Republican Intelligence and those shock troop clones — who had replaced the Kaminoan clone Coruscant Guard familiar to the common citizenry — certainly held all the upper levels of the Republic's capital in an iron grip. The mid levels weren't as secure, but getting lost there was still very problematic. Though possible.
The lower levels... It was doubtful the Republic lacked the clones to clean out this breeding ground of crime and lawlessness. Patrols and police droids visited there regularly. And they frequently vanished without a trace.
The lower levels were ruled by crime. And crime didn't like anyone meddling in its affairs.
Cad had no doubt that if the Republic or the Jedi had wanted to solve this problem (and for the capital of a galactic state, having a stronghold of the shadow economy right under their feet, whose monthly turnover could reach up to a third of the Republic's annual budget and went completely untaxed — was, damn it, a problem), they would have shipped a couple million of their obedient Arkanian clones to Coruscant and simply cleansed the lower levels. But it was what it was.
Those who had made it in this life didn't give a damn about those who hadn't. It was no surprise that the Empire's resettlement program, organized by the ISB through shell corporations, was wildly popular among the capital's poor. Though now, the refugee ships weren't heading to Outer Rim or Unknown Territory planets, but to the Himbarin and Farlax sectors... What could you do — war had changed things. But all the better — populating the Empire's vacant territories in the Core Worlds and Colonies was also necessary.
Staying unnoticed on Coruscant was much easier than it might seem at first glance. You just needed to pay in cash, avoid patrol concentrations and their usual routes, and steer clear of the surveillance cameras that saturated literally every street on the upper and mid levels. And knowledgeable people knew how to bypass all those contraptions meant to catch idiots.
Another important factor in staying unnoticed was using untraceable transport.
Traffic police as such didn't exist on Coruscant, unlike most other Core worlds and as far as the Mid Rim. It had long been ingrained in the minds of commuters across hundreds of hover-lanes: playing games in the speeder flow wasn't worth it. So, if you moved with the general traffic in a car that hadn't yet been reported stolen, you could cross the planet a couple of times before police droids on speeder bikes caught up with you.
Of course, you could use droid taxis... If you were stupid enough not to know that driver droids recorded and transmitted the image of every customer to their taxi pool.
"We're here," Cad landed the airspeeder in a parking spot not far from the building they needed. "Get out, kid."
"Give me a couple more minutes, mom," Billy, comfortably settled in the back seat, turned onto his other side, smacking his lips sweetly. The little bastard had probably been partying all night with his Pantoran girl instead of getting a good night's sleep.
"Kid," Bane said in a falsely caring voice, gently pinching the boy's cheek, which bore the imprints of clothing folds. "I'll kick you so hard I'll break your sternum if you don't wake up this instant."
The boy's face twitched, and he pried his eyes open with great effort.
"You're not mom," he said sullenly.
"But I can spank you," Bane assured him. "We're here. Get your act together — we've got work to do."
"Maybe we can tell Damon to shove all his errands up his ass?" Billy suggested, yawning. "We're a great team: you're a seasoned bounty hunter, I've got the fastest, most trained hands in the whole Outer Rim..."
"Keep suggestions like that to yourself and don't open your mouth for nothing," Cad advised. "I'm sure the ISB cells aren't much different from the Emperor's dungeons. Take my word for it: you wouldn't want to end up in either place. Get up, we've got half an hour before our cover is blown."
"There's nothing difficult about this job. In and out. Twenty minutes of adventure, tops. Can we fly to Pantora with Rayo afterward to relax?" Billy let out a long yawn.
"I don't know about you, but I'm not a fan of group fun with just one skinny chick," Bane admitted. "So if you and your girlfriend are having trouble with variety, I can loan you fifty credits — there's an excellent Zeltron brothel three blocks from here."
"Hey!" Billy sat up indignantly, jabbing an accusing finger at the Duros. "Chuchi isn't like that!"
Sighing, the Duros wrapped his palm around the human's outstretched finger and twisted it slightly against its natural bend. Billy, unwilling to suffer a fracture, slid from the seat to the floor, writhing in pain.
"Kid, use your head. You were a fool before, but since you started poking that dumb hole, you've completely lost your way. We're ISB agents. We have a mission. And we'll complete it. Stop clowning around — it doesn't hurt that much. We'll finish quickly — you can fly to your girlfriend's homeworld and poke away at her on the shore of a picturesque swamp to the chirping of locusts and midges. But not until I'm off this planet with the cargo. Got it?"
"Yes," Kidd squeezed out, rubbing his freed finger. "You didn't have to insult my girlfriend..."
"Kid," Cad adjusted his hat. "I've been around this world longer than you. And believe me — if a lady says she's 'not like that,' it can only mean three things: you didn't offer enough, you didn't work hard enough with your tongue, or she's got a thermal detonator with gizka in her head... And when it goes off, you'll wish you'd gotten the first two options."
"I'm quite skilled with my tongue," Billy said indignantly. "And it's low — offering an unfamiliar woman money for very familiar sensations!"
"Kid," they both got out of the airspeeder and the Duros looked his partner straight in the eye. "First, I was talking about eloquence. Second — the cheapest love is the one you pay for up front. Trust my experience. And now, before you turn a minute-long briefing into a three-hour lecture on the decline of morals in the Galactic Senate, where every female senator is a slut and only yours isn't — let's get to work."
Without waiting for his partner to process the information, Bane turned on his heel and strode toward the main entrance. From the clearly audible, strained panting of the offended child behind him — who hadn't managed to think of a retort but was definitely thinking about it, and would probably come up with something elaborate in about half an hour — the Duros understood Billy was following him.
He had to admit, in all his career, he'd never been here before.
The "Valorum Center." A forensic psychiatric institution located in one of Coruscant's quiet corners, far from busy hover-lanes, noisy business quarters, and the Factory District. A quiet, cozy, kind, almost homey atmosphere for those the court had decided to send to spend the rest of their lives catching drug-induced highs and wetting their clothes with streams of drool. And the fact that the institution was named after the former chancellor, under whose watch the ruling class's slight lack of intelligence had caused corruption and lawlessness to grow, and commercial enterprises had gained the ability to legally own their own fleets of line ships, seemed to symbolize the new government's attitude toward the previous one.
Externally, the Valorum Center looked like the most ordinary sanatorium for the middle-income bracket. Clean, cozy, all in neutral, calming colors... Only the impressive main gates made of durasteel and the tall, electrified fence gave any indication that the local residents couldn't leave the "sanatorium" of their own accord.
The security of this establishment was maintained by battle droids — much more advanced and better armed than the Confederation's cannon fodder.
Bane handed a forged identification chip to the mechanical guard droid at the gates, which strongly resembled a prepared position for a heavy weapon. In fact, the Duros would have bet that it was — the characteristic design features and false panels hinted at the weaponry hidden in the gates. Crude work. And the Duros even knew which company had installed the security system here. The tip had been correct.
The droid studied his credentials fastidiously first, then Bane handed over a fake card for Billy, which the droid scanned twice but found no flaws, stepping aside to allow the pair of agents to cross the guarded perimeter. That was good. If the droid let them through, the documents had passed the initial check. And right now, the information about the two visitors was being added to the security computer's database, marking the human and the Duros as non-targets for targeting computers. At least — for lethal fire.
Forging an ID with the necessary access parameters was easy. When you had a good ally in the upper echelons of power, someone who could talk to the right people and secure the appropriate accompanying documents. Damon's contacts had proven accurate.
"What exactly did Damon say, old man?" Kidd's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
"That our target has important documents locked inside his head. We surgically extract the chip from the back of his skull. Key. Rank. Payload. Labeled 'Patient 332.' 'Terminal,'" the Duros snapped his fingers mechanically with each word, like counting. "The three-minute limit. Preferably with a gas explosive that will destroy the chip beyond the spectrometer's ability to discern even the smallest structural fragment. That's the whole briefing. Then we leave. Collect the fee. Forget this damn Center."
"And you don't even wonder what could be encoded in such a tiny chip?" Billy asked as they entered the main building. Inside, the "sanatorium" looked just as peaceful and calm as outside. Two white, sterile droids glided toward them along the corridor. The first one's smooth movements betrayed its connection to the establishment's internal control system — it wasn't just a simple orderly droid. The second, judging by the characteristic markings on its chassis, belonged to the so-called "security" class — often used on low-budget planets for maintaining public order.
"I get paid to do my job, not to wonder," Bane snorted.
"Good afternoon. Welcome to the Valorum Center," the droid with the designation model first requested their identification cards, apologizing for the inconvenience, but internal regulations required it to record all visitor data.
Efficiently scanning the newly arrived cards, the droid continued:
"You are expected. What brings you to our Center?"
"Patient 332," Bane responded, not a muscle twitching on his blue-green face. "Forensic psychiatric examination and transfer protocol."
The droid seemed to hesitate. It turned its photoreceptor to the "orderly" colleague, who responded with a series of binary clicks that would have sounded like ordinary noise to an untrained ear. But Bane understood binary well enough to differentiate a simple error message from ready confirmation: yes, patient 332 was indeed in the system, and the examination order had been sent this morning. The security systems had the data perfectly entered.
"Please follow me," the droid turned and headed deeper into the building.
"Directive always works like a charm," the Duros muttered. The droids were just as stupid as the stories said. Damn cheap components. One minimal update to the visitation database and you could pass off a B1 battle droid as a protocol droid. The key was not to overload the primitive AI with information, but to feed it the right data.
After passing through a short, glass-walled corridor that offered a view of a well-tended green area with several patients shuffling along, watched over by guard droids floating in the sky, the party reached a lift. The droid turned to them with another request: to confirm the visitors weren't carrying weapons.
Billy tensed, but Bane, with unnerving calm, extended his arms to the sides, showing he was ready to be searched.
"You understand correctly," the droid's voice module reproduced a pleased tone. "You are the first visitors in six months who have not tried to bring weapons into our Center. Thank you for respecting the rules."
"For a clean search, you have to let them find what they're looking for," Bane replied with a professional smirk. "The weapons are safely stored in the airspeeder. Unless you count the control chip designed to blow it up if an unauthorized person gets behind the wheel. But I warned the Center's management about that measure in advance."
"The Center's management was notified," the droid confirmed. "Your airspeeder has been assigned a safety zone. It is guarded. You are cleared. Level four, ward three."
The lift began to descend.
They call the Great Spirits the "Players." They think of worlds as "sandboxes." They believe the universe runs on Experience, Levels, and Statistics. They are mistaken.
The real universe has no statistics.
A true Player is not the one who sees the glass ceiling but the one who breaks it with their own head. The one who does not play by the rules the System dictates but who redraws those very rules with their own hands.
They thought sending a "Player" to a low-tech world would be simple. They thought he would grind experience and level up. They thought he would be their obedient puppet. They were wrong.
The Bunker.
The game has only just begun.
Of the thousand units sent to the last world, only one survived. Only one adapted. Only one… awakens.
He does not see levels or quests before his eyes. But he knows: each of his kills grants him something more. He learns faster. Remembers better. Grows stronger. Not by numbers on a screen but by flesh and bone, blood and steel. By understanding how to use a force that exists beyond any statistics.
He does not know who sent him. He does not know why. But one day…
One day he will break their glass ceiling and look into the eyes of those who consider themselves gods. And he will destroy them.
The solitary Player.
The one who walked through the Bunker.
The one who became the Weapon.
Republic bureaucracy is so sluggish that it can't quickly determine whether a given sentient presenting identification is a legitimate civil servant or just some common fraud who got his hands on the coveted chip. Fooling a system like that doesn't take much intelligence. All you need is a basic understanding of its structure and how it functions — and with a minimal imagination, you can accomplish great things.
"We are glad to welcome you to our..." the chief physician of this establishment broke into a smile.
"Pleasantries later," Bane cut him off. "I hate wasting time. We have a referral order."
He handed over another chip, this time carrying a forged directive from the boss of the boss of this establishment.
"We weren't notified..." the medical worker began to hedge.
"That's not my problem," Bane snapped. "I have a deadline, and it runs out in a couple of hours. And I need to be on the other end of Coruscant.
"Your cooperation would certainly help us not waste precious time," Billy cut in. "And we'd be extremely grateful for the support..."
"I'll see what I can do," the chief physician assured them, stepping over to the institution's main computer. He spent a few minutes going through the facility's files, then added:
"Yes, the patients are here with us..."
"As if it could be otherwise," Billy muttered. "They wouldn't just let the mentally ill wander the streets, would they?"
"Well, you're here," Cad argued. Ignoring Billy's vaguely puzzled look, the Duros said to the medic:
"Lead the way."
Bane was familiar with the floor plan — oddly enough, the layout was publicly available on the website of the company that built the establishment. However, the bounty hunter's gaze noted that the interior had undergone some very interesting changes. For example: paralyzing emplacements that wouldn't just incapacitate a humanoid in a pinch. You could drop a whole herd of banthas here without breaking a sweat.
"Still, what prompted such an urgent transfer of our patients to another facility?" The Duros walked behind the chief physician, trying not to let on that he knew where he was going. "And besides, as far as I know, our establishment is the only one on Coruscant designed for such dangerous criminals?"
"Haven't you read the accompanying documents?" Billy inquired, trying in vain to mimic cold bureaucratic arrogance. The Duros realized far too late that he should have shut the kid up the moment they crossed the threshold of the institution.
"It's not stated there," Bane glared at his companion, showing the boy a fist behind the doctor's back.
"It was the superiors' decision," he said slowly. "If the motivation isn't written in the documents, those who read it don't need it."
"Right, right," the medic nodded. "The higher-ups know better..."
"Exactly," Cad thought about whether he should kick his colleague in the teeth — the guy's mouth seemed to close only when he slept. "The higher-ups are like that — the smartest of the smart."
"Excuse me?" The Duros nearly ran into the suddenly stopped chief physician, who looked at the young man from under his brow. "Are we talking about our Ministry of Health? The very one where the minister can't tell a women's hospital gown from a men's? Where the number of doctors decreases every year? Salaries go down, and instead of equipment, we receive antiques from the last millennium?"
"The very one," the kid said, clearly not sensing the trap. Damned Jedi, he hadn't been beaten up enough in the schoolyard as a child.
"You understand," Bane intervened, seeing the skepticism on the face of the establishment's owner, "We're the same employees of the Ministry of Health as you are. Just clerks for special assignments. If we didn't walk around the ministry building and tell them how great our superiors are, we'd have been thrown out the door long ago and replaced by some bootlickers."
"How I understand you," the chief physician sighed. "Before people like our minister started appearing in power under Palpatine, I was the head of a wonderful medical center. And then everything went downhill..."
"We sympathize with you," Billy said, with an expression of complete sincerity on his face. "But, here everyone gets what they deserve according to their knowledge..."
The medic's eyes flashed with rage.
Cad rolled his eyes. Was this blue walking vagina sucking the brains out of him or something?
"I am a honored physician of the Republic!" the chief physician said angrily. "A neurosurgeon of the highest category with over thirty years of experience! And I'm forced to run an asylum for criminally insane patients!"
The situation needed to be salvaged. The time the system of this establishment needed to notify the higher-ups at the ministry about the arrival of two of their officials, who had never existed in nature, was slipping away irretrievably. The last thing they needed was to get stuck here when the setup was exposed.
"Forgive my colleague," the Duros pulled the chief physician aside. "He's... not burdened by intelligence. A birth injury."
"It shows," the head doctor remarked grimly, glancing sidelong at Billy, who, in the absence of his companions, had started examining the writing on the walls. And completely unashamed, he was scratching his balls through his pants. A fairy-tale moron.
"He was born into a poor family in the Outer Rim," Bane improvised a cover story on the fly, effectively blending truth and lies. "They couldn't afford a midwife or a medical droid, so his clumsy father delivered him. He dropped the boy on his head twice before he could carry him to the crib a meter away from his wife who was giving birth."
"Poor child," the anger on the doctor's face turned into sincere pity. "That explains it — I look at him and see clear problems with higher nervous activity and social adaptation... Obviously, some areas of the brain were seriously damaged... But being in society must be pure torture for him! He doesn't understand the mechanisms of interaction between sentients and, clearly, lives by primitive biological needs... See, he doesn't care at all that other sentients are watching him — he's picking his nose and examining his boogers..."
Was it that obvious? Apparently, Bane had thought his partner was just pretending to be an idiot. But five minutes in the company of a professional, and here was a ready-made diagnosis.
"Yes, you're right," time was flying like that whore who'd given Bane a very nasty disease a couple of years ago, leaping off a skyscraper. "I shouldn't be telling you this. My colleague is a participant in an experimental program run by our Ministry. Created for the rehabilitation and socialization of individuals with such disorders."
"I haven't heard of anything like that."
"They don't publicize it much. It's called 'Accessible Environment for Idiots' each patient who completes a rehabilitation course is assigned to a more experienced mentor who, by example and experience, is supposed to help such sentients assimilate into our society. You understand, treating millions like that is an expensive pleasure."
"Yes, I understand, of course... But, forgive me, who allowed him to go on such a mission? He's... you know... not all there."
"The Minister ordered that at least one participant from the program for idiots be present during the transport of your institution's residents."
"But... why?"
"It's an experimental methodology. Like with a pack of nexu: cubs that aren't fully aware of themselves in this world see someone like themselves, acting confidently in the environment — a mother — and they obey her..." Never before had Bane needed to come up with so much nonsense so quickly.
"You know... There's some sense to it... The patients really are dependent on those who act confidently — it's a result of the medical therapy they receive here. So, I think it might actually work — the patients you're taking will follow him like a leader and will most likely do what he says. I'll be interested in following its development in the scientific literature..."
"Yes... Of course," the Duros wiped the sweat from his forehead as soon as the chief physician headed further down the corridor. Maybe he really should drop all this and go into science? It seemed any nonsense could be interpreted as an experimental theory. The main thing was to spout bullshit confidently with a serious face.
"Let's go already," he called to his partner. "Pack leader, damn it."
Billy shrugged and followed the Duros.
"Did you see?" he asked quietly. "That chief physician — he's on the lists of the most influential medics on Coruscant, personally noted by Palpatine."
"And?"
"No, just... Ah, how wonderful it would be to see my name on some honorary list," the kid said dreamily, pushing the Duros to the boiling point.
"I know a list where your name would look just perfect," Bane hissed.
"Really?" the human perked up. "Which one?"
"The casualty list," Cad hissed. "And you'll be on it faster than you think if you don't shut your mouth right now."
The kid, puffing out his lips in petty offense, finally shut up. And silently followed his mentor.
The building was surprisingly empty and quiet. Bane had expected something more like a hospital, with at least droids scurrying about, but this wasn't the kind of place that welcomed visitors and bustle, and all the doors were locked. The further into the complex the former bounty hunter went, the more uneasy he felt.
On both sides of the corridors were doors, with fairly large viewing windows in their upper sections. And through them, the Duros' sharp eyes noted dozens, if not hundreds, of sentients, on whose faces could be read every emotion known to science. Anxiety, fear, wild euphoria, and even, from time to time, a strangely misplaced confidence and a prim strictness on the faces of a few Bothans. Though, what could you expect from the latter — you could stick a door up their ass, and they'd still claim they were the best at everything.
"And how many of them do you release back into society?" he asked the chief physician, trying to hide the slight nervous tremor that had started to get to him after what he'd seen.
"This institution, in its entire history, has discharged only three percent of its patients," the man replied. "After all, we are dealing with the most extreme cases. Sometimes, it's more beneficial for society to keep them here, under medication, year after year increasingly destroying their personalities with the destructive effects of the drugs, than to allow them to return to society."
"And is this a humane attitude toward criminals?" Billy protested. "It would be more humane to kill them than to torture them like this..."
"Trust me, I agree with you," the medic sighed. "But the legislation requires something entirely different from us. They are kept here until their aggression and destructive impulses are completely eradicated by therapy. But such a thing doesn't happen often. Although we, as doctors, don't wish harm on any of them, indirectly, every clinic employee is responsible for what happens to the patients here."
Ahead, a med-droid and a Mon Calamari woman in a pale-yellow lab coat walked down the corridor, talking, and turned left into an office. Bane breathed a furtive sigh of relief: he'd started to think no one walked around the building, and the sight of them cheered him up somehow. He also heard voices — and involuntarily tried to make out fragments of a meaningless conversation, muffled by distance and heavy doors.
He even thought he caught a few words in Mando'a.
The brain has an amazing ability to fill the void with something familiar. He strained to listen to the voice: the woman, judging by her tone, was alternately crying and swearing — and some of her words sounded Mandalorian, but the rest were completely foreign.
Some wild mix of several dialects...
"Here's your first patient," the chief physician stopped near one of the doors. The very one from which Bane had heard the Mandalorian words. "Arla Fett."
"Fett?" the Duros sincerely hoped it was a joke.
Damon hadn't given them the names of the patients they were supposed to extract from this hospital. The documents only listed room numbers and individual patient codes under which they were tracked in the Ministry of Health's records.
"Cunning, you old bastard," Bane thought about his boss. He had deliberately hidden that part of the mission would involve freeing a member of the Fett family. He probably knew that if the Duros had known about it in advance, he would never have agreed. On principle.
Now it was stupid to back out. Time was bleeding away mercilessly.
"Yes," the chief physician continued, not noticing the change in the Duros' face. "A curious patient. In her childhood, her family — except for her brother — was killed by militants from the terrorist organization 'Death Watch'. The girl was left alive for some reason. Moreover, over time, she became their hired assassin. Convicted a few years ago — three confirmed murders of sentients. With particular cruelty."
"A killer for the radical Mandalorians," the Duros nodded, asking for the door to be unlocked. "An interesting specimen. I'd like to speak with her."
"That's your right."
The woman was probably forty, forty-five, maybe a little older, and she didn't look capable of even a harsh word. She was curled up in the corner closest to the entrance, muttering something in a mixture of languages. Touching her shoulders against two adjacent walls in a search for refuge, the woman mostly stared at the floor in front of her and rocked back and forth.
The Duros crouched down in front of the woman. She was still young by human standards, whose average lifespan reached one hundred to one hundred and twenty years. And that was considering that thanks to modern medicine, implants, and other medical gadgets, humans — and most other races in the galaxy — had the ability to maintain mental clarity and physical strength right up to the very end.
By human standards, Arla, even in such a pitiful state — a hunted animal afraid of even a sneeze — was rather attractive. For someone under drugs that turn the brain to mush, clearly not a bad outcome.
Oddly enough, he didn't feel towards her the irritation that turned into hatred, which he'd felt for Jango in recent years. He knew Jango had a sister. He'd even once considered catching her on a mission and killing her — to cause moral anguish for his rival. Then he found out they didn't maintain family ties. And in fact, they probably didn't even know they had survived the massacre that took their parents' lives. And ten years ago, Arla had completely dropped off the radar. Bane had thought she was dead. And here...
"My name is Cad Bane," he said in Mandalorian.
He knew the language mediocrely and spoke it with a truly terrible accent. But now, it was the only way to somehow get her attention without arousing the doctor's suspicions.
She stared at him. As if she didn't believe what she was seeing and hearing.
"Arla," she said. Bane could see that the words came to her with difficulty — saliva was dripping from her mouth. A normal reaction to large doses of sedatives. He'd often transported his bounties in that state himself, when freezing them in carbonite or a stasis pod was risky. "Arla Fett."
"I know," the Duros nodded. "Your brother was my... acquaintance. I'm here to get you out. Let me help you up — it's time to take you to a safe place where no one will hurt you anymore."
"Really?" hope flashed in her eyes.
"I promise," Bane assured her, extending his hand.
Holding her by the waist, he helped the girl, who could barely stand upright, cross the threshold of the cell. Then, snapping his fingers, he got Billy's attention.
"Take her to the car and wait for me there," then, looking into the woman's eyes, he added in her native tongue: "He's my friend. He'll take you to the transport we'll all fly away on. I'll join you," he glanced at the chronometer. Hutt, fifteen minutes left, "in ten minutes."
"And if you don't?" panic appeared on her face.
"I always keep my word," Bane said confidently. The woman was silent for a few seconds, pondering whether to trust this stranger, then nodded silently. Embracing Kidd, she slowly headed for the exit.
"You know her native language?" the doctor was surprised.
"A little," Bane lied. "Let's go get the second patient."
* * *
As they passed the rooms, the Saffron Wing of the Valorum Center grew more and more comfortable and — except for the smell of cleaning fluid and all those sturdy doors — looked less and less like a medical facility. They were moving further and further from the exit, and Bane was already mentally calculating how long it would take him to get out of this place. If they dawdled for another five minutes, the point of no return would loom on the horizon. Too bad he hadn't brought mines — they could have made an exit in any wall. But getting weapons inside would have been problematic.
The part of the building the chief physician led him to looked older: the ceilings were higher here. The interior and the character of the rooms directly indicated that this building had been constructed much earlier than the one where he had found Arla. He should ask carefully...
The chief physician stopped near one of the doors.
"Here's your second patient," he clarified.
"Another woman," the Duros thought grimly. What was this, a day for saving the weaker sex?
"Open it."
"One second," the chief physician touched the magnetic lock with a special card.
When the doors slid open, revealing inner doors made of reinforced transparisteel, he barely restrained a smirk.
The room — quite nice-looking, honestly, but with no natural light at all — was filled with small transparent containers arranged by labeled numbers. Inside them, black dots scurried.
Soka flies.
The chief physician lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"She believes she's a Separatist scientist developing a deadly virus. It's actually very convincing, because she clearly has a scientific education and an excellent mind. She almost convinced me that she was kidnapped from the Outer Rim by Republic forces, that they shot her in the back, and then threw her in here to forcibly extract her secret developments."
"An interesting story," Bane said in a bored tone. A killer and a mad scientist? A weapon for precision assassinations, a creator of mass death. Subjects opposite in their application, but with the same goal — to end the lives of sentients. And if Arla was at least somewhat understandable — in his time, Bane had recruited many bounty hunters into the service of the Empire who weren't averse to trading random, risky gigs for steady, specialized work with fixed pay. Plus, there was less chance that the client would decide to write you off instead of paying.
But who, in their right mind, would need a scientist capable of creating weapons of mass destruction? Or, to ask the more pertinent question — why hide her in an asylum when she didn't look anything like a drugged-out fool?
"Judging by her dossier, she was taken into custody by the Department of Public Safety because they considered her capable enough to actually create some kind of plague. And I must note that she's conducting quite convincing genetic experiments on these flies, even without a fully equipped laboratory. Well... you know, we help her out sometimes..."
"Amazing."
Genetic experiments on a shoestring. For crying out loud, who the hell was she?
Bane entered the room. A well-groomed woman of middle age, with crimson streaks in her dark hair, looked up from her improvised workstation and stared at him sternly, not letting go of the decu in her hands.
"This is a gentleman from the Ministry of Health, and he's arrived..."
"From the Ministry?" Bane gritted his teeth. "Right, right."
Strange that he hadn't recognized her immediately. They hadn't seen each other in a few years. But her voice — insinuating, velvety, cold, as if forged from metal — was unforgettable.
Ovolot Qail Uthan.
She really was a mad scientist. A maniac in the flesh. Worse than her on the Separatist side were only Zeta Magnus, who had died by Bane's hands, and Arbor... captured by Bane.
Suddenly the Duros understood everything.
Perhaps the Empire didn't need mad scientists. But, judging by what he'd read on the HoloNet, the Republic and the CIS were quite tolerant of the use of weapons of mass destruction. The CIS had wiped out the population of an entire sector with biological weapons. They'd devastated another sector with orbital bombardments. Not long ago — they'd released rock mites in the Coruscant spaceport. The Republic hadn't stayed out of it, dropping their own stone bastards on the planet where these mites, capable of devouring entire city blocks in hours, were produced. Only there was a little miscalculation — the mites devoured a world uninvolved in the making of this scourge. The Republic also distinguished themselves at Malastare, dropping some kind of clever bomb that destroyed a droid army. And along with it, awakened some ancient beast that almost took out half of Coruscant.
The Empire was removing from its enemies' assets those who could easily cause unimaginable chaos and destruction. Insightful.
"If you're from the government, then..." Uthan knew perfectly well who was standing in front of her. Bane had delivered certain... samples to her more than once.
"I'm here to pick you up," he interrupted the woman. "I advise you not to waste my time."
"And where are we going?" the scientist readily got to her feet.
"Somewhere you'll be taken care of," the Duros promised.
The structures on the fourth moon of the gas giant named Yavin were certainly impressive.
Numerous temples, built from massive stone blocks, had majestic forms. And they bore not the slightest trace of modern construction techniques, without which it seemed impossible to build anything so... beautiful.
The Lethan, closing her eyes, breathed in the night air of Yavin IV, which she felt was far too humid. She felt the energy of the Dark Side being absorbed into her body along with it.
She could clearly feel that this place had once been a concentration of only the Dark Side of the Force.
But now...
"Enjoying the view, Darth Imperius?" a voice sounded from behind.
Opening her gold-burning eyes, the Lethan, whose face and body were adorned with numerous Sith runes, turned with the stately air befitting a Sith of her power towards the new guest on the vast balcony from which she admired the beauty of the local structures and fauna.
"Lady Simi," the Lethan shaped her lips into something resembling a smile, performing an action that an uninitiated person might foolishly take for a bow. Those versed in the subtleties of Sith rituals knew that this movement of her head held no actual respect at all. Bowing before this scum... was beneath the dignity of a Sith.
The yellow-skinned Zabrak, dressed in a light outfit consisting of a short blouse and breeches that favorably accentuated the bodily attributes of a representative of her race, stood in the doorway. Behind her, two massive figures, practically bursting with mountains of muscle, stood like silent shadows. Even in the evening twilight, their bodies stood out with the lights of cybernetic implants.
"What brings you here at such a late hour?" the Lethan inquired, watching as the Viceroy of the Gordian Reach settled in next to her by the massive railing.
"You know, I love watching the sunset," the Zabrak stated coldly, whose face and body, like Imperius', were covered in Sith tattoos. But of a completely different order. "And you're quite mistaken if you think you'll get away with such carelessness towards someone who stands above you."
"You owe your position solely to the fact that you found someone to spread your legs for in time," Imperius snorted. "Although, sleeping with a cyborg like Darth Xarion... Don't you respect yourself at all, Simi?"
"Look who's talking about respect," the Zabrak chuckled, playing with her dreadlocks. "The way you masterfully lost the war games to the Colicoids, providing the Republic with the most advanced weapons those insectoids could ever develop, permanently erased you from the list of candidates for a seat on the Dark Council. Even the patronage of Darth Marr, whom you've fawned over since graduation and obeyed like a faithful bitch, didn't help. As soon as Marr died — you were kicked out of the candidates for the Dark Council and sent to rot on Balmorra... And besides, that shameful capture by the Jedi, thousands of years in stasis on Belsavis... Where would you be, Imperius, if you hadn't been freed by the Emperor's forces?"
"The Emperor?" the Lethan chuckled. "In all the time I've been here, no one has ever seen him. And what is this chunk of rock compared to what the Empire once possessed..."
"Until the Republic put it in a stranglehold," Simi continued. "And even the alliance with the Eternal Alliance didn't help."
"That's all just poetry," the Lethan sighed. You can't show a blind man, you can't tell a deaf man, you can't prove it to a stupid one. "The Empire lost its greatness after the Jedi killed Emperor Vitiate..."
* * *
"A single Jedi," the Zabrak pressed on the sore spot with a nasty smile on her face. "Oh yes, that's a master worth dying for."
"One day I'll wipe that smirk off your face, Simi," Imperius promised.
"For that, you'll have to achieve a much higher position than you have now," Simi laughed. "To defeat me, who has studied the archives of the Dark and Light Sides for almost four thousand years, you, who spent that same time playing icicle in ancient Rakatan ruins... Yes, you'll have to try very hard to get what you want."
"We could settle this issue right now," the lightsaber leaped into the Lethan's hand by itself. Her fingers habitually touched the activation button, and the sunset was filled with the hissing sound of activation and the steady hum of the energy blade.
Simi, throwing a glance at the Twi'lek who was calling upon the Dark Side of the Force, smirked.
"You should be more careful with that thing," she nodded toward the blade. "Ak'gal Usar and Khem Val haven't eaten anyone who's caused damage to the Empire in quite a while."
"And you are the Empire's interest?" Imperius snorted, deactivating her weapon and glancing at the pair of Dasheyds who were studying their likely target with obvious interest. For all her hatred of Simi — someone she'd once been extremely close with back at the Korriban Academy (their paths diverged later, when the Zabrak decided to claw her way to the top by spreading her legs for anyone who held even a scrap of power — much like her friend Hexid) — getting into a fight with a Shadow Assassin, let alone two, wasn't part of her plans. "Just because you were put in charge of digging through dirt here on Yavin IV doesn't mean your patron is all-powerful."
"Powerful enough to secure the support of Sith Lords who spent millennia in Rakatan stasis prisons on Belsavis," Simi smirked, shaking her mane of long hair woven into dreadlocks.
"Cock Sleeve," Imperius uttered the old nickname for Darth Simi with contempt, one she'd earned back at the Academy by sleeping with the lion's share of the overseers and instructors. "Found your way into the Imperial Guard squad commander's pants this time?"
"This time," Simi said triumphantly, stepping so close to the Lethan that she could smell the delicate perfume radiating from her. "Hexid and I found the cock that can give us everything an ambitious Gifted could ever want."
A realization pierced the young Lord's mind.
"Then your Emperor is even dumber than I imagined," she said through gritted teeth. "Sticking his dantyan into someone like you... He'd be better off bathing in bantha shit!"
"You'll have a chance to tell him that yourself," Simi smiled charmingly, brushing her lips against the Lethan's cheek, which nearly made her gut the horned bitch on the spot. "When you report your failure to him."
"What failure?" Imperius snorted. "I passed your Imperial Knight rookie course. Sure, the Light Side is for weaklings and cowards, but I did learn something. You've got nothing to reproach me for..."
"Not yet," Simi ran the back of her hand along the Lethan's cheek. "But when you fail the diplomatic negotiations..."
"What negotiations?" the Twi'lek frowned.
"What? I didn't tell you?" Simi furrowed her brow in mock concern. "The Emperor wants diplomatic negotiations to begin with the Sharu race from the Rafa system."
"Never heard of them," the Twi'lek shook her head.
"Of course you haven't," Simi smirked. "Once upon a time, the Celestials forced them to hide from everyone. To seal their minds into crystal trees and turn into underdeveloped humanoids. Your job is to restore the Sharu to their original form and secure a full alliance with them. You see, the Emperor is very interested in ancient technologies..."
"Damn bitch," Darth Imperius forced out. "That's your assignment!"
"Of course," the other smirked. "But I know it's impossible, so I told the Master that I'd send the best of those his guards freed on Belsavis in my place."
"I hope he executes you if I fail," the Twi'lek said with grim satisfaction. "And does it slowly, so you can feel every bit of it."
"Don't even try," the Zabrak laughed. "The Emperor loves spending time with humanoid races. Especially when his partners can satisfy all his whims. And yes, so you don't run, Ak'gar and Khem will deliver you to the Rafa system. They'll also make sure you return after your failure and face the Emperor's Wrath."
The Lethan glanced at the two giants.
Vile bitch. She'd set this all up. Decided to get rid of Imperius while she still could — far from the Emperor's eyes. She knew perfectly well that once the Lethan personally met the one in power, she'd undoubtedly earn his favor. And she wouldn't even have to spread her legs or suppress her gag reflex for that.
"I hope," she said to Simi as she headed for the exit, "that one day the Emperor will want to shove a cortosis sword up your ass and watch you die."
"Even if that happens," Simi bared her teeth, "you won't be there to see it. And I'd advise you to hurry — you were supposed to be in the Rafa system yesterday."
"I'll come back, Simi," Imperius promised firmly. "And I'll skin you like a bantha before smoking."
"I'm already scared," the yellow-faced horned woman laughed, turning away from her.
The Lethan thought for a moment about finishing off the Zabrak bed-warmer right now, but then decided to try completing the mission first. If it was in the "impossible to complete" category, and she was lucky enough to succeed, she would certainly raise her status in the Emperor's eyes. If this slug trusted entire oversectors to dimwits, taking a place beside him wouldn't be that hard. And then... It wouldn't be the first time Emperors died at the hands of their own attendants, would it?
"Glad to see you, Lady Hexid," despite looking extremely sleep-deprived and exhausted, Rush Clovis, Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan, tried to put a smile on his face. "Thank you for the Emperor responding so quickly to my request for help. Though, I admit, I asked for a personal meeting..."
"The Emperor is... busy right now," the girl's face assumed an expression of cold politeness. "He's in the process of taking another planet from our mutual enemies. One the Separatists planned to protect with a hybrid planetary shield — particle-deflector, to be precise."
The man felt his throat go dry.
"You don't mean..."
."..that this is the exact equipment the Muuns planned to use to protect Scipio after you came to power, but the prototype went missing for unknown reasons?" the attractive Zabrak clarified, the light armor she wore unable to diminish the beauty of her figure. "Or are you worried the Emperor might think you're somehow involved?"
"I did everything in my power to get the Banking Clan out of the conflict, just as I promised," Rush declared confidently. "The Emperor can't blame me for the fact that some Muuns want to help the Separatists. I have no influence over those..."
"No one's blaming you," Hexid shrugged. "Still, you could have reported the loss of such a valuable prototype."
"I was going to," Rush admitted. "But as soon as we learned what happened, the communication system with the Far Reaches went down almost immediately. Panic on the stock markets — investors are cut off from their enterprises, sales markets are inaccessible. Quadrillions of credits are stuck in the HoloNet system — our losses in just these few weeks have reached such volumes that we're seriously considering cutting our own programs..."
"I admit, when the Emperor sent me to this meeting, I didn't expect it to turn into listening to your speeches about how bad everything is," the Zabrak confessed. "My main task is to verify the reliability of the Emperor's deposits held here and confirm continued funding for our projects."
"As far as I know, the financial flows for Mandalore, the Humbarine, Questal, and Farlax sectors weren't affected by the Separatist attack on the communication networks," Rush stated. "But the next wire transfer for purchasing 'Golan' defense stations for the Jabiim system didn't go through — the system couldn't get a security confirmation for the communication line to send the money. But I assure you, my people are trying to establish at least partial contact with the cut-off regions..."
"We certainly hope so," the Zabrak smiled. "Anyway, let's get back to the purpose of this meeting. You contacted the Emperor through an emergency communication channel and asked for help. I'm the Emperor's trusted representative and have broad authority."
"This is a delicate matter," Clovis licked his lips. "I'd prefer to discuss it personally with the Emperor and..."
"Clovis," the Zabrak crossed her legs. "Stop beating around the bush. You need money to keep the Banking Clan from collapsing."
"A very large amount of money," he agreed. "Every day, the Banking Clan's information systems process millions of various operations — issuing loans, receiving monthly payments, crediting sums from debt collection... But right now, almost half of the known galaxy is outside our system. Quadrillions of credits are literally hanging in the air. The system has failed — we can't get profit on one hand, and on the other, we can't meet a number of our own obligations."
"You need borrowed funds from outside," the girl finished for him.
"Exactly," he agreed. "For millennia, the Banking Clan has built a reputation as the most reliable in its field. No crisis could disrupt our operations... until today. The longer this situation continues, the more losses we incur — reputational ones first and foremost. For example, the Republic was routing all its payments through us to purchase V-19 'Torrent' starfighters in the Mid Rim from the 'Slayn & Korpil' company on the Roche asteroids. But as soon as the HoloNet collapsed — they stopped paying the Verpines and redirected those sums to Kuat. As you understand, the transaction fees within the Core Worlds and from Coruscant to the Mid Rim are incomparable."
"And how much did the Republic screw the Verpines for?" Hexid asked lazily.
"Three billion credits," Clovis stated the sum. "If my analysts' calculations are correct, that's the cost of..."
"Twenty-five thousand V-19 'Torrent' starfighters," the Zabrak showed off her arithmetic. "Useless information for us — the Empire prefers its own designs."
"The Republic is the Verpines' only customer," Clovis noted. "If they're so openly screwing their suppliers, it means they have a better starfighter supply offer."
"You'd think this has nothing to do with 'Kuat Drive Yards' and their 'Deltas', 'Eta-2s', and 'Nimbuses'," sarcasm crept into the Emperor's representative's voice. "The Republic is shedding its mask of benevolence. But let's get back to our money question. You want to ask the Empire for a loan?"
Clovis swallowed. The Banking Clan had never asked anyone for money. There was always enough. But after the previous administration had appropriated hundreds of quadrillions of dataries from the credit issued when the Republic's war began, and the Muuns were forced to cover those losses from reserve accounts, effectively stripping themselves of their financial cushion, the situation had changed dramatically. Since Clovis's appointment as Chairman, the Banking Clan had essentially been surviving on routine operations, replenishing reserves through inflated interest rates for the Republic (which paid them using the same credits) and the Confederacy (which didn't pay interest on its loans at all).
And then, like a desert in the middle of Scipio's snows — the Confederacy's attack on the HoloNet's main hyperspace transmitters. The collapse of the communication system effectively prevented the Banking Clan from earning profit from enterprises and organizations they'd financed in the Mid and Outer Rims, depriving them of revenue from transaction fees in those regions. A mass client exodus had begun, with everyone rushing to withdraw their deposits from a system that had proven far less reliable than promised.
Despite all that, the Banking Clan's expenses on its own obligations in the Core Worlds, the Colonies, and the Expansion Region remained.
In other words — with a trickle of credits coming into the bank itself, they were forced to bear expenses thousands of times exceeding their income.
Rush had already ordered part of the fleet's ships to be converted into mobile relays to restore the galactic payment system. But this work was far from fast — it would take several months to refit the 'Generous' ships. And it cost truly colossal sums of money. Which only added to the expenses.
Without an urgent influx of additional profit, the Banking Clan would be forced to put its own property and shares up for auction — shares that were already losing value by the day. Certain brokers had already bought up shares of 'Sienar Fleet Systems' for a pittance — one of the Muuns' most valuable assets. And there were dozens of such enterprises on the exchange. All of them were being systematically bought up by unknown buyers — even the brokers themselves admitted they couldn't see their clients, who preferred to operate through holocommunications with incredible encryption levels. 'Kuat Drive Yards' had outright closed their accounts with the Banking Clan, hauling out all their cash in the holds of their Mastodon dreadnoughts. And that was a warning sign.
The attacks on HoloNet relays weren't a simple military action. It was also an assault on the Banking Clan's authority. Dooku, unable to get a pliable Chairman, had decided to destroy the system. And it made sense — the Separatists had credits equal to five or six annual Republic budgets. If the Banking Clan went under, there would be no one left to demand that money back. The system would break apart into individual banks, none of which would have the nerve to assert claims against the CIS.
However, there was still a way out.
On Scipio, there was one deposit — access to its funds could slow the Banking Clan's collapse, buying the time needed to restore the payment and communication systems.
It was from this account, through a network of shell companies, that funds were transferred to Mandalore, Jabiim, Manaan, and dozens of other places where, as Clovis suspected, the Empire had interests backed by Republic currency. The Chairman wasn't at all surprised that one state was mass-purchasing weapons, battle stations, and ships, paying for Ailon Nova Guard services with another state's currency. At first glance, it might seem the Empire simply had no currency of its own. But if you analyzed the situation as a whole — paying in an unknown currency across the known galaxy would cost you more. Its exchange rate was unclear, its backing equally so. On the other hand, Republic credits were, for better or worse, accepted across the galaxy.
"I'd like you to ask the Emperor for permission to use part of the funds from the Empire's deposits to stabilize the Banking Clan," Clovis said, licking his dry lips. "I understand how this sounds, but without outside financial support, we'll simply drown under a pile of our own obligations and payments — and that would hurt the Empire first and foremost. There would be no one left to process your payment orders across the galaxy. The Emperor is a reasonable man..."
."..and he's not very keen on anyone sticking their hand in his pocket," the Zabrak finished for him. Seeing the surprise on the banker's face, she explained. "Those accounts in the Banking Clan that you alluded to belong personally to the Emperor."
Clovis felt it become hard to breathe.
This was... It couldn't be... Sure, there were rich people, but to this extent...
Until now, he'd believed that the cluster of accounts he, as the head of the bank, had personally registered in the IGBC's shadow sector (to conceal their state affiliation from outside the known galaxy) belonged to the Empire. Hundreds of quadrillions in credits and Hutt peggats, equivalent sums in precious metals and gems... And these sums grew steadily every month.
One person, holding accounts worth several dozen Republic budgets...
"I would be extremely grateful if the Emperor could help us in this difficult time," Clovis said, carefully enunciating each word, though he didn't really expect an immediate answer.
"What amount are we talking about?" Hexid asked lazily.
"We need..." Clovis paused to think for a moment, then stated the sum.
"Three Republic budgets?" the Zabrak calculated quickly. "That's a considerable number of credits."
"I'll accept any answer from the Emperor, but I'm very hopeful for a positive one... Naturally, we'll repay the loan as soon as the opportunity arises..."
Lady Hexid didn't seem to be listening. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. The girl appeared serene, more like a statue.
Not knowing how to react, Clovis was at a loss...
But just a couple of seconds later, the woman opened her eyes.
"You'll receive the money you're asking for, Chairman Clovis," she said. Rush felt his heart almost leap out of his chest. Praise the Celestials! The Banking Clan would be saved! The work of his entire life...
"Forgive me, but how did you..."
"The Emperor and I share a telepathic link," Hexid explained. "But let's get back to discussing our matter. As I said, you'll get the money. However, the Emperor has a few conditions."
The smile slid off the man's face.
"What... conditions? Isn't it enough that we pledge to repay all this money?"
"I'm afraid not," the woman shook her head. "The Emperor is extending a helping hand to you, but he's a pragmatic man. He doesn't require repayment of these funds..."
Clovis tensed. If someone didn't want such sums back...
"What does the Emperor want?"
"A controlling stake in the InterGalactic Banking Clan," the Zabrak's words washed over Clovis like a wave of ice water. "You will, of course, remain Chairman."
"But... but... They belong to the Muuns! They always have!"
"Clovis," the Zabrak leaned toward him with a smile. "What difference does it make to you who you work for — the Muuns or the Emperor? Besides, think about it — if another crisis happens, who will pull you out? The Muuns, who created this organization over millennia and then looted it? Or the one who put you in this position and is extending a helping hand in a very difficult moment?"
Rush ran his hand over his face.
* * *
The Zabrak was essentially right... There wasn't much difference, but... To devote your entire life to an organization that had been built over millennia by a specific race and was under their control. The Muuns were the public's guarantee of the Banking Clan's stable operation... And if they were thrown out into the cold...
"I... I don't know what to say..."
"Clovis, all you need to do is lift the restriction on listing the controlling stake on the exchange," Hexid smiled. Rush felt like he couldn't get enough air.
Forty percent of the Banking Clan's shares belonged to various Muun families who worked in various posts within the Banking Clan, receiving, besides their quite sizable salaries, substantial dividends from stock quotes on the galactic exchange. Sixty percent were at the disposal of the Bank's Chairman. He didn't receive a single credit from them — all income flowed directly into the Banking Clan's reserve funds. The Chairman could only decide whether to release shares from the controlling stake to the market. Or keep that golden credit card untouched.
"Even at the current share price, their acquisition wouldn't cover the costs I'm asking for to save the banks," Clovis suddenly realized. "Half a budget... Will the Emperor turn a blind eye to this difference?"
"Of course not." The Zabrak's smile looked more like a predator's grin. "Remind me, how much interest has the Confederacy of Independent Systems paid on its loans?"
"Not a credit," Rush would never have lasted in the clan's endless bureaucracy if he couldn't think a step ahead and understand where a client was going. "You're interested in the Confederacy's solvency?"
"As well as the loan amounts issued to the Republic," Hexid continued. "The Emperor wants to know what sums these two powers control, who they settle accounts with..."
"But... that violates banking confidentiality!"
"You didn't think about that when you told me the Republic screwed the Verpines," Hexid noted with a mocking smile on her face. "The rest won't be a problem for you, either. After all, when the controlling stake belongs to your patron — who on the bank's board would dare say a word against you?"
"Suppose I agree," Rush forced out each word. Going against everything he considered his duty to protect, against principles and traditions... It went against his conscience. But desperate times called for desperate measures. "When will the Banking Clan be able to receive the needed funds?"
"Immediately after you mobilize the Security and Collections Department to seize the property of the Confederacy of Independent Systems to cover the interest on the loans they owe you," Hexid said in a calm tone. "Naturally, the Empire, to help its ally, will provide all possible assistance in liquidating the seized Confederate property to replenish the Banking Clan's treasury."
"What...? But that means war with the CIS!" Clovis cried out, rising from his seat. "They have hundreds of times more ships than we do, billions of soldiers..."
."..who are currently busy destroying Republic forces," Lady Hexid continued. "Wherever in space your concentrated forces encounter Separatists, they'll have an advantage over the Confederacy's armed forces..."
"And what if they retaliate?" Clovis asked.
"Of course they will," Hexid assured him. "Not immediately, but when your seizures start causing them too much trouble. However, as far as I recall, the Republic guarantees the Banking Clan's security against any interference. You'll immediately appeal to the Chancellor, who will be obliged to send a powerful force here to maintain millennia-old inviolable laws."
"And if he doesn't?"
"You'll tell the entire galaxy about it on the HoloNet," the Zabrak's eyes flashed, "highlighting how much the Republic cares about the security of its own citizens' deposits. And you'll thank, from the bottom of your heart, the fleet of the Eternal Empire of Zakuul, which, unlike the Republican armada, will come to your aid guaranteed. And will grind any Separatist forces that dare touch the Emperor's accounts to dust."
Rush turned to the panoramic window, his gaze unfocused on Scipio's snowy landscapes.
Only now did he realize that not only Count Dooku but also the Emperor had far-reaching plans when they'd pushed for his appointment to this position. He'd bought into Dougan's promises, and it had led to his current situation — where the Chairman of the Banking Clan simply had no room to maneuver.
He was forced either to agree to the proposal laid out before him. And then he would save his precious banks.
Or to reject it — and lose everything he'd given so many years of his life for...
An extremely difficult dilemma — to renounce his own principles to save the work of his life... Or to sacrifice everything but remain true to himself...
"I..."
"Besides," as if not noticing that Clovis was about to say something, Hexid continued. "The Emperor asked me to convey something personally important to you. Senator Amidala will be arriving on Scipio soon on an important mission. As promised: Padmé can be yours again."
"If I just agree to your terms?" Clovis smiled bitterly.
"You're not the first and won't be the last banker to make a deal with his conscience for a better future for himself and his banks," the Zabrak reassured him. "Believe me, unlike many others in the galaxy, the Emperor wishes no harm to you or the InterGalactic Banking Clan. On the contrary, he's entirely concerned with making our partnership maximally beneficial for all of us. As you can see, the Emperor kept his word regarding Senator Amidala. She's a free woman, and if you show just a little care and gallantry — she'll be yours again."
Rush sighed heavily.
"The Banking Clan's shares will be released to the market tomorrow at nine in the morning standard Coruscant time," he said. "I'll give the order to mobilize the Security and Collections Department immediately."
"Glad to hear it, Chairman Clovis," the Zabrak smiled, rising from her seat. "It's a pleasure doing business with you."
He was woken by a quiet clink of metal. An ordinary person wouldn't have even noticed it, but Helnior was no ordinary person. And his belonging to the human race was only nominal.
Opening his eyes, he noticed the empty space beside him on the bed.
The clink came again.
Rolling onto his other side, he spent a few seconds admiring the feminine curves that were being dressed in fabric armor with armor plates attached to it.
"Leaving already?" he asked.
The owner of that stunning figure, having hidden her lovely rear in pants, turned to face him.
"I don't want anyone seeing me leaving your bedroom," Shea continued donning her Mandalorian armor as she spoke.
"What's wrong?" the half-breed smirked. "Is Mandalore the Avenger afraid her recruits will find out who she spent the night with? Though, from your screams and moans coming from my quarters after lights out, I'd say it's pretty obvious anyway."
"Yes, and I'm ready to thank this dreadnought's builder that the quarters you've taken are far from the other officers' apartments," the red-haired beauty noted coldly.
"Stop pretending to be a Gungan," the general asked, swinging his legs off the bed. "Who the hell cares who you or I sleep with?"
"Tell that to Sev'rance Tann," Vizsla remarked. "I think the red-eyed one would be thrilled to know that her chosen one, after burning a planet, was tumbling in bed with the leader of the Mandalorians."
"Is that all?" Helnior raised an eyebrow. "How did you find out?"
"In the future, it's better to turn off the answering service on your comlink," the Mandalorian advised. "And yes, I almost threw up from all that sweetness she wrote you. 'How are you, my love? Is everything alright?' I always thought the gifted didn't have time for bantha-like tenderness."
"Looks like you never had a real man who told you that messing with his communicator was a bad idea," Helnior replied. After a pause, he added with a smile, "Afraid she'll pick you out of your beskar shell?"
"I've killed hundreds of Jedi, Sith, and other lovers of light-dildos," Shea remarked. "But I've never shared a man with anyone. And I'm not about to start."
"I'll never understand you women's hang-ups," the half-blood sighed. "Wasn't it good for us together?"
"I hope that was a rhetorical question?" Shea looked at him gloomily.
"Of course," the white-haired, pointy-eared man smirked. "You made that clear to me last night. About five or six times..."
"Tell anyone about this, and I'll burn your balls off with a flamethrower," Shea warned. "Forget about tonight. Nothing happened between us. And it never will."
"I wonder what bothers you more," Helnior yawned. "That you're not the only lady of my heart, or that Mandalore the Avenger is, in fact, just a regular woman with a complex, who for the first time in however many millennia has finally been shown her true place in this life?"
He didn't see where Shea pulled the thin, elegant blade from, which a moment later sank into the edge of the bed between his legs, millimeters from his manhood.
"Why ruin the furniture?" he inquired.
"I was aiming higher," Shea shrugged, trying to strap a jetpack onto her back. "My hand slipped. Give me back the knife."
"Judging by our nighttime entertainment, your legs are still shaking," he pointed at the girl's right leg, which was twitching slightly at intervals. "If you need the knife, come get it yourself."
The uncompromising red-haired beauty walked up to him, bent at the waist, and placed her hand on the dagger's hilt.
"Funny, last night you did the same thing, but with something a bit higher," the half-blood smirked.
"It wouldn't cost me anything to slash you below the navel," the woman informed him. "And you'd bleed out, or whatever piss runs through your veins instead of blood, long before anyone got here."
"And you'd lose the only man who can satisfy your insatiable appetites," the blade carefully slipped out of the hole and vanished into the warrior's hands. "Come on, Shea, you're not stupid."
"I guess I am stupid, since I didn't bother to find out your background before all this happened," the Mandalorian remarked. "But either way, it's over."
"And why's that?" What complicated and sometimes stupid creatures these women were. Even the best of them.
"Are you pretending?" the redhead looked at him with doubt. "I already said everything."
"So what if you're not the only one?" the man shrugged. "What of it? How many women does the Emperor have? I've never heard of any of them nagging him with, 'I'm not like the others, I'm uncomfortable in a harem.'"
"So that's where these airs come from," the woman smirked. "Well, let me remind you: you're not the Emperor. And you never will be. What's allowed for him isn't available to others."
"What makes you so sure?" the half-blood was surprised. "Arkanians have practiced polygamous relationships for quite a while — and everyone's happy. And the Taungs, from whom your race and all its customs originated, as far as I've read, weren't monogamous either."
"Yeah, only you're not an Arkanian and certainly not a Taung. You're a cross between a bantha and a tauntaun," the woman grimaced. "Mandalore, what a fool I was to fall for all your stories..."
"See, you're even wailing like a regular woman," Helnior chuckled. Below his belt came the sound of metal cutting through other metal. Glancing down, the general found the same blade, having entered the bed almost symmetrically, just a couple of millimeters from the first hole. "You just throw hysterics more expressively. Relax, Shea, nothing criminal happened. I'm not saying you're my personal whore." That ringing was starting to get annoying. Helnior looked down and saw a second knife next to the first. "We're civilized beings, why not live as one big family?" And again that sound! Helnior spread his legs a little wider. Who knew how many of these knives she had! "Especially since Tann doesn't mind..."
"Yeah, right," Shea snorted. "That doesn't quite match what I've heard about her."
"What complicated creatures you women are," Helnior sighed. This time, he saw a new blade sink into the edge of the bed frame next to the others. "Hey! Stop throwing knives near my junk! You might actually hit me by accident!"
"Stop dripping on my brain," Vizsla declared. "Your stories about one woman not minding living in a harem with another interest me very little."
"Yet you're standing here listening to them," the half-blood noted. "If you weren't interested, you'd have left long ago."
"You locked the door," the Mandalorian reminded him, putting her helmet on her head. "Last night."
"Really?" the general glanced at the door panel, where a green light was clearly on. The lock was open. "I don't see any obstacles to you leaving. Well, except that I've really gotten under your skin, and you can't just walk away without hearing what I have to say."
The fifth blade finally finished off the metal the bed was made of. The edge, having lost its structural rigidity, bent under the half-blood's weight, landing him on his rear end with a crash and a crunch.
"What a woman," the half-blood sighed, getting to his feet. "Stop your hysterics and face the facts. I'm the only man who can wipe that smug, screwed-up look off your face — the one you've been wearing for how long now? Three? Four thousand years?"
The Mandalorian was in front of him faster than the wind. Her left hand shot toward his side, with the clear intention of tickling his ribs with a crushing gauntlet, but the general managed to intercept her hand. The other one, however, which mercilessly grabbed his freely dangling male radicals... well, the stark difference between how a satisfied woman treats you and how a furious fury does.
"Not so tight," the half-blood asked, breathing heavily. "This is an extremely fragile instrument and... ahh... hutt, Shea, I still need this thing! In working order!"
"Now listen to me, pointy-ears," the visor of her helmet stared him straight in the eyes, so you could say they were talking face to face. "I won't deny it — I enjoyed last night. You're right: you're the only man I've met in three and a half thousand years who doesn't annoy me and, for the most part, fits my criteria for a chosen one. You have character and firmness in your actions — wiping out the population of two planets, and turning one of them into slag... You're quite popular among my recruits — the Mandalorians themselves haven't done anything like that in over three thousand years. But, besides being a woman with a vagina, I'm also Mandalore, and I have obligations to my people. As an ordinary woman, I might agree to be with a man I like on those terms. But as Mandalore, I cannot allow even a shadow of a thought that my people would whisper behind my back and say that I'm some kind of attachment to the dick of some pointy-eared half-blood who only miraculously crawled out of the gutter into society. And you owe your position mostly to the shortage of command staff in the Empire. Be glad the Emperor for some reason doesn't want to clone Thrawn — then no one would need you at all."
"That's... hurtful," Helnior said, grimacing from the uncomfortable position. "Could you... ease up a little..."
"Don't interrupt a woman who has your balls in her hand," the general barely held back a cry of pain as the Mandalorian squeezed her fingers. "So, listen and remember. You're just a man I used to blow off some steam. And I enjoyed it. Sort out your problems with your girlfriend yourself. You're mine when I want it and how I want it."
"If you haven't noticed, I actually serve in the Imperial Army," Helnior grinned. "It's a bit problematic to come all the way to you for sex on Mandalore from Wild Space."
"I'll sort that out with the Emperor," the Mandalorian said with a voice full of confidence. "After all, you're not so bad that you can't become a member of our society — under my watchful eye. So you can, after I leave, jerk off to my bright image and consider that you've gotten what you wanted — fine, our sexual escapades will continue. On my terms."
The intonation with which she delivered the speech seemed quite... strange to Helnior. He'd heard something similar from instructors at the Academy when they asked provocative questions to students. Though, of course, the instructors didn't hold students by the balls — at least not literally.
"Are you done?" It's hard to keep a straight face when your little ones are being squeezed so hard they're about to give juice. "Now listen to me, if you haven't figured it out. I won't be anyone's lapdog, and I'm not going to. Even if your cunt was sideways and you were the only one in the galaxy." Endure! Endure! You're a man! There won't be another chance to set things straight. "What you want doesn't particularly concern me — everything will be the way I said. But fine, I won't brag left and right about when, where, how many times, and in what positions I had the great Mandalorian leader. And so that this sticks in your subconscious, the key part of my phrase is 'I will have Mandalore.' Not the way you want it. Don't like it — find yourself another man, if you have another three and a half thousand years to spare."
For a while, they stood there, boring into each other with their gazes. There was no need to look under her visor to understand that the red-haired beauty was sizing him up. But not like you size up a purebred akk dog for your menagerie.
"Good answer," she finally said. "I'll admit: I thought you'd start whining like a bitch as soon as I grabbed you by the balls. Pleasantly mistaken in my assumptions. This time."
"Glad to hear you have a brain," Helnior echoed. "And you know your place in our little cozy family."
"Oh, so we're a family now?" a chuckle came from beneath the armor. "I don't remember the traditional Mandalorian ritual dances for this occasion."
"There will be," Helnior promised. Despite everything, he intended to bring the situation to a logical development of events. While the beskar is hot, you can give it any shape. But when it cools down — it will take much more effort to remelt it. "As soon as my harem is fully formed."
"So two isn't enough for you?" and again that subtle hint in the genital area. Well, he had to endure the hardships to get what he wanted. "And how many more 'wives' do you have planned, my beloved pointy-eared male?"
"Four is quite enough for me," Helnior assured her. Shea fell silent, but didn't stop the hints. "Don't worry — they won't be some airheads or flower girls. I hate weaklings and whiners."
"Oh, so the morning message from Tann was specifically for me?" Shea smirked.
"Yes," Helnior agreed. "I didn't say she was okay with it for nothing. Your candidacy suits her more than fine."
"Hers suits me too," the Mandalorian said. "But if a single living soul finds out... My flamethrower is always loaded, and I can find your dangly bits even with my eyes closed."
"Oh, so that's what the blindfold game was for," Helnior smirked. Feeling that the attention below had eased, he put his hand on the Mandalorian's ass, pulling her closer. The girl instinctively wrapped her arms around his waist. "According to Arkanian customs, a wife is supposed to kiss her husband after giving consent. To make the moment memorable. Take off your helmet..."
"There's no need for that," Vizsla leaned back slightly from the man, then dealt him a fairly strong blow to the face with her helmet. The blow was so unexpected that the half-blood was first lost for words as stars danced before his eyes.
"What the hell was that?" wiping blood from his broken nose, he asked Shea, who was slowly taking off the blood-smeared helmet.
"Keldabe kiss," she said calmly, nimbly extracting herself from the Mandalorian armor. "So you'd remember the moment. And don't even think about pulling something like that on me again. If we're together — no secrets inside the family. Clear enough?"
"I don't have a habit of hiding anything from those I trust," Helnior wiped the blood from his face, watching with his eyes as the Mandalorian was once again left in only her underwear.
"Excellent," she smiled coldly. "Now let's seal our union according to Mandalorian traditions."
"Everything hurts," Helnior admitted. "And I'm not keen on doing it again standing in a hammock."
"Fine," Mandalore the Avenger conceded with a sigh, heading to the corner of the cabin where Helnior had placed the aforementioned item of furniture. "This time you'll be on top. What a softie you are, shebs."