Grand Admiral

Nine years, nine months, and seventeen days after the Battle of Yavin…

Or forty-four years, nine months, and seventeen days since the Great Resynchronization.

(Five months and two days since the arrival.)

If the transport carrying him to an unknown destination was a mere fishing boat, then Steben himself was a Zeltron dancer.

The operative sat calmly in the small cockpit, observing as Sol Sixxa steered the fragile vessel through the gap of monstrous-looking rocks.

"The Strait of Phantoms"—that's what the locals of Maramere called this place.

The Mere avoided this part of the ocean, superstitiously believing it was haunted by spirits.

A rather curious coincidence, wouldn't you agree?

The Strait of Phantoms.

The rebellious "Mere Resistance," led by an enigmatic figure known only as "Phantom," whose face and name remained unknown.

A place no sane local sentient would dare venture.

Rumors spoke of a mythical island here, one that no one had ever managed to locate.

For outsiders, these massive, awe-inspiring rocks offered perfect spots for ambushes with heavy weaponry.

Perhaps on that peak.

Or that one.

And in that grotto, one could easily conceal a laser cannon or heavy blaster, ensuring the approaches to this place remained secure from prying eyes.

Any disappearance could conveniently be attributed to the antics of "phantoms."

A highly advantageous geographical feature of Maramere.

One easily transformed into the site of a secret "Mere Resistance" base.

Supplies could be delivered under the guise of fishing boats.

Defense was straightforward to maintain.

Pursuers could be easily eliminated, their traces buried at the bottom of the Strait of Phantoms.

"The Strait of Phantoms."

—You still haven't told me where we're headed, — Steben remarked.

—To our base, — Sol replied with unexpected candor.

—Oh, really? — The operative injected a note of surprise into his voice. —You've known me for just a few days, and you're already taking me to your hideout. Rather reckless for "Phantom."

Sixxa chuckled softly.

—Think we're amateurs? — he asked.

—I think what I said, — Steben retorted, playing his role convincingly. —This feels all wrong. Nym's recruitment process was nothing like this.

—Nym was an idiot, — Sol shared a valuable observation. —And he ended up with a blaster hole in his skull. Disgraced and insulted. I knew him. He wasn't exactly brilliant when it came to anything beyond planning operations.

—You knew Nym? — Steben expressed surprise. —I never saw you on Lok.

—We collaborated many years ago, — Sol admitted reluctantly. —It took us a while to understand each other and find common ground. But in recent years, we lived in relative peace, not encroaching on each other's territories.

—You talk suspiciously much about your importance, — Steben grumbled, analyzing the Mere's words. Familiar with Nym, the leader of one of the largest gangs in the Karthakk sector. Had his own sphere of influence and evidently commanded enough respect from the Lok Revenants that they didn't absorb the talkative Mere. That would only be possible if they hadn't eliminated a weaker competitor. And for Nym, the only "non-weak" types were leaders of equally powerful and large organizations, like the Lok Revenants.

—I speak as it is, — Sixxa said carelessly. —Since you're one of us, there's no point dragging you around in circles.

—I don't recall passing any tests or anything of the sort, — Steben countered.

—Because you didn't, — Sol declared. —While you were waiting for my call, my Mere checked your background. Asked around, made inquiries…

"My Mere"… An interesting turn of phrase.

—So, you dug into my past? — Steben asked irritably, continuing to play his role.

Background checks were an occupational hazard for any scout or operative working undercover.

A risk of the profession that could lead to death if the enemy discovered inconsistencies—making it unlikely that the operative's body would even be found by those tracking them.

Well, risk was part of the job.

The Dominion—above all.

His "legend" was meticulously crafted, so any rebels or insurgents would have to dig deep to find even the slightest discrepancies in the story he'd fed them.

After their defeat at the hands of the Rebel Alliance, Dominion scouts had done much to refine their skills.

—The Mere Resistance doesn't just take anyone, — Sol stated. —Even your skills as an excellent mechanic-engineer didn't guarantee you a place among us. But I'm satisfied with the background check. So, we're heading to the base.

—Last time, you promised we'd go to sea, do some swimming, — Steben recalled. —I don't see any suitable waters around here…

—We needed to retrieve something from the ocean floor, — Sol explained. —I thought you could help, but we managed on our own. The cargo's waiting at the base.

—And what's the cargo? — Steben pressed.

—My old ship, — Sol replied vaguely. —The Phantom…

Those words carried an unsettling hint of coincidence.

It took Steben a couple of minutes to piece it together.

And another couple to play up his less-than-stellar intellect. An average pirate shouldn't be too clever.

—The Phantom—a ship, "Phantom"—the leader of the Mere Resistance, the Strait of Phantoms, — he listed, connecting the dots of the logical chain. —Sounds suspiciously convenient…

—Go on, think it through, — Sixxa encouraged.

—I've thought enough, — Steben declared. —I don't think a simple pirate could negotiate with Nym so easily. Now I understand why I never saw you. You're the Phantom, the head of the Mere Resistance.

Sol let out a satisfied hum.

—You're on the right track, — he said. —I am the Phantom. And the Mere Resistance is my creation.

—I'm practically bursting with pride, — Steben remarked. —The boss himself handling my recruitment… What did I do to earn such an honor?

—Nym had a subordinate with a ship equipped with a cloaking system, — Sixxa shifted to a businesslike tone. —Know anything about it?

This question was nothing short of a test. Anyone who worked for Nym would know exactly what he meant.

Steben hadn't worked for Nym and was never part of the Lok Revenants, but he had a habit of studying every detail related to his mission.

Including Captain Tiberos's report on the battle against Nym's forces in the Monastery system.

—The Mantis-Prayer, — he said. —A machine built by the Xi Char for Vana Sage, Nym's right-hand woman.

—Ever repaired it? — Sol pressed.

Another test.

—A unique piece like that, in the hands of a simple mechanic? — Steben shook his head. —No. I only helped tune a few components, nothing more.

—That's more than my engineers can claim, — Sol smirked. —You see, the Mantis-Prayer was equipped with a cloaking system based on stygium crystals. Ring a bell?

—Heard the name a couple of times… — Steben replied nonchalantly, though inwardly he tensed.

The Galactic Empire—and others—used stygium for cloaked ships. Unlike the clumsy, "blind," and "deaf" hybridium-based technology employed by the Grand Admiral, stygium offered far more advanced capabilities. However, the crystal's deposits had long been destroyed, and the remaining resources in the galaxy were traded for astronomical sums.

—When the Trade Federation occupied Maramere, I managed to steal their governor's ship, — Sol continued. —It had a stygium-based cloaking system. The ship sank, thanks to Nym's efforts. Later, I raised it—that's what I wanted you to "swim" for. But my guys handled it without outside help or advice.

—So, you have a working cloaking system prototype, — the operative concluded.

—That's a bit generous, — Sol countered. —More like its remnants. I want you to use what you know about these devices and build cloaking screens for the Mere Resistance.

—They'd hide starships from shipyard scanners, — Steben nodded understandingly. —Then you could arm them with heavier weapons and blow everything to the Hutts.

—You catch on quick, — Sixxa agreed.

—Fixing devices isn't complicated, — Steben said. —But I don't have any stygium to make them work properly…

—You might not, — Sixxa confirmed. —But I do… Ever heard of the Invisible Island?

Yes, that old tale about a patch of land in the middle of the Strait of Phantoms that no one could ever find.

—A legend, — Steben waved dismissively. —With today's scanners, any island would be visible from orbit and—

The boat, guided by the helmsman's wheel, sharply veered, slipping into a narrow passage between the rocks…

Before Steben could object, the boat emerged into a vast body of water.

And on the horizon, the edges of an island glimmered… suspiciously sparkling in the natural light…

—Welcome to the Invisible Island, — Sol laughed. —The only landmass on Maramere with deposits of stygium crystals. They shield the island from all forms of detection. You can only see it because some of the coastal rocks have already been hauled to the workshops, making the island visible…

Steben wasn't listening.

An island.

By the most conservative estimate—seven kilometers from one shore to the other.

And all of it filled with stygium crystals…

The mission was growing more intriguing by the minute.

Should he transfer to counterintelligence? So much of interest seemed to lurk within the Dominion itself…

Continuing to banter with the "Phantom" about trivial matters, Steben pressed the heel of his left boot into the deck. With a slight effort, he shifted part of the boot, allowing the concealed tracking device hidden in the sole to activate on a specific frequency.

It was their Invisible Island. Soon, it would be the Dominion's.

There was no turning back now.

Either the support team would arrive before the enemy detected the transmitter, or this would be his final operation.

***

—Your work on Balmorra was exemplary, Bravo-Three, — I said, addressing Agent Rederick. —Executed brilliantly.

The scout calmly acknowledged the praise, responding that it was merely part of his duties.

—There's a new assignment for you, — I informed him.

—I'm ready to begin immediately, — the agent replied.

As expected.

The young man took the data chip I extended to him.

—Your assignment has a dual purpose, — I explained. —You'll travel to the Corporate Sector. When they supported the Galactic Empire, they were supplied with Victory-class Star Destroyers. By conservative estimates, over fifty ships. Similarly, they received outdated starships from the Clone Wars: Acclamator-class assault ships, Venator-class Star Destroyers, and Separatist vessels. Open sources indicate the Corporate Sector is currently pursuing a policy of bolstering its armed forces with proprietary technology. There's a high probability they'd be willing to sell us part of their fleet. We're primarily interested in ships previously part of the Imperial Starfleet.

—Acclamators, Venators, Victories, cruisers, corvettes, frigates, — Rederick oriented himself instantly. —In proper condition, quality, and configuration.

—It's sufficient if the starships can make a hyperspace jump to Dominion territory, — I clarified. —We can handle the necessary repairs ourselves.

More importantly, these ships must undergo modernization, so their condition is secondary.

—I understand, sir, — the man replied. —Will I be briefed on the second part of the assignment in advance?

—Of course, — I agreed. —Are you familiar with the name Jahan Cross?

The scout shook his head.

This only confirmed my theory that Jahan was a high-ranking Imperial agent.

At least, he had been.

—I need this individual, — I stated. —The data chip contains all the information we have on this sentient. He's sufficiently dangerous, possessing specialized training. There's evidence of him conducting several special missions for the Galactic Empire, under diplomatic immunity, naturally, — the scout nodded understandingly. He grasped the implication. —Little is known about Jahan Cross's past; most likely, his records were destroyed to ensure his safety during undercover operations. However, there are several names he might be connected to.

Rederick remained silent, awaiting further instructions.

He had taken the dissolution of Naval Intelligence in stride. The division was disbanded, its limited personnel largely reassigned to Dominion Intelligence or Naval Special Forces. A few chose the path of operatives in the Dominion Security Bureau, so options for "downsized" employment existed.

Rederick chose the path of a scout.

Evidently, he wasn't fond of special forces, despite having the qualifications for it. The "personnel management" service didn't impress him either, so he found his calling.

Alongside Torin Inek and Sergius, he received the operational alias "Bravo" and a sequential number, designating him as a special agent tasked with missions directly assigned by me. Efforts were underway to select a candidate for Dominion Intelligence Director, as Molo remained in captivity, though the Guard, led by Tierce—the real Tierce—was working on his rescue.

—The first and key lead is Cross's father, a former Alderaanian diplomat named Davim Cross, — I said. —According to our agents, this man is a prominent figure among Alderaanian refugees, currently residing on New Alderaan. Our spies report that Jahan hasn't contacted his father in recent months, nor has Davim inquired about his son.

—A family conflict? — Rederick clarified.

—Quite likely, — I agreed. —The father is a staunch Republican, while Cross is, or was, a high-ranking Imperial agent. Our information suggests the father may have known his son's activities, so a conflict of interest is evident. Additionally, during the Clone Wars, Jahan's mother and sister perished in a Separatist attack on Coruscant. The father survived. According to my information, on one of his last missions, Jahan Cross eliminated the ruling count of House Dooku on Serenno, paving the way for a pro-Imperial regent. He also took measures to preserve the life of the rightful heir through Alderaanian aristocracy. This indicates a sense of justice guiding Cross's actions, which may have driven him to "go dark."

—If Jahan Cross is sufficiently skilled and trained, even after the Galactic Empire's collapse, he likely found a bolthole to lie low in, — Rederick hypothesized. —A standard "cover identity" wouldn't suffice for someone of his caliber. Thus, if he's alive, he likely used his own support channels, often tied to the criminal underworld, to create a new identity and evade potential pursuit by Imperial authorities.

—I had the same thought, — I noted, as the agent calmly awaited further details. Naturally, he received them.

—Thanks to hacked Republic files, we have information on a Sluissi named Alessi Quon. Uncharacteristically, he worked in the Imperial Intelligence experimental technology division, — I said. —Indirect analysis suggests Quon submitted reports on completed tests for certain assets at times that align with Cross's use of identical technological developments. Shortly after Cross's missions concluded, Quon reported the complete destruction of the technology prototypes he created.

—Likely a technician providing Cross with specialized equipment, — Rederick suggested.

—And he vanished from Intelligence's radar almost immediately after Cross completed his operations, particularly the one involving House Dooku, — I continued. —His file concludes he was either executed or fled. But it's possible Cross facilitated his evacuation, suggesting a friendly relationship between them.

—A third possibility—Quon could have been used by Intelligence to lure Cross out, — the agent proposed.

—Which is why the company Rossum Droidworks in the Corporate Sector should interest you, — I warned. —Its founder, Yaco Stark. Cross conducted an operation against Stark's plans. He was accused of the death of Yaco Stark's widow, but Republic intelligence indicates he successfully thwarted Stark's droid uprising plans, alongside a woman known as Ellie Stark. Officially, she's considered the daughter of Yaco Stark and his first wife. In reality, Yaco Stark isn't her biological father. That didn't stop her. With Jahan Cross's involvement, all members of the Stark family—Yaco, his biological son, and second wife—were eliminated. Rossum Droidworks, having lost significant capitalization, passed to Ellie Stark by inheritance. Curiously, three years before the Battle of Yavin, after her family's demise, Ellie Stark applied to the Imperial Intelligence Academy but was deemed unreliable and shifted to managing her inherited business. That year coincides with Cross's elimination of her family and his operation with House Dooku. It was also the last year anything was known about him.

—So, he deserted thirteen years ago? — Rederick asked, surprised.

—To some degree, we're all deserters, — I remarked. —Your task is to find this individual and recruit him to work with us, not to accuse him of treason or deliver him for trial.

—My actions if he refuses? — Rederick clarified.

—Confirm that Jahan Cross is alive, — I stated. —If he wishes to cooperate or remain uninvolved, that's acceptable. If he's working for an enemy, the Noghri assigned to support your mission will ensure he poses no further threat. Then proceed to the operation to acquire the Star Destroyers, — I instructed.

—Collateral damage? — Rederick asked.

A pertinent question.

Data on Jahan Cross clearly indicates he stops at nothing to preserve his life. Thus, if he's working for an enemy, Rederick cannot be constrained by concerns over collateral damage or destruction.

Within reason, of course.

—Whatever is necessary to eliminate an enemy agent, — I replied. —But under all circumstances, no one must know you're acting in the Dominion's interests. Secrecy is paramount.

A clear hint that, if captured and unrescuable, the agent would be eliminated.

—As always, sir, — he responded. —Occupational hazards, nothing more. When do I begin?

Before I could answer, the comlink crackled with Captain Pellaeon's voice.

—Grand Admiral, sir, — the device's speaker announced. —The encryption section received a signal. Guard frequency. The message is signed by Major Tierce, addressed to you personally.

—Forward it to my datapad, — I ordered, knowing the message could only be decrypted with my code cylinder. My work computer, undoubtedly isolated from the network, couldn't receive messages except via data chips. But my personal datapad was designed for routine efficiency.

The device blinked.

Touching the code cylinder to the receiver slot, I scanned the report's lines.

Then, I glanced at the tactical monitor, correlating the Chimaera's current position with the signal's source…

—Prepare yourself, Bravo-Three, — I ordered. —You depart in one hour to rendezvous with the support team.

—Yes, sir, — Rederick left my office.

Once alone, I activated the comlink:

—Captain Pellaeon, prepare the Chimaera to exit hyperspace and change course.

—We're leaving the fleet? — Gilad clarified.

—Correct, — I replied. —We're leaving the fleet.

The commander of the flagship Star Destroyer had no further questions.

All the better.

***

The first lesson for an undercover government agent: when dealing with deserters, don't expect them to maintain the discipline drilled into them by years of instructors.

Thus, Mara wasn't particularly surprised that the freighter she'd hidden aboard wasn't thoroughly searched.

She waited patiently as the pirates scoured the ship, poking into every crevice and digging through its computers before moving to unload it.

It took them considerable time.

Evidently, no one was in a rush, suggesting no urgency in delivering the cargo.

Or perhaps the former Imperials were simply lazy.

She had to wait a long time.

A very long time.

But finally, her ship was unloaded and towed to a storage bay. The deserters mocked the "cowardly" crew, assuming, as she'd planned, that they'd abandoned the ship. "Scared off by the course change," the loaders muttered.

From snippets of their conversation, the Hand of Thrawn gleaned that her intervention had saved the freighter crew's lives—no one here intended to negotiate.

Surprising, isn't it?

Now it was clear why those who made such runs to Vohai never returned.

No one paid them—the crews were executed to maintain secrecy.

No wonder a hefty bounty had been placed on Lieutenant Lon Donell's head.

Fifteen thousand credits was no small sum for a mid-tier bounty hunter.

But it seemed Republic intelligence hadn't realized Donell was merely a cog in a much larger machine.

Mara Jade could see the scale of that machine with her own eyes, observing from the cockpit of the freighter docked at the spaceport.

Ten massive bulk freighters, three DP20 frigates, five CR90 corvettes—not just any, but Assassin-class, a battle-proven modification favored by the Imperial Navy for its enhanced weaponry, speed, and robust hull. Not to mention a Super Transport XI, jury-rigged by mechanics into an escort carrier.

Additionally, Donell commanded a cruiser-interdictor and, from what she could see, a vast fleet of a couple hundred light and medium freighters and transports.

And most of them were being armed…

Mara couldn't boast perfect memory, but she recognized the location.

The Barpain system in the Venin sector, in the galaxy's Outer Rim Territories. Just a few sectors from the Dominion's borders.

The Venin sector.

It bordered the Kwelli sector, and… Donell's plan was becoming clearer, confirming Mara's suspicions.

The deserter ordered equipment deliveries, provided random coordinates to the suppliers, then calmly seized both the cargo and the freighters delivering it.

Then he towed them to the Barpain system.

The planet Barpain sat in quadrant N-6, and Mara could swear by the natural hue of her red hair that this was precisely where they were.

Here, under the Galactic Empire's "one sector, one shipyard" program, the Barpain orbital shipyards had been established.

Well-equipped and capable of not just repairing and outfitting ships but building them from scratch. This was evident from the sprawling factory complexes visible on Barpain's cloudless surface. They could undoubtedly produce everything needed for rapid repairs…

However, since this sector and its neighbors lacked anything noteworthy, and the shipyards were converted from civilian facilities, the docks were small—suitable for corvettes or frigates but not for constructing a Star Destroyer, for instance.

Yet, with all docks occupied by transport ships, Lon Donell had found a way to build his own fleet with minimal effort.

Thrawn had turned the galaxy upside down with his "wolf packs"—nothing more than retrofitted freighters. It seemed rebellious Imperial warlords were aware of the Grand Admiral's and the Dominion's activities, learning from them.

But they did so solely for their own gain.

What frightened her most, however, wasn't this.

It was the nineteen-kilometer-long, wedge-shaped starship looming over Barpain.

Yes, that ship.

It took Mara several minutes to calm herself and think rationally.

First things first.

All Executor-class ships built at Kuat and Fondor were either destroyed or accounted for. This couldn't be one of them.

Second.

Upon closer inspection, Mara noted numerous unfinished sections across the ship's hull. A swarm of transport and repair ships delivered the very cargo Donell had been seizing.

Using her microbinoculars, Jade examined the ship kilometer by kilometer, noting details that etched into her memory.

First, the starship had multiple geometric gaps—the starboard side was almost entirely unarmored.

Most of the main engines were missing—only two or four from the entire cluster.

Empty weapon emplacements, gaping voids where launch tubes should be, an incomplete superstructure, and no deflector shield generators…

The main hangar was little more than a technical zone, with no indication it was operational.

Some parts of the hull even lacked perfect geometric alignment.

And…

What did this suggest?

The ship bore no signs of battle damage.

No scorch marks, no evidence of hits.

The state of the super star destroyer suggested it hadn't seen combat.

Either that, or all damaged components had been removed, and the shipments Mara had joined were meant to replace them.

Or this starship… was being built.

The latter was supported by the complete absence of artillery and launch tubes. Could an Executor have been so damaged in battle as to lose all its weaponry, defenses, and most of its engines?

But…

How could Donell have the resources to fund such massive shipments? He clearly lacked the funds for something of this scale!

If he did, why build an Executor when he could buy an entire fleet with the credits spent on these acquisitions?

If Donell was borrowing successful tactics—as evidenced by the mass arming of freighters—why build an Executor?

A ship of that class required massive escort support. Darth Vader, perhaps the only one who truly understood this, always moved his flagship with the Death Squadron.

Donell's fleet couldn't substitute for even a pair of Star Destroyers.

So, what was Donell planning?

Creating robust flagship protection through sheer numbers?

The Rogue Squadron had demonstrated the effectiveness of such tactics when attacking the Lusankya at Thyferra…

A chill ran down Mara's spine.

The New Republic had concealed the location of the Lusankya's repairs. According to their official reports, Ysanne Isard's favorite toy had been heavily damaged!

What if the New Republic had been repairing the Lusankya here?

What if this shipyard was secretly working with the New Republic, and the ship's restoration required such secrecy that the Republic still didn't know it was in enemy hands?

The Hand of Thrawn stood stunned for a moment, pondering which of her hypotheses was correct.

She strongly doubted the ship before her was the Lusankya.

No matter the secrecy, the New Republic would never leave such an asset unguarded! Even if Donell had captured the shipyards and the Lusankya in a non-combat-ready state, they would have sent a fleet to reclaim it.

Or destroy it!

No, this couldn't be Isard's toy!

But… then whose?

All other ships of its class were destroyed! Except for the Reaper, in Grand Moff Kaine's possession!

But it couldn't be that either! What would compel Kaine to rebuild his flagship in such a backwater, so close to the Dominion, with such feeble defenses? A pair of Star Destroyers could seize this entire shipyard!

Mara quickly checked herself.

Alright, she'd exaggerated about "a pair of Star Destroyers."

The shipyard was guarded by nearly a dozen Golan I orbital defense platforms, indicating its secondary status even during the New Order.

But there was surely a fleet in the sector that could rush to its aid! The Venin sector had no more than a dozen systems of interest.

So…

Mara shook her head, realizing her reasoning had led her to a logical dead end.

No time to ponder further.

She'd arrived at the shipyard on a freighter loaded with turbolasers.

The ships at the docks swarmed around the super star destroyer, indicating systems were being installed.

She hadn't spotted Lieutenant Donell's Immobilizer 418 nearby, suggesting he might be on another mission to seize freighters and cargo.

If so…

Mara glanced at the instrument panel.

The ship she was on was in a mothballed state, its power reduced to prevent icing over from prolonged inactivity.

But activating the communication panel or reactor would reveal everything.

Patrol fighters would swarm, followed by boarding, interrogation, and all the unpleasantries of an unrestrained interrogation process. The deserters, detecting encrypted communications, would tear the starship apart to find the intruder.

If she stayed silent, there was no guarantee she'd get a chance to report her findings before the freighter was docked, retrofitted, or she could escape.

The temperatures here weren't exactly comfortable.

Her combat suit could sustain her for a while, and she had food reserves, but…

There was no assurance the ship wouldn't be moved elsewhere.

A dilemma—act now and guaranteed exposure, or wait for a better moment, unsure if she'd survive long enough or have a secure chance to report.

An occupational hazard…

Why wasn't Thrawn Force-sensitive? She could have contacted him telepathically, as she had with Palpatine…

Wait!

Of course!

Thrawn might not be Force-sensitive, but he had allies who were.

She just needed to muster all her strength to reach that bothersome Togruta, hoping her skull wasn't too thick and Mara's old skills in this area hadn't faded critically…

Her secrecy was already compromised, but Tano knew the score anyway…

Mara settled into a more comfortable position, focusing on the Force, visualizing the image of the annoying Togruta…

The next moment, she sensed another ship entering the system. A strange ship, radiating unrestrained fury, anger, and a desire to destroy…

Having twice formulated her message for the Togruta, Mara decided to investigate.

A Star Destroyer.

An Imperial-class, Type I.

And it was heading straight for the unfinished super star destroyer. It seemed Lieutenant Donell had allies.

The red-haired fury reached out to the ship with the Force…

And in the next instant, she barely suppressed a scream.

The ship, emanating the icy wrath of the Dark Side, changed course, heading directly toward her.

***

The Chimaera drifted in interstellar vacuum, dozens of units from a celestial body lacking a name in astrogation catalogs.

The stop and course change were unplanned, but the incoming signal compelled me to issue the order.

Was it guilt or rationalism? I couldn't say.

But the fact remained.

We were here.

Alone.

Without the fleet.

My Lambda-class escort shuttle cut through the fabric of space, approaching the target.

The place we'd rushed to reach but arrived too late.

I sat in my chair, eyes closed, analyzing Major Tierce's report.

No one else could be entrusted with this mission—only the Guard. Only Tierce and his men, clones, could be guaranteed free of being sleeper agents for the real Ysanne Isard.

I opened my eyes slightly, glancing at the guards in black-and-blue armor seated across from me.

Their armor nearly mirrored that of the Imperial Guard, save for the color and several technical enhancements.

The Guard.

When it became clear that restoring the Galactic Empire was a doomed endeavor, I concluded it would be wise to designate an elite among my forces.

Whether by chance or not, I couldn't devise a better name than "Guard" for the most distinguished units and starships.

The title inherently conveyed elevation, inspiration, and the elite status of those who bore it.

No inconvenient questions about succession or tarnished reputations.

The Delta entered the hangar bay, folding its wings for parking convenience.

Accompanied by Rukh, I silently proceeded to the exit.

The guards in blue-black armor followed like silent shadows.

They were my personal security. Handpicked by Tierce himself, the best of his clones.

Grand Admiral's Personal Guard.

At the ramp, we were met by two dozen Noghri—death commandos assigned to the Guard for delicate missions as "working hands"—and Grodin Tierce, clad in the same blue-black armor as my other bodyguards.

With one exception—he held his helmet under his arm, kneeling before me.

—Mission accomplished, Grand Admiral, — the leader of the Guard bodyguards reported crisply. —Target located, identified, and confirmed. No threat at present. Evacuation is impossible, and he resists it.

—Rise, Major, — I ordered. —I need to see him.

Grodin stood, donning his helmet, blending seamlessly with the other faceless bodyguards.

—Please follow me, Your Excellency, — he said, moving toward a wide corridor leading to the base's interior.

Empty corridors, passages, compartments… Nothing suggested the presence of sentients or technology. Just a mid-sized asteroid, a couple of kilometers in diameter, floating in the vacuum near the Hydian Way.

A tactically advantageous position.

The Hydian Way was one of the galaxy's five major hyperspace routes. Alongside the Corellian, Perlemian, Rimma, and Corellian Trade routes, it spanned much of the galaxy. Place "jump bases" with appropriate equipment nearby, and you could orchestrate attacks on trade ships exiting hyperspace for course corrections.

Or be intercepted by interdictor cruisers.

I had no doubt the Galactic Empire scattered hundreds, perhaps thousands, of such bases across the galaxy. Many likely didn't survive, but the concept…

It held merit.

It strongly echoed the tactic of clone cells operating deep in enemy territory, as employed by Mitth'raw'nuruodo, vividly illustrated in the Thrawn's Hand duology…

But that wasn't the point now.

Grodin led me to a compartment guarded by two more guards. At my approach, they silently stepped aside.

Rukh slipped inside first, absent for mere seconds before emerging, confirming the area's safety.

Accompanied by Rukh and the real Grodin, I entered the detention cell.

Despite time in a bacta tank, Molo Himron looked far from well.

Multiple severe fractures, improperly healed, a severed ear, a missing eye, absent teeth, several finger stumps on hands and feet, shattered kneecaps, and a missing right foot.

Such injuries were pointless if extracting information was the goal. But they made sense for someone indulging in sadistic torment.

—Grand Admiral, — a faint smile flickered on the scout's lips.

He sat on the edge of a hard bunk, hands trembling slightly—damaged nerves or tendons.

—Major, — I replied.

—You came, — he stated the obvious.

—Too late, — I admitted. —The fault for your injuries lies with me…

—Occupational hazards, — Himron smirked crookedly. —When I chose Intelligence, I knew I might err one day and end up in a cell. I just didn't expect it to be Ysanne Isard's torture chamber.

—When did she escape? — I asked.

—I don't know, — he admitted. —It's hard to track time in confinement. I don't even know how long I've been here.

—You'll be taken to the Chimaera and receive the best medical treatment available, — I promised.

The scout shook his head.

—That's not possible, — he declared.

An intriguing response.

—Reason?

—I was Isard's prisoner, — he reminded me. —I have memory gaps from the beatings. I can't guarantee I'm the same Molo Himron I was before. Nor can I assure I won't harm you, the Dominion, or the campaign if set free. And I certainly don't want to commit something horrific and die muttering Lusankya, like the IceHeart's sleeper agents she "activated."

Rukh's obsidian blades appeared. Tierce subtly shifted, gripping his vibroglaive more firmly.

Yes, correct. From an ally I intended to rescue, Molo had become a threat.

Not because he'd been Isard's prisoner.

But because he said something he shouldn't have known.

—The Dominion, — I said. —What do you know about it?

The scout spread his hands, revealing a right hand missing all fingers except the pinky, index, and thumb.

I'd never felt such revulsion at a "rock on" gesture.

—Only what Isard told me during her hand-to-hand "training" sessions, — the scout said. —A state you're building from the Ciutric Hegemony. She complained to Colonel Vessery that several of her agents went silent. She feared her clone, aligned with Delak Krennel, had switched to your side.

—Colonel Vessery, — I noted my interest. —Who is that?

The name was familiar. Delta Source mentioned this individual, but as a Republic agent, close to Wedge Antilles and Corran Horn. I recalled it as such. Was the Corellian playing both sides?

—Broak Vessery, commander of two TIE Defender squadrons, — Molo said. —Intruder and Stranger. From what I gathered, he's her right hand in the current operation.

—And what's her goal in all this? — I pressed.

—I'm sorry, Grand Admiral, — he shook his head. —They weren't inclined to answer those questions, — he glanced at his mangled hands. —Even during particularly sadistic interrogations. But from Vessery's conversations, I inferred he's been training new pilots—veterans, aces—to fly his ships. I must warn you, — he added, catching himself. —I'm not certain anything I learned here is true. Forgive me, sir, but taking my word, given the circumstances, would be foolish.

—I'll consider your concerns, Molo, — my voice shifted by a single tone, enough to draw Rukh's attention. —I regret it's come to this.

—Thank you, sir, — the scout smiled warmly.

We locked eyes for a few seconds, both understanding his release had reached an impasse.

He couldn't return to his duties as Intelligence chief or even as a regular operative. His skills, experience, knowledge, and contacts made one of Dominion Intelligence's best operatives one of its most dangerous potential enemies if he were a sleeper agent.

No techniques existed to "deprogram" those subjected to Isard's conditioning. They either followed orders or died.

Isard's death wouldn't resolve this.

Someone could still know how to turn Himron into a compliant puppet.

Even brain transplantation wouldn't help—her conditioning targeted the brain's subcortex.

—I'm sorry, — he said suddenly, slumping. —I failed the MandalMotors mission. I lost my team. I was captured. I'm a liability.

—Nothing more than occupational hazards, — I said as calmly as possible. —You'll be placed in an isolated medical facility for rehabilitation. It may take time, but we'll determine whether you were conditioned by Isard.

It was the best alternative I could offer.

Spend the rest of his life in confinement, where he couldn't harm himself or the Dominion.

But even then, anything could happen.

—Half a life in a cage, — Molo said grimly.

He stared at the floor for several minutes.

Then, he raised his gaze, meeting my eyes.

—My clones, sir, — he reminded me. —How are they faring?

—The best operatives at my disposal, — I admitted.

—That's good, — he smiled.

He glanced at his mangled hands, realizing his broken body wasn't a death sentence.

But his potential danger was something he'd sworn to eliminate.

—I don't want this, sir, — Himron said, looking into my eyes. —My containment in a special facility will divert resources needed elsewhere. Isard, her minions, her agents—someone might know how to activate me if I'm a sleeper agent.

Both he and I knew there was no cure or escape from Isard's conditioning.

The outcome was binary—either you resisted it, or you didn't. And you awaited the moment they "switched you on."

—Perhaps you weren't conditioned, — I suggested. —The memory gaps could be from the beatings.

—Maybe, — Molo said. —You and I know what's at stake. We can't take risks. And keeping me alive, — his voice trembled, —is a risk. I can't leave this facility. Nor can I return to duty, even with prosthetics. Isard's conditioning is incurable. And living out my days in a cage or fearing I might become an enemy—I can't do that. My honor won't allow it. I'm certain Isard's target is you, — he nodded toward Tierce. —I dictated my thoughts to your guard. In summary, I believe she has a ship. Likely a Victory-class Star Destroyer. From what I recall, when she was on Coruscant, ruling it, one such destroyer vanished. Never to reappear. Anywhere. She likely departed on it. That would explain why this base only has two squadrons…

—I'll review your warnings, Major, — I said honestly, not mentioning the effort required to verify them. —You fulfilled your duty to the end, and I'm grateful for your service.

—I live to serve, sir, — Molo replied, spreading his hands apologetically. —Forgive me, I can't stand, — he showed his remaining stump. —I'm sorry we worked together so briefly. But you'll always have other Molo Himrons.

—They aren't you, Major, — I noted.

—They're what remains of me, — the scout declared. —Each will be loyal to you until the end. I'd say 'I vouch for them,' but in these circumstances, I can't even vouch for myself. I can't even guarantee I didn't reveal Dominion secrets to Isard or her lackey Vessery.

Himron looked at me, guilt written on his face.

—The Dominion's secrets are in safe hands, Molo, — I assured him. —You did your job. I have no complaints.

—Thank you, sir, — gratitude flickered in the scout's eyes.

We both delayed the inevitable decision, neither liking it. But we understood it was the path with the least loss for us and the cause.

—If I may, sir, — Himron said quietly, —I'd ask that the IceHeart doesn't die quickly.

—Your wish is noted, — I assured him. —It will be fulfilled.

—In that case, — the man sighed, glancing at Rukh, who had moved closer. —I'm ready, sir.

—Thank you for your service, Agent Himron, — I said, nodding slightly to the bodyguard. —The Dominion and I will never forget what you've done for us.

—I live to serve, sir, — the scout replied with a strong voice, smiling, though tears welled in his eyes.

Those were his final words.

The gray shadow of the Noghri darted toward the man, delivering an imperceptible, lethal strike.

Catching the body of the man who chose death to protect my mission, Rukh and Tierce gently laid him on the bunk. One of the guards handed the executors a body bag…

—Deliver the body to the Chimaera, — I ordered. —This man, and those like him, are the backbone of the Dominion. Despite everything, he deserves to be buried with full military honors.

Rukh, withdrawing the obsidian blade from the base of the scout's skull, nodded silently.

Turning, I strode toward the shuttle.

It was time to return to the Chimaera.

Time to accelerate my efforts to eliminate the IceHeart.

The comlink in my tunic pocket blared to life…