Grand Admiral

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

Or forty-four years, nine months, and thirteen days after the Great Resynchronization. 

(Four months and thirty-three days since arrival). 

There are numerous ways to squander credits while harboring the most optimistic and promising views on conducting business. 

The cantina, constructed in a location known as the Drinking Bowl, or simply the Bowl, on the planet Trogon, was intended to serve as a resort paradise for both local residents and planetary visitors. 

The Bowl was an almost perfectly circular depression in a massive rock formation, open to the sea on one side. Several times a day, high tides filled the area, swirling the water into a frothy maelstrom. This phenomenon was the reason the establishment was once named the Whirlpool. 

The owners arranged tables and lounging areas around the Bowl, anticipating that patrons would come to enjoy the breathtaking scenery and sample the reasonably good cuisine. Truly splendid plans. 

Yet, the venture failed. 

The tourism industry is a fickle business—especially when there are more picturesque destinations across the galaxy. The Galactic Civil War did little to encourage clients to travel halfway across the galaxy to visit. Moreover, until recently, Trogon lacked any semblance of an economy or infrastructure, with the Bowl being the planet's sole attraction. One would need extraordinary optimism to believe this was sufficient to draw wealthy clientele Helvetica customers. 

Furthermore, the Drinking Bowl was once a free attraction, and the nature of sentients is such that no one wishes to pay for what was previously free. 

Finally, the greatest issue was that the designer of this venue, who assumed patrons would comfortably dine and relax in a cantina where the roar of the water in the Bowl made it nearly impossible to linger, was clearly skilled in engineering but sorely lacking in logic. 

Thus, travelers left first, followed by the local residents. 

Over the years, the establishment languished, and the owner could not find a fool willing to purchase it for any sum. The place was so ill-fated that even the recent influx of capital from Imperial worlds failed to attract a single adventurer to acquire it. 

Yet, there were prospects here, and not insignificant ones. It merely required a clear mind and a substantial amount of credits… 

— This place has certain prospects, — Lando Calrissian remarked, glancing around. 

Aside from their table, all others were covered in polymer sheaths, with chairs overturned or stowed away, adding to the dismal scene. 

No, the cantina had not deteriorated to the point of collapse, but still… It was disheartening to see such ambitious projects born doomed. 

The Drinking Bowl. 

— As an option, you could buy it and rebuild, — said Talon Karrde, exchanging a glance with Mazzic and his bodyguard. The woman was, without question, striking and even formidable. And deadly dangerous. — One of my associates, Aves, considered it. But, thanks to Grand Admiral Thrawn's mercenaries, you now have no competitors. 

— Thank you for the offer, "Claw," — Calrissian beamed radiantly. — But I haven't lost my mind to the point of acquiring a business on Imperial territory while being a citizen of the New Republic. 

— Don't feed me vacuum, Lando, — Karrde requested. — You hold citizenship in nearly every galactic state. 

— Well-l-l-l, — Calrissian drawled, — not all of them. You overestimate my capabilities there. 

— As you say, — Talon replied indifferently, taking a sip of fruit juice. 

— I heard one of your acquaintances secured an interesting citizenship for her children, — Karrde continued nonchalantly, slicing into a juicy steak. 

A shadow crossed Calrissian's dark-skinned face. 

— That wasn't Leia's choice, — he declared. — Labor began while she was in captivity. I wouldn't be surprised if the Grand Admiral deliberately kept her captive for such a ploy. 

— Perhaps, — Karrde conceded. — Thrawn's operations are quite intricate and multi-layered. Curiously, they weren't always so in the past. 

— That's why I'm here, — Calrissian began. — You know a fair amount about him, so… 

— What? — Karrde looked up at his companion. — Join the fight against the Dominion officially? Take your side? Thank you, Calrissian, I have other matters to attend to. While Thrawn's people held me captive, they pinned every rancor on me—from involvement in Booster Terrik's disappearance, the destruction of his pirate-smuggler alliance at Rugosa, Princess Organa-Solo's vanishing during our meeting in the Milagro system, to aiding Imperials in staffing their laboratory on Linuri, where Death Stars were developed… 

— Since when did you become such a crybaby, "Claw"? — Calrissian asked, blinking in confusion. 

— This is merely a recitation of facts, — Talon stated. — My organization has suffered significant losses. Some of my people have scattered; others want nothing to do with me, as on Makem Te, they were given a clear ultimatum: work for me or the Dominion. After a couple of individuals who tried to straddle both sides were found with severed heads and a few credits in their teeth, the number of sentients willing to work for me dwindled. 

— Yes, I heard about that, — Lando's expression darkened. — I'm sorry for your people, Karrde. 

— I don't doubt it, — "Claw" nodded. 

— Do you know who did it? — Calrissian inquired. 

— Yes, — Karrde replied. — The Grand Admiral's operatives. His personal punitive force. The Noghri. You've heard of them, I presume. 

— How could I not? — Lando grumbled, evidently recalling an incident involving his friend Solo in the Honoghr system. — They work harshly, don't you think? 

— In a way, I even admire them, — Karrde declared. — Absolute loyalty, impeccable execution of orders. Near-perfect lethality. The Grand Admiral knows how to select his enforcers. 

— Yes, and the New Republic wouldn't mind having its own network of informants… 

— I know why you came, Lando, — Karrde interrupted. — To sell you information on the Grand Admiral. 

— Exactly, — Calrissian agreed. 

— Not interested, — Karrde replied. — Right now, I'm more focused on rebuilding my organization. I can't assist until I repair the damage already done. 

— You could sell us information on Thrawn, — Calrissian persisted. — Anything that could help in the fight against him. A few data chips for a substantial reward, and you're rich, and we're satisfied… 

— I'll give you a free piece of advice, — Karrde chewed a piece of meat and wiped his lips with a napkin. 

— And what's that? 

— Give him what he wants, — the smuggler replied. 

— All the Star Destroyers? — Calrissian whistled. — You're out of your mind, "Claw." First, lose thousands of fighters to take them from the Empire, and now just hand them over to the blue-skinned one? 

— You're not seeing the full picture, Calrissian, — Karrde stated. — Thrawn wins because he can. 

— Profound thought, — Lando remarked sardonically, crossing his legs and flashing a smile. 

— You don't understand, — Talon stated. — The Grand Admiral excels at navigating your political landscape and uses it against you. He's not just seizing Imperial ships he considers his but also ensures you look like fools. He destabilizes your system from within, exploiting your unwillingness or inability to realize that it would be simpler to give him a few ships, retrieve your prisoners, and dismiss him. The easiest way to be rid of him is to give him what he wants and shift focus to other Imperials. 

— He's holding nearly a million of our prisoners, — Calrissian grimaced. — To secure their release, we'd need to hand over about thirty Imperial Star Destroyers. 

— A small price to retrieve your soldiers, don't you think? — Karrde asked. 

— Not my decision, — Calrissian replied quickly. — I'm here to persuade you to help us. 

— As I've said, my organization has suffered losses, so… 

— Oh, come on, — Calrissian pleaded. — I know you and your reputation well. You don't forgive attacks on your business. Thrawn didn't just set you up; he stole your cargos, your ships. Some of your people are working for him, sourcing scarce goods from the black market. You can say whatever you want, but I'm certain you intend to settle the score. 

— My intentions and motivations are mine alone, — Talon declared sharply. 

— Tell me I'm wrong and that you're ready to shrug off the slaps Thrawn dealt you. 

Karrde was silent for a few moments, studying the cutlery as if searching for flaws. 

— No, — he finally said. — But striking now would be highly imprudent. 

— There you go, — Calrissian grinned. — One businessman recognizes another from afar. I, too, have a few questions for that guy. 

— And what do you plan to do to avenge your Nomad City? — Karrde inquired. 

Calrissian chuckled into his fist. 

— You think I came to an Imperial planet to spill my plans? — he asked. — Come on, you don't think I'm that foolish. Spies are on every corner here. 

— That's why we're meeting at the Bowl, — Karrde noted. — Though, you weren't invited. 

— Yet you sent out invitations loud and clear, — Calrissian countered. — And I don't see the guests you're expecting. 

— They'll come, — Karrde said with emphasis. — It takes time… 

— They were supposed to arrive days ago, — Calrissian reminded him. 

— No precise timeline was set, — "Claw" parried. 

— And since when does hope replace certainty in your words? — his companion asked rhetorically. 

— Since I decided to help Booster free his daughter, which led to Thrawn hunting my assets, — Talon maintained a neutral tone. 

— Listen, I'm genuinely sorry your business suffered from the Grand Admiral's actions, — Calrissian said. — We're alike in that. But now, with the New Republic having spare credits, you could earn a tidy sum by selling us all the information you have on the Grand Admiral… 

— "Us"? — Karrde clarified. — I didn't think, after Coruscant's attempts to rebuild your business under their wing, you'd still want to deal with them. 

— I'm not doing this for Coruscant, — Calrissian stated firmly. 

— I know, — Karrde smirked. — At the request of a certain charming Alderaanian princess. 

Calrissian chuckled. 

— And after what you just said, you'll insist your organization isn't as effective as it once was? 

— Yes, — Karrde replied calmly. — Moreover, I'll tell you this: since no one but me and Mazzic showed up to this meeting, — he nodded toward his partner, — the organization effectively no longer exists. Thrawn dismantled it by force or cunning. That means rebuilding from scratch. Slowly, painstakingly… 

— The New Republic could help with that, — Lando noted. — The credits you'd earn from selling information on the Grand Admiral would let you start anew… 

— Curious, Calrissian, — Karrde said. — I've long played the neutrality game, sidestepping politics, walking a vibroblade's edge but always maintaining balance… 

— Save that tale for someone else, alright? — Calrissian grimaced. — Those with brains and a bit of knowledge about your activities and services to the New Republic know your neutrality talk is pure fiction. You did far more for Coruscant than for the Imperials. You smuggled goods into the Imperial Remnants, trading for Imperial technologies you sold to the New Republic… 

— You think you'll impress me by recounting what's been common knowledge in the galaxy's underworld for months? — Karrde asked. 

— No, I'm suggesting you stop wavering, — Calrissian said. — Make your choice and help us. I may not see eye-to-eye with the New Republic's leadership, but it's in your interest to help them defeat Thrawn and the Empire. At the very least, the New Republic's lenient legislation benefits your operations. And you could… 

— Replace your lost intelligence network? — Karrde smirked. — Yes, Calrissian, you're clever with words, but I just told you—my organization no longer exists. 

— But you and your data banks do, — Lando pressed. — You know the value of what you possess. I'm certain the New Republic will duly reward your efforts. Help us defeat Thrawn, and you can rebuild your organization in relative peace, without worrying about finding buyers for your information. Thrawn is the only real threat to the New Republic. Without him, things return to normal. And I'm more than certain that, beyond those who didn't show up today, you have dozens of informants you're discreetly withholding. I know how you select your subordinates. So, I'll never believe they all suddenly decided you're untrustworthy. 

— An interesting proposal, Calrissian, — Karrde laughed. — You sing sweetly. But if you're so confident in the New Republic's strength, why did you shed your general's stripes? 

— The New Republic is a state, — Lando said grimly. — I clashed with specific authorities. 

— Yes, I understand, — Karrde nodded. — Your little furry friend didn't come to his senses even after being Thrawn's captive. 

— That's what infuriated me, — Lando admitted. — But I understand that such sentients will always be in power. I don't want to serve under them directly. 

— Nor will I, — Karrde agreed. — Trading information is one thing. Becoming part of your intelligence network is another. 

— No one's suggesting the latter, — Calrissian replied, puzzled. He paused for a moment, then asked: 

— You decided long ago, didn't you? 

— Of course, — Karrde popped another piece of steak into his mouth, chewing it thoroughly. — But it was pleasant to hear you try to persuade me. Though, I had to wait a long time for you to move from verbal tactics to the point. 

— So that's a "yes"? — Calrissian clarified. 

Karrde took another bite of steak. 

He chewed it slowly, watching the droid chef, the only one left in the cantina after even its owners had fled. 

The droid followed its programming, polishing glasses, unaware that it might never serve another patron. The poor thing had lost one photoreceptor over years without maintenance, yet it performed its tasks efficiently. 

"I should deactivate it after we leave," Karrde thought, finishing his meal. 

He had considered taking the droid with him. But stealing another's property wasn't his style, and tracking down the cantina's owners would be a lengthy and likely fruitless endeavor. 

A pity—the droid's cooking was exceptional. 

— Yes, Calrissian, — he said firmly. — I'm with you… 

*** 

Her career began long ago, the details now a blur. And who needed them, anyway? 

There were highs, there were lows. 

And there was a lengthy imprisonment that made the galaxy forget her. 

Not the most pleasant chapter of her life—nor how it ended. 

Aurra Sing adjusted her earpiece. 

The directional microphone, embedded in the eye socket of the malfunctioning droid chef, transmitted everything happening at Karrde and Calrissian's table. 

The assassin peered through her sniper rifle's scope, feeling the stock against her skin. 

She wasn't concerned about lens flare—the overcast weather near the Drinking Bowl dulled natural light to a dismal gray. Moreover, her position in the rock's shadow provided reliable concealment in every sense. 

The woman rested her index finger on the trigger. 

A fine weapon, to be sure. 

Developed by Imperials for covert missions, the Nightsting fired invisible blaster bolts, though its sole drawback was the unavoidable sound of the shot. 

Even the cartridge's five-shot limit was no issue for an experienced sniper. 

And Aurra Sing had experience in spades. 

It was no coincidence she was tasked with this job. 

And paid handsomely for it. 

— But you must understand, Calrissian, — Karrde's voice sounded in her ear. — For me, this is just another job. If the New Republic lacks the credits to buy what I'm prepared to offer, don't expect any help. Business is good when it doesn't turn personal… 

— I wonder how much your loyalty costs, Karrde? — Calrissian inquired. 

— It's not for sale, — he replied. — I don't serve states—only my people. They're loyal to me, and I to them. Everyone else is a client… 

— So, nothing would make you an ideological crusader against Thrawn? — Calrissian asked, surprised. 

— I didn't say that, — Karrde shrugged, glancing at the pair standing slightly behind, pretending to be engrossed in conversation. 

Sure, don't strain yourselves. It's clear the guy in glasses is Karrde's subordinate, and the woman with predator-like movements is a bodyguard. A highly skilled one, at that. 

A smile curled Aurra Sing's lips… 

She understood why she received this particular contract. 

The crosshairs shifted from Karrde's head, moving away from his table. 

— The Millennium Falcon is parked at the entrance, below the Bowl, — Calrissian said, — so we can… 

— I have my own ship, Lando, — Karrde noted. — And it's in the opposite direction. You can return to Coruscant and report my involvement in their venture. Tell them to prepare plenty of credits. I'll wait a few more days, give my people a chance, and… 

Aurra touched her comm. 

— Begin, Lieutenant, — she ordered. 

— Understood, — replied the Dominion garrison commander on Trogon. 

Then the show began. 

With the first shot, as an explosion destroyed Karrde's speeder, Aurra fired an invisible blaster bolt straight into the glasses of Karrde's subordinate. 

Mazzic, as she knew from the operation files, collapsed like a sack, and his bodyguard swiftly dragged her patron's body behind the table overturned by Karrde and Calrissian. 

*** 

— In the name of the Dominion, you are all under arrest! — a voice boomed through a megaphone. — Lay down your weapons and surrender voluntarily! 

Impressive effort from the boys—they were shouting loud enough to drown out the water in the Drinking Bowl. 

— What in the name of bantha poodoo is this?! — Calrissian shouted, peering over the table's edge as, above the tide filling the Bowl, an LAAT/i rose, bearing the Dominion's golden gear emblem on its sides. — Are we in a new episode of the Clone Wars and no one told us? 

— Thrawn supplies old Republic tech to the periphery for local garrisons, — Karrde explained, watching Mazzic's bodyguard futilely attempt to revive him. — Leave the body alone. 

The woman flashed a predatory glare. 

— He's got a hole through half his face, — "Claw" clarified. — No amount of bacta will restore his brain. 

— We need to take them out, — she hissed. 

Karrde grimaced at her. 

— They may be flying relics, — he said, ducking as a rocket from the LAAT/i obliterated the cantina's roof. — But those relics are still lethal. 

— How did they find us? — Calrissian fretted. 

— Come out immediately with hands raised! — the megaphone roared. — You are surrounded! Surrender! 

Karrde glanced at the column of smoke rising from where he'd left his ship. 

— It doesn't matter how they found us, — he said decisively. — We need to get out. It seems Thrawn was tracking us. Otherwise, I can't explain why the Trogon garrison spent the last week training recruits instead of conducting sweeps. 

— They didn't even have patrols, — the bodyguard confirmed. 

— A trap, — Calrissian hissed, ducking as another section of the roof splintered. — We need to bolt! 

— I'm already working on it, — Karrde said. Weighing the facts, he arrived at one solution. — The Falcon is downstream from the Bowl, right? 

— Yes, — Calrissian gestured toward the coast. — There's a stone grotto and a passage through the rock leading here, so… 

— I know what you mean, — that landing pad hadn't been used in ages. It was chosen because the grotto's dense rock disrupted sensors, allowing smugglers to deliver illicit goods. 

Situated high enough to avoid flooding, it was still washed by the ocean most of the time. If the tide carried them out to sea, they'd pass the landing pad… 

— Follow my lead, — Karrde ordered. Shaking his head at Mazzic's body, he said, — We'll have to leave him, Shada. 

The woman shot him a furious, probing look. Clearly, she didn't like that someone other than Mazzic knew her real name. 

Karrde knew far more, but now wasn't the time or place to discuss it. 

— He was my friend too, — Karrde stated. — But we must leave him. Don't worry, we'll have our revenge. 

— Can we do this later? — Calrissian yelled as a sizable splinter lodged in his shoulder from another Dominion shot at the interior. — We need to get out. 

— Follow my lead, — Karrde muttered, like a Jedi mantra. — We either risk it or visit Imperial dungeons. 

— I don't think I want to repeat that experience, — Calrissian grumbled. 

Shada remained silent. She was never talkative with anyone but her employer. 

— We surrender! — Karrde raised his hands. 

The shooting stopped. 

Emerging from cover, he clearly saw a squad of stormtroopers rushing through the cantina's upper entrance. From the hovering LAAT/i, more "dolls" descended on rappelling cables. 

Shada and Lando followed his example, waiting patiently for the LAAT/i to reposition… 

— You take Calrissian, — Karrde ordered. 

— Understood, — the woman replied. 

— Don't move! — The LAAT/i began circling above the cantina, selecting a landing spot. Of course, the stormtrooper commander wanted to personally chain them. Not likely! 

— Forward! — the smuggler roared, diving headfirst into the Drinking Bowl's whirlpool. 

The icy water instantly spun him in its vortex, nearly colliding him with Calrissian and Shada, who dove in after him. 

His limbs went numb, but he had to move while the tide was in their favor. 

Holding his breath as long as possible, Karrde swam with all his strength toward the narrow crevice among the rocks feeding the Drinking Bowl. 

There were ample opportunities to smash against the stones, tear open his belly, or come under a barrage of stormtrooper fire. 

Fortunately, the latter proved their usual inaccuracy, sparing them extra holes. 

The receding tide, not yet at full strength, helped them escape the crevice, but the surf had its own agenda. 

It dragged the trio back as they surfaced. But by swimming sideways, the fugitives achieved their goal—the next wave hurled them under the grotto's low ceiling. 

No one would think a convenient parking zone was hidden here, as sentient logic assumed starships fly, not submerge. 

Thus, in all the years of the grotto's existence, no Imperial ever realized the narrow slit above the water, exposed at the lowest tide, was merely the entrance to a cave. 

Yes, entering was difficult—few ships could navigate the narrow passage without losing hull or equipment. 

But Calrissian, it seemed, was indeed a skilled pilot. 

Thankfully, smugglers lacked such mental constraints. If Karrde's Action-class ships could fit in the grotto, he'd be swimming to his own vessel, not the Millennium Falcon, proudly perched on a rocky shoal. 

Clambering ashore, Karrde, shivering, pointed at the ship's lowered ramp: 

— If Imperials are waiting there, Calrissian, I'll strangle you myself. 

But no Imperials were present, and within minutes, using repulsors, the ship slipped out of the grotto, breached the ocean surface, fended off the pesky LAAT/i, and rocketed to orbit, leaving the inhospitable planet behind. 

Meanwhile, Aurra Sing sat in her hideout, reporting to her employer that the trap on Trogon had been executed as Grand Admiral Thrawn had planned. 

She was, after all, reporting to the Shadow Guard herself… 

Some wield lightsabers; others masterfully execute missions with a sniper rifle. 

*** 

— Sir, — Captain Pellaeon's voice has become so routine it's almost unnerving. — The control communication session with the stations is complete. The objects are moving, with minimal issues. Structural damage is negligible. 

— Indicating a possible correlation between the extent of damage and hyperspace travel speed, — I concluded. 

— Likely, — Gilad's response was telling. When uninformed on a matter, he doesn't even attempt to argue. If he lacks knowledge about hyperspace jumps on orbitally deployed Mon Calamari hyperdrive-equipped platforms, he doesn't hypothesize. 

— Have the Acclamators arrived? — I asked, glancing at the monitor. Mounted on the wall alongside others, this one duplicated data from the Chimera's tactical terminal. I knew with certainty that two dozen strike cruisers of that class had reached the rendezvous point where the Chimera waited with its escort ships. But I couldn't let Pellaeon grow complacent. 

— Affirmative, sir, — he replied. 

— Commence the briefing with the formation commanders, — I ordered. — The strikes must occur at precisely calculated times. 

— Understood, sir, — Gilad responded. — Shall I expect your arrival? 

— You can assign and clarify the task to the formation commanders, Captain, — I said. 

— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon replied, signing off. 

Leaning back in my chair, I gazed at the stand holding the ysalamiri's cage. Yes, a different one from before, but it's hard to blame it for the strain in our relationship. I'd avoid someone who tried to crush my head over their own failure, too. 

Amusingly, these lizards are considered brainless, driven by primitive instincts. Yet, it seems they possess at least a sense of grudge, as I doubt the ysalamiri scratched a memo in its cage to stop being friendly with me. 

In the cabin's dim light, the ysalamiri's brown hue is barely discernible… but not to Chiss vision. 

Two days of analyzing the New Republic's intelligence database, with the analytical department's aid, provided ample food for thought. 

Thanks to Zakarisz Ghent for swiftly cracking the Republic's encryption system. 

And thanks to New Republic Intelligence for much intriguing information to ponder. 

Any rational sentient understands a state cannot endure long without intelligence services—especially those engaged in highly illegal and unpopular activities known as "shadow operations." 

The late Airen Cracken was among those who recognized the necessity of such operatives in his service. 

Analysis of the documents, though heavily redacted, shed light on the New Republic's darker side. I confess, I'm beginning to see little difference between Coruscant's new and old masters. 

But, one thing at a time. 

The Alliance to Restore the Republic was, at its core, a criminal organization, employing methods like piracy, terrorism, robbery, and abductions. Yes, ostensibly against the enemies of their vaunted democracy, but the image of a pure, untainted state that avoids the well-trodden path of despotism and galactic intrigue crumbles repeatedly. 

Take, for instance, the remarkable "Cracken Reports." Highly classified, created to brief the Alliance's leadership and later the New Republic's provisional government. 

Two years after the Battle of Yavin IV, Airen Cracken worked closely with the Alliance's fledgling security service personnel. The primary task of his handpicked operatives was gathering any available information on the Alliance's enemies and potential allies, operating undercover, naturally. 

These reports… they astonish with their abundance of double standards. But when has intelligence work or political maneuvering been otherwise? Consider, for example, a slaver, leader of the Mytaranor Slaving Council. In his report, Cracken spares no epithets, the mildest being "repulsive individual." Slavery is a sin, of course, but not in this galaxy. 

The full bloom of the New Republic's double standards is revealed in a dossier on a former university professor turned pirate. Per Cracken's logic, this "character" was of interest as a potential rebel and instructor for young recruits. 

The New Republic's slogan claims the Empire's days are over… I'd agree. During the Empire's time, only Prince Xizor and Black Sun garnered such high-level attention due to their utility. In the "Cracken Reports," every galactic criminal opposing the Empire is deemed a potential ally. Thieves, murderers, pirates… a fine company. 

Yes, I'm not clean-handed myself, but we're "Imperials," the "embodiment of evil." We're allowed. 

The "Cracken Reports" contain much of interest. Details on the New Republic's secret prisons holding Imperials deemed too dangerous for amnesty. Yet, the Republic grants amnesty to anyone who surrenders and pledges not to serve the Empire further… Curiously, the commander of the Star Destroyer Tyrant was offered no such choice—he was sent straight to a secret prison. He's not alone. Imperial agents, ship commanders, special forces, commandos… those considered too ideological to even be mentioned as captives. 

I once read that George Lucas modeled the Old Republic on the United States. The Expanded Universe, written by authors from that country, carries a distinct flavor. 

Secret prisons for the ideologically driven, "shadow operations," and flirtations with separatists of all stripes to establish pro-Republic regimes… 

From an outside perspective, it's as if it never died… Yes, my homeland isn't sinless, but I don't recall its intelligence or mercenaries meddling in every minor galactic conflict. Some, yes, but… 

Enough of that. It's all rhetoric. 

More intriguing is this: 

With the New Republic's establishment as a legitimate state, Airen Cracken headed its Intelligence Directorate. Though the Galactic Empire lost its former might with its ruler's death, some ex-Imperial warlords like Zsinj or Ysanne Isard remained active, causing significant trouble for the young New Republic. During the liberation campaign from the Battle of Yavin to the Battle of Hoth, Cracken assembled a special group of agents known as "Shadow Operatives." Their duties included sabotage, spreading disinformation, and, when necessary, assassinations—all to fracture the remaining Imperial moffs, admirals, and advisors post-Palpatine. These Shadow Operatives are responsible for the disinformation now considered standard in galactic society. From them stem tales of Imperials oppressing all aliens, enslaving them, conducting "Base Delta Zero" every weekend, and other nonsense that induces migraines and a burning desire to rid the galaxy of such zealous professionals. 

The only reason these "operatives" aren't currently active is that they were illegal agents working directly under Cracken. To protect their identities and locations, General Cracken put a blaster bolt through his head, scattering his brains in every sense. 

Well, Dominion Intelligence has a new target. 

But far more intriguing were the side projects to Cracken's Reports. 

For instance, the excellent work titled "Wanted by Cracken." A list of fifty names compiled by the deceased about two years ago. Its digital pages contain profiles on Imperials, bounty hunters, mercenaries, smugglers, assassins, pirates, gangsters, spies, and informants, plus select individuals who significantly vexed the New Republic. 

In my view, a superb roster of potential targets to be worked through. Some to recruit, some to hire, some to eliminate if they pose a significant threat to the Dominion. Is it distasteful to collaborate with cutthroats even the New Republic deems societal dregs? Not at all. If the vaunted, enlightened democracy indulges itself, what's to say of us "Imperials"? We're "evil incarnate"; we're allowed. It's practically required. 

Another prime target list for cyber-attacks is the work of the New Republic's new intelligence director, Hiram Drayson. The file, titled "Cracken's Operatives," is quite compelling. 

Cut off from Cracken's galaxy-spanning agent network, Drayson began re-establishing contact with operatives. Several illegal agents independently reached out to the new leadership, and unlike Cracken, Drayson opted to maintain a specialized record of such "assets." My thanks to him for such an excellent guide to future targets. 

Why future? Because decapitating the New Republic's illegal network (except where it operates directly against the Dominion) would irreparably damage their ability to counter Palpatine's future plans. One must never forget that some "off-screen" events likely occurred due to these operatives' efforts. Thus, surveillance is necessary, but elimination must be cautious—at least until Palpatine is definitively defeated. After that… Dominion Intelligence and the Noghri will significantly thin the ranks of Republic intelligence. 

But the most splendid "gift of fate" for me now is a compilation of data on… Imperial Intelligence. 

Judging by the narrative style, Airen Cracken himself compiled this data. His writing is unmistakable. 

The general kept records from databases acquired during Coruscant's capture. Notes indicate some information was deleted, some restored. Cracken personally compiled certain dossiers, consolidating known data. 

It's engaging reading. 

However, my hopes of uncovering something substantial on Blackhole's identity were unmet. Broad strokes, data on involvement in various operations, mostly based on hypotheses and deductions. Disappointing, yet intriguing. 

But something I hadn't anticipated surfaced. 

A name mentioned by Ysanne Isard's clone. 

Jahan Cross. 

An Imperial agent. Based on the retrospective nature of his dossier, Republic intelligence compiled it from their own data. 

This will shed light on why the "Iceheart" took such interest in this sentient. 

Born thirty-three years before the Battle of Yavin IV to a diplomat in the Old Republic's corps. A comfortable childhood. During General Grievous's attack on Coruscant at the end of the Clone Wars, his mother perished, and local riffraff dragged his sister to the lower levels of the galactic city. A concussed Jahan followed, killing his first sentient but arriving hours too late to save his sister. 

Curious… Killing a sentient being at fourteen. Yes, vengeance for his sister's death, but such an act leaves a mark. Not critical, but it must have left an indelible impression on young Jahan's mind. 

The data on Cross's life drops off, with a significant gap until three years before the Battle of Yavin. Oddly, despite capturing Coruscant's archives—Old Republic, Galactic Empire, school records, medical databases, customs declarations, and diplomatic service records through his father's line—sixteen years of a young man's life vanished. 

The conclusion is clear: Cross's dossier was scrubbed. Thoroughly. Only one explanation fits—someone ensured his past disappeared. Intriguing… It immediately evokes thoughts of data purges on Wayland… 

Three years before the Battle of Yavin IV. 

Data on Cross's first operation has a different tone, suggesting a different source. Curious… 

Cracken notes that after Alliance saboteurs infiltrated a research station and security node, granting access to Incom Corporation's test ranges, Cross was embedded in the compromised facility to investigate… 

Hold on… This sounds familiar. Too familiar. I've read this somewhere. 

Memory jogged, I pulled a code cylinder from my breast pocket—the one Thrawn used for his investigation into… 

I scanned it… 

There it is! 

The research station where Cross operated three years before Yavin was Research Base 61 on Wayland! Due to personnel negligence, rebels breached the security node, paving the way to Incom and the famed X-Wings. 

I've had these records since my arrival in the galaxy! Except, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, while searching for Wayland, didn't bother noting the agent who uncovered the base commander's corruption and eliminated him. 

So, it was Jahan Cross. 

What are the odds a mere operative would be sent to a secret facility on the same planet as Palpatine's personal vault? Which, by then, was certainly not empty? 

Exactly. None. 

If the rebels had known Palpatine's private treasury was on Wayland's other hemisphere, they wouldn't have settled for a single sabotage mission. 

Jahan Cross—Palpatine's personal agent, likely with top-tier clearance. 

This grows more interesting by the moment. 

After the Wayland mission, Cross provided evidence to then-Imperial Intelligence head Armand Isard of the corruption of the officer he killed. He received permission to continue the investigation in the Corporate Sector, where the data sold by the slain officer had been transferred. 

Here's a third data segment, written in a less formal style. I suspect I know the author. 

On Etti IV in the Corporate Sector, Jahan Cross encountered Han Solo. A curious detail sheds light on Cross's past. 

Solo knew him from the Imperial Academy and considered him a friend. Moreover, during an incident with locals, Cross used diplomatic immunity to prevent his, Solo's, and Chewbacca's arrest, angering local security forces. 

I've never been close with intelligence operatives, but it's clear a portion of any diplomatic corps consists of career spies—no special training required to see that. 

A lengthy entry follows, noting Cross's dealings with the Stark family, specifically those tied to the Stark Hyperspace War, which ended shortly before the Clone Wars. 

How intriguingly fates intertwine… 

Cross faced accusations of murdering the second wife of the late Iaco Stark, the war's namesake. He tried leveraging diplomatic immunity, but the Imperial ambassador maliciously declared him an impostor. A detailed account follows of how one agent turned the planet upside down—disabling guards, racing through a mansion on a speeder bike, getting shot down, soaring over a waterfall, diving into a pool, avoiding an explosion… 

Solo reported similar issues with locals trying to reach Cross through him. After the incident, Cross sought Solo's help to reach Relltuin, but Solo refused, as Cross lacked credits. 

Curiously, three intriguing events followed. 

First, the murder and robbery of the ambassador who branded Cross a fraud, nullifying his diplomatic immunity. 

Second, a citywide catastrophe—a traffic incident with gunfire. The suspect's description matched Cross's. 

Third, a report segment, again by Han Solo, stating he transported Cross and a young Stark woman, who was tending Cross's wounds, to Relltuin—not the planet, but a space station guarded by modified vulture droids. 

Solo didn't know what happened on the Eclipse station but noted he retrieved both passengers from the burning, exploding facility. From their conversations and a brief skirmish post-evacuation, Solo deduced Cross had destroyed Iaco Stark, who hadn't died but had become a cyborg intent on controlling all galactic droids. 

Cross also distinguished himself in the matter of House Dooku's heir—data provided by the Alderaanian side. 

Cross was well-acquainted with Bail Organa and his "daughter" Leia, easily infiltrating their gala. There, the acting head of House Dooku was assassinated. Alderaanian guards claimed Cross was the hired killer, but he slipped their grasp and vanished. A lead on Mandalorian armor worn by the assassin yielded nothing. 

Cross was later found in a hotel room. 

Alderaanians also reported Cross met with Ysanne Isard for an extended conversation. 

Now it's clear how they know each other… Academy, intelligence work, personal meetings… 

Cross was then spotted at a gathering of Serenno's noble Houses, Dooku's homeworld. He participated in covert talks and discussions, but the Imperial delegation was led by his father—a true diplomat to lull local suspicions. 

Per New Republic analysts, Cross was linked to the ensuing firefights and battles, even involving Boba Fett. 

The power crisis on Serenno was resolved, with the slain Dooku's son taking leadership. 

And that's it. No further data, only vague reports of sightings here and there. 

No direct proof of illegal activity was confirmed. 

The agent simply went to ground, eluding Republic pursuit for a decade. Notably. 

Cross's psychological profile suggests he's someone worth dealing with. 

A man of honor and justice, fiercely loyal to his work and proud to serve the Empire. He respected aliens and droids, even holding great esteem for non-humans in Imperial service. He was also haunted by his past. 

Highly trained in armed and unarmed combat, as well as piloting various vehicles, he was observant and adept at subtleties, though he fought when needed. 

Studying this data, I felt like I was watching a spy thriller—a blend of Jason Bourne and James Bond, steeped in local realities. 

Shootouts, chases, hostage crises, a supercomputer threatening universal security, political assassinations, betrayals, faked deaths… 

In every operation, per the data, Jahan Cross emerged victorious. Impressive, very impressive. 

I concede, Isard's clone proposed a truly compelling candidate for recruitment. 

I could greatly benefit from an agent of his caliber. 

He's undoubtedly alive—notes indicate someone resembling him was repeatedly spotted in the Corporate Sector. 

The task remains to find him, ascertain his current stance, loyalty to the Dominion's ideals, and put him to work. 

The data makes one thing clear: New Republic Intelligence was equally interested in him. His diplomat father is likely tied to New Alderaan or the New Republic itself. 

It's possible he's already working against us as an illegal agent, though his flamboyant methods would likely have caught my attention. 

His "noisy" approach isn't always ideal, but… 

Why not, after all? 

The holoprojector beeped. 

Snapping my eyes open, I activated the device. 

A blue-white projection of Reynar Obscuro greeted me, kneeling with his head bowed. 

— Axxila is taken, Grand Admiral, — he said. — The advisors were killed by a Jedi. I ensured the Cavil Corsairs seized power and fulfilled the agreement's terms. All planetary resources are now at our disposal. 

— Excellent, — I said, making a note on my computer—now it was just a matter of deploying a contingent and commencing operations. That was a discussion for Grand Moff Ferrus. 

— New assignment, Grand Admiral? — Obscuro's eyes held silent resolve. 

— Yes, — I replied without hesitation. — Our latest tactical operation will draw opponents you'd relish confronting. I'm sending coordinates for where to set the trap. 

— It will be done, Grand Admiral, — Obscuro said obediently, with evident enthusiasm. 

Yes, he understood me correctly—a meeting awaited with those he yearned to avenge. 

*** 

A sharp odor irritated her olfactory receptors, and Third opened her eyes. 

Third. 

Her consciousness, still clouded by chemicals, clung to scattered elements of the surroundings… 

It was as dark here as in her laboratory's basement. 

Only a tiny lamp overhead dispelled the gloom. 

Much like her lab, but her eyes discerned significant differences. 

She was no longer in her sanctuary at the B'omarr Monastery on Teth. 

— Rather dreary, — the girl said mournfully, glancing at her hands and feet, shackled to a metal seat. 

She'd have to start over, gather credits again… 

— It's not as bad as it seems, — the dimly lit room, illuminated only by the lamp above her, filled with a commanding male voice from beyond the light's cone. — Cooperate, and you'll gain considerable privileges. 

— Ah, — Third said, yawning. — Well… fair enough. 

A man emerged from the shadows. 

Young, relatively handsome, clad in black armor… like the fighters who stormed her lab. 

He was likely one of those who disrupted her solitude. 

— Fine, let's cooperate, — she said, yawning widely. 

The man stood stunned for a moment. 

— What, no screams, no threats, no demands, no conditions? — he asked suspiciously. 

— Nope, — Third declared. — Well, one condition. 

— I knew it, — he smirked. — I'm Bravo-One, and… 

— Alright, — she shrugged. — I've heard worse names. I'm Third. 

— I know, — he said, wincing. — And you're a member of the B'omarr Order… 

— Got anything to eat? — she asked. 

The man halted mid-speech. 

He stood, mouth agape, blinking and processing. 

— One more time, — he requested. 

— I'm hungry, — Third said. — You asked about my cooperation conditions, so here it is—I'm hungry. 

— I thought you'd mention credits or work terms, — her captor said uncertainly. 

— Food's the main thing, — Third replied. — I'm too lazy to cook. 

— Yes, I saw proof of your laziness in your lair, — he snorted. — You know dry rations are meant to be heated, not eaten raw? And bedding needs washing? Your lab's more like a den. 

The captive shrugged. 

Don't like it? Then why blast the door? 

— Lazy, — she explained, yawning. — I'm hungry. And I'd like to sleep. 

— I knew you monks were cracked, but this… — Bravo-One said, eyeing her warily. — Do you even know why you're needed or who you'll work for? 

— Does it matter? — she asked. — You don't kidnap a B'omarr monk to play sabacc. So, you need my talents. I don't mind working for someone. Beats scrounging for equipment and reagents while hiding from the Order… 

— You're a radical who doesn't just put brains in jars but back into bodies? — Bravo-One asked, still suspicious. 

— Well… if you'd waited a couple more hours and not blown my door or wrecked my equipment, the patient could've talked to you, — she yawned. 

— You're not even curious if he's alive? — Bravo-One asked. 

— Too lazy, — she declared. — And I'm hungry. And I'd like to sleep—I've been on my feet for two days operating. 

— You'll have everything, — Bravo-One stated. — But from now on, you work solely for the Dominion. You'll perform operations to save our people and aliens, so I need assurance you're up to the task. 

— Fine, — Third shrugged. — Give me the equipment, and in a day, your brain will be floating in a nutrient jar. In another day, I could put you in a rancor. 

— My body suits me fine, — Bravo-One paled, stepping back. 

— You'd be even prettier as a "spider" with your brain in a jar, — Third smiled. 

His response was quiet cursing in Rodian. Third caught only a few phrases—nonsense about deranged B'omarr monks needing to mate with rancors. 

"Strange people," Third thought, yawning. 

— So, when do I eat?