the human genome, and I..."
"When creating the Grand Army of the Republic, the Kaminoans primarily used Jango Fett's genome," Orun Va continued as if nothing had happened. "The clone soldiers were practically no different from the original, except for suppressed natural aggression, free will, and other unnecessary psychological traits of Fett's. For the most part, it worked perfectly, but over time we came to the conclusion — not without advice from Fett himself — that the Galactic Republic needed commando clones."
"I know the history of creating the 'Nulls,' the 'Alphas,' and the commando clones," Zyix K'zzt admitted. "Let me guess — you want to incorporate the best of your control-related developments into Boba Fett's genotype?"
"As the best living Kaminoan geneticist, I am dissatisfied with the fact that among the Old Republic's clone army, there were those who disobeyed orders, deserted, or sabotaged command directives," Orun Va said. "The better the specimen was compared to the original, the more independent it became. This resulted in the betrayal of numerous commando units, 'Alphas,' and so on. I want to create a commando for the Dominion who will be on the level of the 'Nulls' in terms of strength, speed, intelligence, resourcefulness, tactical skill, but who will be obedient to orders and will not act against the Dominion's interests."
"Simply put, you're creating those proverbial 'meat droids,'" Third yawned, licking the sandwich crumbs off her fingers and pulling a chocolate bar from her pocket. "When do you people actually feed people around here?"
"She has a point," Zyix K'zzt agreed. "Thrawn never said anything about completely zombifying the clones being created."
"I have no intention of creating 'meat droids,'" the Kaminoan's face and voice showed not a single hint of emotion. "I want to create a soldier who cannot betray. He will live, think, and act independently, like a normal person. But he will be unable to betray."
"Sounds like a phantasmagoria," Third declared. "A kind of slave who doesn't know he's a slave."
Zyix K'zzt remained silent, but his expression made it clear he agreed with the "head of the brain transplant department."
"Your moral assessment of my project does not interest me," Orun Va cut in. "I am creating the ideal warrior-commando. Smarter, stronger, more cunning, faster, and more talented than his predecessors. This is the work of my life, and I will not allow anyone to..."
His words were interrupted by an alarm signal.
"Banta poodoo!" Zyix K'zzt swore, rushing to the equipment. "Fezra Fuon's brain temperature is rising."
"That shouldn't be happening!" Third declared. "The therapy was supposed to work just like on Boba Fett!"
"But it didn't work," Orun Va stated, returning to his work. "I recommend stopping the memory copy before you boil the POW's brains."
Zyix K'zzt was about to object, but seeing the indicator mark had reached the red part of the scale, he silently nodded in agreement.
"Remove Fezra Fuon from the project," he ordered the Kaminoan technician. "The intervention did not yield the planned result."
The Kaminoan he was addressing obediently ran his long fingers over the keyboard, and the scanning "donut" began to slow down, while the autoclave moved forward.
A few seconds later, new alarm signals sounded, reporting that similar problems had been detected with other prisoners of the New Republic and the Galactic Alliance.
"Stop the scanning of all objects without exception," Zyix K'zzt ordered.
"Failure," Orun Va stated without looking up from his instrument's screen. "As was to be expected."
"I need the data," Third declared, shoving the last of her third chocolate bar into her mouth. "I'll keep working on how to suppress resistance to mental scanning."
"And what's the point?" the Kaminoan geneticist inquired. "Your solution isn't working."
"It will work," Third promised, crumpling the wrapper of a new chocolate bar. "You somehow managed to 'zombify' the 'Vultures' of the 'Zann Consortium,' didn't you?"
"I repeat — the reason was the original's voluntary consent to cooperate," the Kaminoan said. "I haven't been working with the human genome for the first decade, and I can say for certain — you cannot forcibly copy anyone's mind. The Spaarti cloning cylinder's equipment is designed with protection against that. The Khommites were extending their race, not creating slaves. You'd better look for the problem in the technical component of the project."
"I'd be happy to," Zyix K'zzt growled. "If even one Khommite engineer existed who could tell me how their technology works. You don't happen to have any such acquaintances, do you, esteemed Orun Va?"
"Not a single one," he replied. "I prefer not to keep failures in my circle. By the way, couldn't you leave my laboratory? I need to advance successful projects, not waste time on your experiments. And yes, I will recommend vitamin-enriched cocktails for your test subjects to repair the synaptic damage you've caused them..."
"It's a pity you have no emotions," Third said. "Otherwise, I'd tell you, Orun Va, exactly what I think of you and your race."
Zyix K'zzt's silence indicated his solidarity on this matter.
But Orun Va didn't care.
He was working on a successful project.
Failures did not interest him.
* * *
There wasn't even any need to be surprised by the fact that the "Nulls" made their move right when we crossed the borders of the Karthakk sector and reached "operational space."
Ordo Skirata communicated his desire to meet with me, oddly enough, by informing Tierce of it.
For those who don't know the "Nulls," this fact wouldn't seem out of the ordinary.
For me, familiar with their history, the context of the "Nulls" following protocol instead of acting as they pleased was yet another confirmation of the obvious.
The "Nulls" are covering their tracks, trying to draw as little attention to what's happening as possible.
Well, that suited me perfectly.
All that was left was to add a few finishing touches, and the étude "Betrayal of the Advanced Recon Commandos" would be ready.
One of the small conference rooms on the "Guardian" was chosen for the meeting, given the small number of participants on each side.
The overall picture is clear and understandable.
The "Nulls," as always, do not submit to circumstances — they bend circumstances to their will.
But, not today.
Apparently, after a little over a year in this galaxy, I'd become a bit of an optimist when it came to recruiting subordinates, to even consider the possibility that the Skirata Clan would come to their senses.
However, the opposite can't be said either — "betrayal" was expected, because the history of these beings speaks for itself.
Authority is quite difficult to earn — it's a painstaking, long-term effort.
Losing it, on the other hand, is easy.
Just a couple of wrong moves suffice.
Right now, only a limited circle of people know about the actions of the "Nulls," who put their own intentions above the Dominion's priorities.
And to ensure that their actions, which are already directly harmful to the Dominion, and indirectly — will only worsen the gravity of their deed, do not become an example of successful action against me and my state, I had to take a series of emergency measures.
By the time I finished my conversation with General Virs and the commander of "Kavil's Corsairs," Tyberos, Ordo Skirata had already arrived at my quarters under guard.
It would be interesting to have a sparring match between the "Nulls" and Tierce's clones to determine the threat level each of them poses, but that would be a rather stupid idea.
I already know who is stronger in combat — Tierce.
Unlike the "Nulls," the Imperial Guardsmen, which Tierce once was, received a more interesting and multi-vector training than Kal Skirata's protégés.
Over the years, they've certainly acquired a lot of new knowledge, but still...
There's no point in staging a demonstration fight between them.
Whether Grodin and his clones win or (which also can't be ruled out) lose, the "Nulls" are too smart not to understand why it would be conducted.
And giving them more information than they already have is not part of my plans at all.
The "Nulls" already know too much.
I don't want to give them an understanding of Tierce's level of training, and consequently, that of his clones.
The "Nulls" are currently hostile.
Any crumb of information they get from me will only serve my interests.
And nothing else.
I could even thank them for their actions — it allowed me to supplement my plan regarding the "Silri Syndicate" with more effective nuances.
And I also gained valuable experience in not trusting beings with excessive confidence.
Among them are those who, one way or another, can still resist a tempting offer to join the Dominion's team.
After exchanging greetings, Ordo and I took seats opposite each other on the leather sofas in the negotiation area.
The game begins.
* * *
The moment the airlock closed, the Dominion Intelligence agent, dressed as a Tof pirate, asked:
"Where's your disposal unit here?"
Rederick silently pointed to the lid covering the maw of the said shipboard device.
Yes, it wasn't the molecular furnaces installed on construction droids, but who in their right mind would put equipment costing millions of credits on even a new freighter?
Or perhaps even more, because the cost of such shipboard installations can increase significantly compared to standard ones.
After all, you can't exactly fit a molecular furnace three times the size of the ship itself into a fifty-meter-long vessel.
And miniaturization requires financial investment.
And considerable ones at that.
That's why they aren't even installed on Star Destroyers — too expensive.
The Dominion, no matter how much it invested in developing its fleet, also didn't dare to make such expenditures.
It's one thing to improve shipboard weapons, defense, navigation, life support systems, and so on.
And quite another to stick expensive equipment where it isn't needed as such.
Ordinary trash compactors are always sufficient.
The "Tof," approaching the disposal unit, swung open the lid and tossed both plastic containers of disgusting food inside with gusto.
"Good thing I didn't have to eat that horror," his disfigured face smiled.
"And I was wondering..." Rederick smiled grimly.
"Well," the "Tof" stretched contentedly and cracked his neck. "I'm Bravo-One. Identification code two-two-tango-echo-four-seven-lambda."
"And you've changed, Captain Inek," Rederick grinned. "Bravo-Three. Six-four-eleven-mu-pi-eight-eight-delta."
"Glad you're alright, Rederick."
The agents shook hands.
"Brief me on the situation," Inek requested.
"Station Kwenn — new assembly point for Devastator-class battle droids," said Bravo-Three. "The assembly lines were moved here with the obvious goal of concealing the transaction from the New Republic."
"Ubrikkian Industries understands that a caravan of New Republic cargo ships would clearly reveal who they're trading with," Inek nodded. "Frequent appearances of transports on Ubrikkia would attract attention. And a station that has always been famous as a transit point for a wide variety of merchants, smugglers, and pirates is an excellent cover for secret trade with our enemies."
"For this reason, supposedly neutral starships are used," Rederick continued. "They have no identification markings, but I recorded the faces of the pilots. They are all former smugglers hired for cargo transportation for the New Republic."
"Among those the Dominion didn't finish off in the past," Inek nodded understandingly. "Any unexpected 'guests'?"
"They are currently absent from the station. According to flight logs, the nearest merchant ship not associated with the New Republic will arrive here no earlier than five days from now."
"Excellent. So, what do we have. A subsidiary of the Kuat Drive Yards has decided to trade expensive war droids with the New Republic. Obviously, Fey'lya drew conclusions from the Dominion's tactics in using similar droids in battle."
"And interestingly, he's not bothered by the fact that the price of the droids is clearly inflated," Rederick said. "I dug around the local server. The production cost of one droid is ten times lower than the purchase price for the New Republic."
"That's not exactly criminal."
"The interesting part is something else. There are other buyers for this type of droid," Rederick said. "Eighty-six shell companies that, in small batches, purchased about a million Devastator-class battle droids. I had time to break the ice. The ultimate buyer, the beneficiary of these deals... 'Rothana Heavy Engineering.' And the droids are sold to them at just above cost. While the official purchase price is half that for the New Republic. Incidentally — Rothana is purchasing significant quantities not only of these droids, but also of other types of military equipment. This is a targeted supply for an army of several million soldiers. And deliveries are only increasing. But they aren't going to Rothana, interestingly."
"How interesting," the ugly mask-face smiled. "Who signed the documents on behalf of the New Republic?"
"A representative of Borsk Fey'lya."
"So, so, so... Do you get what's happening?"
"A dual situation. On one hand, the Ubrikkians are selling military property to the New Republic at inflated prices. This could be interpreted as 'kickbacks' in corrupt schemes," Rederick declared. "They set a higher price, and after payment, part of the money is returned to the buyer. We're talking billions..."
"That's normal for a democracy. By the way, similar things happened under the Empire — Grand Moff Tarkin, if you look at the archives, made a considerable profit from such deals."
"I'm more interested in the other clients of Station Kwenn," Rederick admitted. "We understand that no actual 'Rothana Heavy Engineering' exists."
"Yes, it's a cover for arming the army of the 'Silri Syndicate,'" Torin agreed. "But, according to the latest data on the battle in the Karthakk system, the 'Syndicate' is armed with far less advanced weapons than those being sold. It's either heterogeneous or..."
"It's either about rearming a multi-million man army, or about accumulating strategic reserves for a future army," Rederick said. "The deliveries are not going to Rothana itself. Or to Kamino. Unfortunately, I couldn't trace it beyond the general direction. But the ships of the shell companies are heading somewhere to the east or south of the galaxy."
"So the army is not being assembled on Kamino or Rothana either," Inek summarized. "Or it won't be assembled there."
"Which is illogical if we're talking about the clone army the 'Syndicate' is creating," Rederick shared his thought.
"Perhaps we're not talking about that army at all," Torin Inek said thoughtfully. "In any case, this data needs to be transmitted to the command. Let them adjust the direction of our intelligence efforts there."
"The question is, what are we going to do about 'Ubrikkian Industries,'" Rederick stated. "They ostensibly adhere to neutrality in wars across the galaxy."
"But at the same time, they trade weapons with our enemies," Captain Inek said slowly. "As far as I know, they refused our purchasers of advanced weaponry?"
"Exactly," Rederick confirmed. "I have a theory that 'Ubrikkian Industries' is actually under the control of the 'Silri Syndicate' or one of their puppets."
Bravo-One was silent for a while.
Then he nodded in agreement.
"An interesting theory," he agreed. "In that case, we could say that both Silri and Fey'lya herself are laundering money through New Republic defense contracts. For the former, it's a way to control the latter's army development, incidentally. They always know exactly which weapon samples and in what quantity their 'allies' received."
"I don't think there's any 'alliance' here," said Rederick. "Silri and her lackeys use the New Republic as a source to improve their own financial position. That's the first thing."
"And second, Silri, through inflated prices, not only knows exactly what the Republic army has in its arsenal, strengthening her own army at their expense, but she also keeps Fey'lya hooked on corruption," Torin Inek continued the thought. "And something tells me this isn't the only organization that might be under the 'Syndicate's' control this way."
"But they can't possibly replace everyone with clones, can they?" Rederick voiced his opinion. "It simply takes too long to grow them."
"Perhaps all of this is leftover work from the 'Zann Consortium,'" Torin said. "In any case," he concluded, "let command deal with it. That's not our job."
"This production line needs to be destroyed," Rederick said. "For everyone who died in the Rendili operation."
"I completely agree with you," Inek grew serious. "The objective was to shut down the production lines. You found out much more than that, and that's good. Let the brass handle it. Not our job..."
"Set off a fireworks display?" Rederick clarified.
"Big and colorful," Torin confirmed. "Do you have baradium in the hidden compartments on your ship?"
"Rhydonium," Bravo-Three revealed the secret of his kamikaze ship. "It's in most of the fuel tanks."
"Are there only corporate employees and smugglers working for the New Republic on the station?" Inek asked.
"Yes. And don't worry, the workers also sympathize with the New Republic. Everyone here is an ideological opponent of the Empire and everything connected with it," Rederick assured him. "I managed to dig into their personal files."
His starship had been delivered to the jump point near the Kwenn station by a Dominion transport vessel traveling from the state's capital to load cargo in the Karthakk sector.
The segmented fuel tanks allowed him to reach the station and provided him with some mobility for a short time — for unforeseen circumstances.
Their main purpose, like the rest of the starship, was to hide the presence of explosive material with which the ship was packed from cockpit to engine nozzles from scanners.
But to make the explosion much stronger, a powerful detonator was needed, which is what he was waiting for.
"In that case, it's time to install our detonator," the 'Tof' stood up, smoothing the mangy fur on his hide. "My ship is packed with baradium. The hyperdrive is the same class and type as yours."
"Synchronous ignition?" Rederick clarified.
"Exactly."
Bravo-Three mentally estimated the force of the explosion triggered by the rhydonium, the baradium, and their powerful detonators.
Considering the large amount of fuel in the station's own tanks, the station could be written off.
"Well, then," Rederick said. "Time to arrange moving the hyperdrive I need from your ship to mine. And we need a way to get out of here as quickly as possible."
"Oh," Torin smiled. "Don't worry about that. There's bound to be at least one Republic cargo ship on the station whose pilot and crew will want to share their vessel with us. We can also find out exactly where they're delivering their equipment."
"If the ships have waybills and invoices, that'll be easy," Rederick agreed.
* * *
"Grand Admiral," Ordo addressed me, displaying calm composure, "were your people able to retrieve any data from the central computer of the 'Silri Syndicate's' flagship?"
"I'm afraid not," I replied. "The enemy destroyed the data before the Delta Squad could extract it."
He didn't need to know that Mr. Ghent's clones, who were part of the Sentinel's crew as computer specialists in data encryption and decryption, were currently working on restoring information from the seized data storage devices, and were also finishing decoding the information chips found in Silri's apartments. Ordo and his men were not supposed to know that by definition.
"That is unfortunate," he stated.
Of course.
It would be unfortunate for us, if the Dominion didn't have the best (or at least one of the best) 'slicers' in the galaxy in its service.
"We agreed to work with you in this battle solely to obtain that information," Ordo reminded me.
"Yes," I agreed. "You don't need to remind me. I regret that we couldn't fulfill our promise."
"As I understand it, Delta Squad remains at your disposal?" the head of the Skirata clan asked.
"They all expressed that desire," I confirmed. "I hope you understand I have no intention of arguing with them."
"Who would refuse three commando clones, given your plans to create a clone army," Ordo chuckled. "But my clan still declines your offer."
"I wouldn't presume to persuade you," I replied. "The agreement was not fulfilled, so I only ask you to consider tying your future to the Dominion. Sooner or later, we will obtain all the necessary information."
"I don't doubt that," Ordo said, almost politely sneering. "But understand me too — it could happen in a year, two, five, ten. And my people have no desire to serve while waiting for a phantom promise that someday they'll learn the truth about what happened on Mandalore."
Oh, you already know it.
But a completely different desire drives you.
"Well, I can only tell you that it will happen much sooner," I assured him.
Ordo looked at me thoughtfully.
"May I ask what you mean by that?"
"Of course. There's no secret here. Since we didn't uncover the secrets of the 'Silri Syndicate,' the only place we can obtain them is the organization's headquarters," I explained.
"Kamino," Ordo said.
"Or Rothana," I shrugged. "At the moment, it's not as important as it seems."
"Why?"
"We won't back down," I said. "A simple analysis of the 'Syndicate's' activities shows they have spread their networks wide across the galaxy. Silri was eliminated by our special forces squad. Consequently, the organization is now in a state of power redistribution. Or it will be, sometime after they learn what happened to Silri."
Ordo was silent for exactly one second.
"Communications in the system were blocked. They won't find out for a long time."
"They will find out," I assured him.
"You'll tell them," Ordo understood.
"Yes," I confirmed, noting from the subtle facial movements of the Mandalorian that he was beginning to unravel the web of my designs laid out for him. "Criminal organizations hold together through the authority of their leadership. When the latter dies, their surviving minions start dividing power. Something like a miniature civil war."
"You want to provoke it so their attention shifts from you to their internal problems," Ordo understood.
"Yes."
It was difficult, but I had figured this man out.
Honor was not an empty word for him.
And he would clearly try to carry out what he planned.
Well, let's keep steering his thoughts in the direction I need.
"While they're deciding who will lead the 'Syndicate,' we'll strike," I proclaimed.
"You want to destroy Kamino and Rothana?" Ordo asked.
"No," I admitted. This answer combined both my feigned intentions and my real ones. "Capture them. Only the 'Syndicate' will be destroyed. Without central leadership, all their puppets won't be able to threaten us as I initially assumed."
"Including Mandalore," Ordo said.
"I have no great desire to tangle with the Mandalorians and conquer your sector," and that was also true. "History shows it only brings problems. Instead, if we remove the puppet masters controlling Fenn Shysa, we'll get a neighbor who, while not entirely reliable, is at least neutral and shares a border. We could easily become trade partners instead of waging war against each other."
"That sounds interesting," Skirata agreed. "But… you didn't try to establish contact with Mandalore in the past."
"No."
"And now you want to."
"Correct."
"What changed? Until recently, you didn't know Shysa was a clone. What stopped you from contacting him and, for example, ordering the 'Crusader'-class corvettes you love so much from 'Mandal Motors'?"
This question bothered him greatly.
Alright, let's continue the ploy.
"Ever since those starships first appeared in our field of vision, it became clear they were being produced either on Mandalore or by Mandalorians for the 'Syndicate.' Neither option suited me. The Dominion is built on its own economy, and buying something when we could produce it ourselves is foolish. In the short term, spending millions on purchasing components or similar from a foreign manufacturer might seem like saving money. Compared to billions spent building the necessary infrastructure — yes, an apparent saving. But my position is that we must supply ourselves with what we need. Let our 'Crusaders' not be built on specially equipped yards or by Mandalorian master craftsmen, but they are being built."
"Slowly," Ordo corrected me.
"Yes. But we also don't need to create a production cycle of that scale if we can seize the 'Syndicate's' shipyards and use their production, their workers, and their resources, do we?"
"So that's why you need Rothana," Ordo nodded understandingly.
"We know how to produce clones very quickly," I fanned the flames. "We'll create thousands of the clones we need in a year using Kamino, and the problem of slow Mandalorian ship production will be solved."
"And what about the patents and everything else that belongs to 'MandalMotors'?" Ordo clarified.
"By that time, we'll have gathered significant strength, and even the most warlike Mandalorians will understand it's not worth making such claims against us," I explained. "Besides, the Dominion has shown you what happens to those who stand in our way."
"Besides beheading the 'Syndicate,' you've also subtly hinted to us what will happen to our sector if we go against you," Ordo Skirata said with a polite smile, glancing at Tierce.
The adjutant didn't flinch, but his entire demeanor showed he was ready to defend me if necessary.
Well, Ordo got what he came for.
The motivation to act as I needed him to.
"I would be grateful if you could provide us with a ship on a gratuitous basis," he requested.
"Of course. We have suitable starships. Will a modernized armed freighter do?"
"Yes. I hope we part on friendly terms?" he inquired. "Without mines, beacons, or other things?"
"Naturally. I am counting on you being able to reason with Shysa somehow, and our states becoming good neighbors. Especially since Mandalore has beskar that would interest us."
"On Mandalore's moon," Ordo corrected.
"On Mandalore itself," I corrected him. "I have clear data that there are still unexplored veins on the planet."
The clan leader stared at me intently.
Of course, he didn't know my information was based on knowledge of this universe's history.
He thought I had real data.
Well, I do.
After the war with the Yuuzhan Vong, the then-Mand'alor, Boba Fett, managed to find beskar deposits.
True, he was helped by Vong weaponry, but that's a negligible factor.
The main thing is that the books of the Expanded Universe and reference materials indicate exactly where such mining took place.
"Perhaps, in the spirit of good neighborly relations, you could share such information with us?" Ordo asked.
"Of course." Tierce handed the 'Null' an information chip. "Here is everything we have on beskar deposits on Mandalore."
"Thank you. I and my people would be grateful if your flagship would exit hyperspace soon so we could fly away," Ordo said.
"I'm afraid we're currently in hostile territory," I said. "As soon as we leave it, you'll have the opportunity to leave during a scheduled stop."
"As you wish, Grand Admiral," Ordo said, rising. "I request permission to return to my people. It's time to pack."
"Permission granted," I replied.
When he left, I allowed myself a slight smile.
There was no point in destroying them now, even though I could have done so with minimal losses.
Why waste a valuable and hostile resource when I could use them to achieve my goals?
As Ordo Skirata said: "As you wish, Grand Admiral."
I wished for them to become my pawns.
And they did.
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