Grand Admiral

— Two hours until we exit hyperspace, boss, — the skipper poked his head into Anilex's cabin, announcing their readiness to arrive at the Cavil Corsairs' base on Edusa.

— Inform everyone to be prepared for any surprises, — the lieutenant ordered.

— But first and foremost, we're just traders, aren't we, commander? — the skipper flashed his wit.

— Yes, — the corsair leader replied dryly, watching as his subordinate departed, closing the door behind him.

However, this "cover story" hadn't particularly helped the ships sent to Edusa and Vandain. They had reached their destinations… Probably.

And then communication with them was lost — interference, just like when attempting to contact the ships of the other two flotillas or the bases on those planets.

This gave rise to the most unsettling thoughts.

At best, they'd been detained and were being inspected.

At worst, the Imperials in the Morshdine sector had long known the identifiers and types of ships used by the Cavil Corsairs. And now, a purge was underway…

In any other case, whether it was an issue with the HoloNet relay in the Morshdine sector, the ships would have long since moved to a stable communication zone and reported what was happening. Or at least tried to.

But nothing happened, only silence.

And utterly unclear prospects for how events would unfold. All of this inspired anything but bright thoughts. Very dark ones, in fact. On the brink of the organization's collapse.

They could send scouts to the planets as many times as they liked — the result would be the same. They'd vanish.

But ordering nothing to be done, simply "forgetting" about their comrades and "writing them off as losses," was something Anilex couldn't do either. Because if it turned out that all this was just some technical malfunction or another minor issue, his apathy toward the fate of the other groups would not be forgiven.

And all his plans to bring the organization under his sole leadership would collapse in an instant. Pirates don't forgive those who recruit them into an organization preaching camaraderie but, in practice, offer nothing beyond empty words.

Such "stunts" could lead to a couple of extra holes in one's body on some fine evening.

If there's one thing the Cavil Corsairs knew how to do, it was to avenge themselves.

Both Cavil and Anilex had painstakingly instilled a "sense of unity" in them, transforming a motley crew of rabble into something resembling a well-organized structure, one that could genuinely be considered an informal armed alliance. Because the Galactic Empire only hired those "scum of society" on a long-term basis who were more than just cutthroats.

Short-term contracts… Let pirates and other bandits deal with such "crumbs." They'd gleefully snatch up any "stray credit."

Anilex rose from his desk, heading toward the cabin's exit.

The deck trembled noticeably under his feet. That's what happens when you fly on a ship that's not exactly fresh off the line.

But Anilex wouldn't trade his Raider-class corvette for any other starship in the galaxy. They had been through too much together, and this ship had always saved his life, pulling him out of the toughest scrapes…

Over the long years of operation, Anilex and his crew had overhauled this vessel down to the last coupling, turning it into a superbly armed artillery ship, twice as powerful as its "standard" model.

Though they had to reduce the number of carried fighters to a single squadron of "uglies."

Perhaps it's worth reminding what a Raider-class corvette looks like.

Some readers with short memories might think, "Sounds familiar, but I can't picture it."

Suddenly, the deck lurched out from under the lieutenant's feet, sending his wiry frame tumbling.

The flight ended with a bone-jarring impact against the ship's bulkhead.

Eyes wide from the blaring alarm siren, Anilex inhaled through the pain in his chest (no, if he'd broken ribs too, that would be the most humiliating injury of his career).

His hand reached for the comlink.

— Skipper… — Speaking on an exhale was painful too. So he'd hit hard. — What the…?

His mind was already churning out theories about the abrupt halt to their hyperspace journey.

And he desperately hoped his reasoning was wrong.

— Boss… — the skipper's voice carried a mix of surprise, apprehension, and a touch of fear. — There's an Immobilizer 418 out there. And five ships. Led by the Neutron Star.

— Whose? — Short phrases didn't hurt as much. That's how he'd have to talk for a while. Assuming they lived long enough to reach a bacta tank.

— Dominion, boss…

— Hutt… — Anilex cursed. — Random patrol. Send our IDs. They'll let us go…

— I don't think so, boss, — the skipper's voice lost any trace of confidence. — They sent a message. They want to see you. They even called you by name…

"Ambush," Anilex thought grimly.

Well, what else did he expect?

No, wait. If they knew which ship he was on… This wasn't an ambush. This was a targeted hunt. Specifically for him.

Was there any reason for optimism?

Oddly enough, yes.

If the flagship of this group was the Neutron Star, then the one orchestrating this "sweep" clearly wasn't the "Butcher of Atoan." That meant there was a chance to negotiate… Shohashi would have opened fire the moment he knew corsairs and pirates were aboard. Rumors said that man didn't waste time talking. "A turbolaser is the best way to get your point across to your neighbor…"

At least now it was clear what had happened to the ships he'd sent on reconnaissance. They'd been intercepted too… Perhaps some had been sensible enough not to engage in a firefight.

He'd have to talk, regardless.

— Tell them I'm ready to meet, — Anilex said. — In… an hour… And bring me some bacta spray. I need to patch up…

***

When the hologram revealed the face of her counterpart, Mon Mothma felt a momentary shock. Even the frustration of having been unable to establish contact for so long faded into the background.

Then, as the chills running down her spine subsided, she managed to muster a "formal" smile.

— Ysanne Isard, — she greeted the Iceheart. Who looked… somewhat younger than her years warranted. That witch.

— Oh, — a smile played on the lips of the former Director of Imperial Intelligence. — What an honor. Councilor Mothma herself. I'm flattered, truly flattered.

— I cannot say the same, — the Chandrilan replied.

— Nor I, really, just being polite, — her counterpart admitted. — What about that furry little Bothan creature? Don't tell me you've found the courage to lock him away in some deep dungeon?

— Councilor Fey'lya has more pressing matters to attend to, — Mon said, avoiding details. Honestly, she'd prefer not to discuss the Bothan at all. Or the reasons why she was the one handling this dialogue. But she wasn't about to tell this… woman that there was less trust in the Bothan than in a street spice dealer promising to "go clean."

Not a single sentient in the entire Provisional Council (aside from Fey'lya himself) was willing to entrust negotiations between the New Republic's government and Iceheart to a Bothan. Despite all the lofty speeches about trust and equal treatment for those who'd been prisoners in Grand Admiral Thrawn's Dominion, there was always the risk that the scoundrel might withhold information for personal gain during a private conversation with Isard. He was capable of it. He's a Bothan.

— Very well, — Isard said in a bored tone. — So, I take it my proposal has been accepted?

— Yes, — Mon admitted reluctantly. — We agree to cease your pursuit and refrain from military actions against the Dominion once you assume its leadership.

— And you'll transfer three billion credits to the account I specified, — Iceheart reminded her. — Or did that hairy pest Fey'lya omit that little detail?

Not a muscle twitched on Mon's face.

— No, the funds are ready for transfer, — she said calmly.

— And the official document, I presume? — Iceheart's delicate brow arched in a questioning curve.

Mon blinked several times before the implication sank in.

— That's not a funny joke, Isard, — she said. Perhaps they could avoid this…

Seriously, the woman was nearly forty; the faintest signs of aging should have started showing — it was evident in archival holophotos. Mon herself was nearing sixty, and the signs were noticeable. But it felt as though Isard had either suddenly shed five or ten years or was using some digital filter. Hardly surprising, given the sophisticated equipment on her end, which prevented intelligence services from pinpointing her location.

— Who's joking here, Mothma? — Iceheart feigned surprise. — If we're striking a deal, I need legal guarantees of my immunity. You understand, being close to a grand admiral teaches you a lot. For instance, how to orchestrate an information campaign against the New Republic. So, if you decide to change your mind in a couple of years and attack me or the Dominion, I'll make this agreement public. I trust you grasp the consequences, Mon.

"The New Republic would collapse faster than a house of cards," Mothma realized, catching the unspoken threat. Of course. The Provisional Government had planned to keep the deal with Isard secret. Iceheart was right — the public wouldn't understand a democratic government making a deal with one of Palpatine's executioners, responsible for rotting thousands of innocents in her secret prisons.

— There's no other option, — Isard said with a smile.

— Even if we increase the payment? — Mon asked hopefully. — Tenfold.

— Oh, — Isard laughed. — The grand admiral must have really gotten under your skin… With that kind of money, you could hire a couple hundred assassins. Someone would get to him eventually.

"We tried," Mon thought darkly, recalling her discussions with General Cracken in the Imperial Palace's vestibule.

Except, after taking the contract, the hired killers had a habit of dying quickly. And soon, the rest refused such jobs.

Even the legendary Boba Fett and Cad Bane had declined. Yes, their words were… quite different. But the meaning was the same.

— Think about it, Isard, — Mon said hopefully. She was ready to pay three hundred billion — anything to keep Iceheart from holding a tool to manipulate and blackmail Coruscant in the future. — A lot of money and my word.

— I prefer not to alter the terms of the deal, — Isard said with a smug smile. — Well then, shall we begin?

Persuading her was pointless. Begging, even more so. Iceheart would revel in her humiliation but remain unmoved.

The holoterminal beeped, signaling the receipt of a file.

Mon transferred it to a dedicated computer for this deal, disconnected from all Palace networks except a single holoprojector.

But no, as it turned out, Isard hadn't sent a virus or anything malicious… It was simply an account number in a bank in the Outer Rim. Judging by the fact that Mon had never even heard of it, it was another relic of the past.

A small financial outfit used to funnel funds to Imperial agents across the galaxy. There were thousands of such operations, and tracking their activities was nearly impossible — they operated in free economic zones where keeping any documentation was considered a lack of trust in clients.

In other words, once the credits hit the account, they'd vanish into thousands of automated schemes for cashing out, laundering, and anonymizing the source of the transfer.

— I'm sending the funds, — Mon said.

— Not so fast, Councilor, — Isard interrupted. — First, a verified indulgence from the Provisional Government for me.

— Yes, of course, — Mon connected a one-time data chip with the file to the holoterminal. Unfortunately, unlike credits, it couldn't be handled as easily. It was embedded with so many authenticity algorithms that… Yes, there was no washing this away. — File sent.

— Thank you, received, — Iceheart smiled. — I'm sending the file with the meeting coordinates.

— Received, — Mon echoed, her hands nearly trembling as she looked at the newfound treasure: the first truly worthwhile lead to end the crisis orchestrated by Thrawn.

Of course, Isard could be lying, but… Were there any alternatives?

— The file's encrypted! — Mon frowned, seeing that the received data was nothing but a jumble of symbols.

— Naturally, — Isard smirked. — First, the money, Councilor. Then, the decryption key. Though, it's a standard encoding, or rather, one of its variants. Your slicers could crack it in a couple of hours of intense intellectual effort. If they knew which variant, of course. And without the funds, I won't give you a hint. You could try your luck, but I wouldn't recommend experimenting. By the time I don't receive the credits, I'll contact the grand admiral, and your little gambit will fail.

Who could doubt that Iceheart had calculated everything?

— I'm transferring the funds, — Mon said grimly.

— Oh, don't look so glum, Councilor, — Isard teased. — It's not your money you're giving away. You'll earn more. Decryption key sent.

— Received, — Mon activated the new file instantly…

The alphanumeric sequences began transforming into readable text…

— The planet Soullex? — Mon Mothma said, surprised. — The Fardon system. Where is that even?

— The northern galaxy, — Isard explained. — Wild Space.

— Couldn't he be somewhere closer? — Mon clarified. — It's a week's journey at best! And through Imperial space…

— Which poses problems, doesn't it? — Isard smiled. That witch! — Decide what's more important: the risk of running into Imperials or the chance to destroy Thrawn while he's weak.

— Thank you, we'll handle it ourselves, — Mon Mothma said.

— Will you, now? — Isard laughed. — You lot never learn, bunch of amateurs.

Mon Mothma felt chills down her spine again.

— What are you talking about? — she asked.

— Why do you think I didn't take the money? — Iceheart asked. — Thirty billion… A fortune. You could build your own empire with that…

— Guarantees, — Mon frowned. — You wanted guarantees…

— No, silly, — Isard laughed. — That file will warm my heart, but I know how quickly you'll disavow it. Here's the thing… The frequency to contact me came from Fey'lya, didn't it?

— Yes, — Mon Mothma darkened.

— Charming little creature, — Isard said. — Can't seem to settle down… So, where was I… I'd bet our agreement that Fey'lya is no longer on Coruscant.

— That's impossible! — Mon blurted. — I saw him half a day ago.

— And ten hours ago, he contacted me via the comlink I gave him and bought Thrawn's coordinates for fifty billion. He asked me to ignore you for a couple of days. I suspect the Bothans haven't lost all their ships yet and decided to wage a vendetta against the grand admiral. Snatching the trophy right from under your nose…

"He betrayed us again," the thought raced through Mothma's mind as she frantically searched for her comlink.

— I decided to level the playing field a bit, — Isard continued. — I'm eager to see the New Republic's fleet clash with the Bothan Space fleet over an Imperial grand admiral… Oh, it'll be a sensation!

With that, Isard disconnected.

No, what a…

— How may I be of service, Councilor Mon Mothma? — came the almost purring voice of Fey'lya. Startled, she didn't immediately realize who was answering her call, but then, understanding that the government-model comlink only worked within the Imperial Palace, she exhaled.

— Come to my office in fifteen minutes, Borsk, — she said, striving to control her voice. If he refused or found some way to dodge the meeting…

— Of course, — the Bothan replied calmly. — I'm just speaking with General Madine. He has some new ideas about rooting out spies in the Palace. Would you like to invite him as well?

— I'd be delighted to meet with both of you, — after those words, her confidence in Isard's latest claims vanished entirely.

Disconnecting the comlink, Mon smiled.

— No, Iceheart, you won't fool us that easily.

***

Alright, I'm ready to admit it — Executor-class super star destroyers aren't just "big clubs."

They're also superbly designed (though not without flaws) flagship vessels, meant to lead large formations of combat starships.

Judging by the fact that the admiral's salon on the Guardian was far larger than the one on the Reaper, certain parts of these ships were either built to "special order" or their internal compartments were easily reconfigurable to suit the needs of a specific owner.

In my view, the sections occupied by the late Admiral Drommel could comfortably house barracks for two or three companies of stormtroopers. And there'd still be room for an armory rack, or rather an arsenal, and storage for spare armor.

Either my standards are extremely minimalist, or I'm missing something about the "flaunting" of influential figures in this galaxy.

If you already have a tactical hall, a spacious salon, a mess hall the size of a couple of sports fields, and all the necessary amenities (including, for Hutt's sake, a jacuzzi, a sauna-like room, gymnasiums, and so forth) on your ship, why dedicate your personal quarters to separate compartments with the exact same functions?

This is a warship, not a flying brothel!

Though, looking at the late admiral's bed, I suspect I guessed the purpose of such lavish quarters.

The question is — there were no women listed among the Guardian's crew. None among the survivors, either. No stowaways on board…

I dread to think whose company Drommel kept here.

Still, as one young captain-lieutenant in our analytics department used to say: "May the ground be glass wool to him."

The only thing that caught my attention in the late admiral's quarters was the library.

It contained both data crystals, now familiar to my eyes, and ordinary books, printed on flimsiplast, bound, and encased in hard covers.

But even here, Drommel couldn't resist standing out — each book was wrapped in a cover of the finest, clearly expensive leather, embossed with patterns mirroring the title page. Even the "bookmark," a braid of thin leather strips, was present. It reminded me of my school days when my parents sewed fabric strips to the spine so their child could easily find the page they'd stopped on.

Why was this done in this day and age?

Who knows…

Drommel had no vision problems, the books were printed in standard font, clearly not the local equivalent of Braille… Most likely, just more "flaunting."

All this must have cost a fortune — paper books aren't cheap in the galaxy, and decorating them certainly wasn't done for a credit and a half.

Clearly, the "comrade admiral" had serious issues with imagination when it came to spending money and his sense of values.

Speaking of which.

— Have you completed the calculations, Colonel Niovi? — I asked the officer who had entered the room a few minutes earlier and was patiently waiting for me to finish browsing one of the tomes that had piqued my interest in Krennel's library.

The book was titled *Myths of the Galaxy*. Amusingly, the bookmark rested on the page dedicated to the Sa Nalaor. Apparently, the admiral wasn't thrilled with the author's conclusion that such a ship couldn't have existed. But now it made sense why the admiral was transporting the treasury of the Oplovis sector in his hold. And, as witnesses confirmed, personally collected taxes and tributes from the worlds under his command.

— Yes, sir, — the colonel replied, glancing at the guards in crimson-and-black armor standing nearby. They, like statues, stood motionless on duty, while Rukh, as usual, lurked in the shadows, and Major Tierce was thoroughly "enjoying" slicing into the late admiral's computer. Judging by the smile on his face, either Drommel had an extensive collection of hilariously amusing images capable of entertaining a seasoned professional killer who didn't smile even on payday, or there was something truly worth digging into. I had no intention of interrupting or pestering him with questions — he'd report in due course.

As would the four of my newfound Jensarai, rummaging through the hold section reserved for storing precious gems and antiques. They seemed to have found something intriguing.

Only the ysalamiri, comfortably settled in its cage in the middle of Drommel's study-cum-library, calmly munched on leaves, eyeing the sentients with the gaze of a galaxy-conquering capitalist.

— In that case, I'd like to hear the results, — I said, returning the book to its place, brushing dust from my gloves, and looking at Gastos.

— All of them, sir, — he reported crisply.

— Is that so, — I didn't even raise an eyebrow.

But inside, I wanted to sing and dance.

I couldn't. Was I Thrawn or some merry peasant whose cow had just calved?

— One hundred seventy-nine thousand five hundred eleven crew members and thirty-two thousand stormtroopers and army specialists, — I recited the numbers slowly.

That was the exact number of sentients currently aboard the Guardian, which, for the first time in years, finally saw enough competent specialists on its decks.

What was encouraging wasn't just that all of them, including half the repair teams from the Chimaera and technicians from the Phoenix, had been working for eight hours to restore the ship's damaged systems, including its hyperdrive, primary and backup power systems, and installing additional turbolasers, laser cannons, and ion cannons (as many as could fit on a lone Acclamator).

It was that *all* of them.

All two hundred eleven thousand five hundred eleven crew members, attached ground forces, equipment operators, and technical personnel were ready to take the Oath and serve the Dominion.

Hutt take me, I hadn't even counted on half that number. No, of course, I wouldn't have abandoned those who refused to return to service. We'd have sent ships to evacuate them to the Oplovis sector, with nondisclosure agreements about the Guardian's survival. Because I had no intention of officially announcing that the ship was intact and now under my command.

I was already uncomfortable living in a constant time crunch, with a big target on my back that my enemies kept shooting at. Declaring the Guardian's status would be tantamount to handing my adversaries laser designators — just to make sure they didn't miss.

There weren't many such ships left in the galaxy. And those who officially owned them weren't keen on welcoming a "newcomer" to their "club."

Especially one who "knew" that, alone, this massive super star destroyer, while deadly to enemies, was vulnerable to a massed assault by enemy fighters.

Yes, exactly.

Not only did the ship require extensive and thorough repairs (its hull was riddled with holes, and internal compartments near armor breaches and hull damage, as well as those wrecked by internal explosions, were in shambles).

The ship now reminded me of the Errant Venture in the state it arrived at Tangrene's shipyards.

Yes, I considered the best course for this starship's future use to be its comprehensive modernization. By every means and ingenuity available to us.

Because, while the ship was massive, its crew requirements were clearly inflated. The experience of building the "third" should prove invaluable. Reducing the crew needs for such a starship by even a third would allow us to staff an entire fleet of star destroyers. Granted, also "thirds." Which still needed to be built by "upgrading battered hulks in mothballs."

But the fact remained — having over half the crew for this monster (what else could you call a starship nearly twenty kilometers long?) significantly shortened the time to bring it into service.

Because training a crew from scratch to operate such a giant took time. A lot of time. But having even a portion of a team with that expertise was already progress.

— I assume the tally of onboard valuables and credits has been completed? — I asked the colonel.

— Yes, sir, — he replied. — One hundred seventeen billion eight hundred four million…

Mother of…

It took considerable effort not to let that question slip from my lips.

And even more to show no reaction to such words.

The Morshdine sector got by on mere crumbs, a few million in tax revenue — profit, naturally. But here, in a less-than-stellar sector, a semi-backwater…

And it all fell into place.

Ketaris. A fortress-planet, but also a massive "trade hub" under Drommel's control for a long time. For example, a single trade center on Earth could generate billions, tens of billions in monthly turnover. And the profits matched.

Here, it was an entire planet-trade hub.

Plus, there was a shipyard in the sector, small and medium businesses…

A commerce planet!

This was largely why we wanted control over Axxila, too.

Not only did the latter have a strategic astrographic position, perfect for turning it into a fortress-world, but its volume of trade and financial transactions was such that a few percent of the profits allowed local rulers to bathe in luxury. Yes, not all income streams were entirely legal or honest, but that could be addressed…

— Understood, — I said.

And I'd thought we had funding issues…

Wherever you turned, there was Tarkin's "stash" or those of his cronies. How did they manage to build the Death Stars with such "kickbacks"?

Wait. Wasn't the unprecedented cost and speed of their construction tied to those "kickbacks"? The second one was built in just four years — practically operational despite being larger and more advanced than its predecessor.

The first, if I recall, took about ten years to complete.

Either the "skimmers" perished at Yavin, or Palpatine's purges of corrupt officials behind the scenes were on a monstrous scale.

— My team didn't appraise the gems, jewelry, aurodium nuggets, other metals, or antiques due to a lack of qualified expertise, — Colonel Niovi's words reached me.

— Specialists will handle that, — I said.

I hoped it didn't sound too… stunned.

— Where did Drommel get the nuggets? — I asked, realizing I'd heard something in the colonel's report that shouldn't have been there.

— From Stronk, Grand Admiral, — Gastos replied evenly.

Stronk, then… One of the two systems the Rebels intended to hold. Now it made sense why they stationed a fleet there — if the system had deposits of precious or rare metals, their interest was clear.

Given that Drommel had nuggets from there — there was definitely a mining site.

Or at least there was five years ago.

And once again, the situation had shifted dramatically.

If I hadn't previously considered defending the Oplovis sector after completing the third phase of Crimson Dawn, now the picture took on new colors.

Not only was it a source of massive funding — perhaps not a hundred billion a month, but still significant sums — but there was also a precious metal deposit. A metal central to our currency policy!

Rough estimates, factoring in all reserves, valuables, Palpatine's unappraised (and barely cataloged) collection, loot seized from pirates in the Nidjun sector, and other "income streams," suggested I'd have around two hundred billion. In stable currency.

And that was talking about aurodium — an exceptionally valuable metal due to its "nobility."

And I'd agreed to mint currency from it. Entirely from noble metal. Yes, high-denomination credit chips, but…

My decision had been based on the proverbial "tsarist chervonets." But I'd overlooked that those used alloys, not pure metal. Gold was mixed with other materials to make coins durable (pure gold is quite soft) and to deter people from melting them into jewelry, thus removing currency from circulation.

Alright, let's assume a portion of the aurodium — say, the ingots from the Karthakk system — is allocated for minting currency. If we produce "coins" at cost, meaning they contain exactly as much aurodium as their nominal value, there won't be enough currency.

But what if we alloy the metal? First, the currency would become bulkier. Second, the alloy could maintain a percentage of aurodium relative to the base metal, equivalent to the value of the precious metal's weight.

In that case, minting could increase the money supply tenfold. Dozens of times!

Existing coins could be gradually withdrawn, melted down, and reissued. Roughly speaking, one coin could yield several. And it's entirely legal — the Dominion's mint issues the currency.

— Thank you, Colonel, — I said. — Return to your duties. Don't forget to oversee repair matters — more ships and parts will arrive soon.

— Yes, sir, — Niovi saluted and left the quarters.

I sank into the nearest chair, pondering "how to live on."

***

After finishing the documents, most of which came from his own servers on Axxila, Anilex set aside his personal datapad, striving to maintain a calm expression.

Despite the inferno of rage burning within him.

Those two scum had betrayed him! Not just betrayed him — they'd been stealing from the organization!

He sat before Moff Ferrus, trying to keep his composure, while mentally picturing how he'd deal with both lieutenants.

The thought that what he'd read was disinformation didn't cross his mind. The work was too meticulous, and more importantly — why? To destroy the Cavil Corsairs? To clear Edusa and Vandain of their presence?

A couple of stormtrooper battalions backed by a pair of star destroyers would have been enough to grind both groups into dust.

Anilex himself could hardly have resisted after that.

And killing him now would be far more advantageous.

Decapitate the organization in one stroke, eliminate its formal leader, and watch the pirates tear each other apart over the scraps, picking off the survivors.

But… the Dominion hadn't done that. So what was their gain?

— Let's assume it's true, — he said slowly.

— It is the truth, — Moff Ferrus corrected.

— Let's assume, — Anilex said with emphasis. — What's in it for you that I know this?

— I came to negotiate, Lieutenant, — the moff said calmly. He was suspiciously calm. Other moffs Anilex had dealt with in the past threw tantrums, shouted, threatened, or arrogantly promised retribution… This one was some kind of wrong moff.

— Possibly, — the corsair replied. — And what's the essence of your deal?

— I'm displeased with the presence of uncontrolled armed forces in the Morshdine sector, — Felix continued. — Or anywhere in the Dominion, for that matter. Your organization, of course, isn't as strong as you think — compared to the might of the Dominion's regular army and navy. But I prefer to pay attention to details.

— That's noticeable, — Anilex agreed. — Few would bother analyzing a corsair organization's cargo manifests in forty-seven different ways.

— Our specialists know what they're working with and why they earn their pay, — so, it was the work of military slicers. Had civilians been involved, the moff would likely have said "salaries."

— You want me to pull our bases and forces from Edusa and Vandain? — Anilex clarified.

— You'll do that regardless, — Ferrus assured him. — If you want to live, that is. And I feel obliged to note that two-thirds of your organization's survival depends directly on you. And the decision you make based on my proposals.

"Negotiate, not demand? What's this new style of Imperial governance?"

— Consider me listening, — Anilex said. — Within a standard week, the bases will be withdrawn, and we won't trouble you again.

— I'm pleased to hear that, Lieutenant, — I assured him. — But my proposal isn't about that. Or rather, not only about that.

— You want to hire us? — Anilex ventured the most obvious guess.

— In a manner of speaking, — Ferrus replied vaguely.

— I prefer clarity, — the corsair admitted. — Let's get to the details.

— Very well, I appreciate such an approach to negotiations, — the Dominion representative assured him. — So, you've likely heard that the Dominion's borders span several sectors.

— Yes, — the corsair replied. — Morshdine, Nidjun, Oplovis, Ciutric, and everything that was once the Hegemony.

— It's not publicized, but negotiations are currently underway with the governments of planets and systems in the Spriz sector, — Ferrus shared insider information.

— We have no interests there, — Anilex stated.

— Of course not, — the moff agreed. — You wouldn't dare challenge the Kavrilhu pirate group, which controls most systems in the Spriz and Kvelii sectors and has its "hunting grounds" across several others in that region.

— You'd have to be an idiot to go against Kavrilhu, — Anilex explained his stance.

— Or have powerful allies, — the moff noted. — Though Kavrilhu's fate is already sealed.

— The Empire tried to wipe them out too, — Anilex smirked. — And where's the Empire now, and where's Kavrilhu?

— A fair point, — the moff acknowledged. — But we have different methods for dealing with piracy. Radical ones. And no negotiations.

The lieutenant shuddered slightly.

— I heard the "Butcher of Atoan" is working for you, — he said.

— Commodore Erik Shohashi resolved our pirate raid issues in the Nidjun sector, — the moff recounted. — There are no pirates there anymore. Only the Dominion.

It sounded impressive, but…

He'd have objected that pirates always emerge within states.

But that wasn't worth doing, especially when the conversation turned to the "Butcher." After him, only piles of corpses and scorched deserts remained.

— How does this relate to me and my organization? — Anilex asked.

— Curious, why didn't the Cavil Corsairs participate in the hiring call a few months ago? — Ferrus asked unexpectedly.

— We had more important matters, — Anilex replied.

— Yes, you'd just slipped out from under the crushed Invids, — the moff nodded. — And were carving up spheres of influence. You got lucky, securing control over the group on Axi. Do you like that world?

— I grew up there, — no point hiding what was already known.

— That explains your persistent desire to involve yourself in your home planet's affairs, — Ferrus nodded.

— I don't want generations of kids, like I was a couple of decades ago, to see only poverty, spice, and know nothing but killing and robbing, — Anilex shared.

— Well said, — Ferrus agreed. — Slowly but surely, Axxila is turning into a festering sore of the Outer Rim. And one day, it'll burst.

— That's what I'm trying to prevent.

— A noble endeavor, — Ferrus said. — So, the local government isn't cooperating with you?

— They have their interests, I have mine, — Anilex said sharply.

— It's rather admirable that you spend most of your spoils on ensuring future generations don't follow your path.

— Thanks for the praise, but let's get back to business? — the corsair suggested. — What do you want from me?

— For Axila to join the Dominion and prosper, — the answer was… unexpected. But not entirely surprising.

— Don't want to break your teeth on us, like Krennel did back then? — Anilex smirked.

— I'm not a fan of negotiations at turbolaser point, — I admitted.

— Let's say, — Anilex nodded. — Why do you need this? To clean up all the filth on that planet, you'd need billions, an army, and decades. And even then, success isn't guaranteed.

— Yes, it's a grueling task, — Ferrus agreed. — And the Dominion is ready to support you in this.

— Is that so, — Anilex smirked. — You just told me you aim to purge crime from your territories. Axila is an ecumenopolis built on criminal profits. They don't call us the "Coruscant turned inside out" for nothing. Or something like that.

— The Dominion includes Makem Te, — Ferrus stated. — Heard of it?

— Yes, — Felix recalled instantly. — A haven for smugglers and black-market dealers. But even there, things are better than with us.

— Because their government took on the responsibility of controlling illegal businesses and preventing them from ruining citizens' lives, — Felix explained. — They exist outside Dominion core territory, effectively as a planetary autonomy. Our laws apply, but they have local customs and practices. And special conditions for existing under Dominion protection. Axila could follow their example. Shed its most harmful income streams but remain a zone where things banned in the Dominion or New Republic are legalized.

— Spice trade, slavery, gladiator pits? — Anilex asked.

— The last one, maybe, — Felix pondered. — Slavery trading… Remind me about that later. But spice… I'm not a fan of that filth spreading across worlds. But we both know sentients never stop chasing self-destruction. Besides, there are spice types used solely for medical purposes.

— Yeah, yeah, "solely," — Anilex nodded. — The favorite excuse of addicts.

— Fair enough, — Felix noted. — You're a man of firm principles. A patriot of your world. That's why we bet on you, not any other lieutenant.

— So those scum are still alive? — Anilex asked.

— Yes, — the moff answered simply. — As are all your ships from the other two groups. But the scouts you sent to Edusa and Vandain, we intercepted.

— And how did you fool me? — the lieutenant asked.

— We faked a distress message from the Edusa base, — the moff explained. — The sector's relay is under our full control. We jammed all your communications. And we sent orders to your "colleagues" to stay at their posts, claiming you were en route for an inspection. I'm sure they had no desire to contact you — too busy hiding the loot they'd stashed from you.

— I'll handle that, — Anilex vowed. — So you're offering me…

— With our support — to overthrow Axila's government, take control of the planet, relocate what's left of the Cavil Corsairs there after your dealings with the other lieutenants, eliminate all minor gangs that refuse to join you, and hand over planetary defense operations to the Dominion, along with thirty percent of planetary and corsair profits.

Anilex listened, mouth agape.

— Are you joking? — he clarified. — Even those two crooked advisors didn't demand that much from illegal businesses…

— Yes, because they operated outside the law, — Ferrus reminded him. — The government just turned a blind eye, nothing more. We're offering to legitimize your piratical trade, granting you official membership in the Dominion's auxiliary forces.

— Same corsairs, different signboard, right? — Anilex smirked.

— If it works well, why fix it? — the moff posed rhetorically. — As I said, variations of the alliance terms are possible. For instance, you aim to reduce the number of kids and teens joining gangs.

— Let's say…

— So why not let the Dominion handle their patriotic upbringing? — the moff asked. — People turn to banditry when they believe other paths to a comfortable life are closed. How is being a criminal worse than becoming a cadet or recruit in the Dominion's armed forces?

— Is that so, — Anilex crossed his legs. — So you're planning to brainwash the youth like COMPNOR did?

— We have no intention of raising xenophobes or conducting racial purges, — Ferrus countered. — We aim to foster patriots who'll serve proudly in regular or sectoral forces. Knowing they're protecting the peace and safety of their loved ones, not robbing a drunk in an alley, risking a blaster shot to the face.

— And what about the adults? — the lieutenant smirked.

— The Dominion has so many planets to colonize, settle, build cities, mines, factories, — the moff said thoughtfully. — Not to mention, we're always glad to have soldiers, sailors, specialists, and scientists. Some planets in the Dominion, by agreeing to higher tax rates, reduced their conscription quotas for sectoral forces, or vice versa — lowered taxes but supplied recruits. Or goods — we're open to counteroffers.

— Sounds too sweet to be true, — Anilex declared. — What's the catch?

— That it's an ideal vision, — the Dominionion explained. — To even approach this, it'll take months at best, generations at worst. But the work will continue in that direction, whether you want it or not. I'm offering you a chance to pursue your goals not alone, but systematically and centrally. Not to mention, we'll rearm your corsairs with modern weapons and assist with targeting.

— Slick, — Anilex appreciated. — Gain a planet-city with a multibillion population desperate to leave for anywhere else.

— Yes, I heard during the Empire's time, Axila had some of the highest recruitment quotas due to the sheer number of volunteers, — the moff nodded in agreement.

— And that was when things were relatively okay, — Anilex noted.

— It's never too late to return to the past and take the best of it into the future, — the moff remarked.

— That's what the Dominion stands on? — the corsair smirked.

— Yes, — Moff Felix answered simply. — And you're offered a chance to join this grand endeavor.

— Tempting, — Anilex admitted. — Turn a backwater into a self-sufficient state with the best Imperial laws, without xenophobia… And with an alien at the helm. What could go wrong?

— Rhetorical question, isn't it?

The lieutenant smirked.

— Actually, I'm curious about the catch in making this pretty fairy tale a reality, — he clarified. — If it were as you describe, your borders would collapse from the flood of people wanting to live under those conditions.

— Perhaps, — the moff agreed. — We have immigrants, and we welcome them — provided they're not enemy spies.

— Oh, — Anilex grinned. — So that's it. Now I get it… You need Axila to block access to Morshdine or the Hegemony, don't you?

— Every part of the Dominion has strategic value, — the moff agreed. — Axila is intended to become a trade hub with other states but also remain a fortress-world, capable of withstanding the first strike and holding until regular forces arrive to crush the enemy.

— "Enemies," — Anilex raised a finger, noting the plural. — Got a lot of them?

— Plenty, — the moff answered simply. — Most of the galaxy, practically.

— And you really think you stand a chance? — Anilex asked, surprised. — One New Republic fleet would be enough to crush and destroy you.

— Oh, — the moff smiled. — They've already tried.

— And how successfully?

— Very successfully, — the moff's smile flashed white teeth. — Their ships are now ours, and nearly a million prisoners are busy building new facilities across the Dominion. Though we expect their numbers to grow soon.

— Is that a joke? — the lieutenant clarified.

— Not at all, — the moff's expression sobered. — Honestly, we're tired of explaining the futility of trying to destroy the Dominion… But they keep coming and coming…

— They're not *that* stupid, — Anilex grimaced. — They must have some plan…

— Judging by the number of citizenship applications from prisoners, their surrender is disguised immigration, — the moff shared his view.

Anilex shook his head, appreciating the quip.

— Let's try it, — he said. — I'm in.

— We won't try, — the moff corrected. — We'll do it.

— Then I suggest our allied fleet visits my less-than-honest comrades first, — the corsair said with a wide grin. — You said thirty percent of the loot?

— Oh, you're planning to rob your comrades in my sector, — Ferrus smiled. — In that case, thirty percent is your share.

— Their heads on pikes will suffice, — Anilex smiled darkly. — If it's my organization, the opposition must face dealt with.

— I completely agree, — the moff nodded affirmatively. — That's how we operate. — But for some reason, others don't live peacefully.

***

Captain Orsan Makeno stood at attention before the hologram.

— Order understood, sir, — he replied after the volumetric projection fell silent. — Ready to move out at any moment.

— The ships are already en route, — I stated. — Your starship must reach the rendezvous point first. — Then, proceed with attempts to capture the vessel. — You and your team must execute the plan precisely. — Once you disable the mainframe, signal the operation's start. — The boarding party will finish the job.

— Yes, sir, — Makeno nodded in acknowledgment. — Location and time confirmed. — We're ready to depart.

— Then proceed, — the hologram instructed before dissolving.

For a few seconds, the captain stood in silence and proud solitude, until he made his decision.

Activating his comlink, Orsan issued the order to begin the operation to eliminate Grand Admiral Thrawn.

But he wasn't certain of the correctness of his actions.

Well, he had five more days to devise a contingency plan.

Because dying at the hands of the guards protecting the grand admiral was something he very much wanted to avoid…