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Wayland
"The
Emperor had a private storehouse," Mara said, the words coming out
with difficulty. His wizened face seemed to hover before her, those
yellow eyes gazing at her in silent and bitter accusation. "It was
beneath a mountain on a world he called Wayland--I don't know if it
even had an official name. It was where he kept all of his private
mementos and souvenirs and odd bits of technology he thought might be
useful someday. One of the artificial caverns held a complete cloning
facility he'd apparently appropriated from one of the clonemasters."
"How
complete was it?"
"Very," Mara
said with a shiver. "It had a full nutrient delivery system in place,
plus a flash-teaching setup for personality imprinting and tech training
on the clones while they developed."
"How many
cylinders were there?"
Mara shook
her head. "I don't know for sure. It was arranged in concentric tiers,
sort of like a sport arena, and it filled the whole cavern."
"Were
there a thousand cylinders?" Organa Solo persisted. "Two thousand? Ten?"
"I'd say
at least twenty thousand," Mara told her. "Maybe more."
"Twenty
thousand," Organa Solo said, her face carved from ice. "And he can turn
a clone from each one every twenty days."
Mara stared
at her. "Twenty days?" she echoed. "That's impossible."
"I know.
Thrawn's doing it any way."
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