She stared at the monitors displaying her agents' reports for so long that her eyes began to water.
Stubbornly, unrelentingly…
Ysanne Isard, the real one, not a clone, blinked.
It felt as though someone had sprinkled fine sand under her eyelids.
It took several minutes for the dryness in her eyes to subside naturally.
Only then did she open her eyes again.
What was she to make of this!?
What kind of monster are you, Grand Admiral Thrawn?!
How… how could anyone even conceive of such a thing?!
The Iceheart felt a wave of heat wash over her.
With a sharp tug, she unfastened the collar of her crimson jacket, gasping for air.
It was as if she were suffering from oxygen deprivation, rising from the depths of an ocean.
Over the years of her work in Imperial Intelligence, she had done so much… No one and nothing, knowing her past, would ever dare to shelter Ysanne Isard.
For one simple reason, plain as day.
After Thyferra and the surrender of Coruscant, when millions perished by her will, after "she" effectively unleashed the wrath of the New Republic on Krennel — to trust "Ysanne Isard" enough to spare her life?! Truly, either Thrawn is a fool, or he is a genius. So much so that his past actions and conquests pale in comparison to what he is doing now.
Time and again, she found herself grappling with questions.
Where did Thrawn's love for political and psychological intrigue come from? Yes, he had orchestrated such schemes in the past, but politics was clearly not his forte.
Could he have changed so drastically while in the Unknown Regions?
No, there was something else at play here. If he had honed his skills or gained new ones, it would have shown almost immediately. Thrawn is a sentient of action. He wouldn't pretend to be a hollow shell, biding his time for years. Weeks, months — perhaps.
But to act like an insignificant, brilliant piece of flesh, waiting a year and a half before breaking free and shaking the galaxy to its core in just three months, so much that it's ready to eat from his hand?
Of course, that's an exaggeration, and things aren't quite like that. But Ysanne was accustomed to planning ahead and anticipating possible outcomes. It made them easier to manage and adjust as needed.
Like now, for instance.
Her manipulation of the New Republic to lure them into the Ciutric Hegemony to destroy Prince-Admiral Krennel, followed by siccing the Republic's elite on her clone as a cover for her primary mission, was no longer viable.
Thrawn had seized the Hegemony. And he had plans to annex at least two neighboring sectors to his fledgling state. Positioned so strategically that controlling just half a dozen star systems would make it impregnable.
What was unusual — Thrawn had never played "defensively" before. His style was offense. In that, he was terrifyingly magnificent.
But predictable.
And now, what?
The longer and more extensively Grand Admiral Thrawn acted, the more often Ysanne caught herself thinking, "I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT HE, HUTT TAKE HIM, IS DOING!!!!"
In this galaxy, there was only one sentient whose mastery of intrigue could surpass Isard's by orders of magnitude.
The Emperor.
But that was before the Battle of Endor. Now, Palpatine resided in the Deep Core, weaving his web of lies and deception far from her scrutiny, without sharing the details. Which was entirely correct.
She had failed him — lost Coruscant, Thyferra… But those meant little to the Emperor, as Sedriss, who arrived on his behalf, made clear. He informed her that the Emperor cared about only one of her failures.
The loss of the Lusankya.
Which that blasted Thrawn had also designated as a target for the New Republic! And now those filthy rebels had once again relocated the construction site of her flagship from the Morshdine sector… somewhere else.
Now she would have to search for the ship again, prepare to seize it again, adjust her plans again…
And do so in a way that not only reclaimed her super star destroyer but also eliminated her clone!
Who, if she collaborated with Thrawn, would transform from a minor issue requiring attention into a truly monstrous problem!
Ysanne felt control slipping through her fingers.
The clone of the Director of Imperial Intelligence had been grown by Isard herself after the deaths of the Emperor and Darth Vader on the second Death Star. Soon after the news spread across the galaxy, Isard focused on quelling uprisings in the Imperial Center. While consolidating control over the remnants of the Empire, more by chance than by design, she discovered the Emperor's personal cloning facility in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant.
Spaarti cylinders, enhanced with GeNod program improvements. An extremely costly and undoubtedly rare find. One she hadn't known about. Nor did she have any leads on it.
The Emperor knew how to keep his secrets.
She destroyed all the cloning cylinders except one, which she transferred to the Lusankya. Aboard her personal super star destroyer, Isard secretly grew her sole clone, intending to use her when circumstances required personal oversight but the original was unavailable to address issues.
To this end, the Iceheart kept her double in stasis, constantly and vigilantly updating her memories with one purpose. Upon awakening, the clone had to believe she was the real Isard. Only then could the numerous problems of cloning with these programs be circumvented. One small misstep, the slightest overlap between the original and the clone, or a meeting between multiple clones — and clone madness was guaranteed in every single case.
That's why she had gone into the shadows, allowing the clone to handle the preservation and psychological destruction of her prisoners.
But with the emergence of Grand Admiral Thrawn, something had gone terribly wrong…
— Director Isard, — Colonel Broak Vessery's voice came through the comlink. — We're returning to base.
— Did you do a good job covering your tracks? — she asked.
— Yes, ma'am, — the colonel replied tersely.
Well, his competence was beyond question.
The problem was, the prisoners were no longer needed…
For the old plan, she corrected herself.
But there was always room for a new one.
— Proceed to land, — she ordered. — And keep our captive Rogues in the hold for a couple of days. Let them taste despair.
***
This time, Grand Moff Ardus Kaine didn't bother with trifles.
A glass? Laughable.
He hurled a chair against the wall.
With the characteristic sound of splintering wood, the wreckage of the expensive piece of furniture crashed to the floor.
Along with the computer panel that had been mounted on the wall. After meeting the chair, it didn't last long.
— Could it really be done like that?! — the grand moff roared, pacing his office like an enraged rancor. — Thrawn! What are you doing?!
The HoloNet was abuzz with the colossal volume of information dumped into the network by specialists from the Ciutric Hegemony.
"The New Republic — the aggressor!"
"Freedom — only in words!?"
"Children of a Republic advisor granted Imperial citizenship!"
"The future of the New Republic predetermined?"
"Uncle — a Jedi, family friend — a rogue and swindler, father — a smuggler, mother — an Alderaanian terrorist, children — Imperial subjects. How much do you believe in the New Republic's prosperity?"
"The New Order broke down, bring on the next one!"
These and hundreds of thousands of other headlines, equally biting and deeply offensive to both the New Republic and the Imperial Remnants, flooded news feeds in public publications, reputable news agencies, tabloid holojournals, and outright unreliable rags across the galaxy. They were shattering the usual, traditionally leisurely way of life for galactic citizens. And while Grand Moff Kaine cared little for most of them, the increasing resignations from Imperial and alternative civilian service in the Pentastar Alignment were seriously grating on him.
Dozens of officers, thousands of civilian employees, and ordinary citizens engaged in various economic sectors of the Alignment were emigrating en masse. And where to? To a place no sane sentient would have considered a month ago — especially if they were an alien. And now?
They were flocking to the Ciutric Hegemony! In families! In entire clans and tribes!
Especially aliens, who were relied upon for economic matters and production. Those who were supposed to stabilize tax revenues! Highly skilled specialists, whom law enforcement and civilian administration had spent years convincing that they wouldn't be welcome anywhere else — that the New Republic was utter chaos, the Imperial Remnants were hostile to aliens, and smaller fragments couldn't offer the same working conditions as the Alignment…
And then Thrawn appeared. Showed up in a way that even solvent couldn't scrub off.
In just under two years, he had brought the New Republic to its knees, striking it so hard it was as if it weren't battle-tested generals and admirals who had defeated the Galactic Empire, but a handful of children unable to think two moves ahead! And how did he do it?! With starships and frankly defective, uncontrollable crews!
And in parallel, he had taken so many Imperial ships from the New Republic that it was enough to arm several sector fleets! He had entrenched himself in the Ciutric Hegemony, where even dislodging Krennel was difficult due to the limited number of hyperspace routes that could be used to covertly maneuver a fleet.
— Grand Moff, — a voice sounded behind him.
Kaine, realizing he had been standing and pounding the wall, only now felt the pain surging through him. Looking at his bruised knuckles, he hissed and turned toward his desk.
Above which a hologram of the Director of Imperial Intelligence was already shimmering.
As always, cloaked in his technological sackcloth.
— Blackhole, — Kaine growled. — What do you want? Come to delight me with news that Thrawn's done something else and the New Republic is ready to surrender?
— Leave that alien alone, — Blackhole chuckled. — Let him have his fun.
— Is that so? — Kaine snorted. — And what am I supposed to do about the population drain?!
— Don't react, — the hologram declared, its face traditionally hidden from its interlocutor. — Consider it a purge of potential traitors, nothing more. They're not needed in the Alignment.
— Oh, really? — The pain was starting to sober him. And, it seemed, a fracture in the radius or ulna as well. — And the loss of three of my star destroyers, do you assess that the same way?
— It's all material, — Blackhole laughed. — I wouldn't have sent ships I wasn't sure of to chase the Void Wanderer. You could say I funded Thrawn's work in dismantling the New Republic.
— Since when does Imperial Intelligence engage in charity? — Kaine asked skeptically, settling into his chair. Rummaging through a drawer, he pulled out a bacta spray, rolled up his sleeve, and sprayed the miraculous contents onto his hand.
— Since we needed to offload illiquid assets, — Blackhole said calmly. — In the end, we confirmed what was suspected. Thrawn is no supporter of the New Order.
— Right, — the hand cooled slightly as the fine bacta mist touched the skin. — And what's next? We wait for him to join the New Republic and become their Supreme Commander?
— We stick to the plan, — Blackhole said as if it were obvious. — Thrawn has issued ultimatums to the New Republic that it can't or won't fulfill. That was done deliberately to give him free rein for further aggressive policies. He's not going anywhere — he'll keep fighting. Let him dismantle the New Republic — no one will let him rule the galaxy anyway. Simply because no Republican will follow him.
— Yeah, and I'll keep stockpiling resources and preparing for a war with the New Republic that will probably never come, — Kaine snorted.
— It will come, — Blackhole said firmly. — In two months.
Kaine froze. The spray canister hovered in his hand.
— Care to elaborate, — after those words, Grand Moff Kaine became all ears.
Immediately, another hologram appeared beside Blackhole's.
A middle-aged, red-haired man with a hawk-like gaze of amber eyes.
Acting more mechanically than consciously, the grand moff dropped to one knee before the new hologram.
— Emperor… — he whispered, feeling his understanding of this world's realities — and his own hopes — shatter into pieces.