Chapter 160: Chapter 41 — Render Unto Caesar. Part One
Corran ran a hand over the back of his neck, lowering his palm to massage his stiff muscles.
No, flying an X-wing was, of course, quite an ordeal for an unprepared body. But who could have known that traveling in the passenger compartment of a freighter would be an even greater torment?
— Never again will I complain about a cramped cockpit or an uncomfortable seat, — Tycho Celchu, seated beside him, seemed to read his thoughts.
Judging by the expressions of the other Rogues, disguised as Imperial pilots, they shared their commander's sentiment.
— This is some kind of torture, — Corran commented quietly. — Literally every part of me is stiff. How can anyone travel long distances like this?
— Just as miserably, — Tycho declared. — But during my service, I don't recall pilots being transported to their bases in such vehicles. Usually, more comfortable means of transport were used.
— Looks like Devian has issues with that, — Corran concluded. — If he's using an old, rusty garbage hauler to transport an elite squadron…
If one were to believe, even for a moment, that Isard wasn't concocting another plan that no sentient involved would ever approve of, one could say she had prepared thoroughly.
For the eight pilots of Rogue Squadron, identification cards had been created (or repurposed from ones made for others) stating they were part of Colonel Wessiri's wing, having deserted with their ships to join Warlord Ennix Devian. Naturally, this was to uphold the lofty ideals of the New Order. Though, this Imperial didn't exactly proclaim those ideals loudly…
But that wasn't the main point.
The main point was that Devian's recruiters had hired them. This meant the "legends" crafted by Isard had withstood any scrutiny the recruiters could muster.
Or perhaps the recruiters simply didn't care who they hired. In the Empire, pilots were considered little more than expendable material. Those flying TIE Defenders were even seen as a resource that could be reused, thanks to their deflector shields, which helped them survive more than a single salvo.
Supporting the notion that the recruiters were indifferent was the fact that, despite supposedly adhering to the unyielding paradigms of the New Order, they had hired this particular pair.
Horn cast ambiguous glances at the human and the Twi'lek, carefully masking them as casual movements like stretching his neck or arms.
He didn't like this pair at all.
A human and a Twi'lek, both dressed in Imperial pilot uniforms.
Both piloting TIE Avengers.
Yet, hardcore Imperials would never train aliens to operate their technology, not even letting them near it.
It would make sense if the Twi'lek woman were a slave or servant to the young lieutenant, but judging by their interactions, they were clearly on the verge of a friendly relationship. Moreover, the Twi'lek was the human's wingmate.
A rather strange situation, especially considering that Horn sensed a certain suspicion from the lieutenant toward the eight disguised and "legended" Rogues.
Initially, the plan was to use the same identities that had allowed them to infiltrate Coruscant nearly three years ago to sabotage the planet's defense systems. But just before departure, Colonel Wessiri and Isard scrapped that approach, providing the Rogues with new identities that no one could verify, as the "original" pilots hadn't advertised their fates for years, making it impossible to catch the Rogues in any inconsistencies.
Yet, for some reason, the Imperial and his wingmate radiated distrust…
Perhaps it was due to the natural traits of these sentients, or maybe something else?
Or maybe they were simply jealous of the Rogues, whose TIE DefPlayer were in excellent technical condition, while both of their Avengers bore signs of clearly makeshift repairs.
Horn hadn't inspected the ships when they were loaded into the freighter's hold, where they were now traveling, but he had noticed their general features.
Including the non-standard weaponry installed on both ships.
In reality, the Avengers were in no way inferior to the Defenders, being among the few Imperial fighters equipped with deflector shields and hyperdrives, just like the ships Rogue Squadron was using for this mission.
The only saving grace was that the Imperial Remnants didn't have many such TIEs—otherwise, the qualitative superiority of the X-wings would be nullified.
And Horn had one nagging suspicion about their new acquaintances (though, in truth, they knew nothing about them beyond their names).
— Boss, — Corran said quietly. — Correct me if I'm wrong, but Defenders and Avengers have nearly identical specifications, don't they?
Celchu paused for a moment, considering.
— In broad terms, yes, — he agreed. — The differences aren't as significant as they might seem at first glance.
— I'd bet my head on Isard that this pair will be assigned to our squadron, — the Corellian voiced his suspicions. — Precisely because of those similar specifications.
— I've been thinking about that since the flight began, — the Alderaanian admitted. — Eight ships don't make a squadron. But ten—that's starting to look like one.
— Two extra voices on the comms is a problem, — Horn continued.
— A huge one, I'd say, — Celchu didn't dodge the issue.
Isard's plan was simple.
Like all brilliant plans.
And that meant there was no reason to believe it lacked hidden pitfalls.
Initially, Isard had planned to infiltrate them into Grand Admiral Thrawn's forces so that, during a battle with the New Republic (whichever one it might be), the Rogues, flying TIE Defenders, would attack the bridge of the Chimaera and deprive the Dominion of its command.
But she had to alter her plan.
For reasons she didn't bother to explain.
Horn suspected that even with her cunning, the Iceheart couldn't bypass the Dominion's filtration system, which scrutinized everyone entering Grand Admiral Thrawn's state. Thus, the infiltration idea was doomed from the start.
Instead, Isard shifted the infiltration target to a recruitment hub for Warlord Ennix Devian, who, according to intelligence gathered by Wedge on Linuri, was developing another Death Star somewhere within the Ghost Nebula.
Colonel Wessiri not only provided training capsules for mastering the unfamiliar ships but also shared the intelligence and analysis compiled by Isard regarding Grand Admiral Thrawn's actions and tactics.
The Imperial clearly lacked significant forces under his command, so he operated by capturing rather than destroying enemy starships, not shying away from using Republic or outdated vessels.
According to Isard, Thrawn had deliberately established a laboratory on Linuri to provoke the New Republic into attacking Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel. His timing was calculated—to arrive when the Republic fleet had nearly won the battle and then, with superior forces, defeat the fleet commanded by Counselor Fey'lya. This would vividly demonstrate to the residents of the Ciutric Hegemony the supposed imperialistic ambitions of the New Republic, allowing Thrawn to seize the Hegemony without direct conflict with Krennel and turn it into an Imperial Remnant loyal to him.
And, judging by the news the Rogues received, that's exactly how it played out. Thrawn didn't just conquer the Ciutric Hegemony but also absorbed nearby sectors, expanding his sphere of influence.
According to Isard's estimates, Thrawn's next targets were Lianna's industrial capacities, which he couldn't secure through simple negotiation, and Ennix Devian. The latter possessed resources Thrawn needed to maintain even the illusion of his presence in the captured regions and sectors.
Devian had ships.
Yes, most of them were stationed in the Ghost Nebula and didn't pose a significant threat to even one of the New Republic's four fleets.
But the problem was that Devian aimed to seize control over Imperial Space first. This would grant him not only a vast resource and industrial base but also a source to replenish human losses.
And then, he would have the strength to challenge the New Republic.
Considering that even after forming his own Imperial Remnant—the Dominion—the Imperial Ruling Council hadn't stripped Thrawn of his position as Supreme Commander of the Empire, it was no surprise why he set such goals.
He was attempting to execute the same offensive strategy three times—feeding the New Republic disinformation about "Death Stars" under construction to force Coruscant to launch an assault on the "superweapon possessors." No one would ever allow New Republic adversaries to wield such weapons.
Thrawn merely had to wait for another New Republic fleet to move against Devian, engage his forces in battle, and then arrive with his own fleet to crush the Republicans while eliminating Devian and seizing what remained of his forces. Regardless of the outcome, Thrawn would gain doubly—capturing Devian's remaining forces and weakening the New Republic's fleet with someone else's hands, once again proclaiming his victory.
His first provocation succeeded—the Fourth Fleet was now little more than a defensive unit, having lost a significant portion of its line, escort, and strike forces. The loss of the Crimson Dawn and its escort alone was staggering, not to mention the Bothan fleet and the ships that were either destroyed or captured.
His second provocation would force the Second Fleet, based on Kashyyyk, to attack the Ghost Nebula.
The third would see the Third Fleet attacking Lianna…
And in the end, Thrawn would have enough forces to rival Imperial Space or the Pentastar Alignment. Their leadership—hardly fools—would be watching as the last Grand Admiral steamrolled the New Republic.
And they would undoubtedly consider the consequences for themselves…
Isard was convinced that defeating three of the New Republic's four Defense Fleets would give Thrawn the starting capital to issue an ultimatum to the Imperial Ruling Council and Grand Moff Kaine. They would either submit, forming an Empire spanning up to a third of the galaxy, or be destroyed, with Thrawn subsuming their territories anyway.
And after that, he would march on Coruscant…
From Isard's lips, it all sounded logical, justified, and motivated…
But after his time on the Lusankya, Corran didn't trust her one micron. Even in exile, the Iceheart surely had plans to ensure her own greatness, not to aid the New Republic.
Thus, her plan was a lie.
Though it was simple and even logical.
The Rogues were to infiltrate Devian's forces while the Iceheart ensured Thrawn believed the New Republic fleet was preparing to attack the Ghost Nebula.
Then, misinformed, Thrawn would strike Devian first. The New Republic fleet would arrive at the battle's end to finish off the survivors.
This would solve three problems at once—eliminating the Grand Admiral, the warlord, and their fleets. Once on the battlefield, Rogue Squadron would have the chance to destroy Devian with a sneak attack and Thrawn, leveraging their advantage over his fighters, interceptors, and other fighters.
A subsequent counteroffensive would allow the New Republic to drive out the remnants of Thrawn's forces from his territories.
And this entire plan hinged solely on the Rogues and the Iceheart working as intended.
But no one had any faith that Isard would fulfill her part.
That's why the Rogues were currently seeking any opportunity to inform their command independently of the Iceheart.
But first, they needed to reach Devian's base and obtain its coordinates.
Judging by the fact that the recruiters were transporting pilots of hyperdrive-equipped ships inside a freighter alongside the TIEs, they were clearly making efforts to conceal the true location of the warlord's fleet and forces.
A dilemma…
***
While the Chimaera sliced through hyperspace once more, heading toward its intended destination and broadcasting messages to the fleet's ships, there was an opportunity to think in a calm environment.
Evaluating one's decisions without external influence is highly beneficial for personal growth and learning from past experiences.
To understand if there was another way.
Because the situation with the "sleeper agents" created by Isard, or one of her minions, could repeat itself. The fact that I'm unaware of such cases doesn't guarantee they Pianostyle that they didn't happen "behind the scenes" of the literature I've studied. The current reality has repeatedly proven to have little in common with the fragmented nature of that universe's literature.
This is an entire world with its own processes, often hidden from my view. And I'm unaware of most of them.
— The Chimaera will arrive at the destination in half an hour, — Captain Pellaeon reported, delivering his latest update.
Indeed… We were incredibly fortunate to be so close to the source of Mara Jade's signal. At least, the one Ahsoka Tano relayed to me via comlink.
— Ensure the fleet's ships are ready for battle, — I ordered, not looking up from the data I was reading.
— Yes, sir, — the Star Destroyer's commander replied.
Gilad stood, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, as I finished reviewing the operational reports.
His posture, facial expression, and the involuntary clenching and unclenching of his fingers betrayed his impatience.
— You have questions, Captain, — I stated.
— Yes, sir, — he Revisiting he replied. — Molo Himron…
Pellaeon hesitated, clearly unsure how to phrase his initiative without violating a few articles of the Military Disciplinary Code, from "Discussion and Criticism of Command Decisions" to "Disobedience to a Commander's Orders."
— Could we have done anything else besides fulfill his request? — I voiced his unspoken question.
The captain let out a relieved sigh.
The fact that I had articulated his thoughts lifted much of the responsibility from him.
— Yes, sir, — he replied.
On my computer monitors, all available data regarding the Iceheart's "sleeper agents" was displayed—Republic and Imperial observations, reports from the few survivors of captivity on the Lusankya.
Accessing Coruscant's classified Republic networks had allowed me to legitimize some of my "future knowledge." Information an Imperial warlord simply couldn't possess.
— The death of Colonel Molo Himron is a heavy blow and an irreplaceable loss for us all, — I said, resorting to a clichéd phrase that, oddly enough, was the most accurate and succinct. — However, we had no other choice. Himron knew this better than anyone. He correctly assessed his potential danger and made a decision few could make: to sacrifice himself for a higher purpose.
— I understand, sir, — Pellaeon sighed. — But… could we have sent him to a secure facility, assigned guards, and conducted treatment or research into countering sleeper agent programming… Not to mention, we've now lost a source of trained clone operatives.
— That assumption is fundamentally incorrect, Captain, — I countered. — We have a databank—a memory imprint of Himron. We have a supply of his blood suitable for cloning. By conservative estimates, we could produce several thousand clones of the colonel, and they would be excellent agents. His legacy. However, you overlook a simple fact. Colonel Himron was a professional, that's undeniable. But we have other agents just as effective. And at present, they pose no danger. Our cloning capabilities are sufficient to produce the operatives and agents we need until we can fill our special services with original personnel and academy graduates.
— But treatment… — Gilad began, but stopped himself. — Sir, there could be countless sleeper agents. Even in our fleet—we haven't identified them yet, or Isard hasn't activated them. Or on the territories we capture, they could be there too…
— A sleeper agent awaiting activation could be anyone, — I agreed. — But we can't suspect everyone and expect a knife in the back from every ensign or sailor walking the deck of your Star Destroyer or any other ship. Paranoia never leads to anything good.
— But there must be a way to treat it! — Gilad insisted.
— Unfortunately, no, Captain, — I said with unconcealed sadness. — We now have information about several sentients who were on the Lusankya. Combined with what we knew about sleeper agents before, we can form a picture of the threat we face.
Pellaeon waited patiently for an explanation.
— Anyone who ended up on the Lusankya was subjected to processing by Isard and her specialists, — I didn't keep him waiting. — Prisoners of her personal prison became Imperial agents, carrying out contract killings on Isard's orders, only to later claim, when exposed, that they acted under duress. None of them could recall when, how, or where they were processed. Captain Tycho Celchu, the current commander of Rogue Squadron, and Corran Horn, a pilot in that unit, are the only sentients who retained any memories of their time in the Iceheart's dungeons. The others… weren't so fortunate. Their connection to the secret prison was only discovered after Isard activated them, they caused irreparable harm, and were caught by New Republic security forces.
— But only because Isard was targeting former Rebels, right? — the Chimaera's commander clarified.
— Exactly, — I agreed. — Now, the Iceheart is acting against her enemies. And among them are Imperials too.
— Including us, — Pellaeon added grimly.
— Including us, — I agreed. — Don't delude yourself into thinking this programming can be detected somehow—Republic intelligence, staffed with former Imperial medics and specialists, found no trace of it. The colonel knew this perfectly well. He also knew he couldn't control or be held accountable for actions committed in an essentially incapacitated state. No scan, no test, will reveal a sleeper agent's preparation. Any medical droid or specialist will declare the patient healthy. And we face a situation where a loyal, duty-bound officer commits a crime as a sleeper agent, but their actions and motives were driven by a program embedded in their behavioral responses and subconscious. We can't condemn such a person for the crime—because they didn't truly commit it. But releasing them is dangerous. Even exiling them beyond the Dominion offers no guarantee they won't act against us, as a skilled operative or assassin. Because nothing guarantees they can't be reactivated. Locking them in a special facility or secret prison for life… — I pretended to consider this option. — Tell me, Captain, would you enjoy spending the rest of your days, or perhaps your entire life, in a cell, conversing with droids and doctors, answering questions that mean nothing to you?
— No, sir, — Pellaeon didn't resist the logic.
— And Colonel Himron understood this too, realizing the only viable options were to live out his days like a lab animal, subjected to experiments in hopes of a cure, or to die. He made a decision, a courageous act of an officer true to his duty and oath.
— I understand, sir, but… — Pellaeon lowered his eyes to the floor. — We're winning… We suffer losses, but… Himron was with us from the start, and I… I just can't accept that he's gone like this…
Nor can I.
Back on that asteroid, at Isard's secret base, the decision seemed indisputable.
But back on the Chimaera, I replayed the pros and cons in my mind, over and over, to…
No, it's not about finding another option. More likely, it's about justifying my failure to find one immediately. As they say, there's always a way out.
But I didn't see it then.
And I don't see it now.
Himron—head of my intelligence, privy to many secrets. A trained assassin and operative. If he was processed, he'd be a weapon in the hands of the real Isard, wielding specialized skills.
His memory gaps could be the result of trauma, or they could be part of a method to erase evidence of processing. After all, Isard brainwashed prisoners aboard her super star destroyer in the past, but the Lusankya is no longer hers. I doubt the New Republic failed to study or destroy the brainwashing equipment (though I wouldn't be surprised if a few units were stashed away in secret Republic intelligence warehouses for a "rainy day"). Given Isard's emotional state during the capture of the Lusankya, it's unlikely she hid such equipment for later use. But that can't be ruled out either.
Nor can several other factors.
First—Molo could have undergone a different type of processing than what was used before.
Second—Isard was cultivating a clone and instilled loyalty to specific tasks in it. How? Using the Lusankya's facilities or something else? The clone mentioned a desire to retrieve the prisoners I handed over to the New Republic. What is that, if not fulfilling a programmed task?
Finally, we can't rule out that if the brainwashing equipment fell into New Republic hands, Isard's agents within the Republic didn't steal it for her, concealing the theft.
Using Molo as a source for cloning material to create an army of agents? It sounds logical, but only if you believe the duplicate Isard's claim that brainwashing doesn't transfer during cloning.
The problem is, I don't trust the duplicate Isard. Precisely because she's a clone of the Iceheart, programmed to protect the Lusankya's prisoners. All her actions may solely serve to regain control and fulfill her programming.
Thus, her words must be treated with a healthy dose of skepticism.
In this light, trusting her to "deprogram" Himron is equally dangerous. You never know if she'd keep her word or remove the real Isard's programming only to replace it with her own.
Not to mention the need to respect our allies. Even Pellaeon admitted he couldn't endure confinement, even for treatment. What about a professional operative who wanted to end his life but instead becomes a prisoner of a secret facility? The Dominion's key difference from the Galactic Empire is that we don't treat allies and loyal citizens as resources, especially for eugenics experiments on living beings.
Yes, it sounds awkward, but there are limits to humanity.
Today, you freeze a loyal comrade in carbonite to use their DNA for an army of clones, and tomorrow you're saying Order Base Delta Zero is a mercy because it's easier to burn a planet than conduct a ground operation.
Someone in my position might choose that path—lock Himron in a medical facility, experiment on him to learn how to detect and counter sleeper agents, or use him as a cloning donor in a pinch. But such "clever ideas" come from those who don't consider that one day they might end up in that "golden cage" themselves. I highly doubt the fate of a "breeding bull" is the best end to a life and career.
Brain transplantation via the B'omarr monks' methods… What would that solve? If the programming is truly at the level of reflexes, behavioral responses, and the subconscious, a brain transplant would merely give the damaged operative a new, youthful body. One they'd use to its fullest if they were programmed.
Not to mention, what would a seasoned operative say or do if, after requesting death to prevent catastrophic consequences, they awoke in a new body? Would they see it as a blessing? Or as proof that all talk of respect for allies was empty, and they remained a cog in someone else's game? Something tells me the latter would prevail. And then, whether Himron was programmed or not, human psychology suggests he'd seek revenge. First against those who betrayed him, saving Isard for last.
Could scanning during cloning or personality matrix creation reveal memories of processing? How, if the programming is at a deep level? A clone inherits all the skills, reactions, and attitudes of the original toward various phenomena, actions, or sentients. As I've considered, trusting the duplicate Isard's claim that brainwashing doesn't transfer during cloning is unwise. The risk of creating an army of programmed operatives from a single agent, capable of causing chaos and disorganization with one command, is too great.
Is it dangerous to continue cloning operatives without knowing about all sleeper agents? Certainly. But succumbing to foolish paranoia is equally unwise.
I have clear doubts that Himron wasn't processed by Isard. Cloning him further is a significant risk. Yet, I have no grounds to suspect every other Dominion citizen. A witch hunt is a thankless task, destabilizing the internal situation and carrying unpleasant consequences. Even if you find unactivated sleeper agents, what then? Kill them all? By what right?
Not to mention, the programming is undetectable.
What was done to General Dodonna wasn't Isard's programming. It was a message, equipped with an augmented self-destruct device. A dead spy reveals only what their sender wants known. Dodonna was fitted with that deadly trap to lead us to Isard and expose my Linuri laboratory, which was actually meant to mislead the New Republic. The trap worked, though I had hoped it would discredit Grand Moff Kaine.
Not everything goes as planned.
The only somewhat reliable way to deal with sleeper agents, or at least gain control over them, is to find Isard and the ship she fled her base on.
Either we destroy them all, or we seize control of the ship and her specialists. After all, Isard has "butchers" who augmented that device into General Dodonna's body.
And if I correctly recall Isard's actions during Corran Horn's captivity on the Lusankya, and her "preparation" of Rogue Squadron in Isard's Revenge, it's no surprise she might have retained some qualified personnel.
— Losing comrades is hard, Captain, — I agreed. — Colonel Molo Himron did something beyond any measure. Like Captain Von Schneider, they did everything in their power and more. As I promised, their sacrifices won't be forgotten. Nor those of anyone who died in the line of duty, — I removed an information chip from the computer and handed it to Pellaeon, who approached. — Encrypt this and send it to Ciutric IV. Grand Moff Ferrus has been broadly informed of the upcoming operations; this chip contains the details.
— Yes, sir, it will be done, — Pellaeon tucked the chip into his tunic pocket, looking at me questioningly.
— Not all details of their service, especially the circumstances of Colonel Himron's death, can be made public, — I continued. — However, we have no moral right to hide what happened… Our heroes deserve to be remembered, not forgotten. Even more, they deserve to be an example for the youth and citizens of the Dominion.
— Of course, sir, — Pellaeon nodded, clearly unaware of what was on the chip. Fair enough, as only I and the Grand Moff know its contents.
— I've been informed that Captain Hoffner has already secured the construction and military equipment purchases for the first phase, — I continued. — Ensure the second phase proceeds smoothly—I need every Golan platform we can afford with the allocated state budget.
Confirming the order's clarity once more, Pellaeon headed to the bridge to send the encrypted messages.
And I…
I pondered what Mara Jade had discovered in the Venin sector and why she could only report it through Ahsoka Tano.
We were flying into the unknown, as the Jedi had understood nothing from the chaotic telepathic contact beyond the system's coordinates and the sheer terror that gripped the Hand at the end of the transmission.
***
Reom cast a pleading glance at the sentients standing by the airlock entrance.
A Dominion operative, a few stormtroopers, and an anti-gravity chair containing his sister.
These were the only sentients present at the moment his life would end.
— Shira, — tears welled in his eyes. — Please. You must, no, you're obligated to forgive me!
The Twi'lek, who also happened to be his sister, bared her teeth in a predatory grin.
— Not so brave now, are you, Reom? — she asked. — When you beat me half to death, did you think it would end like this?
The Twi'lek gnashed his teeth.
— You little wretch! — he roared.
His voice was filled with desperation.
— But now you'll die, — her eyes gleamed with a mix of malice and sadistic anticipation of revenge.
Reom glanced at the officer watching the scene with complete indifference.
— Use your head, Imperial! — he shouted, seeing no one intended to intervene. — This girl's a cripple! She can't do anything but attach prosthetics! But I… I… — he fell silent, pondering what he could offer for his life. — I have connections in the underworld! I can get you anything you want.
In truth, he knew exactly what these sentients wanted.
They'd asked him about the Sa Nalaor's location multiple times. But he'd remained silent, trying to devise a plan that wouldn't cost him the vast wealth promised by Rel Harsol for providing a Star Destroyer and evacuating the crash site of an old Separatist frigate.
But now it was clear all options were exhausted.
— You know nothing and can do nothing, — the man who had broken most of his bones during the assault on the salvaged Star Destroyer at Raxus Prime said in a bored tone.
— You're wrong, Imperial, — Reom spoke quickly. — You asked me about the Sa Nalaor…
— And you were foolish enough not to answer, — the operative reminded him. — So I made a deal with your sister. She'll help us.
— Sure, — Reom laughed. — As if. She doesn't even know where the crash site is.
He looked at his sister with a mocking grin.
— What do you say to that, Shira? — he asked, smiling triumphantly.
A shadow crossed her face.
— That you're a filthy liar, — she said clearly.
— Oh, really? — Reom laughed. He seemed to understand everything…
— Is there a reason to laugh? — the operative asked.
— No, — Shira replied quickly.
— Oh, there is, — Reom grinned. — This girl was only at the crash site once. Think she knows why she took a ship to Raxus Prime after the station and the attack on IzoTech?
— To cover her tracks, — the Imperial said calmly.
— Like hell, — this was going to be fun. Very fun. — That fool doesn't know how to pilot a ship. She knows nothing about them…
— That's not a flaw, — the operative countered.
— She's playing you, Imperial, — Reom declared. — Not only does she not know how to fly a ship, she doesn't even know the crash site's coordinates. Because when the escape pod with the coordinates arrived, I memorized them. She was in the passenger compartment the whole way! She doesn't know the coordinates!
The Imperial fell silent for a moment.
Shira glared at her brother with a furious expression.
— Is that true? — the Imperial asked, looking at her.
— Partially, — she admitted reluctantly. — I glimpsed the coordinates while he was busy talking to Harsol. And, unlike him, I know the planet's name.
— So, — the uniformed man sighed, — it seems both of you claim to be useful…
— You should've figured out by now that this vengeful doll is useless, — Reom sneered. — Her whole life, she's been nothing but trouble with her childishness! A lying wench who only manipulates others when she wants something. I wouldn't be surprised if she traded you something valuable for coordinates she doesn't even have…
— None of your business! — Shira snapped.
— For starters, — the Imperial continued as if nothing happened, — she wants you dead. Then, to be healed…
— And only then the coordinates, right? — Reom smirked.
There was nothing left to lose. He was one step from execution.
So he had to do everything to survive.
— That's the deal, — the man agreed. — But she'll provide the coordinates after you're dead.
Apparently, this was a change in plans, as the Imperial looked at her questioningly.
She remained silent for a few seconds but then grinned viciously and nodded.
— Then make a deal with me! — Reom proposed. — I guarantee I'll lead your ship to the Sa Nalaor's crash site. I'll even negotiate with Harsol to give you my and her— — he pointed at the invalid, — shares! This girl knows nothing! She's using you to kill me with someone else's hands because she can't do anything else. And she desperately wants revenge for childhood grudges!
— Bravo-One, don't listen to him, — Shira said quickly. — The Sa Nalaor crashed on the planet Cholaganna!
— Never heard of it, — the Imperial admitted.
— Because that's what the Sa Nalaor crew called it! — Reom explained. — The planet's not in any records. Not even on the maps at the Obroa-skai institute! No one's been there except those waiting to be rescued from that miserable little planet! That's why I killed the first Yiyar rescue team—to keep it a secret! Shira's just leading you on! She knows nothing! She's lying and manipulating!
— Then write the coordinates yourself, — Bravo-One suggested, handing him a portable datapad.
— We had a deal! — Shira snapped, glaring furiously at the man.
— Which you don't seem intent on honoring, — the Imperial retorted.
— Don't listen to him, — the girl insisted. — He's just trying to save his skin, nothing more!
— No, she's the one doing that to settle scores with me, — Reom countered. — She won't help you at all. Not to mention…
— You can see he's just stalling the inevitable! — the girl shouted. — Lying scum!
— Vengeful, conniving wench! — Reom shot back, stepping toward the invalid.
Instantly, a pair of stormtroopers appeared, delivering a few blows to the man.
— Open the airlock, — Bravo-One ordered.
The "dolls" silently obeyed, tossing the struggling Twi'lek inside.
He lunged back, but the door closed in his face.
The Twi'lek pounded on the airlock doors.
Judging by his facial expression and open mouth, he was still shouting something.
Bravo-One approached the control panel for the outer airlock doors and glanced at Shira.
— Before something irreversible happens, — he said. — Are you sure you want this to happen?
— Yes! — the girl said eagerly.
— I'm about to press this button, and the outer airlock will open, — the Dominion operative continued. — Your brother will be ejected into space and suffocate shortly after.
— Then press it, — Shira said grimly.
— If he's right, and you don't know the coordinates, things won't go well for you, — Bravo-One stated. — I won't tolerate deception!
— Everything will be fine, — Shira assured him. — Just press the damn button! I want to see him die!
— As you wish, — the Dominion operative shrugged.
His finger touched the large red button, and the aggressive Twi'lek froze with eyes wide in terror.
— Suffer after death, — Shira said with burning eyes, watching her brother's body drift away from the ship.
A couple of minutes later, the body stopped twitching in the vacuum and hung motionless…
To be sure, Shira waited another five minutes.
— Now he's definitely dead, — she said with satisfaction, closing her eyes and smiling, basking in the artificial light.
— Correct, — Bravo-One confirmed. — Time to uphold your end of the deal.
A flash of green fire erupted outside the viewport, and the tiny figure vanished in a turbolaser blast.
— Now it's truly over, — the Dominion operative declared.
He turned, approached the Twi'lek, and inquired:
— The coordinates.
A triumphant smile played on Shira's lips, her eyes still closed:
— What a gullible fool you are, Imperial, — she said.
— Perhaps, — Bravo-One replied evenly. — The coordinates…
— You should've listened to Reom, — she said, suddenly opening her eyes.
— You don't know the coordinates, — Bravo-One stated.
— Of course not, — she smiled. — And I never did. I don't understand your numbers and notations. I was only on the planet once and have no idea where it is. Somewhere in Wild Space, I think…
Unexpectedly, Bravo-One smirked.
— This was a setup from the start?
— Obviously, — she returned the smile. — I can imagine how much trouble you'll be in with your superiors for killing the only one who knew how to reach the Sa Nalaor.
— Yes, that'll be hard to explain, — Bravo-One noted. — Why did you do it?
— Because you made me a cripple, — she said venomously. — You used me! Because of you, Reom maimed me! And you thought after all that, I'd buy your talk of a second chance? Like hell I'd believe that! No. Your superiors will cut your life short, operative. Because you just lost the path to the vast wealth Rel Harsol and his crew managed to take with them. Not to mention the advanced cybernetics…
With a soft hiss, the bulkhead doors to the medical bay slid open. This was the emergency airlock used for the execution.
A young woman in a surgical suit stepped out, her high heels clicking. She held a piece of flesh in a medical clamp, taking a bite.
— You guys still here? — she asked. — My lunch break's coming up.
— Eating again, Third? — Bravo-One sighed regretfully.
— Yep, — she replied nonchalantly. Looking at the stunned Shira, she added:
— Are we transplanting her brain? If so, the body's ready.
Third stepped aside, revealing… an exact copy of Shira lying in a specialized holder… The reflective surface behind the clone showed her skull and lekku were open… and hollow.
Shira's face stretched in shock. She looked at the surgeon with a stunned gaze, then turned to Bravo-One.
— You… — her voice faltered. — You weren't joking, were you?
— I'm a man of my word, — he said, echoing their earlier conversation. — Shame you signed your own death warrant…
— It's a mistake, — she swallowed hard. — I… I didn't trust anyone… I didn't think…
— You should have, — Bravo-One noted, waving a hand.
The stormtroopers grabbed the hoverchair and pushed it toward the operating room.
— Shira, — Bravo-One called out.
The "dolls" obediently stopped the chair and turned her to face the Dominion operative.
— T-5, — he said.
— What's that? — she asked in a near-whisper.
— The quadrant where Cholaganna is located, — the Dominion operative explained. — Coordinates are pointless to you—your clones confirm Reom's words about your poor astrogation skills. But his clones are quite adept at navigating the galaxy…
Her eyes widened in realization of the horrific situation she'd created for herself…
Because of herself.
— So, — Third asked, chewing the piece of flesh, — are we transplanting the brain, or should I dissect her?
— Transplant, — Bravo-One ordered. — Let's at least practice the procedure. Try to keep the sample alive—she'll be useful for further transplant experiments.
— The rest—after lunch, — Third declared firmly, returning to her workstation.
As the medical bay door closed, Shira sobbed uncontrollably.
***
Oddly enough, the Star Destroyer didn't approach the transport she was on.
Instead, the Imperial returned to the unfinished super star destroyer, dispatching a boarding shuttle to the transport.
Unfortunately, the girl hadn't had time to bring the mothballed freighter to flight-ready status.
Pre-flight checks on such ships took a while due to the low power of several key systems.
Thus, there was no doubt she'd have to fight aboard the freighter.
The airlock where the boarding craft docked was in a corridor that could lead to either the forward compartments or the cargo hold.
Choosing which was more critical to leave unguarded—the bridge or the engine room—Mara decided not to tempt fate.
Sealing the reactor deck, she didn't hesitate to use her lightsaber to create blockades in the corridor, securing the engine room.
Once the reactor reached full power, she could control the freighter from the bridge.
Not the best escape plan, but the alternative—falling into the hands of a Dark Side adept—wasn't appealing.
Yet, the familiar and repulsive aura of the Dark Side emanated from the Star Destroyer. She couldn't recall when she'd last sensed it…
But she was certain it had been much weaker then, and not nearly as… vile.
The only thing she was sure of was that it wasn't Palpatine. Would a reborn Emperor personally chase her across the Outer Rim to… do something?
So, the master of Lieutenant Donell had chosen not to participate in her capture himself. Clearly, he deemed her unworthy of his personal attention but significant enough to send his minions.
And those minions were tasked with delivering her to the Star Destroyer.
Her use of the Force had evidently been detected. Now, the leader of this faction wanted to "talk" with her.
Well, then…
Sparks of high-powered welding crawled across the airlock's armored door. Apparently, the intruders weren't wasting time restoring the access panel and were forcing their way in.
She straightened slightly and sharpened her senses.
Beyond the bulkhead, she sensed a group of people trying to remain undetected but resolute in their intent.
A flash and noise marked the end of the airlock's resistance.
Now she could clearly sense nine individuals opposing her.
A squad of stormtroopers.
They headed straight for the stack of crates where Mara was hiding.
Using empty transport containers, she'd blocked the passage to create a makeshift shelter.
Crouching, she ensured her blaster and lightsaber were within reach, ready for the inevitable fight.
If stormtroopers were her opponents, they'd likely start with a grenade…
The Force seemed to have a twisted sense of humor.
As if in response to her thought, based on standard small-ship assault protocols, three thermal detonators landed near her.
Using the Force, she sent the "balls" flying back.
Yes, she'd been in this situation before. She wouldn't make that mistake again. She wanted to live.
Waiting a couple of seconds, she prepared to attack…
The three explosions were so deafening and powerful that only the Force's timely warning saved her from being struck by flying containers.
Mara rolled forward, firing her blaster at the nearest stormtrooper, who was trying to support his wounded comrade.
Both collapsed to the deck, joining three others, including the sergeant, who had been in the front row.
That left four stormtroopers, who instantly shifted to a defensive formation.
Two knelt, opening fire.
The other two stood behind, supporting the barrage.
Four against one…
Before switching to her lightsaber, she took down one of the front-row stormtroopers, then deflected two shots into the ceiling, spinning to dodge three volleys aimed at her torso.
The front-row opponent didn't notice his two comrades falling back.
He realized too late that the magenta-purple blade was a meter from his face—Mara deflected the shots of his comrades straight into his face.
At such close range, the blaster would only hinder her.
No point hiding her Force sensitivity or holding back—her life and freedom were at stake.
Ignoring the fading life, she stepped over the body, holstering her blaster, and continued the attack.
The stormtrooper to her left was the quickest. Mara dove aside to avoid a paralyzing shot, then rolled left to escape the second's line of fire.
With the tip of her energy blade, she redirected one of the second opponent's shots into the first's torso.
He didn't react to the hit in his thigh, but his next step back was less steady—the wound clearly hurt.
She deflected the next shot from the second opponent into his head, then easily parried the "limping" one's volley, using the Force to pull him toward her after disarming him.
— Who do you serve! — she roared, grabbing the stormtrooper's throat with her hand. She wasn't Vader, capable of lifting a grown man off the ground, but the Force made it possible.
Before the soldier could answer, two things happened.
First, a sense of danger surged from behind, and she instinctively turned, using the captured stormtrooper as a shield, keeping him just over a meter away.
Second, a red lightsaber blade pierced the white-armored soldier's chest, narrowly missing her face.
If Mara hadn't dodged, she'd have been the second victim of that strike.
She instantly assumed a defensive stance, trying to figure out who had managed to sneak up behind her, masking their presence in the Force.
But before she could find an answer, the red blade sliced the stormtrooper's body in half. The pieces fell away, revealing a tall sentient clad in the traditional black robes of a Dark Side adept, concealing their body and limbs.
But the face…
The double-bladed lightsaber spun in their hand, but Mara barely noticed the weapon.
She was far more focused on the face of her opponent, who wore a mocking yet triumphant smirk.
— You! — she gasped, stepping back and gripping her weapon tighter.
— Well, we meet again, "dead woman," — the man said in a falsely friendly tone, lowering his weapon behind his back. — I couldn't believe you were actually dead. You seemed far too resilient and resourceful for such a pitiful end.
Mara didn't respond.
She bit her lower lip, trying to recall everything she'd learned from their past confrontation.
Since then, she'd honed her skills and learned much, but… would it be enough to win?
In the past, she hadn't stood a chance.
Only the bitter experience of defeat…
— I'm torn, — the man continued in that deceptively calm tone. — You'll come with me to my master. You'll serve him, as I do. Whether willingly or not, I don't care.
Mara smirked defiantly.
So he's not the leader.
There's someone he's sworn loyalty to.
And it's likely Palpatine…
She'd rather die than fall into that monster's hands again.
— Your master's on that Star Destroyer, isn't he? — she asked.
— You'll find out soon enough, — he promised, stepping forward. — Or perhaps you'd prefer a fight? Should I kill you here, or fulfill my master's will and bring you to him? I'm sure you'll be more useful to him than those Dathomir witches…
So that's it…
— Either way, you'll have to work hard to get what you want, — Mara assured him.
Her opponent laughed, dismissing her threat with disdain.
Mara's lightsaber flashed upward, and the battle began…