Colonel Tycho Celchu, commander of Rogue Squadron, followed an officer of equivalent rank, Colonel Wessiri, with no inkling of which among the thousands, if not millions, of Imperial military facilities they were currently located.
Nevertheless, he was relieved to have been released from the hold of a Sullustian bulk freighter of the Brail-class, where he and the surviving Rogues, after the massacre in the Corvis Minor system, had been confined for… how long? A week? Two?
When day and night are indistinguishable, and artificial lighting in the hold persists even as exhaustion takes hold, biological clocks fail, rendering it impossible to gauge time through bodily reserves. Whoever detained them there was clearly an expert—none of the surviving New Republic pilots could determine the duration of their… captivity? Or were they guests?
Their status remained unclear.
Yet Wessiri had assured him that a meeting with his commander would clarify everything. Thus, Celchu agreed to accompany him.
Uncertainty disoriented him more than endless barrel-roll training.
The base appeared relatively new and distinctly Imperial; its personnel consisted entirely of humans, predominantly male, all clad in Imperial uniforms. Strict protocol adherence, professional restraint, and a chill in interactions—quintessentially Imperial.
Colonel Wessiri himself seemed plucked from a recruitment poster, the kind emblazoned with calls to enlist at the nearest station. Slightly taller than the Alderaanian, with black hair thinning at the temples and sharply defined, noble features on a handsome face. Upon their first meeting, he firmly shook Celchu's hand. The Rogue Squadron commander noted Wessiri's careful word choice and his unnerving habit of brushing imaginary dust from the sleeves of his black flight suit. He lacked the typical Imperial arrogance—merely another pilot, like those in Celchu's squadron, albeit more reserved.
Yet his eyes betrayed lethal danger.
Celchu had no doubt that Colonel Wessiri could have intervened with his TIE Defenders to save them from the pirate skirmish or, given different orders, eliminated them all with equal efficiency. One could debate whether he would have succeeded, but he would have ensured they suffered even greater losses than they already had.
Celchu walked beside the Imperial, occasionally casting sidelong glances around.
The sudden appearance of two squadrons of TIE Defenders was peculiar. Only a handful were ever produced. Moreover, during Grand Admiral Zaarin's rebellion, much of the production infrastructure for these advanced Imperial starfighters was destroyed. Repairing or assembling small batches was cost-prohibitive, at least for equipping an entire destroyer's air wing.
But for arming an elite unit…
His mood soured abruptly. Wessiri's commander might be a sentient Celchu would prefer to avoid at all costs. Yet duty—professional and civic—compelled him. If fortune permitted, he could gather intelligence about this facility. Perhaps something here would pique the New Republic's interest?
If so, a bit of reconnaissance wouldn't hurt.
But now, as in recent days, another matter gnawed at him.
In the battle at Corvis Minor, he lost four pilots.
Ken Nitram, He-Jin Sli, Wes Janson, Asyr Sei'lar.
And nearly lost as many again… Why deceive himself? They narrowly escaped annihilation at Corvis Minor! Not a single craft in the squadron remained intact—all were crippled.
The thought of Asyr's death chilled him. The Bothan was beloved by her comrades as a loyal friend and an atypical member of her species. She never retreated when battle called. Recalling the condemnation she faced from her fellow Bothans over her relationship with Gavin… A woman of steel, undeserving of death at pirate hands.
The squadron would miss Wes Janson… Wedge wouldn't forgive him for such losses, as Janson had been as vital to the squadron as the general himself. Yavin IV, Hoth, subsequent battles… Together with Wedge, they forged Rogue Squadron, earning its place among the New Republic's finest. Yes, Janson's humor often provoked comrades to reach for blasters or throttle the joker. But denying the obvious was foolish—Wes was the soul of Rogue Squadron.
And Ken, He-Jin…
Unexpectedly, Celchu realized his escort had halted beside a door, yet made no move to open it, instead regarding the Alderaanian calmly and attentively.
— Any issues, Colonel? — Celchu inquired.
— I want you to know, Colonel Celchu, — Wessiri spoke softly, calmly, confidently, and evidently from the heart. — I regret we couldn't aid you sooner, resulting in the loss of your pilots. As a unit commander, I understand your grief and share it fully.
— Thank you, — Celchu swallowed the lump in his throat.
— You should know your team destroyed approximately ten pirate squadrons, — Colonel Wessiri continued. — I'm certain you'd have downed more had the pirates not fled.
— I'd rather they'd destroyed fewer and all survived, — Celchu admitted.
— Losing comrades is never easy, — Wessiri nodded understandingly. — But I must also tell you something else. The individual in that office, — he nodded toward the door, — sent us to your rescue. Whatever your opinions of this person, acknowledge the fact. Without orders from that office…
— We'd have been slaughtered, — Celchu finished. — I understand, Colonel.
— I hope so, — the Imperial sighed. — You fought admirably. As a former Imperial, you must know not every Imperial unit boasts pilots as exceptional as yours.
— If the Empire had as many elite squadrons as the Rogues, we wouldn't be having this conversation, — Celchu clarified.
— I'm glad you grasp that, — Wessiri entered a code, and the door slid into the floor; he gestured into the dim interior. — Please. And don't forget what I said. The order from that office saved your subordinates.
— That's hard to forget or overstate, — Celchu stepped boldly across the threshold, briefly closing his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
The door closed behind him, and Colonel Wessiri's footsteps sounded nearby.
— Colonel Celchu, delivered as ordered, — he announced into the gloom.
Then the transformation began.
Light panels gradually illuminated, bathing an oval office adorned with intricately carved wooden panels in artificial light. Walls, floor, ceiling—all decorated with genuine wooden artistry, reflecting the refined taste of the office's occupant.
The carvings were elaborate, creating a hypnotic effect that induced mild disorientation and a faint headache.
A massive desk, also crafted from wood, stood directly opposite the entrance—a luxury even affluent Imperials could scarcely afford. Given the wooden decor, the desk seemed to grow from the floor.
The backrest of a standard multifunctional chair, favored by Imperial commanders and political appointees, rose high above its occupant's head, its carvings harmonizing with the wall patterns.
It took Celchu a mere fraction of a second to recognize the figure seated before him. His body reacted instinctively—heart racing, muscles tensing as if forged from durasteel, jaws clenching so tightly they creaked.
In that moment, the Alderaanian would have given anything to trade places with the jovial Janson or any of the fallen pilots. He wished the same for each of his comrades.
The image of this merciless woman was indelible to anyone who had crossed her path.
She still wore a crimson uniform, though her once raven-black hair had turned snow-white, framing her face. Her waist had widened slightly, and her features had softened with age. Yet her cold beauty endured, undiminished by time. Any notion that the years since their last encounter had mellowed her vanished upon meeting her gaze.
One eye, icy blue, evoked Echo Base on Hoth.
The other, fiery red, resembled a red dwarf radiating lethal energy.
Celchu believed this woman had perished on Thyferra. He had fired the torpedoes at her shuttle himself and witnessed its destruction.
Yes, prisoners at the Commenor facility claimed to have seen her, but he refused to believe them. Until now.
Ysanne Isard (original).
Ysanne Isard, alive and unscathed, rose leisurely from behind the desk.
— Colonel Celchu, — her voice was a venomous melody that shattered reality's boundaries. — At last, we meet again. I've long dreamed of this, hoped…
— I hoped you were dead, — the former Lusankya prisoner hissed.
The woman smiled. That smile burned, as if he'd been cast into a reactor's core.
— Breaking you, like Corran Horn, was my pleasure…
— Firing torpedoes at your shuttle and hoping the proton warheads hit you square in the face, — Celchu returned her courtesy with equal venom.
— Oh, I don't doubt it, — the Iceheart continued smiling. — I've added you to the list of those eager to ensure my demise. Second place.
— I'll yield first to Horn, — Celchu felt his fists, clenched so tightly, break skin, blood warm and sticky beneath.
— Don't worry, — Isard advised. — No one will leave unsatisfied. Your desire to kill me will soon be fulfilled, if we agree to ally for a time.
His jaw took seconds to recover.
— Speak, — he rasped.
— No other response was expected, — the Iceheart purred sweetly.
The Rogue commander's soul plummeted into an abyss…
***
Three things can be watched endlessly: burning fire, flowing water, and others working.
In my case, all three merged into one.
A substantial dose of bacta and several costly surgical droids work miracles.
The Isard before me scarcely looked her forty years. Comparing the original's image to this clone, one could easily mistake her for five to ten years younger. Yet behind her youthful appearance lay no trace of simplicity, lightness, or ease.
She remained the same ruthless, cunning, and lethal woman who orchestrated Coruscant's infection with the Krytos virus. She could eat ice cream with the same expression while watching hundreds burn in a nearby house, desperately fighting for survival.
Is it dangerous to keep her alive? Undoubtedly. Is it fatal to allow her close?
—Certainly.
Hence why this meeting occurs under the watch of five Imperial Guards and a Noghri.
Ysanne Isard (clone).
Keeping her alive is hazardous beyond question.
Yet she lives.
Why? Primarily because she accesses the same covert network as the original Isard. It's an amusing irony—after Thyferra, when the clone and original were activated, both utilized the same illicit informants.
One could spend years extracting names and subordinating her network. Or negotiate.
Delta Source will eventually be exposed. Information flowing directly from the Imperial Palace's core must not cease—under any circumstances.
Thus, her myriad agents—spies, informants, and snitches—prove invaluable. Moreover, she herself is among the Empire's finest operatives, perhaps unparalleled.
Yet the primary reason for sparing this clone lies not only in her practical utility as an agent but in her possessing the same cunning intellect as the original. This makes her instrumental in locating the latter.
The prolonged search for Molo Himron already reflects poorly on us. News from Corvis Minor further compounds our concerns.
Far from encouraging.
We found too few bodies and debris to claim "destruction." Prisoner testimonies explicitly indicate a third party's intervention in the clash between Rogue Squadron and a pirate gang armed with an Interdictor cruiser. Indeed, this ship's presence ensured the Rogues' grim fate—and their encounter with two TIE Defender squadrons.
This eerily mirrors the "miraculous rescue" orchestrated by the original Isard to lure Wedge Antilles and his pilots into a trap to eliminate her clone. Fortunately, the renowned New Republic general evaded this snare, having retired from piloting an X-wing with Rogue Squadron.
— Grand Admiral, — the Isard opposite me leaned back on the sofa, eyeing me narrowly. — Your thoughts seem far from here.
— Indeed, — I replied simply. Why invent when honesty suffices? This is Thrawn's masterful manipulation of facts—his hallmark.
Denying with phrases like "None of your business!" would only pique her interest. Forbidden fruit is sweet and diet-friendly, coveted by all who guard their figure.
— Are you perchance considering gifting the clone to the original to earn her loyalty? — Her voice was calm, confident, emotionless, as if discussing a pie's filling or ordering mass executions.
— Betray me, and I'll devise a fate worse than death, — I promised.
— Will you clone the clone? — she inquired, her tone still casual, though tinged with wariness, aware she could be replaced by a loyal duplicate. Isard knows cloning technology well.
The issue is a loyal clone would lack the motivation to pursue vengeance against the original. It would merely serve unquestioningly. An Isard reduced to a compliant puppet is unnaturally horrific, viscerally repellent.
— I believed we thoroughly discussed our collaboration's prospects, — I reminded. — You execute orders without harmful schemes, — admittedly a vague directive, challenging to enforce with the Iceheart, — and in return, you may settle scores with the true Isard.
— Then hand me to Shohashi? — she asked. Threats, of course…
— Such a swift death must be earned, Director, — I replied.
— Don't call me that, — she snapped. — I share her DNA, appearance, most memories, but I am not the Iceheart, — then what? Snowdrop? — Telomere analysis starkly confirmed my existence's nature and your words' truth.
A simple yet effective method to validate my claims about her origins. Surprisingly, this tempered her destructiveness toward others. She hasn't killed or detonated anything. Yet.
— A convenient way to dodge unwanted questions, — I noted. — Simply disclaim the original's atrocities.
— And sidestep accusations for her actions, — Isard agreed. — Effortlessly trim a multi-volume list of charges to a mere few hundred I committed post-activation, before the Iceheart lost Thyferra.
— Ideally, betray her to a tribunal, severing all ties to you and pinning your crimes on her? — I clarified.
— Precisely why finding and eliminating her benefits us all, — Isard twirled her fork, hinting it could fly, say, into my eye. A minor test of my comfort zone. Flinch or prompt the guards, and she'd detect a vulnerability. Fear of death is primal, hard to escape. — Her crimes against the New Republic don't concern you. We must remove her permanently, sever all loose ends, and let me operate from the shadows—my natural domain. The New Republic's laughable democracy swallows plausible lies. A remotely piloted shuttle, for instance. Deceiving them is trivial. Let Shohashi behead her during one of your Excellency's HoloNet broadcasts. Then ship her remains piecemeal to Coruscant, letting the Republicans rejoice that the Iceheart's threat is history.
— What drives your desire for such a gruesome reckoning with the original? — I inquired.
— Revenge, — she precisely sliced a piece of pie and ate it. Glancing at her slowly withdrawing the fork from her lips, I asked:
— Dislike existing as a mere copy?
— I loathe being second, — she chewed methodically after freeing her mouth. — Besides, this galaxy's too small for both of us. I like it here, despite everything. I'd rather not see it reduced to dust because of her existence, — how grandiose. — Well, — she noted, licking her lips. — Tavira's right. Your nerves and composure outmatch a droid's. Welcome to our club of Palpatine's soulless toys.
— So the original instilled loyalty to the Emperor in you? — I asked. Tangential chatter to distract. That trick won't work on me. A guard behind her could snap her neck anytime.
— If so, I feel no obligation to him or readiness to die at his whim, — the clone replied. — I'm more irked that you released the Lusankya prisoners. It compels me to retrieve, gather, and protect them. The original ensured I'd excel at my task. Preserve, safeguard, locate, and conceal. How prosaic is the human organism's fate, don't you find? Or do you program your clones with broader loyalty protocols?
I raised an eyebrow.
— Don't take me for a fool, Grand Admiral, — she requested. — I'm guarded by four sentinels. I can't roam the ship without your permission. Yet, restricting my range, you haven't blinded or unhinged me. I see the guards—at least they—are clones. Likely not only them.
— Curious observation, — I noted. — What prompted this conclusion?
Isard smiled, slicing another piece of pie.
— Palpatine assigned some guards to the true Isard, — she explained. — Rejects failing his lofty standards for personal protectors. Even they were fascinating study subjects. Training may strip habits and individuality, but subtle behaviors distinguish them. Yours, however, grip vibropikes identically, — I glanced at the guards, confirming her words. Identical weapon tilt, blades resting on shoulders, identical grips. — And other minutiae. They adjust cloaks identically, turn heads uniformly, always step with the same foot. Those unfamiliar with guard habits might attribute this to ruthless training. But the observant realize something's amiss. Such synchronicity is impossible among sentients who don't think and exist identically. A single, rigorously drilled donor is the likeliest explanation.
— Any suspicions about this donor's identity? — I probed, curious about her observational limits.
— Your adjutant, Grand Admiral, — the non-Iceheart declared unequivocally. How should I address her now? — His physical conditioning exceeds that typical for such a role. An adjutant's post demands intellect, and you've always valued brains over brawn in subordinates. There's another reason you chose a guard as your adjutant.
She's sharp. Especially considering she's seen Tierce only twice—once in guard attire during her recovery, and again escorting her here, delivering Astarion's data chips on Nym and Aurra Sing's interrogations.
Her presence ensures I won't grow complacent or "rest on laurels," a cornerstone of every Imperial commander's downfall—though not exclusively theirs.
— Let's return to our agenda, — I stated.
— Just when you think you're invited to a gala dinner, freed from your kennel, you're reminded of your place, — for the first time, her face bore a smile, surprisingly devoid of falsity. — Very well, I won't jest and will speak plainly. Tavira and Disra are easily broken. He's a vessel of complexes, particularly a craving for ever-greater power—real, not illusory. A simple hook to exploit. His conditioned reflexes are pathetically basic. Fear, and fear alone. But it's fleeting. I advise against wasting time on this slime—his ceiling is mid-level administration, not sector governance. Once broken, he'll be useless; fear and greed drive him, one prevailing over the other. No notions of honor or loyalty to anyone or anything but himself. He's incapable of teamwork—envious of others' success, he'll scheme to claim their achievements and eliminate allies. Such is his nature, evident in various circumstances. Better to eliminate him than waste time.
This aligns with my assessment of Moff Disra's mental faculties.
— Extract everything he possesses, — I ordered. — Verbatim—everything.
— Especially regarding Grand Moff Kaine and the Pentastar Alignment, correct? — she smiled slyly.
I didn't respond—obvious enough. If he's unusable for my purposes, I'll take what I can. Cloning him via GeNod and instilling loyalty is wasteful. Officially, Disra's dead, so let him stay that way. Executing him for actions against Grand Admiral Rufaan Tigellinus would be fitting, but since the latter contributed to the real Thrawn's exile to the Unknown Regions, it'd be farcical. Plus, an affronted Kaine might take offense.
— Everything, — I emphasized. — Don't make me repeat myself.
The clone regarded me curiously, like a scientist studying an odd creature, then nodded faintly.
— Leonia Tavira, — she shifted to our second topic. — She's shrewd but suffers mental disorders I'm leveraging to instill positive habits for serving assigned goals. Conditioned fear reflexes toward authority figures will keep her in check. However, her sexual preference disorder requires satisfaction as positive reinforcement for her work. Otherwise, her psyche will unravel, rendering programming ineffective.
— Was this why some on Lusankya resisted the sleeper agent programming? — I inquired.
— The original used an enhanced stormtrooper training program from Carida, — Isard mused. — Sourced from Kaminoan cloners, it programmed clones for loyalty to the Grand Army of the Republic. It's most effective during Kaminoan cloning, when developing brains absorb information like sponges. The clone uprising on Kamino prompted Palpatine to sever ties, limiting the program to recruits. I— — the clone faltered. — Isard modified it over years. By Lusankya's commissioning, the program barely functioned, but test subjects accelerated progress. Flaws persisted. No one's perfect.
— Without explicit orders, you won't program agents, — I warned.
— I lack the equipment, — she said, rolling her eyes dreamily before adding: — But I can imagine the New Republic's shock if Leia Organa Solo shot Mon Mothma during a Senate address, dying with "Lusankya" on her lips.
— That would have a potent ideological impact, — I agreed. — Especially since Lusankya is in New Republic hands.
— I'm certain that fact grates the Iceheart's nerves, — hardly news. — Losing a ship gifted by Palpatine… It must cause significant dissonance.
— That's not our current priority, — I stated. — You've received data on the TIE Defender squadrons' intervention at Corvis Minor against Rogue Squadron.
— They were sent for combat recon, — the non-Iceheart said, finishing her pie. — They stumbled into a pirate ambush targeting xenotech production, joined by Distrna asteroid's security squadrons. The resulting melee was ferocious. With agents even on New Republic ships and intercepted comms via relays, she could've learned of the Rogues' departure almost instantly. Her base must be within half the TIE Defenders' flight range.
— Not necessarily, — I countered. — She could use a carrier to ferry fighters to and from the site.
— Then it's a dead end, — Isard concluded. — She could operate from anywhere, even a hollowed-out asteroid like Distrna within the Hegemony.
— That's your primary assignment, — I reminded her. — Analysts' data on Imperial bases supplying TIE Defenders are at your disposal.
— Knowing her, she'd avoid standard facilities, — the clone said. — It's either a secret base or the last one you'd suspect.
— Including one built independently, — I suggested.
— Unlikely, — Isard replied. — She lacks resources to construct bases. She'd repurpose an abandoned or covert, operational site. Otherwise, I can't explain why my memories lack such data. Imperial Intelligence oversaw all Imperial facility secrecy.
— Which the ISB clearly resented, — I noted.
— They always find something to dislike in leadership, — Isard sneered. — I propose monitoring the Iceheart and Rogue Squadron situation. They'll surface eventually. Sparing them suggests she has plans.
Indeed, I knew those plans. Now…
— What's the likelihood she'd use Rogue Squadron to reclaim Lusankya? — I asked, reasoning that a sound plan, if unfeasible, could be adapted.
— Intriguing hypothesis, — the clone mused after a pause. — But two TIE Defender squadrons couldn't seize a super star destroyer. She'd need a minimal crew. Lusankya's computerized enough for bridge control by a few dozen skilled technicians, not necessarily fleet-trained.
Indeed, that's how Isard planned to steal Lusankya in events I recall post-Thrawn's death. After his assassination, the Empire ceded Bilbringi's shipyards, where the New Republic moved Lusankya for repairs. There was even a proposal to deploy it against Prince-Admiral Krennel, though planned for year's end. Now, that's irrelevant—except I might replace Krennel, having antagonized the New Republic repeatedly.
— If she hasn't altered my thinking or values, the Iceheart, though reluctantly, endures setbacks, — the clone continued. — Emotional outbursts alternate with reflection and correction. We excel at learning from mistakes, unimpeded. Given the New Republic's recent gains, she's unlikely to retake the ship wherever it's stationed. She couldn't muster enough vessels to overwhelm its defenses and escape with the prize. No force would compel her to defy logic, at least not while alive.
— Revenge for humiliation? — I ventured, knowing what could drive her to transcend herself.
— Like me, she doesn't wait years for opportunity; she creates it, — the clone countered. — But consider the shifting political landscape. Your actions, Grand Admiral, have darkened the New Republic's existence, destabilizing its forces. They'll ready Lusankya for an offensive, one way or another…
Indeed, they already are.
— And the Iceheart could exploit this to avenge her Thyferra humiliation, known galaxy-wide, — the non-original stated. — A ship under construction, serviced by numerous transports—boarding and seizing a vessel with minimal crew, only workers, is straightforward.
— Then why need Rogue Squadron? — I inquired.
— Various motives, — she shrugged. — Revenge against the Rogues is nearly an obsession. But using them to capture Lusankya outweighs settling scores. Proper prioritization—for her and me—optimizes effort and resources. She has few of the latter.
— Then why were you with Krennel, not her? — I asked.
— Find her and ask, — the duplicate replied. — Perhaps she feared Krennel—a sadistic lunatic with a penchant for torture and other Imperial interrogator delights.
— As if you've never indulged in such, — I reminded.
— No harm in a few dozen Lusankya prisoners dying under my watch, — Isard replied. — I even arranged their burials.
— In Distrna's hollow asteroid, where Krennel later built a TIE production plant on their bones, — I countered.
— War crimes aren't crimes when done for the Empire, — she smiled. — I doubt you intend to hold me accountable for my actions. You seek collaboration with me…
— Don't conflate terms, — I requested. — Collaboration and utilization differ.
— Is that so? — Her brow arched.
— The privilege of alliance must be earned, — I clarified.
The non-Iceheart silently finished her dessert, studiously avoiding my gaze.
We sat in silence for a time.
Then, finishing, she pointedly set aside her plate, theatrically placing the fork across it.
— Very well, — she said. — Now, seriously. A direct question—under what conditions do I avoid Shohashi?
— I thought we clarified this, — I replied. — You're assigned tasks; you execute them. Perform well, and Shohashi gets the real Isard. Finding her is in your interest, as is fulfilling all assignments. The slightest disobedience yields predictable results.
Isard leaned back, crossing her legs. Less ostentatious than Leonia Tavira, but with similar undertones. Yet, in a second life, such ploys seem almost comical, even from one of the galaxy's most alluring yet lethal women.
— How about candor for candor, Grand Admiral? — she proposed.
— I'm curious what you offer beyond information I already possess, — unlikely she'd initiate this to deceive me.
— A simple, fundamental truth, — Isard replied. — Based on personal experience and observation. Palpatine seemed alien, untouchable to all but his inner circle due to his isolation. Vader was feared as an enigma. Krennel styled himself a lone wolf. The original Isard terrified because nothing beyond rumors of her ties to the Emperor could be gleaned, no matter how diligently pursued. The less human your subjects perceive, the greater their unease about your intentions.
— I'm no aurodium ingot to crave companionship, — my retort was curt, irritated by these hints at my personal life.
— Indeed, — Isard confirmed. — You could've crushed the New Republic in three months, had you wished. But to this galaxy, you're an exotic, albeit a martial genius. While war persists, none question your differences; military minds lack time. Civilians, however, safe in the rear, obsess over rulers, judging them by various metrics. Such gossip birthed tales of my— — she faltered, correcting — the original Isard's alleged affair with Palpatine.
A second mention of the same detail in minutes, emphasizing it to imprint subconsciously for later analysis. Subtle, yet foolish. My focus lies elsewhere.
I'm uncertain of my body's age, lifespan, or what awaits when the Reborn Emperor emerges. First, a nymphomaniac pirate, now the clone of the Empire's chief repressor, both suggesting I "humanize."
They assume I'm the true Thrawn, with everything under control, effortlessly defeating foes. To them, a romantic interest now seems justified.
To me, it's not. Current crises demand precedence; personal matters wait. Duty mustn't yield to sentiment. I'm Thrawn, privy to looming threats. Perhaps in youth, ignorant of what's ahead, I'd entertain romance. But facts are stubborn.
Personal affairs are deferred until threats are neutralized. Active operations consume me; romantic distractions are superfluous. If I must "humanize" fully, it won't be here or now.
I already explain my actions to subordinates, not issue cryptic orders and vanish with a flourish: "Because I am Thrawn!"
Pursuing dalliances during war, on a clone Iceheart's prompting? No, I'll decline politely.
— Thank you for the insight, — I nearly addressed her by name but recalled her distancing from the original's past, challenging given circumstances. — Now, resume your work. I need Tavira.
If she successfully led pirates and governed planets, she's ideal for our auxiliary forces, provided she's controlled. A restraining factor… I have a candidate to satisfy her wild fantasies.
— As you command, Grand Admiral, — Isard rose, eyeing me with genuine curiosity. — But I must note that cloning Tavira post-breaking won't work—the break won't transfer. Even with memory uploads, the effect's negligible. Breaking clones repeatedly is less efficient than finding loyalists.
Noted.
— What do you know of clone madness? — I asked.
— Numerous factors drive Schizophrenia in clones, — she answered instantly. — Learning your life's a copy isn't pleasant. Each program had issues, progressing to severe disorders gradually. Shall I prepare a report?
— No, — I said, producing a silver medallion, offering it on my gloved palm.
— What's this? — she asked, intrigued.
— Palpatine once cloned a Jedi who succumbed to madness, — I explained. — Touching this medallion calmed him. I want you to keep it. Always.
— Hm… — Isard approached, examined it, then took it. At a wall mirror, she brushed aside her hair, unbuttoning her gray fleet jacket, issued in place of the red. — Lovely. I'll wear it near my heart, Grand Admiral.
— You lack one, Isard, — I replied calmly, nodding to the guards.
She turned, eyes blazing, hair and medallion flaring… like a wave.
We locked gazes until a guard seized her collar, shoving her toward the exit.
— I await your reports, Isard, — I said, retrieving my data pad. Talks aside, fleet preparation time was dwindling. — And finally: don't waste our time on futile flirtations. Duties demand focus.
— One day, Grand Admiral, when threats diminish, — she spoke calmly, adjusting her uniform, — your resolve will hold, but you'll need to address this. By then, you may lose those willing to stand by you voluntarily, out of affection…
— If that day comes, Isard, — I emphasized the improbability, given realities, — you may not live to see it, if you squander time on such drivel. Should you survive, rest assured, a lethal kiss holds no allure. A pretty shell must conceal value, not a marketing gimmick.
— I'll remember your words, Grand Admiral, — Isard stated emotionlessly. — Permission to depart?
— Granted, — a guard unceremoniously ushered her out.
Alone, I shook my head in disappointment.
A decent attempt to "get under my skin." It might've worked, were my duties less pressing. I'll need to be warier—especially of the non-Iceheart.
Sweet words narrow perspective, risking tunnel vision. I doubt even a duplicate Isard could genuinely feel for anyone. That defies logic, especially after her mind games with Krennel to manipulate him for unclear aims.
It's premature to confront her directly—her actions and motives remain opaque, as does how she toppled Krennel.
She may claim she's not Isard, disavowing monstrosity. Words mean nothing without deeds. I lack sufficient evidence to trust her even marginally.
She lives to serve specific objectives—never forget this. Complacency invites betrayal; the closer they are, the more devastating their treachery.
Such is fame's double edge—success attracts opportunists, some deadly.
Simple logic: boys chase fleeting connections; men wage war.
No wonder Thrawn smeared the New Republic across the galaxy: while others fretted over feelings, the Chiss fought for a militarized future, vital against the looming Yuuzhan Vong invasion.
Genre's dictate: pursue the greater good, and you're unstoppable.
But when sentiment, relationships, or hormonal romance intrude, judgment clouds, inviting errors and collapse.
---
Ysanne Isard, the Iceheart, regarded the Republic officer before her with her trademark absence of humanity.
— Despite everything, Colonel Celchu, after saving you and your crew, regardless of your or the Rogues' sentiments toward me, I'm entitled to be heard.
— Perhaps, — Celchu's tone chilled like Hoth's ice. — But your brutality toward Lusankya's prisoners, left to rot on Commenor, strips you of any trust. You're a monster.
— Very well, — a smile curved the Iceheart's lips. — Then you shall hear a monster's confession.
Celchu remained silent.
Isard paused, then stretched ostentatiously, evoking a serpent poised to strike.
— After abandoning Coruscant, on Grand Admiral Thrawn's counsel, then in the Unknown Regions, I secured Thyferra's control, — she commanded instant attention. — You, Antilles, and your squadron waged a personal crusade to free my prisoners. I had to outmaneuver you, ensuring even a hypothetical victory wouldn't locate them. Thus, I dispersed them across systems. The task was critical—too vital to delegate. My presence was also needed on Thyferra. So, I activated my clone, created for tasks demanding my essence, to hide them, then perish on Thyferra. That was the plan, but events unfolded differently.
— You had a clone? — Celchu frowned. Two Isards in one galaxy? Three Death Stars would be preferable.
— Crafted in Palpatine's private cloning lab in the Imperial Palace post-Endor, after your Rebel Alliance killed him, — a trace of pain in her voice?
— Never heard of such a thing, — he said.
— Nor will you, - she said, - Naturally, I erased all evidence; the sole incubator housing my clone was hidden on Lusankya.
— I don't recall them finding anything like that, — Celchu frowned. — Of course, no one would have told them outright, but if there were a duplicate-creation device onboard that star super-destroyer, intelligence would have tried to dig it up anyway. In any case, the "rogues" would've been questioned—especially those like Celchu and Horn – the ones taken prisoner and likely to know more than the others.
— You've been in command of my ship for quite some time now, — she sneered. — Yet you haven't uncovered all its secrets. But that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that the clone possesses my knowledge — right up to the endgame on Thyferra. I couldn't rid myself of her. And apparently, she lurked in the shadows for a long time, covering her tracks. But Grand Admiral Thrawn's actions evidently forced her out of hiding. And as luck would have it, I now know exactly where she is.
— Then kill her, — Celchu shrugged. Let the vipers destroy each other, sparing the galaxy. — Isn't that your aim?
— Indeed, — the Iceheart confirmed. — I disrupted her operations to lead you to the Ciutric Hegemony, where she's entrenched under Prince-Admiral Krennel's protection. While she planned to destroy or subjugate you, you, luring you there, there, my motives differed.
Aha… Now it's clear why Iella Wessiri was so wary of "traces" leading to Liinade III. Deliberate.
— Given unrestricted news access, you're likely aware that Counselor Fey'lya sought to steal glory, attacking Ciutric IV, — Isard continued. — He killed Krennel but was crushed by Thrawn, who now controls the Hegemony and adjacent sectors.
— And the clone serves him? — Celchu chilled. News wasn't restricted; en route and in the hold, Imperials provided updates.
— I'm certain, — her voice betrayed uncharacteristic doubt. — She's my mirror in achieving ends. I, if it aids comprehension, thrived under a stronger leader's aegis. Thyferra taught me I can't sustain a campaign alone. Seeking a patron's shield is logical. And Thrawn excels at securing borders and intentions, misleading foes with fabricated threats.
— What do you mean? — Celchu's gut twisted.
— Death Star at Linuri, — Isard's smile sent shivers down his spine. — Fey'lya was partly right—it's disinformation. Neither Krennel, Lady Santhe, nor Ennix Devian possess such a weapon or intent. Curiously, I planned to use blueprints of a Death Star parody to lure you against Krennel, eliminating him and the clone.
— So Thrawn outplayed you, using your own designs? — he clarified.
— Twisting situations to his forte, — Isard explained. — He likely reached my conclusion independently. It's masterful work. I'd applaud, but I'll refrain.
— That doesn't explain why we're here or why my pilots died, — Celchu pressed.
— I need allies, — Isard said plainly. — Believe it or not, I couldn't devise better than you.
— You're right; I don't believe you, — he retorted. — The notion of aiding you repulses me. My pilots will back me unequivocally.
— Then I must clarify, — Isard nodded. — Thrawn's dangerous alone. He crushed Grand Admiral Zaarin and, pre-Imperial service, annihilated a Trade Federation fleet with patrol ships. Palpatine supposedly exiled him to the Unknown Regions for mapping—Krennel, under his command, claimed Thrawn commands an empire, thousands of sectors ready to march under his banners. He's the invasion's spearhead, clearing the battlefield for those to follow. With my clone's support, he'll dismantle the Republic externally and internally. Even post-Empire, I control thousands of covert agents capable of igniting a galactic inferno. My clone accesses them. I've isolated many, but not all. If you wish your New Republic to endure, eliminating Thrawn and my clone is critical. He's consolidating the Remnants in the galaxy's north. With a mere dozen ships, he's bled you dry; imagine him with Imperial resources?
Celchu froze. Her words held weight, yet…
— What do you need from us?
She sighed heavily, head bowed.
— Post-Thyferra, I realized my life's work died. The Empire fell, and I've no interest in its remnants. I'll help you destroy Corran, my clone, and seize the Ciutric Hegemony and Thrawn's Dominion.
— In exchange?
— Amnesty, — the thought of Ysanne Isard, torturer and executioner, evading justice sickened him. — I seek peace. No public spectacles or grand speeches. Slip me the document covertly and let me vanish. I'll cause no trouble, aiding you to eliminate the last Grand Admiral before exiting the stage.
— How do you plan to achieve this? — Celchu asked.
— Moreover, — I lack a hidden fleet, — Isard continued. — Days after Thrawn seized the Ciutric Hegemony and his territories, he purged my agents there. I don't know how. My data on him is sparse. But he summons all Imperials. We'll exploit this. Pilots on TIE Defenders—he'll welcome you warmly. You'll study his planetary defenses, tactics, strategy, and fleet. Relay this to the New Republic for thorough preparation.
— Our faces are too recognizable as Imperials, — Celchu reminded her.
— Hence masking, — she smiled. — You excel at it. — Celchu chilled. — No doubt she'd deduce eventually. — So, Colonel Celchu? Will you fulfill a lady's request and slay her clone?
— Give me a blaster, — I'd ask, — I'll start with the lady herself.
Colonel Wessiri muttered disapproval. Isard's face flickered with a smile.
— As expected, — she said. — I'll provide you and your pilots with training and equipment. When ready, you'll contact your command, signaling when and where to act. Haste risks leaks from my clone's informants, dooming the mission.
— What if we refuse to cooperate with you, Isard?
— Hear that, Colonel Wessiri? — the Iceheart asked. He explained awkwardly:
— Colonel Celchu, we both know wars between the New Republic and Empire are futile. We must eliminate radicals like Krennel and Thrawn, then resolve matters amicably. The galaxy's big enough for all.
— And we'll reach peaceful coexistence eventually, — Isard concluded. — But first, oceans of blood. Thanks, but I'll pass. Hence my aid.
— Your altruism strains credulity, Isard, — she smiled. — But for those who died, I'll cooperate. Where do we start?
— First, — Isard's lips formed a triumphant grimace. — We'll make true Imperials of you.