Beyond - Legends Interregnum III - Imperial Justice (Action/Drama | Luke/Mara, Wedge | Epic) [Complete]

Title: Interregnum III: Imperial Justice
Author(s): Bel505 (Admiral Byzantium) and Snubjockey (DrMckay)
Timeframe: Prologue begins shortly after Interregnum II: The New Order
Characters: Mara Jade, Luke Skywalker, Wedge Antilles, Roganda Ismaren
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Romance
Keywords: Luke/Mara, Imperial Inquisitorius, the Galactic Civil War
Summary: See below
Notes: This is a novel-length fanfiction, a sequel to the previous novel-length fiction Interregnum and Interregnum II: The New Order! It is complete and I hope to post a chapter each week!

It represents our continuing attempt to write a Zahn-style continuation of his original trilogy, borrowing from material from the X-wing novels and comics (as well as the broader Legends continuity) to help flesh out plots.

Enjoy!

Summary​

Civil war! The Empire has a new Emperor: the young IREK ISMAREN, apparent heir of the deceased Emperor Palpatine. An IMPERIAL REGENCY led by his mother ROGANDA ISMAREN rules the NEW ORDER with an iron fist.

Not all in the fractured Empire accept this change! Admiral GILAD PELLAEON leads a breakaway faction of Imperials who reject this new government. Their position is precarious, as the fanatical New Order is committed to eliminating them at all costs—but Pellaeon and his allies have secret resources and hidden bases to strike from, thanks to the legacy of Grand Admiral Thrawn.

The NEW REPUBLIC is eager to take advantage of the Empire’s division! General WEDGE ANTILLES prepares his fleet for an invasion of Corellia, while Jedi Knights LUKE SKYWALKER and MARA JADE recruit candidates for the revived JEDI ORDER.

What no one outside the New Order knows is that the Empire has a mysterious secret weapon, one that may yet turn the tide back in its favor!

Thanks
​

My sincerest gratitude goes to my coauthor, who has given so much of his time to help write and edit this, and who is responsible for coming up with many of the best lines in this story.

This story in particular owes much to the work of Barbara Hambly, who created a number of the characters who take starring roles in this story. Timothy Zahn, Aaron Allston, Michael Stackpole, and Kevin J. Anderson remain of unparalleled importance. Thanks are also owed to Tom Veitch and Cam Kennedy, because while this universe has no Palpatine clone, that doesn't mean that their creations in Dark Empire could not still come to be....

 

Table of Contents
​

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue

Missing Moment I: Corellia
Missing Moment II: Naboo
Missing Moment III: Ossus

 

Dramatis Personae​

Citizens on Coruscant
Chewbacca (Wookiee male from Kashyyyk)
Han Solo (human male from Corellia)

Jedi Order
Jedi Knight Mara Jade (human female from Coruscant)
Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker (human male from Tatooine)
R2-D2 “Artoo” (astromech droid from Naboo)

New Republic Government
Councilor Leia Organa Solo (human female from Alderaan)
Winter Celchu (human female from Alderaan)
C-3P0 “Threepio” (protocol droid from Alderaan)

New Republic Armed Forces
General Wedge Antilles (human male from Corellia)
Commodore Atril Tabanne (human female from Coruscant)
Colonel Tycho Celchu (human male from Alderaan)
Colonel Derek “Hobbie” Klivian, Rogue Leader (human male from Ralltiir)
Major Dorset Konnair, Polearm Leader (human female from Coruscant)
Captain Traest Kre’fey (Bothan male from Bothawui)

New Republic Intelligence
Iella Wessiri (human female from Corellia)

Smugglers’ Alliance
Mirax Terrik Horn (human female from Corellia)
Liat Tsayev (Sullustan male from Sullust)

Unknown Regions Expeditionary Force
Baron Soontir Fel (human male from Corellia)
Admiral Gilad Pellaeon (human male from Coruscant)
Admiral Teren Rogriss (human male from Anaxes)
Captain Asori Rogriss (human female from Anaxes)
Commander Nzem Dreyf (human male from Poln Major)
Syal Antilles Fel (human female from Corellia)

The New Order
Emperor Irek Ismaren (human male from Coruscant)
Emperor-Regent Halmere (human male from Coruscant)
Dowager Empress Roganda Ismaren (human female from Alderaan)
Moff Vilim Disra (human male from Corellia)
Loyalty Officer Ephin Sarreti (human male from Coruscant)
Admiral Natasi Daala (human female from Botajef)
Captain Davit Markarian (human male from Arkanis)

 

Prologue​

Under ordinary circumstances Chazwa was a pleasant enough world.

Heavily populated by galactic standards, with some three and a half billion inhabitants (mostly human), it had the good fortune of falling squarely in the middle of the Perlemian Trade Route, which meant easy access to goods and services of all kinds. Over the years it had eventually become a central shipping hub of its region, serving as a safe landing zone and respected port of call for most of the ships that serviced the Perlemian, not to mention many of the smaller vessels that wandered even further afield.

But that centrality made Chazwa a strategic target. Imperial rule on Chazwa had shattered after Endor—its dense population of smugglers, free traders, and prospectors meant it had greater than its fair share of anti-Imperial sentiment—and the New Republic had occupied the world with relative ease. It had even become a major New Republic stronghold, which had made it one of Grand Admiral Thrawn's first targets and first reconquests.

Now the New Republic wanted it back and Admiral Natasi Daala, late of the Imperial Star Destroyer Gorgon, was running out of ideas for how to prevent them from taking it.

"Admiral," Commander Kratas greeted her as the ground shook.

Kratas was the former commanding officer of her late, lamented flagship. He was solidly built, with dark coloring and a keen tactical mind. Aggressive and ambitious, but bone-loyal like so many of her officers, he'd dragged her off the bridge rather than letting her go down with her ship. He had realized that attempting to ram a Super Star Destroyer, with its massive tractor beams able to deflect large incoming objects, was unlikely to be successful with or without her hand on the helm. Thanks to him, she had lived to fight another day.

She couldn't even tell Kratas was Fleet anymore by looking at him. Like many of Gorgon's survivors whose escape pods had set them down on Chazwa, he'd adopted Stormtrooper armor and a blaster rifle and had become—through necessity—one of Daala's ground commanders, dusting off long-forgotten Academy lessons as men died around them. "I'm not sure how much longer we're going to be able to hold the remaining shield generators, sir. The enemy Vicstar deployed another squadron of bombers."

The pounding grew more distant and Daala moved from the center of her makeshift command room, an old apartment building located in Chazwa's capital city, Iritsa. The building was a hostel for down-on-their-luck spacers, rough and down-at-heel; its only redeeming characteristic was it hadn't been bombed into rubble like their previous two command centers. She strode over to a nearby window and hunkered down behind a makeshift barricade, risking a quick peek upward to survey the city.

Streets had been blasted to ruin, buildings collapsed or tottering. The entire city smelt like smoke and vaporized permacrete.

The Rebels had made their first landing attempt a month before, only to find that the Imperial garrison was not yet willing to surrender. Ground-based turbolasers had shredded Rebel transports and Daala herself had led the Stormtrooper squad that surrounded and eliminated the one Rebel commando team that successfully made landfall.

The second landing attempt had been more cautious. Instead of trying to come down in the city proper, the Rebels had landed miles outside the city then made the slow march to the coast where Iritsa was located. But Daala had seen that landing attempt coming too, and the dense minefield that she'd laid along the main roads had stalled the enemy until her men could rip their guts out.

It was after the failure of the second landing that Iritsa had first been bombed. The Rebel commander—Daala could look up and see the Victory-class Star Destroyer hanging in space above them, with its damnable Rebel crests marring the perfect Imperial white—had decided that bombardment was the only solution. The Rebels were clearly trying to be careful and minimize civilian casualties, but Daala had dispersed her forces through the entire city, assembling anti-fighter batteries in camouflaged locations. Each time one of her mobile batteries fired the Vicstar in orbit pinpointed it and hit it with a few turbolaser blasts, but usually not before the battery's crew dragged it to safety to repeat the exercise a few hours later.

It had only taken a few days to blast the city to rubble. Not for nothing, Natasi Daala appreciated the Rebel squeamishness for brutal action. An Imperial battlegroup could have melted the entire area in hours, civilians and all.

Now, with most of her anti-fighter guns gone, the Rebels had grown bolder. White contrails from B-wings and X-wings had presaged passes over the city for the last day and a half, searching for Imperial bunkers. "It'll only be another half a day, maybe less, before they try another landing," she decided, thinking aloud. "Assuming they have ground forces on hand for it."

"Any other demands for our surrender, sir?"

She shook her head, glancing at the dust-covered communications unit. It was still lit, letting her know it still worked, but it hadn't made any noise in a few days. "I think they've decided it's a waste of air to ask."

"Yes, sir," Kratas said, offering her a surprisingly cheerful smile, one she hadn't seen since Dorin. "To the last, then?"

She checked her blaster rifle. "Until I am dead or rendered unfit to serve," she reminded him.

"Yes, sir," Kratas repeated.

She stared up into the sky at the enemy Star Destroyer. "Tell Lieutenant Zapalo that when the next landing is attempted…" her voice trailed off, and she gave Kratas a meaningful look.

"I'll tell him," Kratas promised. "Anything else, sir?"

"Find me another E-web."

"I'll get right on that, sir."

* * *​

It was dark when the Rebels attempted their third landing.

The comm unit in the corner blinked to life, then crackled with a single short burst of static. Jamming made getting actual words difficult, but the jolts of static were hard to miss. Daala grabbed her macrobinoculars and stared up at the starry sky. The enemy Star Destroyer was still there, and she tracked under his open hangar and saw the Sentinel-class landing craft that was now descending towards the city.

It was attempting to make the landing under cover of darkness, hoping to set down and disgorge its troops before Daala was ready for it. It would have worked, too, if Daala had not had her last card to play.

The Rebel Sentinel descended through the thin cloud cover and had made it down to the altitude reached of the average Coruscanti spacescraper when the bolts of green shot across the sky. The first two missed, but the third and fourth both struck the Sentinel directly from the side. Daala swung her macrobinoulars along the trajectory the fire was coming from and saw the Gamma-class assault shuttle Edict, the last of Gorgon's surviving small craft. Even as she watched, trails of concussion missiles rocketed out from Edict, multiplying, and no fewer than six warheads locked on to the Sentinel which carried, if Daala had to guess, about seventy-five Rebel troops.

The Sentinel dodged the first missile and its blaster cannons knocked down two more. The fourth slammed into the shuttle's right wing from behind, ripping through the back of the shuttle, and then the sixth missile punched through the Sentinel's fuselage and it exploded, illuminating the sky in brilliant red.

But the Sentinel was not alone. Two X-wings were already arrowing in on Edict, proton torpedoes leaping out from their launch tubes. Edict fired back, but lacked the speed or maneuverability of an X-wing and just a few seconds after the Sentinel died a second explosion erupted in the sky.

Daala tracked her macrobinoculars back over the enemy Star Destroyer, and saw four additional Sentinels launching from its hangar.

"That's it, then," she said. She was all out of tricks, all out of tools. The only thing that was left was to take her remaining stormtroopers—and what was left of Gorgon's crew—and fight until it was over.

She checked her blaster rifle's power back, and then slung additional power packs and gas cartridges over her uniform. She lacked any armor of her own. The Empire didn't make stormtrooper armor for women, but that was no matter. It wouldn't be fair for her to have that kind of protection when so few of her men did.

Daala tracked her macrobinoculars back up, wanting to see where the Sentinels would be landing. She frowned in surprise as she found one, because its trajectory was no longer towards the ground. All four of the Sentinels were now turning back towards the sky, racing towards the enemy Star Destroyer with impressive haste.

Her comm unit crackled. " . . . Stormhawk . . . erial forces, report . . . prepare for immediate evacuation . . . "

Daala adjusted the unit. She took another glance to make sure that the Rebels really were withdrawing, and saw the bright green bursts of turbolaser batteries. She swung the binoculars around, adjusted their magnification, and was rewarded with the glorious sight of an Imperial I-class Star Destroyer coming above Chazwa's horizon, out of the just rising sun.

"Stormhawk, this is Admiral Daala, commanding officer of the Imperial forces on Chazwa. Repeat your last message," she ordered, adjusting the unit further.

Kratas entered the room, pointing in the direction of Stormhawk; she waved him off.

"Stormhawk, this is Admiral Daala. Repeat your last message," she repeated.

" . . . al Daala, this is . . . of Stormhawk. We've discouraged the enemy from attempting their landing, but there are two Mon Calamari Star Cruisers on their way . . . sending our landers down to pick up you and as many survivors as you can gather together on short notice. Please send us landing locations."

She turned to Kratas. "Order each of the teams to set up landing flares immediately," she ordered. "Fifteen sites if possible, assuming they have that many landers. We want to be gone as soon as we can."

"It will be done, sir," Kratas acknowledged, and was gone again.

She reactivated her com. "Stormhawk, this is Daala. We're setting out landing flares to mark safe landing zones. How long before the Star Cruisers arrive?"

"Estimate thirty minutes, Admiral." The voice on the other end of the line had a nice, crisp Coruscanti accent that felt like a cool breeze of reassurance.

We are not alone. The Empire has come for us.

"We'll be ready in ten," she replied. She took one look around the apartment that had become her command center, but there was nothing here she wanted to keep other than maybe her rifle. She grabbed it and the com unit, then started the trek down to the ground floor.

* * *

​

The sun was just coming up when the Delta-class stormtrooper transport that Stormhawk had sent to get her lifted off the surface of Chazwa. The transport's pilots were obedient and respectful, but they all watched her with that same kind of hidden curiosity that so much of the Starfleet possessed. She was an Admiral, an authority figure, but she was also Natasi Daala, and there was no one in the fleet who did not know that Natasi Daala had once been Grand Moff Tarkin's lover.

Her lips firmed together, but she'd long since learned not to let the opinions of fools linger in her mind.

They made the trip from Chazwa's surface to Stormhawk's hangar in close to record time. Even as she exited the stormtrooper transport she saw the survivor's of Gorgon's crew, gathering together, laughing and smiling at the unexpected reprieve, and then saw them straighten to attention as they noticed her.

These men had been her crew for a long time. Gorgon and the rest of her squadron had been dispatched to the Outer Rim with unceremonious haste after Tarkin's death at Yavin. Daala had been a problem for the fleet, and they had dealt with that problem by sending her away. Daala had known not to expect anything else, not after everything that had happened, but the Starfleet had not exiled her alone. Gorgon's crew, and men like Kratas, had followed her into exile, and together they had spent years hunting pirates and the occasional Rebel that stumbled out into the Outer Rim. When they'd finally, finally, been called back, her squadron had been utterly mauled in a matter of weeks, with three of her four Star Destroyers destroyed at Dorin and Chazwa.

Unlike the rest of the fleet, they respected her and she owed them nothing less.

"Admiral Daala, welcome aboard Stormhawk."

She turned tiredly towards the voice. A small ceremonial boarding party approached, led by a lanky, amber-complexioned man in a Captain's uniform. "Thank you for your timely intervention, Captain…" she greeted him, tiredly obeying the dance of rank and etiquette to request his name,

"Captain Davit Markanian, Admiral." A small smile appeared beneath the Captain's hawk nose. He offered her a calloused hand, and she could tell he was trying not to stare.

She doubted she looked anything at all like the stories said. Daala had spent the last weeks in the dirt and muck. Her clothes were torn and tattered and she had suffered multiple blaster grazes during the Rebellion's first landing attempt. She'd cut her copper-colored hair short enough to match stormtrooper regulation—it stood out less that way—and she was sure she didn't look anything like the wanton seductress the more salacious stories about her said she was.

"What's our status, Captain?" she asked.

He straightened, responding immediately to the implied authority in her tone. "We've departed the Chazwa system ahead of the arriving Rebel forces, Admiral. We're on our way into securely held Imperial space."

She frowned. "Securely held Imperial space?"

Markarian looked around the hangar, then took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Much has happened since Chazwa, Admiral. Please accompany me and I'll brief you."

* * *
​

She stared at the map of Imperial space. "Carida has fallen?" she asked, hearing the astonished dismay in her voice. "How could this have happened?"

"Carida has indeed fallen, sir, " Markarian said with a sigh. Daala watched as he manipulated the controls of the holotable that was in the center of his office, the projected map of the galaxy whirling and scintillating as he magnified the space around Carida. "And Reaper's gone. But beyond that? The truth is I just don't know. Stormhawk was at Orinda and never made it to Carida." He pressed his lips together. "The Council of Moffs has announced that Admirals Deshorn and Pellaeon betrayed us to the Rebellion. They claim that Admiral Pellaeon opened fire on the Academy."

"What?!" Daala stared in disbelief. She was about to rebut the statement, to say it couldn't possibly be accurate; she knew Gilad Pellaeon and had served, if briefly, as his second-in-command! He might not be the finest strategist the fleet had ever had, but he was stalwart and loyal if ever an Imperial officer was!

Markarian's expression matched how she felt. "I know. Stormhawk was part of Thrawn's personal squadron during the campaign. I served with Pellaeon. It sounds unbelievable, but…" he shook his head. "I don't know, Admiral. I don't know what is going on."

It wasn't a puzzle that she was going to be able to solve right away. "What are your orders?"

"Honestly?" Markarian folded his arms across his chest. "We don't have any right now. With Deshorn and Pellaeon both gone and Reaper destroyed, the command hierarchy is in chaos. The last word we got from Entralla was that Captain Brandei had been promoted to Admiral and put in command of the fleet, but Judicator went missing before that order even came in."

"So you decided to bring Stormhawk to get my people out on your own initiative," Daala said.

Markarian nodded. "Yes, sir."

She nodded. Many Star Destroyer captains in the Starfleet wouldn't go out of their way even for their own crew. She would remember what he had done. "My men and I appreciate that initiative. Where are we going?" she asked.

"Entralla, sir. It seems only logical to rally the fleet there and we can assess the situation when we arrive." He deactivated the holo-table, and the map of the galaxy faded. "I'm assigning your crew to quarters and, if you don't object, I'll also be giving them duty shifts. Stormhawk is short of crew and we could use all the skilled crewers we can get."

"Good."

He hesitated. "Will you be taking direct command of Stormhawk, sir?"

"No, not at this time, Captain. Stormhawk is your ship. Once we arrive at Entralla and figure out what in the nine hells is going on, I'm sure to be given something."

Markarian tried to hide his relief, but Daala could see it anyway. She didn't begrudge him that—she wouldn't want some Admiral coming onto her ship and taking it away from her, either. "Yes, sir," he said. "If you don't object, I've assigned you the Admiral's suite. It hasn't ever been occupied, so you can make it home until we reach Entralla."

Home. It was an odd word, and an odder thought. The Admiral's suite aboard Gorgon had been home, of a sort. The COMPNOR orphanage on Botajef had been home. So had her dorm at the Academy on Carida, but never her quarters on Executrix when she'd served on Tarkin's staff. "It will do," she said. She took a deep breath, feeling a sudden surge of fatigue. How long had it been since she slept? "If you'll excuse me, Captain, I believe I'll make use of those quarters now."

Every Star Destroyer was the same, and the Admiral's quarters were always close to the Captain's quarters, so barely five minutes later, as soon as Commander Kratas assured her her crew was taken care of she collapsed on the bed, still in her tattered uniform, and slept.

* * *

​

Their arrival at Entralla brought remarkably few answers. Much of the fleet was still scattered around Imperial space—not counting the substantial fleets loyal to the warlords in the Deep Core—and it became clear almost immediately that no one knew more than Captain Markarian had. Dozens of Star Destroyers were all receiving repairs—some more serious than others—and Stormhawk settled neatly into a docking berth next to her sister ship Nemesis, a fellow veteran of Thrawn's personal squadron.

Daala mostly stayed out of Captain Markarian's way. Stormhawk's Admiral's quarters were plain, which suited her just fine, and had a direct HoloNet link to the Entralla node, which permitted Daala access to the Imperial net. She had already spent hours going over everything the HoloNet had available—all of which was remarkably uninformative, barely more than Markarian had already told her—when it occurred to her that her channel selection was limited.

"Access HoloNet, Coruscant Public Broadcasting Service," she ordered.

CORUSCANT PUBLIC BROADCASTING SERVICE UNAVAILABLE.

She frowned. Highlighting the service announcement, she read deeper.

CORUSCANT PUBLIC BROADCASTING SERVICE IS A NON-IMPERIAL OUTLET. ALL INFORMATION GENERATED FROM THIS SOURCE IS DEEMED UNRELIABLE BY ISB CENSORS.

Clamped down on information, have they? Daala mused silently. She went through a dozen other news sources—some based on Coruscant, others based on planets like Brentaal. All of them were blocked. As best she could tell, even sources on Rebel-held but Imperial-sympathetic worlds, like Kuat, were blocked.

What was going on?

There was a chime. "Commander Kratas to see Admiral Daala."

She deactivated the holotable—it wasn't like it was providing any actionable information anyway—and swiveled her chair towards the entrance to her office as she sent the command to open the door.

Commander Kratas stepped in, looking significantly better groomed than he had when last she'd seen him. She supposed she probably looked better herself—a fresh uniform did wonders. "Admiral," he said, clearly happy to see her.

"Commander," she replied warmly. She had few friends, but Kratas had stuck by her despite years in the Starfleet's Outer Rim purgatory. By all rights he ought to be a Captain—he had long since done the job of one—but like most members of the fleet who had stuck by her, his career had stalled. "I hope the crew is settling into their duties aboard Stormhawk?"

"Indeed so, Admiral," he confirmed. "But that's not why I'm here." He stood at attention in front of her desk. "Ma'am, you have received a request for your presence from Grand Inquisitor Halmere and the Council of Moffs. They're waiting for you on Entralla."

Stunned disbelief rendered her mute for a long moment, then she stood, straightening her uniform. "Is there a shuttle waiting for me?"

"Captain Markarian is preparing one as we speak, ma'am." He gestured at the door. "The tower hangar will be ready when you arrive."

The hangar was busy. Stormhawk's most seriously wounded were being moved into shuttles, to be transported to the base for treatment and recovery. She saw a cluster of wounded survivors from Gorgon among them, and briefly stopped to wish them her best. Then she boarded the provided shuttle.

* * *

​

The headquarters on Entralla was nicknamed 'the Bastion'. The exterior was heavily fortified against any potential Rebel snubfighter attack, so the shuttle descended through a gauntlet of light turbolaser and laser emplacements that Daala thought sacrificed a great deal of function in in favor of looking impressive: a handful of proton torpedo strikes would take out multiple weapons each, which was a recipe for disaster.

If she were put in command of the planet's defenses, she would demand an extensive refit of the entire apparatus.

But then, if the Rebellion was attacking Entralla, the Empire had much bigger problems. And she very much hoped that she wasn't about to be given that job.

The reinforced hangar doors opened and the shuttle descended through them. Below was a deep, chasm-like hole that descended deeper and deeper into the ground, under layers of armor and rock. After long minutes, the Lambda-class shuttle settled into a large, brightly-lit hangar, filled with shuttles and freighters, pilots and stormtroopers and engineers going about their duties.

To her surprise, there was an honor guard standing and waiting for them. She straightened her uniform, gave Kratas a severe nod, then strode down the landing ramp. The line of stormtroopers and officers saluted; in front of them were three men, none of them in a formal military uniform. Two of them wore Moffs' uniforms. The last man bore no rank insignia but he was clearly the man in charge. Cloaked in a flowing, hooded black robe, with a white cuirass that hung, apron-like, to provide additional protection; he was flanked by two enormous bodyguards. Both of the guards were at least seven feet tall in their armor, wearing helmets with glowing red eyes.

She realized as she got closer that they weren't men at all, but droids.

She strode until she was standing before the trio of superior offers, then twisted on her heels with parade precision and saluted. "Admiral Daala reporting as ordered!"

"At ease, Admiral Daala," the robed man said. His voice was deep and calm, and as he spoke all the men behind him relaxed to parade rest. Yellowish-white cloth was wrapped around his head, covering his hair and mouth; whether it was functional or decorative, Daala didn't know, but it did serve to largely hide his expression. All of him she could see were his dark eyes and high cheekbones.

"Admiral Daala," said the Moff beside him. He was much older, practically geriatric, but with amateurishly-dyed hair that suggested he did not wear his age gracefully. "I am Moff Vilim Disra, and this is Emperor-Regent Halmere."

Her eyes widened in stunned surprise and she instantly dropped to one knee. Beside her Kratas did the same, with a moment of additional hesitation. "Emperor-Regent. Forgive me, I did not know—"

"You may rise, Admiral," Halmere told her, his voice calm and steady. "My new position has not yet been fully announced and you could not have known."

"I am honored that you summoned me," Daala said as she stood, straightening her uniform. "How may I serve?"

"Tell me, Admiral. Had Captain Markarian not come to your rescue at Chazwa, what would the outcome of that battle been?" Halmere's question had that same, almost preternatural calm, and there was a hint of power and presence in it. The line of officers and stormtroopers stood shock-still behind him; the two Moffs moved between her and Halmere, watching them both.

"My men and I would have fought for another few days," Daala explained. "We could no longer prevent Rebel landings in the city, and the battle would have been street to street and house to house. We would have fought until the end, but my men were largely survivors of a Star Destroyer crew, and not trained for urban combat." She watched Halmere levelly, not allowing herself to break the joined gaze. "Within two weeks we would all have been dead."

"You would have fought until the bitter end?"

"We would."

"You would have, Admiral Daala?"

She straightened. "Yes, Emperor-Regent. I would have fought until I was dead or unfit to serve."

"You won the battle of Dorin," Halmere continued in that same calm tone. "And you saved Admiral Pellaeon from his own incompetence at the Battle of Chazwa, at the willing cost of your flagship."

I must look into what exactly had happened with Pellaeon the first moment I have time, she promised herself. "I swore an oath to the Empire," Daala said aloud, "to serve with all my heart."

"Yes," Halmere agreed. "And for that you shall be rewarded. Admiral Daala, effective immediately, you are in command of the Imperial Second Fleet. Your orders are to protect the Empire's holdings in the Core and crush all Rebellions against our legitimate rule. You will be given every resource available to accomplish that mission. Do you accept this commission and these orders?"

Daala stared at him in stunned surprise. What had he said? Discipline was the only thing that permitted her to render the proper response. "Yes sir, I do."

Halmere gestured at the second man in a Moff's uniform. "This is Loyalty Officer Sarreti. All Imperial officers in command of a mobile unit have been assigned a Loyalty Officer by the Imperial Security Bureau, to ensure better collaboration between the Starfleet and ISB."

A watchdog, Daala thought distastefully. She eyed the man. He was younger than either Halmere or Disra, much younger than Daala herself. Sarreti stepped forward, offering her his hand. "It is my distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance, Admiral," he said, speaking in the clipped, perfectly precise diction of a native Coruscanti.

"Of course," she said, more to Halmere than to Sarreti as she regarded the Emperor Regent, "Thank you for looking after my wounded, sir."

"Rest assured, Admiral," Halmere said, parting his hands in a beneficent gesture that echoed Palpatine's speeches, "the Empire takes care of its own."

"Thank you sir," Daala said, and meant it.

"Now, come with me," Halmere ordered. He turned—his two enormous combat droids keeping to his flanks—and Daala fell into step with him, Sarreti and Disra trailing behind. "The Inquisitorius has been working on finding a solution to the fleet's problems with manpower and materiel," Halmere said as they walked—the officers and stormtroopers did not accompany them—through the hangar. Disra pressed a button on his wristcomm, and in front of them one of the hangar's bulkheads parted, allowed them passage, and then closed behind them.

"A difficult task," Daala commented, trying to determine what the proper protocol was for addressing an Emperor-Regent. And if Halmere was Regent, did that mean there was an Emperor?

"For those of mundane talents, perhaps," Halmere said coyly. His words were slightly muffled by the cloth wrapped around his head. They entered into a second hangar, just as large as the first, but this one is entirely empty of people. Maintenance droids rolled through the expansive space, tending to row after row of cruelly-angled TIE fighters.

Daala had never seen this design before. Like TIE interceptors they had a cutout in their solar panels, but unlike the TIE interceptor their panels were entirely rectangular; the cutout gave them a blocky, narrow U-shape. There were hundreds of them in this space alone.

"The Starfleet has long complained about not having a proper counter for the Rebellion's accursed snubfighters," Halmere continued. "And so I have given it one. Admiral Daala, let me introduce you to the next generation of Imperial starfighter."

"Impressive," she said, and it was. TIEs were rarer and rarer as Imperial manufacturing dwindled and shipyards were captured one after the next. "Do they also have pilots?"

Halmere laughed, a dry, unamused sound. "Tell me," he asked. "Do they need pilots?"

Daala frowned in confusion, then jerked in surprise as all of the TIEs in the hangar suddenly beeped in unison. As one, they sang an electronic chorus of the Imperial anthem, an eerie, artificial version, without any of the verve of a human chorus.

"The TIE Droid," Halmere explained with grim satisfaction.

She recovered from her surprise. "How many will I have?"

"The Inquisitorius will make delivery of the first one thousand, seven-hundred and twenty-eight TIE Droids by the end of the year. The pace of construction should only accelerate from there," Halmere answered, and now she could hear the relish in his voice even as the staggering size of the number registered. "They may take some time to fully reach the quality of veteran pilots, but they do learn and adapt. Rest assured, Admiral, I will give you however many you need."

Twelve wings of TIEs. Enough to give twenty-four Imperial-class Star Destroyers full fighter complements. Even if they did not perform as well as human pilots, the sheer numbers would utterly change the calculus.

She looked again at the two massive human-like droids that flanked Halmere, and wondered if there would be a similar change in fortunes on the ground.

"So, Admiral Daala, do you think you can defeat the rebellions, once and for all?"

Daala smiled slowly. "Oh yes, Emperor-Regent. Yes I do."

* * *
​

She chose Stormhawk as her flagship. Captain Markarian deserved no less than to host the fleet's new commanding officer, and she needed to focus fully on strategy while someone else handled commanding her flagship. She lamented that Kratas was without a ship, but her long-time XO had taken the news well. It helped that he was enthusiastic rather than put out when she told him that he would be staying as her chief of staff until she found him a command.

Her second task was putting out feelers to become fully briefed on the actual state of the Empire.

Whatever had happened at Carida, it was now clear that Admiral Pellaeon and a hefty chunk of the former garrison fleet were in open rebellion. Moff Ferrouz's Candoras sector was definitely in revolt with them—scuttlebutt was that Ferrouz had been Grand Moff Kaine's chosen successor, not Halmere—but Candoras did not have the kind of military infrastructure to be a serious threat. She didn't want to fight Pellaeon—he'd been one of the only officers in the entire Starfleet who hadn't treated her with overt disrespect—but at least for the moment she didn't see that she had much choice.

Luckily, it seemed she wouldn't have to right away. Halmere was still looking for a commander of the forces he would use to defeat Ferrouz and Pellaeon. Her concern was the New Republic. General Antilles' Fifth Fleet was already moving towards Corellia, preparing for an extended campaign, and she would have to get her forces into position to fight them off as quickly as she could.

Her most pressing concern was not Antilles, however. It was her new subordinates. The position she had been given meant nothing if it was not respected by the fleet… and respect was not something she was accustomed to receiving from the fleet.

But as Fleet Admiral, well, she had new options for redress.

Stormhawk's stewards waited on her with attentive patience, and the fitting for her new uniform had been done in no time at all. An entire valise of new Admiral's uniforms arrived with remarkable speed—clearly, they had been prepared in haste, but the cut was crisp and it did not lack for quality—and she fastened the seals of the starched fabric with no small amount of pride.

Once, when she'd had Tarkin's patronage—whatever it had cost her—being Fleet Admiral had been an inevitability. After Tarkin's death it had seemed a pointless fantasy, one she did not even allow herself to daydream about. Now, unexpectedly, she had been cast into the role she had long dreamed of.

She straightened her tunic and then strode from her quarters. Officers and troopers snapped to attention as the battered, broken-in boots she insisted on keeping clicked through Stormhawk's corridors. It was a short walk from the Admiral's quarters to the briefing room, and a pair of stormtroopers stood outside, holding their E-11s at attention.

There was the click of boots behind her, and she turned to see Loyalty Officer Sarreti arriving. "Ah, Admiral," he greeted her. "I hope you do not mind if I join you for the conference?"

As if she had any choice. She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Tell me, Loyalty Officer Sarreti… where does your position stand in the Imperial hierarchy?"

The young man had an impressive combination of a smile and a Sabacc face. "Above an Admiral but below a Moff."

"But you are outside of the Starfleet's chain of command?" she pressed.

He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I am not here to interfere with your military command, Admiral. I am merely COMPNOR's representative on your staff." He smiled winsomely. "I'm here to make your life as easy as I can, I promise."

Daala gave a noncommittal "Hmm," then turned towards the troopers outside the conference room. "Have the Captains arrived?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," the senior trooper announced. "Captain Markarian joined them just a minute ago." He stepped to the side and the door behind him opened with a hiss. She entered, and the troopers entered behind her then stopped just inside the briefing room to flank either side of the door. Sarreti followed behind, nearly silent.

Fifteen Captains—fourteen with their own ships, and Kratas—lined the long rectangular table. They stood as she entered. Some wore perfectly blank expressions, others curious… some outright disdainful. She kept her own expression carefully professional, though her jaw set stiffly. "Be seated," she ordered.

They sat. Once again, the motion was revealing. Some sat quickly, others more casually. Captain Nalgol of Tyrannic sat last and folded his arms across his chest like a petulant child, outright glowering at her.

She stayed standing, folding her hands behind her back. "By the order of the Emperor-Regent, I now command this Fleet. My orders are to protect Corellia and the Empire's holdings in the Core. To that end, once the ships here at Entralla have been fully re-equipped, we will be—"

"Re-equipped with what?" interrupted Nalgol bitterly. "My escort and TIE squadrons were destroyed by the Rebels at Castell. The system is now in their hands, and that traitor Pellaeon is practically collaborating with them to keep us from taking it back!"

Daala kept her mouth closed. The silence lingered as she gazed at Nalgol with calm, emotionless eyes, willing the man to feel the molten fury simmering beneath that gaze. The Captains stirred as she did not speak, glancing at one another, then at Nalgol.

"Admiral?" Nalgol prompted, finally looking uncomfortable.

"Oh, I was listening," Daala told him calmly. "I was just waiting until you were finished. You are finished, aren't you, Captain?"

Nalgol stiffened, leaning forward, both his hands on the polished table. He rose half out of his chair as he loomed forward, but though he was tall enough, she loomed taller. "I did not join the Starfleet to be toyed with by the likes of you." He lifted his hands, gesturing out at Sarreti, as if imploring the ISB operative for reprieve. "Is this what we have come to? To be treated like Rodians by Tarkin's whore!? How can—"

There was a whisper of metal on leather and a crimson bolt from Daala's blaster took him in the heart. He pitched backwards mid-sentence and toppled into his chair, the once-perfect uniform over his chest smoldering around a decidedly imperfect crater. Nalgol's corpse regarded her, his jaw still set in fury; his stunned, wide eyes vouchsafing a fatal shock.

Daala lowered her pistol to her side when the light left his eyes. "I do not care what you say about me behind my back," she said, the words deceptively calm, hiding her fury boiling beneath the surface. "But I will not tolerate insubordination."

Her captains stared at her, stunned into silence.

She let the silence linger until Sarreti cleared his throat. "It seems Tyrannic requires a new commanding officer," he said with remarkable aplomb. "Kratas, you are without a command, aren't you? Congratulations, Captain."

Slowly, gingerly, the other Captains settled back into their chairs, attention squarely on Daala, as and two of her stormtroopers—battered breastplates and carbon-marked pauldrons marking them as survivors of the late Gorgon—entered to drag Nalgol's body unceremoniously away.

"As I said," Daala continued coolly, "once the ships here at Entralla have been re-equipped, we will be dividing our forces into two groups…"

[Go to Table of Contents]​

 

Oh, this promises to be epic already... (not that there was any doubt about it!)

I like how the "opening crawl" seems to pick up from the end of Interregnum II, just introducing a new element of Imperial hierarchy with the new emperor and the regency. I also really like how you lay emphasis on developments on the Imperial side here; I'm expecting this story to revolve around the idea of an Imperial civil war.

I noticed that Syal Fel is mentioned among the dramatis personae, and I'm giddy with excitement now!

And that prologue! Again, loved the focus on the Imperial side, and it was interesting to see Daala's forces in the role of the scruffy guerillas while the New Republic is dominant. It's also interesting that Daala finds herself appreciating the Republic's respect for civilian life and noting the contrast to the Empire's strategy in a similar situation. The chapter went on to be full of surprises, first with that eleventh-hour rescue, then with the reveal that Captain Markanian brought the Stormhawk of his own initiative and all the confusion about what the bloody heck is going on in the Empire, then the reveal that some news outlets are banned even for an Imperial admiral... that doesn't bode well as to who is in charge, to say the least. And then, the reveal that Halmere is now Emperor-Regent! That doesn't bode well at all, given what we've seen on him in the previous novel, and I'm kind of looking forward to how he'll ultimately have his sorry behind handed to himself one way or another by the end of this story.

So. TIE droids. This promises to be interesting. Droids are not the most efficient pilots, but if there are so many of them, the Republic will have its work cut out for them. The real question, however, is where did they come from? Because if there isn't much "secure imperial space", those huge factories have to be somewhere...

And wow, Daala taking charge... I can't say that I particularly like her as a person, but Nalgol had it coming. And with Daala as the Fleet Admiral ... again, the Republic will have its work cut out for them.

This was an awesome beginning, I can't wait to read more. I'll do my best to keep up with reviews as you post; whenever I can't, I'll certainly drop you a "like" to let you know that I'm reading.

 

Chapter One​

Six Months Later


The now massive droid brain at the heart of Silencer Station had once been the size of an extremely inexpensive Coruscanti apartment. But in the months that had passed since Cray Mingla had been kidnapped from her office at the Magrody Institute, the brain had steadily grown to the size of an apartment that would be near impossible to acquire, and Cray had no idea how it was doing it.

Silencer Station consumed the resources of the K-3-947 System with the greedy appetite of a hungry Hutt, sucking in asteroid after asteroid. It was one of the most remarkable things Cray had ever seen and would have been her proudest achievement—if she had been responsible for it.

But one of her many, many problems was that she wasn't responsible for it. Even worse, she still barely understood anything that was happening in K-3-947. Since she hadn't caused any of it, and didn't understand it, she had no idea how to control it… and she needed to figure that out to give her captors what they wanted.

She had to give them what they wanted, she had to do it as soon as possible, because Nichos' life hung in the balance.

That thought was not one conducive to productivity. Instead of a clear mind and intense focus, it brought a pounding heartbeat and a panicked ache and Cray could afford neither. Determinedly she forced Nichos back out of her mind, refusing to think about how badly his hands shook or how hard it was for him to find words sometimes. She couldn't think about the pain she saw in his eyes, his anguish about being used to compel her service to these Imperial thugs. All she could think about was making the interface work.

Make the interface work, she told herself furiously, wiping a tear from her eyes. Make it work!

Cray knew she was working herself too hard. Creative thinking couldn't be forced and the harder she pushed herself the more difficult the leaps in insight she needed became. Logically, rationally, she knew that. Emotionally, though… emotionally she saw Nichos' shaking hands and his apologetic, tired smile every time she closed her eyes. And so she pushed, using the kind of rote, brutal trial and error that her teachers had always discouraged… because that she could force herself to do even when she was bone tired, even when it had been so long since she had gotten a full night's sleep that her own hands shook.

This version of the interface wasn't as… invasive… as the one her predecessor had designed. That lack of invasiveness made the connection between the person using it and the Silencer AI less immersive, but it also meant that Cray didn't need to perform brain surgery on herself in order to test it. She finished the last attachments on the helmet and took a deep breath. I hope we're both having luck today, Nichos, she thought to herself, and settled it onto her head.

There was a sense of electricity cackling in the air, tingling her skin and making all the hair on her arms stick up. Then the pressure started, building in her ears and her brain as the connection was made. Her heartbeat quickened, hoping that this time, this time, the damn thing would actually work…

Her eyes went wide, staring into the interface as information suddenly started scrolling much too fast for her to read over the screen on the interior of the helmet. The sense of electricity grew, grew past pressure to pain, and her brain recoiled against the sudden sense of invasion—

And then it all stopped. Pain receded back to pressure, electricity still cackling, and the text scroll slowed to a halt. The last line of text stayed on the screen, hovering in front of her eyes, and it took her a long moment to bring herself back to focus and let the words be processed by her exhausted brain.

COMMAND INTERFACE ESTABLISHED. SILENCER-7 AWAITING INTERLINK.

Cray swayed, her forgotten arms gripping her chair. Command interface? Does it work?!

She hadn't slept in days, but she knew—she knew—that the ultimate purpose of what she was working on was to provide a human mind the ability to interact with and command Silencer's AI. The AI itself was still developing and growing, taking all the resources it collected and utilizing them to expand its capabilities, but its Imperial masters—Cray's Imperial captors—wanted the ability to control and direct it more precisely. That was why they had come in the night and taken Cray, after all—as the Magrody Institute's foremost expert on cybernetics, she was uniquely suited to create the command interface.

But now that she had, she realized that she might have found more than just a reason to keep Nichos alive for a little longer. She might have just discovered a means to seize their freedom.

Start with something simple, she told herself. Then she concentrated, triggering the cybernetic interface. Give me a systems report, she ordered.

Information started to flow once again on the monitor. Resource stockpiles, manufacturing abilities, construction in progress—it appeared that Silencer Station had the ability to build more than just itself, she thought.

Give me a map of Silencer Station, she thought, sending the new command, and a list of all internal security mechanisms. Both pieces of information appeared and she did her best to commit all the information there to memory. A plan started to form itself in her head. She needed to get to Nichos, use the command interface to override the station's security, and hijack a ship… Report on system defenses.

Her heart fell. Silencer Station wasn't alone. TIE fighters—a design she didn't quite recognize—swirled around it in enormous numbers, maintaining precise squadron formations. They circled tirelessly, hundreds of them in swarms…

Wait. Are those droids? She hadn't meant to ask the command interface that question, but it promptly responded nonetheless, providing her with a full schematic of a TIE/D, complete with its performance profile. A little note at the bottom mentioned that their programming was incomplete and required more human input before they would reach optimal combat performance.

Were they all under the command of the Silencer AI? She frowned in concentration, adrenaline fighting off her fatigue, and tried to order the AI to alter the formation of the TIEs. To her astonishment, it immediately did so. FORMATION THETA CONFIRMED, the AI dutifully reported, and the little green dots representing TIEs swarmed as they adjusted their relative positions.

She couldn't afford to wait. The moment one of her keepers put on this interface, they would have control over the AI… and they would never let her put it on again. If she was going to use it to escape, it had to be now. Determined, she commanded the AI to prepare her and Nichos a ship and put the station's security under her control—

WARNING: ATTEMPTED COMMAND EXCEEDS USER AUTHORIZATION.

The pain was back, driving into her skull. It exploded like a nova just behind her eyes, sending her vision blurry and making her thoughts chaotic. The headset crackled with electricity and Cray felt as if the AI was pushing back now, trying to use it to infiltrate her mind; there was a swell in her brain and the voice grew louder—

COMMAND INTERFACE INTENDED FOR [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR. YOU ARE NOT [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR.

The pain grew and Cray felt as if her head was swelling, pressure growing, and with a despairing, desperate cry she flung the headset off her head and everything went instantly black.

* * *​

Cray woke suddenly, her entire body aching and the toe of a pointed, polished boot nudging her face. She flailed, rolling onto her back and covering her face to protect it, staring up into pitiless black eyes surrounded by the sharp, angular features of the project's director, Roganda Ismaren. It took Cray a moment longer to come back to full attention, her brain sluggishly recovering from the battering it had taken while attached to the command interface—the command interface which was currently in Roganda's hand. The older woman's eyes sparkled with a quickly-hidden glint of curiosity as she examined the helmet.

"I see you made it work." Roganda's accent was that of the ideal Imperial aristocrat, precise and condescending.

I hate you so much, Cray thought bitterly. Just thinking made her head hurt.

Roganda's eyes shifted from the headset to Cray herself, and she tried to sit up, but she found her limbs rejecting her commands, reacting only weakly. She felt like a repulsorbus had landed on her legs. Roganda watched her twitch, imperious in a sharply-cut civilian outfit that echoed the uniform gray of the Imperial military. "Most curious."

"What's curious?" Cray snarled as she forced her body into obedience. Slowly, slowly it began to obey, her arms and legs moving with more alacrity. She took a deep heaving breath—but she never took her eyes off Roganda, never let her stony facade drop. Roganda had kidnapped her from the Institute, had taken her and Nichos and locked them up—had ruthlessly exploited Nichos' worsening illness to compel Cray's cooperation, and Cray Mingla would be damned if she showed that schutta so much as a flash of weakness.

"You should not have been able to send it any commands," Roganda replied forthrightly, offering Cray a straightforward answer for perhaps the first time in the … however long it had been, since Cray had been brought to K-3-947 and Silencer Station. How many months had it been?

Roganda knelt down, bringing her face closer to Cray, still watching her. Her black eyes were cool and intense, lingering…

Somewhere in the back of Cray's brain there was a pressure, not unlike that of the Silencer AI trying to force its way into her thoughts. Instinctively Cray flailed, rejecting the pressure, nearly hitting Roganda in the face. Lashing out would only hurt Nichos, though, so Cray kept her fist from making contact—no matter how satisfying it would have been.

Roganda smiled slowly. "Most curious," she repeated. "And most fortuitous. I did not know you are Force-sensitive, Doctor Mingla."

"What?" Cray asked, confused. "What do you mean—"

"You see, Silencer-7 is not just an Artificial Intelligence," Roganda continued. Her smile was still there, stiff and frozen, as if adorning a mannequin. "Silencer-7 is the product of two decades of careful research and study in service to the Emperor, the combination of the work of Bevel Lemelisk and myself." The Imperial witch lowered her voice and Cray had to strain to hear her, the lingering pain in the back of her head finally starting to subside. "The ancient Sith performed many experiments on artificial life. Much has been forgotten of their successes, but enough remains to achieve some small breakthroughs. If you were not Force sensitive, Silencer-7 would not have responded to you at all."

Roganda regarded her with something worse than just sheer contempt. Now she was interested. The older woman reached down and caressed Cray's face—Cray had to fight the urge to bite at her fingers.

"Congratulations, Doctor Mingla. You may take the rest of the day off. I am told that Doctor Marr had an… accident… and has been," she paused, and there was hardness and menace in those eyes, "suffering greatly in your absence. You may go attend to him."

Cray's heart pounded in her chest. Nichos!

But she refused to give Roganda the satisfaction of seeing her beg. She had done that enough already. Instead, she forced herself to her feet and took no small satisfaction in the fact that she was taller and more athletic than Roganda. She looked down on her captor, her expression offering not a single hint of submission, before she turned and left, keeping her pace unhurried despite the panic in her heart and the aching in her legs.

* * *​

Nichos Marr was dying.

This was no new revelation. Nichos had known he was dying for almost a year. He had just asked Cray to marry him—they'd gone on vacation, taking some time away from their work at the Magrody Institute, where they had met—when the first symptoms had manifested. It had started with nothing more than a tingle in the tips of his toes. He'd thought nothing of it, attributing it to stress or to the way he sat when he programmed the new droids. But then it started in the tips of his fingers as well, and quickly the odd tingling turned to pain.

Quannot's Syndrome had no cure. Only painkillers to address the intensity of its symptoms—and those were at best a limited ameliorative. When he took the painkillers the pain was reduced back to tingling, but his mind became a soupy thing, without any of his normal precision of thought. Nichos was used to being the clearest-eyed being in a room, his thoughts regimented and meticulous. That was what made him such an excellent programmer, among other things. But with the painkillers he lost that clarity, that meticulousness, and became less than himself.

He tried to limit how much of the painkillers he used, both because he hated their side effects and because he didn't trust the Imperials who were now the only ones who could provide them.

Worse than dying—far worse—was having his condition held over him by the Imperials. When Roganda Ismaren arrived at the Magrody Institute and presented herself as an interested potential customer, requesting a prospectus for a lucrative contract fulfilled by their best researchers, the money had seemed almost too good to be true. In hindsight, her only real interest had been knowing who to target for kidnapping by an ISB whisper team, and his brilliant, beautiful fiancee and her exquisite mind had been far too tempting for Ismaren to ignore… especially when threats to Nichos' well being would easily compel Cray to comply with Ismaren's wishes. And so each day the Imperials came and gave him just enough Perigen to make life bearable—unless they wanted to make a point. On those days they dispensed none, and he spent the hours writhing in agony, knowing for each moment of that pain that Cray was elsewhere in Silencer Station, frantically trying to earn him even a single moment's peace.

He hadn't told her what he planned. She would have objected, would have told him not to take any risks, that it was too dangerous… but he was already dying, and the only chance she had to survive was to escape.

He meandered along through the corridor, his cane clicking against the polished, industrial floor as he took heavy steps, aided by a powered brace-truss of his own design that kept him steady. The pain jolted through him with each step he took, but that was all right. It was just pain. His existence had become a kaleidoscope of pain since his diagnosis. He kept on, his gait halting as his cybernetic truss and cane kept him upright.

This part of the station was technically off limits, but the Imperials barely noticed him. As their oath went, they were expected to serve until they were dead or unfit, and they all considered Nichos Marr unfit. Incapable. An invalid living on borrowed time. Someone—something—to be exploited to force Cray to comply. They didn't ignore him, exactly, as he made his stumbling, cane-carried walk. They simply moved around him like he wasn't there, not looking at him—as if the very act of making eye contact would contaminate them.

The sound of a dozen pairs of booted feet made him stop and shuffle to the side. Ten droid troopers walked in two rows of five, and between them was Emperor-Regent Halmere and a man in an Imperial Moff's uniform. Their conversation was not entirely drowned out by the sounds of the boots surrounding them.

"—Daala has been able to prevent the New Republic from advancing on Corellia up until now, but she needs more ships and more men. It's only a matter of time before Antilles' Fifth Fleet is refreshed and prepared to resume action. When will—"

Halmere stopped short, causing all ten of the droid troopers guarding him to come to an abrupt, precise halt. The officer with him stumbled a pace farther before turning to face him; Nichos did his best to hide his head against the wall of the corridor, trying to make himself small and innocuous. There were some things he had not accounted for in this plan; stumbling across the Emperor-Regent himself was one of them.

Halmere's voice was quiet, but the edge of anger was plain. "Admiral Daala has so far declined to use the TIE droids I sent her. Why should I hurry to send her more?"

The Moff swallowed. "You promised her two thousand by the end of the year, Emperor-Regent," he said, and Nichos was impressed at how well the man kept his voice calm. "She hasn't even received two hundred. She says if she uses them too soon, she will lose the element of surprise."

There was a pause before the Emperor-Regent replied. "Very well, Sarreti. You may tell Admiral Daala that I have heard her request, and the Emperor's Hand assures me that she will be able to bring Silencer Station to full operational capability in the next few weeks," Halmere said, and Nichos was surprised to hear the concession—concession was not something he expected from the Emperor-Regent of the Empire. "The station is as yet incomplete and is still missing its core. She has finally found a lead on the final required artifact and will be traveling to Nar Shaddaa to acquire it within the week."

"Nar Shaddaa, m'Lord?"

Halmere turned and resumed his march down the hall, his robes swirling impressively around his feet. The droid troopers immediately matched his cadence, the officer's voice getting lost in the sound of the movement.

Nichos let out a long, slow breath. That was hardly the first time he'd seen the Emperor-Regent, but it was the first time he'd been so close to a conversation. Thankfully, the entire party seemed to have overlooked—or at least ignored—his presence. Only after the echoes of boots had faded did he resume his slow, plodding trek down the hall. Pain seemed to subside as the overheard conversation repeated in his memory, and Nichos reluctantly decided to change his plans, ever so slightly.

Once he was within twenty feet of his intended target, he stopped. Fumbling with his jacket, he carefully withdrew a computer rod. Trembling fingers gripped the rod, and he ignored the way the tightness of the grip sent tendrils of pain up each of his fingers and along his forearm. Gripping it harder than he'd held anything, he carefully inserted it into one of the myriad of droid ports that were common all throughout Silencer Station.

The Empire may think him useless, but Nichos Marr was a Doctor of Cybernetics and Programming at the Magrody institute, just like his fiancee. Nobody there had ever doubted his brilliance—and this was not a very complicated program. Ten seconds after he inserted it, an alarm started to blare just down the hall. In his head, he started to count. One. Two…

Confused Imperial officers emerged into the hall, looking at one another and chattering. He ignored them, continuing his steady countdown. Four. Five.

One of the officers had noticed him and was coming towards him. "Hey! You! What are you doing there?"

"That's Doctor Marr, sir, he's one of the prisoners—the sick one?" a second officer was saying.

Seven.

"I know who he is—"

Nichos Marr was dying, but he wasn't dead yet.

He had spent months building up the fiction of just how weak he was. He was plenty weak and he knew it, but he wasn't nearly as weak as he'd been letting on… and a cane could be used for more than helping someone walk. Just as the officer was reaching for him Nichos pivoted and slammed the end of the cane into the Imperial's jaw. The Imp toppled backwards, knocking over the two other officers behind him like a trio of shockball players, and then with all the strength and energy Nichos had he broke into a run.

Every falling step was agony, the same tendrils that shot through his fingers aching through the marrow of his legs into his lungs, making it hard to draw breath—

He fell through the door into the lab and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Ten. Behind him the door slid shut and the last part of Nichos' program executed, locking it in place. He heard the banging on the door, officers demanding to be let back in.

His legs felt both fragile and heavy and he had to drag himself to the console, then pull himself unsteadily to his feet. He withdrew the second computer rod from his pocket and pushed it into the port. With all his strength, he recorded the message then activated his program.

Ten seconds after that someone shot him in the back and, mercifully, the pain faded as everything went dark.

* * *​

The Imperials took Cray to the room she shared with Nichos. In a near panic, she had torn the door open, only to find the room empty. Frantic, she had pleaded with the hall guard to tell her where Nichos was, realizing a few minutes later that the guard was another droid, one of the dozens that patrolled Silencer Station's interior halls.

They had left her there, her terror mounting as she wondered what they had done to Nichos, if he was all right, for nearly an hour. That was enough time for her to realize that this was probably her fault, that her attempt to hijack Silencer Station's droid brain had been deemed worthy of severe punishment. If they had killed him before of her, because of her stupidity and her—

The door hissed and she jumped off the bed. Into the room walked two of the patrol droids, carrying Nichos' limp form between them. Behind the guards were Roganda Ismaren and Emperor-Regent Halmere.

"Over there," Roganda pointed lazily at Cray, and the droids obediently dropped Nichos at her feet. His body folded in half as he fell, totally limp, and it was all she could do to catch him before his head hit the floor. Her hands were trembling badly as she pressed her fingers to find her fiance's pulse, and she let go an excruciating sob of relief as she located it—weak and thready though it was.

She cradled his body, finally tearing his gaze away from his thankfully peaceful expression, and snarled at the two Imperials who had destroyed their lives. "What did you do to him!?"

"Stunned him," Roganda replied breezily, "after he broke into the primary computer center. Played hell with that truss of his. Like you, he attempted to infiltrate our security network. Like you, he failed." Once more, Roganda loomed over Cray, and the Emperor's Hand's eyes were dark and empty. "The only reason he is not dead, Doctor Mingla, is I still need your expertise. But if you do not help me to my satisfaction, I will have him killed. Slowly, and so painfully that not even his disease will inure him to the pain. Speak if you understand."

Cray sobbed, cradling Nichos' fallen form. "I—I understand," she gasped between sobs. In her heart she felt a fury building, a fury married to anguish and fear, and she could almost see Roganda's throat restricting as something in the air around Cray responded to her rage—

The back of Roganda's hand whipped across Cray's cheek, sending her sprawling. "A word of advice, dear girl: Do not meddle with powers you do not understand," Roganda hissed, and Cray saw one of the woman's long fingers stroking over her throat.

Halmere finally spoke. "Our time, Doctor, is running out faster than we had previously anticipated. I must have this station fully operational. The Emperor's Hand will be departing on a mission to acquire its last component, but when she returns I expect that you will make it fully operational. In the meantime, you will ensure that the Emperor can command Silencer-7 once it is fully operational. You will begin his education at once." Halmere did not have the same sense of malice that Roganda carried so easily, but the flatness of his expression was almost more disturbing. "And of course, the time you have with your lover is finite as well. If you succeed in the tasks you give us, we will see to it that his last days with you are peaceful ones."

Cray no longer had the strength to argue. She nodded, broken.

They left her there, sobbing in the center of her cell with Nichos' body in her arms.

[Go to Table of Contents]​

 

Chapter Two​

Tempered Mettle came out of hyperspace far beyond the edge of Dathomir's hyper limit, just to be safe. While the Imperial presence in this part of the galaxy had been broken with the death of Warlord Zsinj, Dathomir remained an uncertain world with multiple interested powers. Mara was not interested in getting into a shooting match with a Hapan Battle Dragon if she could avoid it, and certainly not because she did something as stupid as startle them.

Beside her, Luke leaned forward, peering down at the computer readouts. "Any sign of the Hapans?"

"There they are," Mara pointed at the heads-up display, which blinked with a trio of friendly green dots. "Hapan IFFs."

"Artoo, make sure we're using our real IFF," Luke instructed. "I want them to know who we are, so don't sub it out for another one of your fakes."

Artoo blatted at him rudely.

"He better not have," Mara growled as she kept her ship's speed at a leisurely pace, giving the Hapans plenty of time to see them and react before she got too close. "I've told him before that he shouldn't change out the ship's beacon without telling me first."

The droid's dome did a full rotation, then he made a sound that sounded half-resigned and half-indignant.

"You always think it's for the best," Mara retorted after a quick glance at the ship's translation unit. "But it's still my ship."

"It doesn't matter in this case," Luke intervened quickly. "He hasn't changed the beacon."

The com unit crackled to life. "Unknown vessel, this is the Hapan Battle Dragon Grand Beldam, Hapan Royal Guard. By the order of the Queen Mother, this world is under our protection. Announce yourself."

"Hapans," Mara muttered. She keyed her com. "Grand Beldam, this is Tempered Mettle. We have aboard Jedi Knights traveling to Dathomir for the purposes of recruitment." She lifted her finger off the pickup and glanced at Artoo. "Send our credentials, Artoo."

The droid whistled his agreement.

"It was nice of Teneniel to make sure we'd have the appropriate flimsiwork," Luke commented.

Mara looked at him sideways. "How many other ex-girlfriends do you have hidden around the spaceways anyway?"

Luke blushed nicely. "Teneniel isn't an ex-girlfriend."

"No, but from what Solo told me it wasn't by much and she did declare her intent to pursue you."

That drew a smile from Luke—one that didn't quite banish his blush. "Rather dramatically. I let her down easy."

Mara was a Jedi Knight now, so of course petty concepts like jealousy were beneath her. Definitely, definitely beneath her. She could feel Luke's embarrassment—which never failed to be endearing—and also his enduring, though platonic, affection for the Dathomiri witch who had become the Queen Mother of Hapes.

She allowed her ship to coast in-system towards the planet growing in front of them. It was a beautiful world, she thought. With limited development, Dathomir had none of the stretches of illuminated land visible from orbit that most inhabited worlds did—from a distance, some newcomers would mistake Coruscant for a star—but instead had only enormous stretches of greenery, striped with mountains and bordered with oceans and seas. If not for the planet's hostile native lifeforms—including but not limited to its witches—Dathomir would no doubt have become host to a much larger settlement centuries ago.

"Tempered Mettle," the female voice of the Hapan communications officer came back, more respectful, but there was just a bit of an edge to it. "Welcome to Dathomir, Jedi Knights Jade and Skywalker. We've ordered the main landing pad on the surface cleared; you'll be free to land at Solo's Folly in a few minutes."

Luke and Mara looked at each other. "Did you say Solo's Folly?" asked Luke, fighting back a laugh.

"That's the name of the settlement on the surface," came the response. "We're sending you its exact location and landing instructions now." The com clicked off, and Mara's screen flashed as the indicated instructions appeared upon it.

Luke leaned towards Mara. "Do you want to tell Han or should I?" he murmured, smirking broadly.

"Oh, let me do it," Mara said cheerfully as she began preparations for landing. "I still owe him for that time he called me a nursemaid."

* * *
​

Solo's Folly turned out to be a small settlement that had grown out of Warlord Zsinj's former prison garrison. The buildings were largely clustered within the standing fortifications, complete with substantial—and seemingly well-maintained—defensive guns, capable of striking both ground and aerial targets. At the center of the compound was a large landing field, with several pads capable of holding a midsized bulk freighter, and one smaller pad for four Hapan X-wings. The landing pads were one of the only places on the planet it was safe to land a ship without risk from the roving native wildlife—and given that the roving native wildlife included rancors that could grow up to ten meters tall and strong enough to smash starships, it was best not to take any chances.

Mara had never been to Dathomir before, but Luke (and Han and Leia) had told her about his previous time here.

"It's changed a lot in the last few years," Luke commented. "It seems Solo's Folly—" he choked back a laugh, and Mara couldn't quite prevent a smirk from crossing her lips "—has a permanent population of a few hundred." He pointed at a large, gleaming structure which overlooked both the landing pad and the rugged, forested terrain beyond the city's fortifications. "And that looks like something the Hapans built for their garrison."

"I'd guess closer to a thousand," Mara said. She pointed in the direction of the nearby mountain. "You can see additional structures out in the valley." She cut the throttle back and kicked in the repulsorlifts, bringing the ship down onto the cleared landing pad. It was in excellent condition—practically brand new, complete with nearby construction droids which seemed to be building a new, identical pad next to it—and provided nice, bright lights and lines which made the lending easy. Her piloting droid, Slips, beeped his normal relieved sound—he did that every time he watched someone else land the ship, always wishing to do it himself—as Mara put Tempered Mettle down with a slight sag of the landing gear hydraulics, and then the slight flexing rise as the ship's landing struts leveled out.

She leaned back in the pilot's couch. "The ship's all yours, Slips. Keep an eye on things while Luke and I meet the Singing Mountain Clan—and don't let anyone aboard."

And remember, Artoo," Luke said, almost chidingly, "Slips is in charge. No modifications."

Artoo made a rude noise, and Mara's pilot droid tootled out an insouciant affirmative as the two humans departed.

* * *
​

There was a party of Hapans waiting to greet them. Three men and women in the flashy-yet-surprisingly-practical uniforms of the Hapan Royal Guard—though still thick with plenty of gold trim and gewgaws—stood at attention not far from the end of Tempered Mettle's landing ramp.

Mara strode towards them. She wasn't wearing anything nearly so flashy—just one of her typical spacer ensembles, with sturdy pants and a jacket with sleeves loose enough to easily hide her holdout—but she did have her lightsaber swinging from her belt. Behind her, Luke was dressed in his typical Jedi outfit: a brown cloak covering a comfortable set of white Jedi robes, created in the style of his first Master, Obi-Wan Kenobi. The outfit had become nearly a uniform among the growing number of young Jedi, but Mara preferred less flowing (and less conspicuous) garb.

The lead Hapan, a middle-aged woman whose outfit had even more gold than the two men flanking her, greeted her and Luke with a severe nod. "Welcome to Dathomir," she announced with a lack of ceremony that starkly contrasted her outfit. "I'm Colonel Nelissen, commander of Hapan Forces in the Dathomir system."

"Luke Skywalker," Luke replied, then nodded at Mara, "and this is Mara Jade. We're here to meet with Augwynne Djo of the Singing Mountain Clan."

"The Queen Mother's mother," Colonel Nelissen replied.

"That's correct."

"And the purpose of your visit?"

"As we told the commander of the Grand Beldam," Mara cut in, "and indicated on our travel documents, we're here for the purposes of recruitment."

"Of Jedi," Colonel Nelissen said blandly.

"That's correct," said Luke again. "We're here to see if any of the witches wish to train as Jedi."

Nelissen's face pinched, just a little. The two men flanking her kept impressive sabacc faces, but Mara could feel the hint of tension in the air. Nelissen herself clearly wanted to say something more but resisted the impulse. "Your flimsiwork is in order. You may proceed. The gates in and out of the settlement are locked from one hour after sundown until sunrise. Given your previous history on this planet I don't need to warn you of the native dangers." And with that, the Hapan turned on her heels and walked away, the two guards following with a gait that would have been appropriate for the heights of formal ceremony.

"I don't think she liked us very much," Mara said, planting her hands on her hips.

"No," Luke sighed. "I don't think she did. I'm not sure why she was upset, though."

"Could be anything," Mara shrugged. "Maybe she doesn't like being stuck on this backwater instead of back home with the pomp and performance of Hapes. Maybe she doesn't like the idea of the Jedi Order returning. Maybe she's protective of the Queen Mother's family."

"Maybe," Luke agreed. "Come on, let's go. If we don't have rancor transportation it's a long walk."

"Rancor transportation," Mara muttered. "Life with you is never boring, Skywalker."

* * *
​

The road they were traversing was marked with many signs of recent travel, human sized… and much larger. Clearly this is becoming a major trade route. Mara mused, scanning the horizon and stretching out with her senses, feeling the web of life left by the Witches and others who regularly traveled between the settlements of the Singing Mountain Clan and Solo's Folly.

Up until now, Mara had only ever seen the rancor at Jabba's Palace. That had been an impressive creature, though at the time Mara had been more impressed by the rancor's bait than the beast itself—

Beside her, Luke smirked, and she glared at him sideways

—but from the footprints on the path, the rancors that lived here made Jabba's look like the runt of the litter.

But Mara spent only a fraction of her attention on imagining Dathomir's rancor population, because while the road was empty in both directions, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Luke moved a bit closer to her side. "Danger sense?" he murmured under his breath.

She merely nodded. Her hand moved instinctively towards the lightsaber she had on her belt. Anakin Skywalker's old blade was a comforting presence, but she didn't draw it just yet. If they were being stalked, better not to provoke their stalkers into attacking them. "Nightsisters?" she asked.

"I don't think so." Luke closed his eyes, and she could feel him concentrating, extending his Force-sense out in all directions, searching for a foreign presence. "There's a group of witches shadowing us," he murmured quietly, "riding rancors."

Mara closed her eyes, pushing her Force-sense out to mingle with his. He greeted her welcomingly, his presence warm and affectionate, but also alert. He guided her outwards, showing her what he had already found: the trio of minds, all strong in the Force, and their trio of shockingly-intelligent, massive rancor mounts. She opened her eyes once again and met Luke's, noting that while he looked alert, he did not look concerned. "Hostiles?"

"I don't feel any overt hostility," Luke said with a slight shake of her head. "But the witches—"

He stopped suddenly, and she too felt the sudden shift in the Force. Energy swirled within it around the trio of witches, and Mara could feel them calling upon its power. Their power was unlike any other Force user Mara had ever encountered—nothing like Palpatine or Tionne or Luke—it felt primal somehow, different from the more subtle, ancient traditions of the Jedi and Sith. The world around them responded to it, the trees almost quivering as the Force offered the witches its power, animals scrambling out of a sudden sense of haste. The witches were as one with their world, and their world was as one with them, and the Force was both at once.

There was a sudden howl of wind and a gust battered against them, making Luke's robes seem to fly all around him. Mara braced herself against the wind, digging her combat boots into the hardened mud at her feet and taking her lightsaber into her hand.

But the howl wasn't just the wind. To her astonishment, Mara saw a creature rise up out of the forest. The rancor's maw dripped with ichor, its dark, stunningly intelligent eyes staring at the two Jedi from its vantage high above them—high above because the rancor was at least twenty meters tall.

Its massive claws were the size of airspeeders and the whole planet seemed to shake as it took a step towards them, looming even taller as it took another step forward. The creature's eyes never left Mara; she and Luke stepped closer together, adopting a mutually-protective defensive stance. She opened herself—to Luke and to the Force—and felt all the depths of Dathomir's primal power flow into her as it flowed into Luke, their consciousnesses mingling as they faced the sudden threat.

The rancor hunched forward towards them, its maw opening as it screamed at the two Jedi, the sound one of rage and challenge. As one, Luke and Mara ignited their lightsabers, green and blue appearing with twinned snap-hisses, and then the rancor charged.

It moved with impossible speed, and—

Mara!

Luke's thought pressed into her mind, with a sense of both revelation and urgency. She didn't understand what it was he had realized but without hesitation she followed his guidance. The two of them stood together as the rancor closed, thirty meters becoming ten then five, the beast's massive claw swiping towards them—

Follow!

Mara and Luke closed their eyes and disengaged their lightsabers. Reaching into the Force, they found the spell that had weaved itself around them, the power of far more than three witches there empowering it, and… ignored it. They stepped forward, into the claws of the beast, its deafening anger echoing in their ears, and continued stepping forward, untouched. The rancor's howl of rage became nothing more than a gust of wind, and then not even that, as the illusion dissipated.

When their eyes opened once again, they stood in the middle of a quiet road, and the rancor footprints were all of very normal size.

The three witches they had sensed in the Force, and their merely eight-meter tall mounts, appeared from the forest a few minutes later. Their leader was a tall woman with brown skin and darker hair. Her mount lowered itself closer to the ground and she jumped down, holding a deadly spear in her hand and dressed in leather armor, and Mara was struck by the sheer predatory physicality of the woman—and her strong presence in the Force.

"I am Kirana Ti," she announced herself, her voice carrying strongly, "of the Singing Mountain Clan. You have seen the mountain sing and still you stand." The witch quirked a smile. "Truly, the powers of the Jai are as our mothers say. Come. Your arrival has been foretold."

* * *​

The rest of the trip was fast and unlike any other trip Mara had ever taken. The experience of being picked up by a rancor and put on his back, where there was a saddle, played havoc with her expectations of normality. Luke, who had done this before, was more comfortable, but they were also separated. Luke rode with one of the other witches—who looked alarmingly happy at the arrangement, Mara thought with just a hint of possessive annoyance—while Mara was placed with Kirana Ti. Standing next to the warrior witch made Mara feel annoyingly short.

Traveling by rancor was loud and conversation was difficult, so Mara spent the ride mostly watching scenery and memorizing the local geography. From high up on the rancor's back she could see easily for a long distance, and the miles of trees became increasingly thick the farther she looked, until they were walled off by a line of not-too-distant mountains. They traveled through that forest and up into the foothills, following a valley along a shallow stream. It took about three hours, but eventually they came upon signs of human settlement, and shortly thereafter they arrived at the settlement of the Singing Mountain Clan.

Witches gathered around, staring—mostly at Luke, and though it made her feel self-conscious about just how possessive she was acting, Mara stepped in close and glowered at them and was extremely satisfied when they drew back with obvious alarm.

The witches were not alone. Farther back, standing near the twig and clay structures of the village, were the clan's men. "I wonder how many of them are Force sensitive," Luke murmured as he saw her regarding them, "but can't admit it because of the cultural expectations here."

"Probably nearly as many as the women," Mara replied, glowering at the ogling witches some more. To make the point clear, she put her hand possessively on Luke's back and was satisfied to see the more persistent of the witches look first surprised, then disappointed. Her scowl could wilt Wes Janson; if it worked on him, it would work on anyone. The only person it didn't work on was Luke, but his immunity was unique.

She could feel Luke's amusement—and also just how glad he was that she was there to protect him from the potentially dangerous courtship rituals of Dathomir's witches. "I don't think we'll be able to recruit from the men on this trip, though," he continued as if Mara's battle of wills had not taken place. "It would be too disruptive to the clan's social norms."

"Sometimes it's good to be disruptive," Mara countered. "Sometimes you have to disrupt before you can change."

Whatever Luke's response to that would have been, their exchange ended abruptly. The witches gathered along the village's main road parted, and in the vacuum left behind stood an elderly woman, still regal and strong despite her age. Next to her was a much younger woman who nonetheless seemed somehow frail.

"Welcome, Luke Skywalker," the elder woman said. "You once arrived at our village in a time of war, now return to our village once more as a bearer of peace and justice."

Luke approached the trio of women and bowed deeply. "Thank you for your welcome, Augwynne Djo," he said respectfully.

"You bring another. Your mate, I presume?" Augwynne approached Mara, and the evaluative expression in the older woman's pale eyes sent a nervy shiver down Mara's spine. The reference to her as Skywalker's 'mate' was to be expected, and if she corrected the misperception she'd only invite the witches to pursue him, so she allowed it.

"Mara Jade," she said cooly.

She ignored Luke's blossoming grin beside her. Don't get cocky, Skywalker.

"You would make a fine witch, Mara Jade," Augwynne replied. Mara wasn't sure what to make of that, but it sounded like a compliment so she just nodded. Augwynne returned the nod, then turned to address Luke once more. "You remember my daughter, Barukka," the older woman said, gesturing at the frail, younger woman.

"I do," Luke said. He stepped forward, and to Mara's surprise he extended his hands to Barukka. The other woman, clearly nervous and carrying to her a hint of shame, hesitated before clasping her hands to Luke's. Mara could feel him reaching out with the Force, gently probing Barukka. "Your clan has accepted you once again," Luke said, almost too softly to be overheard. "You have healed, but you still have much healing to do."

"Come," Augwynne interrupted, turning and gesturing back at the largest of the wood and clay huts. "We will discuss the Jai, and Master Yoda's promise that someday they would come to teach our children."

* * *
​

Within the hut, Augwynne sat them around a simple round table, with chairs covered in furs. Barukka sat at her mother's right, and Kirana Ti sat at her left on the far side of the table. The warrior woman propped her spear up against the wall behind her then sat, her expression calm. Barukka's eyes lingered on the table in front of her, refusing to make eye contact with either Luke or Mara.

She fell to the Dark and became a nightsister, Luke whispered an explanation to Mara through the Force, the close proximity making the telepathic communication easy. She began her path to recovery many years ago.

From her appearance, Mara thought that the woman still had a long way to go, but she could not feel any aura of Darkness from the once-fallen witch. Mara doubted that Barukka could hide it from her, so that was a good sign.

"When I was last here," Luke began, "Mother Rell told me that my Master, Master Yoda, promised her that the Jedi would return to Dathomir someday to teach your daughters about the Force. We, too, wish to learn from them about your traditions. The Jedi Order is still growing, but we are ready to accept apprentices, if there are any among you interested."

"Dathomir has been alone for too far too long," Augwynne said softly. "And so have we." Her expression grew serious. "The Hapans have been trying teachers, but we tolerate my daughter's husband's people and they teach us what we ask to learn. They are, however, not suited to teaching witches about the Force—" she used the word hesitantly "—and we would welcome your teaching. I hope that someday you will teach my granddaughters."

"When the time comes, I will teach Tenel Ka as I will teach my own niece and nephew," Luke promised. "But I cannot stay on Dathomir to teach your daughters. It is not yet time for me to settle in one place to teach in that way; the Force still calls me to travel the stars."

"We know," Augwynne replied. "We have many auguries of the future among the witches, and in none of them do you stay to live among us, though there are many possibilities." She turned and nodded at Kirana Ti. "But one of us will travel with you, to learn the ways of the Jai, and to teach you the ways of the witches."

Mara was vaguely surprised at the degree of nervous uncertainty that Kirana Ti's Force-sense revealed, but however the woman had been volunteered to this duty—by her own will, selected by Augwynne, or chosen by the Singing Mountain Clan's seers—she was clearly determined to do it. "I will come with you, to the stars," Kirana Ti said. "And become a Jai, as was foretold by Mother Rell. Then I will return here, to my clan, and teach my sisters and daughters as well."

Luke smiled. "That is all I could have asked."

"The lessons can wait until morning," Augwynne said with a nod. "You have arrived at the time of planting, and the witches have many spells to cast before the day is over." Her smile became coy. "And we must test the mate of Luke Skywalker, to make sure she is up to the standards of the Singing Mountain Clan!"

* * *
​

Luke woke the next morning and found Mara tucked in against his chest, sleeping calmly. She made a soft sound of annoyance when he stirred, then snuggled in closer against him. Smiling, Luke settled back down onto the comfortable cushion of furs and blankets the Singing Mountain Clan had made available.

The remainder of the day before had been surprisingly celebratory. They had not expected anything specific of their arrival, but arriving during the planting season was apparently seen as a good omen by the villagers of the Singing Mountain Clan. The impromptu festival had become something of an early holiday, with witches casting spells of various kinds—none of which Luke fully understood, but all of which he had watched closely in the hopes of future understanding. The witches' use of the Force was so totally different and alien to the traditions of the Jedi, utilizing singing and gestures to guide the Force in ways that were precise and known to them. The Jedi's traditions and use of the Force was more flexible, but also more difficult to teach, relying as it did on each Jedi's personal connection to the Force.

He wondered if the Jedi might, someday, start by teaching spells like those of the witches, things more easily defined, and then transition into the more individualistic and personal connection to the Force of the Jedi. Or if perhaps some Jedi would always use a mix of spells and their own Jedi powers. He didn't know, but the potential was tremendous and he was excited to find out.

His only problem was that the witches were reluctant to teach their spells to men. That, though, was a limited issue: of the new Jedi, many were women. Mara and Tionne, of course, but they had also recently added Tyria Sarkin to their ranks, and the Mon Calamari healer Cilghal. Perhaps the spells would be useful for Tyria in particular—Luke made a mental note to ask her if she would be interested in coming to Dathomir to learn from the witches.

There was joy in the air around him and Mara. Not just their own shared happiness—she stirred but did not wake, her hand gently grasping at his chest—but also that of the witches and the villagers beyond the clay and wood hut he and Mara shared. Dathomir was a beacon in the Force, lush with life of all kinds, and the Singing Mountain Clan lived in harmony with the world. This time of year—the planting season—was one where their connection with Dathomir felt at its highest, as they (and their rancors, which made remarkably effective motive power for their scrap-metal plows) went about planting the fields, using their spells to encourage the nascent crops to take root.

But there was something else in the air too. Something else in the Force… he closed his eyes, stretching out with his feelings. It was easy to do on Dathomir, with the villagers and their rancors and other animals, the forest and its plants and busy creatures.

He felt Mara stir, saw her green eyes blinking brilliantly up at him. She had that sleepy, not-yet-awake look that only appeared when she felt perfectly, completely content and safe, a look that he would never have imagined her ever having when they first met. "What is it?" she asked, her voice hazy with sleep.

"I'm not sure," Luke said, stroking her hair with a gesture of affection that, years before, would have cost him his left hand. "Help me?"

She made a mildly exasperated sound, then joined her Force sense to his. Together they reached out… and gasped together as sudden agony reached back. Mara sat bolt upright, her tiredness completely banished, and Luke grimaced as he swung out of bed. The sense of pain lasted only for a fleeting moment, replaced by piercing sorrow, and then it faded, leaving only a lingering sense of anxiety which might be Mara's own.

"What was that?" Mara asked, already reaching for her clothes.

"I don't know," Luke said, and the joy in the air around them was now, sadly, in the past.

There was a knock on the door, then it burst open. The tall figure in the doorway was framing with the light of Dathomir's rising sun, and it took a moment for Luke's eyes to adjust to reveal Kirana Ti.

"What is it?" asked Luke.

Kirana Ti glanced at Mara, then at Luke. She seemed largely immune to Mara's glare. "Another ship has arrived, out of schedule. It is called the Pulsar Skate, and someone named Iella Wessiri wants to talk to Jedi Jade at once. It sounds urgent."

[Go to Table of Contents]​

 

(Just as a foreword, this review isn't going what I'd like it to be because of a Covid steamroller that drove over my brain, but I'm still writing it before I fall too far behind.)

This story continues to surprise me, because a World Devastator and Cray Mingla are not two Legends elements I expected to find in this story, and especially not in combination – although I'd be hard-pressed to say what I was expecting. So I'm doubly excited now, because I'm very, very eager to see how you re-invent these story arcs and what the outcome will be.

It's interesting that both Cray and Nichos are trying to figure out ways to escape independently from each other. Cray would seem to be better-placed to achieve something here, but somehow I suspect that Nichos's apparently failed attempt is going to bear fruit at some point.

As for Luke and Mara coming to Dathomir to recruit Kirana Ti – this wasn't totally unexpected, because you mentioned Streen in the 'missing moments' of Interregnum II, so it stands to reason that they would be on a recruitment drive, so to speak. I loved the description of Dathomir and the contrast between the Dathomiri and the Jedi uses of the Force. And I'm assuming that, now that Iella is arriving, the two story threads are going to meet and develop into the main conundrum for this story.

 

I've been sick myself so I have an acute appreciation for you taking the time despite being under that steamroller! Thank you!

Since we're this far, I can safely say that yes, Children of the Jedi, Darksaber, and Planet of Twilight (to a lesser extent) are huge inspirations for this one. We continue to borrow from Jedi Academy Trilogy (with the Jedi recruitment process ongoing), but Roganda, Cray, Nichos, Irek, and Daala all take center stage in this one, much as they did in the Callista Trilogy. And while Dark Empire never happened in this universe, we continue to be inspired by it, bringing in the World Devastator (which is, in essence, one giant droid... and Cray and Nichos were always droid experts!)

 

Chapter Three​

Luke and Mara emerged from the hut that Augwynne had provided them into the Singing Mountain Clan's village. The main square was busy—where the day before had been one for celebration and festivities, clearly today was a day for work. Men moved through the streets with carts, carrying supplies for planting from the village's warehouses out towards the fields. A handful of the men had pieces of technology that would make the tasks easier—that had not been the case the last time Luke had been here—and there was the occasional rumble as a rancor tromped through the village, helping with the most difficult labor.

"The clan mother sent our speeder to Solo's Folly to fetch your friends," Kirana Ti said. She stood tall, gazing out over the work with a look of focused concentration. "It is faster than traveling by rancor, so they should arrive quickly."

Luke looked towards Mara. She still seemed vaguely discomfited—he could feel her lingering annoyance at Kirana Ti's barging into their hut—but that was fading quickly as she contemplated all the reasons that Iella would come out to Dathomir to find her. Iella had become Mara's closest friend and the Pulsar Skate was Mirax Terrik's ship—another personal friend of Mara's. "If every minute mattered, Iella and Mirax wouldn't have landed the Pulsar Skate at the settlement," she said. "They would just have landed the ship right outside the village. Skate is smaller than Mettle and doesn't need as much space to set down." She frowned at Luke. "So whatever it is they're here for isn't that urgent. But that leaves a lot of possibilities."

He nodded. "But if it wasn't urgent at all, they could just have waited until we were back on Coruscant," he pointed out. "So even if each minute doesn't matter, each day might."

"Point," Mara said with a nod.

Kirana Ti looked between them. "Your friends will arrive within the hour," she said. "Let us eat."

The witch led them down a short street to the main village square. The ground was not paved, but it was grassy and firm despite all the feet that trod upon it daily. Four long wooden tables were laid out along each side of the square, and men and women were all eating and laughing together boisterously—the good mood that had been established at the celebration the day before had not abated, it seemed. The people noticed immediately when Luke, Mara, and Kirana Ti entered the square, but they did not stare as much as they had the day before.

Food was already laid out upon the table. Luke took from it unhesitatingly, and Mara did after a moment. She clearly was more skeptical about it than he was—he knew, despite her protestations, that Mara had a taste for fine dining and could be fiercely (but quietly) judgmental—but despite the lack of care for presentation, the village men who had prepared breakfast clearly both knew what they were doing and had a fine palette for using spices. Just as clear was they had begun to incorporate imported spices from offworld into the cuisine, because there were several flavors that Luke didn't remember from his last trip to Dathomir.

"I can taste calarantrum," he murmured to Mara, stirring his dish together before taking another bite. "That's a new import to Dathomir."

Mara shrugged. "Karrde once told me that the galaxy invented trade just to make food taste better." She took a bite, seeming amenable to the taste.

Luke smiled at her. There were days—and those days were often—that the reality of their relationship hit him hard. The morning sun gleamed against her hair and he was struck yet again at just how brilliant she was. How did I get so lucky? he thought, feeling his smile grow.

Her eyes met his, and he watched with a grin as she rolled them at him. Skywalker, you're such a sap.

He snuck his hand to squeeze hers under the table. She hid a smile—he could see her hiding her smile, and feel the way her mood lightened, the way affection swelled in her heart and mind—and turned her hand to briefly squeeze his back. Then, subtly, they disentangled their hands and went back to breakfast as if the exchange had never occurred.

"Tell me of the Jai?" Kirana Ti asked. She was a tall, imposing woman, with obvious physical prowess and he had yet to see her without a spear near to her hand. But Luke also could feel her strength in the Force. She was the first who would join the new Jedi from entirely outside of the traditions of Jedi and Sith, and had her own traditions and practices for using the Force. That meant she had a lot to learn, but also that they had a lot to learn from her.

"In the larger galaxy, we're usually called 'Jedi'," Luke began. "For generations, Jedi served as protectors in the Old Republic. At our height, there were tens of thousands of us at any given time. Many of the records of what the Jedi did and how we did it were destroyed by the Empire, but what we know tells us that the Jedi were negotiators and peacekeepers. Mostly we served as a neutral party for negotiations or the settlement of disputes. But when the Clone Wars broke out, Jedi were forced to become the Old Republic's first line of defense, fighting the Republic's enemies."

"Then the Jedi served much as the witches do," Kirana Ti said, nodding. "We are the warriors for our clans. We use our spells to enhance each clan's prosperity, and we fight off the evils of the fallen Nightsisters." She tilted her head. "Will you take me from my own clan only to have me serve your Republic instead?"

Luke and Mara shared a glance. This remained a point of contention between Luke and Mon Mothma. Some time before Luke had made the deliberate choice to separate his nascent order from the New Republic; Mon Mothma continued to believe this was a mistake. "No," he said. "We are not capable of doing any of the things the Jedi of old did. They had tens of thousands. Even with you among us, Kirana Ti, we do not even have ten." He shook his head. "Our task is simply to learn and share what we know of the Force and let it guide us to help others."

"Do you mean to practice prophecy, as Mother Rell?" Kirana Ti asked uncertainly. "That has never been a particular skill of mine. There are other witches more skilled at augury than I."

Luke smiled at Mara. "Why don't you take this one?" he prompted.

Mara put down her spoon. "Prophecy can be unreliable," she said. "The future is always changing, and a vision does not present what will be, but what could be. But the Force does offer less spectacular guidance. The sensation of pending danger, or an instinct to be in a certain place at a certain time. Luke and I believe that the Force is at its most potent in the moment, guiding what we do now."

"The Living Force," Luke added with a nod.

Kirana Ti seemed curious. "The witches do not usually think about the… Force… in this way," she said after a moment's contemplation. "What about the Dark?"

"The Dark Side is the one foe we must oppose," Luke said seriously. "Those who have fallen are a danger to themselves and to others, like the Nightsisters here on Dathomir. The single obligation that belongs to the Jedi is to fight the Dark—both the Dark we find in ourselves and the Dark we find in others."

"That is why Augwynne chose me," Kirana Ti said, without pride. She actually looked vaguely abashed. "I was not the strongest of us, when last you were here. Compared to Teneniel…" her voice faded and she shook her head. "I was lesser then, in every way. But Augwynne says that I was never tempted by rage. She says that to become a Nightsister on Dathomir is a dire thing, but to become a Nightsister among the stars is something far worse."

Luke thought about the Nightsisters of Dathomir he had fought when last he had visited this world, of what Gethzerion might have done if she had been loosed upon the galaxy, and shuddered. "I think Augwynne is very wise," he said.

There was a commotion from outside the square and people looked off towards the outer fortifications of the village. A minute later the sound of humming repulsorlifts was followed by the arrival of a speeder. A witch was in the driver's seat, comfortably maneuvering the offworld technology, and in the back seat were Iella Wessiri and Mirax Terrik Horn.

Luke could feel Mara's swell of comfortable affection for them as they came into sight. Iella and Mara had worked together, helping the Smugglers' Alliance grow into a fully-functioning intelligence and transportation business with close ties to New Republic Intelligence. Then, when Mara had made the transition from Smugglers' Alliance to Jedi, she had recruited Mirax—the daughter of the well-known smuggler kingpin Booster Terrik and also the wife of one of Luke's novice Jedi, Corran Horn—to replace her. While Luke had sought other Jedi and settled other new arrivals, Iella, Mara, and Mirax had traveled together off and on for some months, had a few adventures, been banned from two different sectors, and come out of the experience with a fire-forged friendship.

When Iella caught sight of them she waggled her fingers in a playful wave and sent them a small smile before she and Mirax disembarked. The two women were both dressed in nondescript spacers' garb with work-worn flight jackets lending them an air of professional credibility, but Mirax's hung a bit looser around her frame than was typical. Luke caught a hint of hesitation from Mara, of old defensive patterns kicking back into place demanding reserve and caution, but then she overcame them and greeted Iella with a friendly embrace.

"Interesting planet you found here," Iella said with a wry grin when the embrace ended. She looked around the village, curiously taking in her surroundings. "I knew there were tame rancors on Dathomir, but seeing them pulling farm equipment still out-did my expectations about the place." She paused, looking at Kirana Ti; the Dathomiri witch was dressed in her native lizard armor and carrying her spear. "Iella Wessiri, New Republic Intelligence," she introduced herself, offering a handshake.

Kirana Ti looked a bit uncertain as she shifted her spear to her left hand to accept the handshake. "Kirana Ti of the Singing Mountain."

"You look good, Mara," said Mirax with a grin.

Mara hugged Mirax, too. "So do you," Mara responded. She stepped back and looked Mirax over. "How far along are you, now?"

Mirax practically glowed with happiness at the question. "Almost three months. Corran keeps trying to get me to take it easy, but he knows better than to press me."

"So what is so important that you had to come out and talk to me in person?" asked Mara, the jovial feel of the reunion dimming to something more serious.

Her seriousness infected both Mirax and Iella, and Luke could feel how their own emotions shifted to concern. Mild concern, rather than acute—Mara had been right, whatever it was that was wrong, it wasn't an immediate problem—but they both were evidently concerned about how Mara might react to whatever they had to say. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?" asked Iella.

Kirana Ti gestured towards the central structure at one side of the village square, the same structure that Augwynne had used to greet them the day before. "This way."

* * *​

Once they were inside, Iella Wessiri produced a datapad and handed it to Mara. She took it, turning it on and starting to review the information, but Iella preempted her review with a hand. "We'll brief you, Mara. I'll let Mirax start."

"A week ago, the Smugglers' Alliance picked up intelligence about the Inquisitorius. Specifically, we were told that the Inquisitors have begun an intense search for ancient Force artifacts," the smuggler began. She paced a bit as she talked—Mirax was a bundle of energy and hard to contain, and was often in motion—gesticulating as she did. "This isn't all that unusual. The Inquisitorius has been poking around such things dating back to the first days of the Empire, usually as part of their efforts to destroy anything related to the Jedi—which has made Jedi artifacts quite lucrative, I might add."

"Looking for what?"

"I don't know," said Mirax with a shake of her head. "It could be something else like that amulet of Exar Kun's you destroyed aboard Chimaera, or something altogether different. But there's something else…" her expression grew just a bit worried, and Mara could feel Mirax's matching concern. "Mara, the reports were that the person spearheading the search was the Emperor's Hand."

The blood drained from Mara's face. Not from surprise, because there was a part of Mara that had long expected this. She had been the Emperor's Hand, his servant and agent. She had carried out his will throughout the galaxy, and been his dupe. For her entire life, Palpatine had told her that she was special and unique, that there were no others like her. The idea that Papatine had lied to her about that, as he had about so many other things, was all too plausible. "Do you know anything else?" she asked, hearing the slight hoarseness in her voice.

Luke stepped closer to her and put his hand on the small of her back. Part of her resented that he thought she needed comfort, but she did not reject the comfort that he offered.

"After Mirax first discovered these reports," Iella took over, "NRI started its own investigation. We didn't come up with anything more than she did at first, but in the last week we discovered something new." She nodded at the datapad in Mara's hand. "Our assets within the Empire have been trying to untangle the top of the New Order's hierarchy ever since it proclaimed Halmere as the Emperor-Regent. We know that the new Emperor is a child, supposedly Palpatine's heir, though we have no way of verifying his parentage. We haven't found out much, but we have discovered two titles used to refer to the Emperor's mother: Empress Dowager… and the Emperor's Hand."

Mara's face was pale as she reviewed the datapad. There wasn't much in the intelligence reports, just snippets of conversations overheard, recorded, and transmitted back to NRI. But on no fewer than three occasions, there was a clear reference to a member of Emperor-Regent's inner circle and someone named the "Emperor's Hand."

She sat just as Luke provided her a chair.

To her surprise, her first reaction was anger. Despite the fact that she had known there might be others who claimed the title of Emperor's Hand for themselves, despite the fact that Thrawn had outright told her there had been others, despite the fact that she now knew Palpatine for the manipulative, lying fraud he had been… the revelation that there had been others, the proof of their existence, still made a dark piece of her heart flash with anger. How dare he? How dare he use her the way he had? How dare he…

But Luke was there, with her in her mind, and at her side. And even if he had not been, Mara neither claimed nor desired the title of Emperor's Hand any longer.

She was a Jedi.

She served something greater than Palpatine. Something that she knew would never lie to her. She served the Force, and she served it alongside Luke, who had taught her to trust and love.

The others were looking at her with expressions ranging from compassionate to wary—all except Kirana Ti, who just looked confused. Mara took a deep breath and let it out again, and with it she released the anger that had threatened her Jedi calm, and the dark piece of her heart was still once more. "I had wondered if anyone would emerge and claim the title," she said.

Iella's pinched expression relaxed just a bit. Mara offered her a thin, reassuring smile, and the NRI agent's expression relaxed a bit more. "We don't know anything else," Iella explained. "Only that someone using the title has been giving instructions at the highest levels of the New Order."

"What is an Emperor's Hand?" asked Kirana Ti.

"I was the Emperor's Hand—or, an Emperor's Hand—because I had a gift." Mara grimaced. "No, that's not right. I was told I was the Emperor's Hand because I had a gift—specifically, the gift of being able to communicate telepathically with Palpatine across any distance. We're not sure if I was capable of that because of something unique to my own talents, though I do seem to have a talent for telepathy, or if it was something that Palpatine did to me that he could have replicated with another."

"So you think this other Emperor's Hand had the same talent?"

Mara snorted. "The only thing I know for sure is that I was an Emperor's Hand because Palpatine made me one. Maybe this other Hand also served him, but was special in a different way that also made her useful. Or maybe Palpatine had dozens of us running around all over his Empire."

"Do you think there were dozens of Hands?" asked Iella seriously.

"No," Mara said bluntly. "No, at least some of the people in the Palace knew I was Palpatine's Hand. Isard, for instance. And if there had been many Hands, I doubt it would have taken so long for one other than me to emerge. They would have been scattered around, serving all the Warlords the way the Inquisitors did." She shook her head. "No, we must have been few in number, and I imagine each of us served some particular role for him."

"Well, New Republic Intelligence wants you back on Coruscant," said Iella apologetically. "General Cracken wants to interview you again."

Mara blanched. "Again?" she sighed, leaning back in her chair.

"Is that really necessary?" asked Luke. Mara could hear the defensiveness—and protectiveness—in his voice, the way he moved almost to put himself between Mara and their friends, as if to shield her from the message. It wasn't necessary and there was a part of Mara that recoiled in annoyance at Luke not letting her fight her own battles. The rest of her just loved him.

"It's not going to be anything invasive—"

"It's alright," Mara cut Iella off with a sigh, then placed her hands back on her lap. "It's alright. Of course they want to ask me questions. They probably want me to go through my memory and think of anyone I would see at the palace often who might have been another Hand in disguise. It's nothing I'm not going to do anyway." She looked at Kirana Ti. "Though this does mean we'll be leaving Dathomir earlier than we expected."

The witch nodded, her expression firm. "When I agreed to learn the ways of the Jai, I agreed to share their burdens as well. I will come."

Mirax gave the warrior witch an appraising look. "We're going to have to find you something to wear that will blend in better," Mirax said with a grin, gesturing at Kirana Ti's matte green lizardskin armor and the leathers below. "You'll stick out traveling around Coruscant dressed in that."

Kirana Ti looked defensive. "This is the armor and garb of my people…"

Mara let the conversation fade out. She felt Luke beside her, his hand shifting to rest comfortingly on her leg, and closed her eyes. An Emperor's Hand. Mara wondered if this Hand, like her, had been taken as a child and raised for the Emperor's service, or if—like so many of the Inquisitors—they had been recruited as a grown adult. The fact that the Hand remained in Imperial service suggested that they, unlike Mara, had not abandoned the Empire after the Emperor's death. But at the same time, it had been a long time since Endor… where had the Hand been for all this time? What had they been doing?

Which of Palpatine's secrets had the Hand kept when their master had been sent to his grave?

* * *​

They made the trip back to Tempered Mettle and were in the air less than two hours later. The witches had marked their departure with a spell intended to strengthen them during a long journey and a gift-basket of traveling food which Luke had been too polite to decline. Then they'd settled Iella into her normal room aboard Tempered Mettle and got Kirana Ti situated. The witch had done her best to be strong and undaunted, but space clearly left her dizzy and uncertain, and the transition into hyperspace had made her more nauseous than most. Miserable, she'd retreated into her cabin.

Luke had faith she'd adapt, and under other circumstances would have spent the time with her, helping her meditate and find her calm, but Mara was even more rattled than Kirana Ti. She tried not to show it, but he knew that Mara had long dreaded the possibility of other Emperor's Hands and that she needed his support and reassurance and love.

So he offered it to her, unreservedly. She didn't speak—he could feel her mind, busy, ticking away at all the possibilities, smoldering anger at Palpatine lingering underneath it all—but she did cuddle into his chest as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. Her hands rested atop his, stroking his fingers gently as she nestled in against him. She was vulnerable, she hated feeling vulnerable, and in her past that vulnerability was something she would have faced and defeated alone, but she was no longer alone. She had him.

Together, Mara. Always.

She exhaled slowly. "I doubt this Emperor is really Palpatine's heir," she said, snuggling in against him. "Palpatine always wanted to give off the illusion of physical strength despite how infirm he appeared, but it was just an illusion." She sighed and shrugged. "Unless that was a lie for my benefit as well. I don't know." She squeezed his hand. "But true or not, within the Empire being Palpatine's heir is a powerful claim to Imperial authority, a tool Halmere and an Emperor's Hand could use to convince the Moffs to fall in line, and ensuring the Empire—what's left of it—will fight to the last."

"That makes sense," Luke mumbled against the back of her neck, clearly not wanting to discuss it further just now.

Mara, however, was far too practical to let her distaste disrupt her analysis. "If the new Emperor's mother is a former Emperor's Hand, she likely knows many of Palpatine's secrets, as I do. I'd expect that we know different secrets, though… that Palpatine used me for some tasks and her for other tasks. And I would expect that she was more secret than I was, too; part of my job was being publicly visible, at least to some people, some of the time, but I never got wind of a second Emperor's Hand, and the NRI reports on the Emperor's Hand were all references to me."

"You read NRI's reports on you?" Luke asked.

"I asked Madine for them. I was curious." She stilled for a second, then put one of her arms around his back. "I hate this," she confided softly. "I hate the reminder that Palpatine used me. I hate the reminder that we still haven't eliminated every bit of his legacy. I hate wondering what Palpatine's other Hands might have done, and what dangerous secrets they might know."

"Mara?"

"Hmm?"

"You think too much."

That made her laugh and the sound lightened Luke's heart. He felt her close her eyes, deliberately immersing himself in Jedi meditations meant to relieve tension and stress. He felt her disquiet fade, felt her attention turn fully upon him. He felt their consciousnesses mingle, the serenity that the Force offered them—that they offered one another—descend upon them, a brief gift from the galaxy. "So what did you think of Dathomir?" Luke murmured, enjoying the languid, shared sense of calm.

Mara turned onto her side to face him. "I'm getting soft. I'm not sure I could survive on instant caf for longer than a few days anymore."

"The witches seemed to like you."

She shrugged. "I liked them too, for the most part. Theirs is an interesting Force tradition and it will take some time to see what we can take from their spells to enhance our own understanding of it." There was an almost predatory gleam in her green eyes…. "As for all their men being slaves to the whims of their women, that was mildly intriguing, but then I thought… how is that any different from the moonstruck Farmboy I already have?"

That, and her self-satisfied smirk, tore an astonished laugh from Luke. Yes, he thought, maybe I started it, but I'm still going to have to pay her back for that little quip.

Mara arched her eyebrow at him, challenging. I look forward to seeing you try, Farmboy.

[Return to Table of Contents]​

 

Chapter Four​

If not for a semi-strategic location and just enough resources to be worthwhile, Poln Major would have been a total backwater. But it had a semi-strategic location and just enough resources to be worthwhile, and that was enough for it to become a sector headquarters. Its capital, Whitestone City, had been aptly named: the governor's palace was raised on a large mound of white stone, making it rise up above the surrounding city, and the building itself was constructed of still more of the substance. In the daylight it gleamed to the point where anyone in its proximity had to wear glare-reducing glasses, which consequently had become a focal point of Poln Major's fashion.

Admiral Gilad Pellaeon himself wore a pair of glare-reducing glasses, though his were strictly functional, violating no element of the official rules of Imperial Officer's Decorum. So too did the man who accompanied him to their meeting at the palace, Admiral Teren Rogriss.

The garden surrounding them was well-ordered. Cultivated with precision by a team of experts, no doubt, it was vaguely maze-like, providing a series of wide, winding routes that led from the city to the palace beyond. "This is all a reminder that the Outer Rim can be spectacular, when given the opportunity," Rogriss said, gesturing in the direction of the governor's palace.

"The Candoras Sector has been well-governed," Pellaeon replied, a bit gruffly. "Unlike so many of the Moffs—or Senators of the Old Republic before them—Moff Ferrouz's interest was always the prosperity of his people and the Empire."

Rogriss chuckled softly. "It is liberating to be able to say freely what we all thought for so many years, isn't it?"

Rogriss said that with such casual comfort, Pellaeon thought uncomfortably. It was remarkable the change he saw in the smaller man. When they had served together last—during the Linuri campaign against General Garm Bel Iblis—Rogriss had been haggard and exhausted. The lines in his face had drawn tight with tension and Pellaeon had rarely seen the man without a bottle near to hand. But since they had been forced into… insurrection… against the New Order that now ruled the Empire, and its illegal attempt to seize control of the Imperial Starfleet, Rogriss had changed. He seemed less burdened and looked visibly younger, and while he still often had a bottle close to hand it was much rarer for him to have a glass.

But for Pellaeon it was not so simple. Yes, of course he had been aware of the foibles of the Moffs, their excesses and their corruption. But they still represented the Empire, and had been owed loyalty for that reason alone.

The tension must have showed on his face. "Gilad?" Rogriss probed.

Pellaeon turned towards Rogriss,wincing. "I'm sorry, Teren," he admitted. "I'm still grappling with everything that has happened."

"I know," Rogriss said with a nod. "We all need to do that. But I want you to remember two things. First, Grand Moff Ferrouz is the rightful ruler of the Empire. He was Kaine's handpicked successor and the Imperial Security Bureau had no right and no authority to seize control of Kaine's territories from him. Legally, we are the Empire, not them."

Pellaeon nodded firmly. That much he could get behind without any question.

"Second, Halmere and his goons are coming here." Rogriss turned towards the Palace. From where they stood on the garden grounds, the two Admirals looked up at the looming white structure, gleaming in the noonday sun, spectacular. "They are coming here to crush Poln Major, and to crush Grand Moff Ferrouz… and to crush you."

That was all too true. In all the propaganda that had come out of the New Order since the Battle of Carida, Pellaeon had been cast as the worst villain in Imperial history. The worst of the clips accused Pellaeon of butchering his own students, likening the act to a mother strangling her baby in its cradle. He still had nightmares about that clip.

"So we fight," Rogriss finished. "We fight, with the knowledge that this time, at least, there are no doubts about the cause for which we fight."

…but that was the whole problem, wasn't it? Pellaeon had never had any doubts. The corruption had been but a flaw in the system, but the system had been just. More just than the Old Republic, certainly! It had been better than any possible alternative, at least.

Those lifelong certainties had fallen away. Somewhere, deep in his gut, he now knew he had been wrong, and yet to see Rogriss so casually say so, so confidently say so, say so as if Rogriss had known all along…

How had he missed it?

There was the hum of a speeder. A simple open-air speeder, with an Imperial pilot sitting in the driver's seat and a woman, one who looked far too young to be wearing an Imperial Captain's uniform, sitting in the back seat. As it approached them it came to a stop, the engine going quiet amidst the palace gardens so that Pellaeon could once again hear the song of the local birds. "Admirals," Captain Asori Rogriss greeted them, hopping out of the speeder and offering a precise, Academy-grade salute. "I saw you walking and thought I'd offer you a ride to the palace."

"You don't have to be so formal, heija," Teren said, smiling affectionately at his daughter as he returned it.

"Nepotism has poisoned the Empire from its very birth, so all due respect, sir. I will maintain the formalities of rank," Asori replied, her fine-featured face carefully neutral, an echo of her father's. "Admiral Pellaeon, sir. It's good to see you again."

"And you, Captain," Pellaeon nodded, feeling a slight sting at Asori's comment. How common was it to be so blase about the faults of the Empire? He worked hard to not let his feelings show. "Is your squadron still in-system?"

"My ships remain under cloak out behind the system's innermost gas giant," Asori replied crisply. Her accent reminded Pellaeon strongly of his first instructors at the Raithal Academy, back when he had first been trained for entry into the Old Republic's Judicial Forces. A disproportionate number of them had been natives of Anaxes—the world had a long military tradition, and had frequently sent its best and brightest to join the Judicials. "We're under orders to stay safely out of sight until Baron Fel and Moff Ferrouz are prepared to reveal the existence of the UREF." She shrugged. "Not that the system really needs our help for defense. The fleet you've assembled should prove quite sufficient. The New Order simply doesn't have the ships to breach Poln Major's defenses."

Pellaeon commanded the fleet defending Poln Major from the New Order's advances. He had four Imperial-class Star Destroyers, including his own Chimaera. Then he had thirty of Grand Moff Kaine's Enforcer-class heavy cruisers, which were the heart of his formation. Elsewhere, he had another thirteen Enforcers and three Victory-class Star Destroyers, but those had been sent to Nirauan for refit.

It was an impressive fleet. It also represented only a fraction of the strength potentially available to fight the New Order. The Unknown Regions Expeditionary Force—Grand Admiral Thrawn's secret resource in the Unknown Regions, which represented not only ships, but full-blown colony worlds and shipyards, and a network of alliances with alien powers that known space had never even heard of—could at least double that strength, if not more. Pellaeon did not even know for certain how much strength Baron Fel's UREF had. Fel, for the moment, was still reluctant to reveal too much.

"Agonizer is still at Nirauan," Rogriss added. "I have Captain Tigan organizing our reserve fleet, in case the New Order finds enough ships to really threaten Poln Major. In the meantime, we're still secretly rotating Enforcer-class ships out to Nirauan for refit and repair… it's doubtful any ISB spy will notice, at least for the moment." He smiled thinly. "One of the benefits of using so many non-human crew… they're very good at sniffing out ISB sneaks amongst them." He gestured at the aircar. "Instead of walking, Asori, let's take a ride to the palace. There's no harm in arriving early to a staff meeting, and I suspect Baron Fel and Moff Ferrouz will have quite a lot to say to us. Besides, I can spend the time speculating about which book you've stolen from my ready room."

The speeder ride was swift and refreshing. The open-air speeder was hardly Imperial standard issue, but there was something to be said about having the wind in your hair—although Asori looked vaguely annoyed when they finally arrived at the gravel path to the palace's side entrance and she had to shake out some road dust, restoring hair into something appropriately regulation with a tired twist and flick of her wrist.

Pellaeon was unsurprised to find Commander Dreyf waiting for them. A dark-featured human native to Poln Major, he wore polarized glasses that looked comfortable and suited his face, likely something he'd brought from home.

"Admirals," he said, saluting as they climbed out of the speeder. "Baron Fel has just arrived at the palace landing pad and is having his initial meeting with Moff Ferrouz now. We are scheduled to meet with them in twenty minutes." He gestured into the palace, where the gleaming stone floors were lined with white stone columns that had been polished until they glowed. "The Moff has been good enough to open his kitchens, if any of you are hungry."

Pellaeon shook his head dismissively. "I ate aboard Chimaera before I departed. How was your leave, Commander?"

"My mother was so excited to see me she had me rearrange her living quarters, and then we spent rather a lot of time baking. Sent me home with an entire packing allowance of sweets and baked goods. I believe they were also sent to the kitchen…"

Pellaeon gave a fond harumph, and waved the group onward.

"Well, it may perhaps not be the height of Starfleet decorum, but if you do not take the Moff up on this opportunity, Gilad, I will," Teren said with a slightly cheeky smile. "Never turn down the opportunity for a fine meal! After all, you never know when your number will come up. You're welcome to join me, Captain, if you would like?" he said to Asori.

"That's quite all right, sir. I'm not senior enough to breach decorum." Her smile, though, was a mirror of her father's. "I'm sure you'll enjoy it for the both of us."

Dreyf looked relieved, and he went to stand next to Rogriss. "Oh, thank you sir. If you all had declined, I would have been obliged to do so myself, and it would be a shame to waste the efforts of the Grand Moff's chef." He grinned broadly. "After you, sir."

The silence following the departure of the elder Rogriss and Dreyf was profound. The younger Rogriss stood at parade-readiness, her hands folded carefully behind her back and her Imperial officer's cap perched perfectly upon her head.

"Are you all right, Admiral?" Asori asked him. The question surprised him—junior officers were not nearly so probing with their superiors. She seemed to sense his sudden discomfort, and hastened to continue. "I know that a lot has changed for you in the last few months, sir, and your experience at Carida would be trying for anyone."

He grimaced. His instinct was to lean on his Imperial Admiral's mask. He had already made his peace with his decision to throw in with Baron Fel and Moff Ferrouz, and it had been—and remained—the right thing. And yet… "Since my arrival, I have heard it expressed by many people—Baron Fel, your father, and others—that the Empire is… was… deeply flawed."

His voice faded away, and he found himself meeting Asori's gaze. Her expression was steady and unintimidated—an important trait for a young Imperial officer in conversation with a senior officer—but there was just a hint of wariness in her expression. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

Whatever she saw looking at him, though, that wariness faded into sympathy. "How much do you know about my mother, Admiral?"

The question caught Pellaeon off-guard. "Nothing, I'm afraid. I am aware that your father is a widower, but beyond that, he's never spoken of his wife." Rogriss had kept a portrait of his wife in his office aboard Chimaera, but every time Pellaeon broached the conversation, Rogriss had steered the conversation carefully away.

"When I was younger," Asori said after a moment, sounding thoughtful, "the Empire and the need for the Empire was a common—and bitter—topic of conversation in our household. Mother was a fierce partisan of Senator Risanamen—she served on his staff when she was young—and when Emperor Palpatine had him executed for treason, she was never quite the same."

The name was vaguely familiar. Pellaeon thought Risanamen had been one of the Two Thousand—Senators who had demanded that Palpatine surrender to the Separatists before the end of the war, led by Padme Amidala—and had thought little of it when he had later been accused of treason. Treason had been all-too-common at the time.

"She knew better than to speak out," Asori continued. "but she used to keep track of stories about abuses of power. Abuses by the new Moffs after they had fully replaced the Senators at the top of the Sector hierarchy, by Imperial officers… she and my father would sometimes argue about it." Asori looked down, grimacing. "She wasn't happy when Terek and I decided to follow our father's footsteps into the Starfleet, but you know how it was… the expectation that the children of fleet officers would join the fleet was quite intense. Especially on Anaxes."

"But all those problems dated back to the Old Republic," Pellaeon objected. "The Empire couldn't fix every social problem."

"The Empire doesn't even try, most of the time," Asori said, and there was a quiet anger in her voice that started him. "Do you know what it was like to be a woman at the Academies? I had it easy. I was protected because my father was an Admiral. But everyone knew the story of Tarkin and Daala, and it wasn't a cautionary tale. It was license. Tarkin was the example all the junior officers wanted to emulate." She shook her head. "And that's just the story I know because I saw it up close. How many other small abuses happened through the fleet? Through the Empire?"

"Your superiors would have acted—"

"My superiors were the problem," Asori snapped, then she mastered her anger. "I'm sorry, sir. But we never knew which officers would protect us and which would take advantage of us. And even if one of them did help us, would their superior? The worst offenders were at the highest levels of seniority, like Tarkin." She shook her head. "Forgive me, sir, but I'm glad to be here. My father is right. The New Order isn't something new or different from the Empire. The New Order is the Empire laid bare, and being here means that we are free to speak plainly about what it is, so I will do so."

Pellaeon looked away first as silence reigned. She just sat there. Evaluating him. Judging him.

* * *​

Asori snapped her mouth shut, reverting carefully to parade rest. Pellaeon seemed no longer to be paying her any mind—she just hoped she hadn't gotten herself into too much trouble. She'd gotten too comfortable, she thought sourly. Ever since she had been pulled out of the regular Imperial Starfleet, out of her position as Exigent's executive officer, and been impressed into service with Baron Fel's Unknown Regions Expeditionary Force—and what a misnomer that title was, the UREF was very much an empire in its own right—she had found herself relaxing, and when she relaxed too much she said too much.

She had lived her whole life in the Empire and sometime, in all of those years, she had grown to expect constant surveillance. ISB was always watching, and if they weren't your fellows were. Everyone was always just waiting for you to slip up, to expose yourself as anything other than perfectly, pristinely loyal… and the costs of slipping up were so high, so catastrophically high, that everyone learned not to speak.

And then she joined the UREF. At first she hadn't realized what was different, but she had realized that something was different. She found herself smiling more, actually even laughing on occasion—two extreme rarities in the Imperial Starfleet—and then they became commonplace.

It had taken her months to realize what had changed.

The people she served with—humans and aliens—were comfortable. They did not live in constant fear, they were comfortable expressing their ideas and with questioning authority.

It was liberating.

But Pellaeon had not been with the UREF for as long as Asori had, and she suspected that the transformation was far more difficult for the older officer than it had been for her. She wondered how long it would take him to notice the difference—and she wondered if he'd approve after he did.

She glanced at him from out of the corner of her eye. Pellaeon, thankfully, didn't notice; he was staring down the long palace hallway. The interior of the structure was made of the same white stone as the exterior, with polished floors and columns and the occasional click of footsteps as civil servants made their way between the numerous offices. She followed his gaze and found him looking at a small banner hanging from one of the pillars: a red background, with the black and white Imperial Crest emblazoned across it. Every fourth pillar had one, all facing into the building, all illuminated by soft lighting.

"Admiral Pellaeon, Captain Rogriss?" A protocol droid shuffled up to them, bowing slightly in the stiff way protocol droids typically did. "Grand Moff Ferrouz will see you now."

Asori followed Admiral Pellaeon into Ferrouz's office. It was the same office that had belonged to Governor Ferrouz, and then Moff Ferrouz, as the man had gradually made his way up the promotion chart. Bidor Ferrouz was not a household name—certainly it was not one Asori had heard prior to the catastrophe at Carida—but it was well-known among the higher echelons of the Imperial government. A spry stick of a man who wore his rank plaques lightly on a soft kezmir blouse, he didn't cut a figure anywhere nearly as intimidating as Vader or even the becaped and predatory Kaine. When Ferrouz had been younger, he'd been one of the rising stars in the Imperial bureaucracy, but a series of missteps and whispered innuendos had pushed him out of the Core and into the Outer Rim. When Grand Moff Kaine became sovereign over the galactic northwest, Ferrouz had fallen under his authority and then diligently worked his way into Kaine's good graces.

The two men did not have many things in common, except two: they were both excellent administrators, and neither was an Imperial true-believer. Together they had implemented the successful policy of bringing aliens into Kaine's military forces—many of those aliens were now crew aboard Pellaeon's flotilla of Enforcer-class heavy cruisers, all of which had been built by Kaine—and ultimately Kaine had chosen Ferrouz as his successor, much to the dismay of the Council of Moffs, most of whom had later sided with ISB.

Now Ferrouz was the head of an Imperial insurrection against Emperor-Regent Halmere's New Order practically by default. He had claimed the title of Grand Moff out of necessity but, Asori reflected as she regarded the well-appointed but hardly palatial governor's office, he had not adopted any of Tarkin's excesses. It's nice to work for someone I can respect, she thought.

Next to Ferrouz was Baron Soontir Fel. Where Ferrouz was lean, Fel possessed the blocky muscularity of a TIE pilot, just barely short enough to fit into the cockpit without it becoming uncomfortable. The two men were clearly comfortable with one another and were in close conversation when Asori and Pellaeon entered the room; they stopped and stood, offering Pellaeon their hands in turn.

"Admiral," Ferrouz greeted Pellaeon. Fel merely nodded. They all took their seats; Asori, as the junior officer, stood towards the back. There was only one chair remaining by the desk, and that would belong to her father when he arrived.

No sooner had that occurred to her than the door slid open once more. "Admiral Rogriss and Commander Dreyf," Ferrouz's protocol droid announced.

Her father spared her a smile, one she returned somewhat severely—maintaining the necessary separation between their familial relationship as parent and child and their official relationship as superior and inferior officer—and then he moved to take the remaining seat at the desk. "Grand Moff Ferrouz, Baron Fel, it's good to see you both again."

"Admiral Rogriss," Fel responded. His dark eyes were surprisingly emotive, Asori thought to herself. Despite his perfect Imperial dignity, Fel's every motion was imbued with energy; she suspected that was one reason he'd been such an excellent teacher at Carida. "Let's begin," Fel said, and pressed a button on Ferrouz's desk. The lights dimmed, and behind the desk a screen blinked to life. Ferrouz and Fel both moved to one side, and all five of them watched as a map of the galaxy appeared. The map quickly zoomed in on Imperial territory; in green was the Candoras Sector that Ferrouz still controlled, with small dots marking the presence of Pellaeon's fleet and her own squadron at Poln Major. In a lighter grayish-green was a much larger area that stretched into the Unknown Regions. That volume of space was just as large as the entire Empire, with dozens of dots representing the Imperial colonies, shipyards, bases, and allies of the UREF.

The New Order was in blue, with dots on Entralla—the current Imperial capital and home to Bastion, its center of government—Sartinaynian, Jaemus, and Muunilinst, its four most important systems.

To the south of the green and blue was a mass of red; dozens of dots representing planets and fleets belonging to the New Republic.

"Our objective," Fel began, "is to keep the New Order from recapturing Candoras Sector. The longer the New Order fails to accomplish that military objective the more its authority will degrade. Our intelligence operations indicate that there are a number of systems within the New Order chafing under ISB's new policies—"

Asori winced. Since taking over the Empire, ISB had instituted zero tolerance policies for anything that smacked of anti-Imperial heresy. Kaine's pro-alien policies had been revoked with prejudice, and she knew that throughout the systems still held by the Empire there was a great deal of building resentment. The problem, though, was that there was also a great deal of support, and there was no guarantee of which way any given ship, planet, or system would go if given the choice.

"—and the longer we can hold out, the higher the chance that ships or systems will choose to defect to our side." Fel looked up, his eyes catching Asori's. "But at the same time, we also do not want to reveal the existence of the UREF to the New Order just yet. At the moment, they are convinced that Grand Moff Ferrouz has been able to repel their assaults thanks to Admiral Pellaeon and the ships that defected at Carida. What they don't know is that those ships are receiving repairs and logistical support from the UREF that Candoras Sector would be unable to provide on its own."

Ferrouz snorted. "The Candoras Sector is in Wild Space. We can barely provision our Golan platforms. We'd have no chance of provisioning even one Star Destroyer, much less Admiral Pellaeon's entire fleet."

"Which means that ultimately, the New Order would succeed in defeating my forces without that support," Pellaeon added. Now that it was a question of tactics and strategy, Asori noted, all the qualms he'd expressed earlier were gone. Pellaeon was commanding a ship and a fleet. In his element, he was able to put all other concerns out of his mind. "Resupply and repair are most important, of course. Thankfully, we're well-supplied with TIEs and pilots, which means our biggest concern is simply keeping our Star Destroyer's operational."

"Not an easy task," Rogriss added. "Each Star Destroyer is its own logistical nightmare."

"That is a problem we can handle," Fel said. "The UREF will continue to provide what supplies we can without making it obvious to the New Order's observers that Ferrouz is getting help." He once again gazed at Asori. "Captain Rogriss, your squadron of Lively-class frigates represents Admiral Pellaeon's principal reserve."

Her four ships were sufficient to defeat an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer handily, and carried twelve squadrons of Chiss Clawcraft between them—a better fighter than anything the Empire had put into common use. But at the same time… "Sir, if the New Order brings a dozen Star Destroyers, my ships will be able to contribute but won't be able to make a decisive difference."

"Which is why I'm still putting together the real reserve at Nirauan," her father said. "When the fleet is ready, we'll more than double Gilad's current strength."

Fel's lips firmed. "We need to do that in a hurry, I'm afraid. Rumors out of the New Order are garbled and it's been difficult establishing good intelligence sources since the Battle of Carida; ISB has been systematically purging anyone they even suspect of disloyalty. Nonetheless, the sources we do have indicate that Emperor-Regent Halmere has some kind of secret project. Unfortunately, I don't know much more, only that the New Order believes it will change the dynamic of the war."

"Has anyone told the New Republic?" Asori asked the question before she'd even realized she had, and cursed herself for speaking out of turn yet again. Fumbling, she added, "Sirs? That might fire them up at least as much as it does us."

"General Cracken is very good at his job," Ferrouz said, somewhat dismissively. "There may come a time when we go to the New Republic with a formal proposal to end the war, but it would come at a high political cost. We'd likely have to promise to give them border systems, not to mention control over Corellia, and we would also have to reveal the existence of the UREF. If we do that, there are many of their Senators who might panic at our increased strength and insist they continue the war until we are fully subjugated. For those reasons, going to the New Republic for help is a last resort."

Asori nodded choppily. At least they didn't seem angry with her, and she was again relieved to be out from under the heavy hand of ISB. If she'd made that suggestion within earshot of an ISB operative, the consequences for her, her father, and her brother would have been severe.

"I have friends and family in the New Republic," Fel said with feeling, surprising her once again. "Many of us do. But that fact will not prevent us from fighting them if we must. We can delay that day, or try to negotiate it away, but we cannot trust that a peaceful solution will be found simply because it is convenient, however loath I am to face that family in battle. The Grand Moff and I intend to proffer a peace with honor, when the moment is right—neither of us wants to fight a war where we no longer have anything to gain and have a great deal yet to lose. Grand Moff Kaine's attempt to end the war was a worthy one. But first we must get our own house in order."

Asori Rogriss glanced at her father and all the other men around her and could not help but think of her academy days and all the classmates who were no longer there to age into this kind of cadre.

[Return to Table of Contents]​

 

Every time you post a new chapter I get even more excited about this story – and I'm going to begin this review with chapter 4 instead of chapter 3 because it involves so many things I wanted to see in a good fanfic. First and foremost: the Empire of the Hand – or, as you've baptised it, the Unknown Regions Expeditionary Force – as a political entity in its own right. That was a huge missed opportunity in profic (which obviously has to do with the order in which the novels were written and published, but still!) and I see that you're determined to do it justice here, since you're depicting it as an empire in its own right. You already hinted at it in the previous stories, with the coda to Interregnum I and then the closing chapters of Interregnum II, but I still got all giddy when I realised that the UREF would be a major player in this fic. And second, what a cast of UREF-Imperial characters! Asori Rogriss is back from her brief appearance in the coda I mentioned, Admiral Rogriss is back too, Pellaeon is adjusting to being a member of this fleet instead of the "regular" Empire (or, more accurately, is taking stock of what the Empire truly was while adjusting to being a member of this particular fleet), and they're establishing their base in the known Galaxy around Poln Major! I absolutely love Choices of One, and I was super-happy to get a bit more story for Ferrouz here. You did a great job of showing how the UREF is yet isn't the Empire – on the one hand, Asori does everything she can to maintain Imperial decorum, on the other, all sorts of things are much more relaxed. By the end of the meeting with Ferrouz and Soontir Fel, the board is set with all the pieces for us readers – but our little group of (ex-)Imperials doesn't know that there's a World Devastator in play, and this is likely going to evolve into a case of "best-laid plans" for them.

And going back to chapter 3, the reason for Mirax and Iella's visit to Dathomir is the last piece we missed for the board to be set on the New Republic side. I enjoyed how you showed that Luke and Mara's relationship has progressed and matured since Interregnum II, but seeing Mara hearing of another Emperor's Hand who is also the Empress Dowager... she may be able to release her anger in the Force now that she's grown into her own as a Jedi, but this mission is likely to be intensely personal for her, so as to truly let go of the ghosts of her past.

Long story, short, still here, still reading and still loving it. This story promises to be everything I want in a fanfic and then some!

PS: I don't know if you're planning to go into the Unknown Regions in a future story, but if you do I have a whole bunch of fanon notes that I'm happy to share, including planets, species and political developments during the period between ANH and TTT.

 

Using Choices of One was hard, actually. I wanted to utilize it (Ferrouz, Poln Major, etc.) but at the same time I want the book to be accessible to anyone who has read The Thrawn Trilogy and nothing else. So while there is a history behind all these people and places, I try to make it not matter in any overt way, so that if you haven't read them you won't be lost, while at the same time if you HAVE read them, they give some additional helpful context.

I'm so glad you're enjoying it so far! As for the Unknown Regions, we can talk later... after all, they might play a role even in this story, so anything I say would be spoilers!

 

I have fawned over this fic on AO3, but I can't fawn over it enough! It's my faaaaavorite.

 

Chapter Five

Silencer-7 was magnificent.

As a child, Roganda Ismaren had been one of the survivors of Palpatine's Jedi Purge. Far too young to use the Force to do more than hold a training saber—and even that had been something of a challenge—she had been quietly evacuated from the Jedi training facility on Kamparas by the Antarian Rangers. She still remembered the fierce, determined looks on the faces of those men and women, heirs to centuries-old tradition of aiding the Jedi during their moments of need. The hours after Knightfall had truly been the time of greatest need, and they had put their lives on the line to shepherd the Jedi younglings to safety however and whenever they could.

She had passed through a succession of small, ill-supplied refugee camps, shepherded by her Ranger guardians through the Outer Rim, in places that the Empire would not find them.

And yet the Empire did find them.

One after another agents of the Empire fell upon each camp. Those same expressions had been present on the faces of her guardians on each of those occasions, too: fierce determination, but then married to desperation and loss, because the Rangers always knew that as hard as they fought, those battles were ones they could not win. As they died for her, over and over she felt both worshiped, and weak.

She had been old enough to remember her evacuation from Kamparas, but only just. The slaughter of the camp on Belsavis, years later, was far more vivid in her memory. Inquisitors and their minions had swept over the camp, brandishing slugthrowers and poison grenades, and they had spared no one. She had fought, as much as she could this time, but when the Inquisitors were done, corpses were scattered through the compound, some still clinging lifelessly to their weapons, others shot in the back where they had fled. The whine of TIE engines in the skies above had been horribly loud, but louder still were the cries of their laser cannons strafing the ground, leaving smoldering craters where once buildings and Rangers had stood.

They had spared Roganda. In each camp there were always at least two survivors, and the devastated and despondent survivors of each camp had been given the same choice that every class of Inquisitors had received since the very first: Fight to the death, and the last one standing, the one who was strong enough, would survive to serve.

Roganda Ismaren had survived being given that choice, but the Jedi initiate she had been had died that day. From that day onwards she bore the blood of her brother and sister initiates on her hands like a psychic stain, and had been something different. Something greater. As the life had drained from people she had once called friends and family, she had truly known why the Sith were drawn to the Dark. It was not something to be feared—it was a way to secure her own future. Safe and secure, able to ride the vicious political tides. No more reliance on the Rangers, no more dreaming of being chosen by a Jedi to become a Padawan, Roganda Ismaren would forge her own future, her own way.

Now with Silencer-7 her future was here. The monstrosity was the marriage of Dark Force traditions and the Empire's technical genius. Its beauty was in what it could create for an Empire stretched to the logistical limit, the perfect weapon. With it, Roganda Ismaren would not just create her own future, she would impose that future upon the galaxy and make it bend to her will. When Palpatine had taken her aside and elevated her from mere Inquisitor to Emperor's Hand, he had anointed her the agent of his will, and he had taught her what it meant to bend the galaxy to her whim. Now she was his truest heir and the galaxy would be hers.

She gazed through the transparisteel window at the station. The massive factory and warship had grown since she had brought its core here. It had begun as a small cube, small enough to easily fit in a bulk freighter's cargo bay. Now, surrounded by the shattered wreck of a world that to Silencer-7 was nothing more than raw materials to be taken and reshaped, it had grown larger than a Star Destroyer. A blocky, cube-like thing, with four foot-like appendages that pointed 'downwards' at all the raw materials, it steadily used its tractor beams to draw asteroids and chunks of rock to be processed and transformed. With them it grew still further, like a hungry child, though it spared some of those resources to forge Halmere's precious TIE Droids.

But it is imperfect. I did not have a true seed, and for it to become what I need it to be I will need to give it one. That failure still stung; the fact that she had not been able to find the seed before Palpatine's death was, in hindsight, for the best, but she had spent years since Palpatine's death trying to find the artifact that was needed to truly perfect Silencer-7. She had found a fragment of the seed on a world which had once been called Dromund Kaas, but the repeated catastrophes that had befallen that world had left it diminished and inadequate for her needs. But Nar Shaddaa has what I need, she thought smugly.

Even now, her transport was preparing to depart for that tawdry exemplar of Hutt power. She was not sure how long it would take her to find the seed once she was there, but she would find it. I will not be denied, and with the seed and the command interface, I will do what even Palpatine could not.

"When are you leaving, Mother?"

She turned towards the voice. Her teenage son, Irek, was resplendent in his dark robes and violet-edged mantle. Like Palpatine, Irek did not bother with the golden frippery so common among many rulers of the galaxy. His black robes were absent frills, though they did look slightly too long for his still-growing frame. But while Irek had been imbued with strength in the Force that could rival even Palpatine's, Roganda thought smugly, he did not yet exude the presence and power required to be a galactic sovereign.

She raised her chin, looking up at her slightly taller son. Her hands moved to adjust his stance, lifting his chin slightly and guiding his arms to settle in a posture that communicated confidence and power. "You are the Emperor, my son," she told him firmly. "And soon you will rule not just the Empire but the galaxy. It is vital that you look the part." She turned him away from the window that looked out on Silencer-7, gesturing at the bridge of her transport and its crew. "Look upon them, my son. Remember that they serve and live at your pleasure. The galaxy is ours to rule by right. That is our power and our obligation. Never let any of them forget that fact." She leaned in closer, brushing her hand over his eyebrow. "You must carry that fact in your every look, your every expression. Your contempt is a reminder of the power you possess, the power they do not have."

Irek's response was that of the typical teenager she had never gotten to be. He sighed, the sound of a young man who had heard it all before, and many times. "I know, mother." But his complaint did not prevent him from stiffening his back, and the look that appeared in his eyes—dismissive, contemptuous, raw—reminded her of the last Emperor. Even if he always needed her there, in the shadows to stiffen his spine, he could rule, she thought smugly. He could, and he would.

"You know what you must do while I am gone?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

He nodded.

"Tell me," she instructed him.

"I must master the command interface and learn to command Silencer Station," he replied, his tone half-humoring, half-annoyed. Typical teenager.

"That's right," she agreed, as if she had not already told him this a dozen times. "Cray Mingla—the degenerate academic we took from Magrody Institute, the expert on AI—will need to be compelled to teach you how to use it. She will be reluctant." Roganda wrinkled her nose as she sneered. "Do not allow her to play on your sympathies. She will serve. If you must, remember that you can threaten her pet cripple to earn her compliance."

"Yes, mother," Irek said obediently. He smiled, gesturing at Silencer-7 through the viewport behind them. "I will learn to control it, I promise. You have gone through too much, and sacrificed too much, to bring us this far. I will not fail."

"Of course you will not. You are the Emperor," she reminded him. "My sacred son, the Elect. Yours is the will of the Force alone."

"He will be the Emperor, when he is ready," a voice said from behind them. Halmere was standing there, in his typical loose-fitting black robes and covering white chest armor. Once upon a time Halmere had been an attractive man, but age and the Dark Side had taken their toll. He was not as withered as Palpatine had been—far, far from—but his once boyish good looks had become severe, and his bright eyes aged.

"Emperor-Regent," Roganda greeted Halmere with false good cheer. She turned to her son. "Irek, you should be getting back to Silencer Station. I will see you upon my return. I expect you to have fulfilled all the tasks demanded of you while I am gone."

Irek's eyes moved between Roganda and Halmere, his lips twisted downwards into an obviously unhappy frown. He remained bitter about Halmere's position as the effective ruler of the Empire—Roganda had encouraged that, as his resentment would stoke his Dark impulses—but it was a necessary compromise with both ISB and the Inquisitorius. Even if they did believe that Irek was Palpatine's son, a belief that Roganda was only too happy to perpetuate, he was an outsider to the institutions of power within the Empire, all of which demanded their own pound of flesh.

"Yes, mother," Irek said in that obedient tone that she insisted on whenever they were in the presence of people with power. With a shallow, practiced bow, and a hint of a glare in Halmere's direction, he withdrew.

Roganda waited until he was entirely departed before stepping close and turning her ire on Halmere. "Was that necessary?"

Halmere raised both eyebrows, though they were difficult to see given his cloak, which shrouded the top of his head. "You promised me that Silencer-7 would be fully operational months ago and it is not. I told Daala and the fleet that they would receive thousands of TIE droids, and they have received merely hundreds. Your failures are either your doing, Roganda, or they are his. Which would you prefer I credit with truth?"

Her hand moved bare millimeters before she restrained it with conscious thought. Gritting her teeth and taking a deep breath, she glowered at the taller man. "You should not have made such promises without consulting me."

"But you promised me that I would have those TIEs, Roganda," he reminded her evenly, his face an expressionless mask, but his sense in the Force one of bitter, petulant annoyance. "Tell me, which of us has been the greater failure?"

"The greater failure?" Roganda echoed. She shook her head and laughed mockingly, tilting her chin up challengingly. "You speak to me of failure, Halmere? Which of us toiled year after year in the Jedi temple, waiting for the Master that never came? Which of us was so weak in the Force that even the Agri-corps did not want us. The Astrogation corps?" She tutted, shaking her head. "How embarrassing."

The anger she expected flared to life behind Halmere's dead eyes. She did not fear it; of the two of them, she was the stronger in the Force, and they both knew it.

"You are a small man, Halmere," she continued, dropping her voice to a bare whisper. She intended to embarrass him, to humiliate him, because he needed to be reminded of their hierarchy, but it would not do to diminish his authority in front of the Empire. Until Irek was grown, until Irek had learned to control Silencer-7, she still needed Halmere to rule the Empire, after all. "Always the loyal servant. First to Tremayne, then to Jerec, and now to me." She smiled at him, a bitter, accusing thing.

Halmere's hand clenched into a fist. The air around her crackled with energy as Halmere sank into the Dark Side, his eyes going sunken as they flashed with the familiar yellow of old hatred. "I should kill you."

"But you won't. You can't. You need me, you need Irek. You always need need need, and only I can provide." She patted his arm dismissively. "Now let me get you what you need to maintain the facade, Emperor-Regent." And with that she turned around, showing him her back, gazing out at Silencer-7, feeling him seethe behind her. She wondered if he'd take advantage of her apparent negligence by attempting to strangle her. She almost hoped he would—but she wasn't ready to do away with him. Not yet.

He wanted to. He did. She could feel him imagining it, his hatred and desire to rip her apart so sweetly clear in the Force. But even if he didn't need her, Halmere was still the failed Jedi he always had been, in a position of power not because he had earned it, but merely because she was all that was left. The Inquisitorious was a pale shadow of the horde of Jedi-killers it had once been and the parade of has-beens who comprised Halmere's loyal minions were even more useless than he was.

So he didn't try to kill her. Instead he leaned in behind her, his chin hovering just over her shoulder. "Do not take too long."

I will take however long I choose to take, she thought, but restrained herself from saying it. As Halmere stormed off, the Dark Side of the Force still swirling around him angrily, air almost crackling with electricity, she merely smiled to herself. And once I have what I need, and Irek has done his part, I will not need you anymore… and you don't have any idea what you can do about it. That is what you are really angry about, isn't it, Emperor-Regent?

* * *​

Ephin Sarreti wanted to leave Silencer Station as soon as possible.

This whole place was downright creepy. Just being here was enough to send shivers down his spine, and he had no interest in prolonging his stay any longer than was necessary. The only reason he was here was Admiral Daala had become increasingly irate over the Halmere's delay in delivering her the promised TIE droids—her complaints about the difficulty of keeping the New Republic out of Corellia without them were increasingly laden with angry invectives—and she had sent him to personally convey the seriousness of her need.

Daala could do a lot to hold back the New Republic, especially with General Antilles' Fifth Fleet out of theater undergoing repairs, but without the promised reinforcements it was a delaying action only.

Still, going to a superior and entreating him to keep his promise was the kind of thing that, in Vader's day, had presaged the death of many promising young officers. Sarreti was ambitious, not stupid, and the last thing he wanted was to get between Halmere and Daala when the two were arguing. There was no upside to that.

So it was with the height of unease that he received Halmere's communications request. Grimacing, he stared at the communications unit, dreading responding to it. What if Halmere had decided he was angrier with Daala than he had originally seemed?

When Sarreti's parents had sent him to COMPNOR as a boy, his father had taken him aside and warned him to stay calm, glide smoothly through his schooling, and most especially not to antagonize anyone in a superior position to himself. The Sarretis had been a reasonably prosperous Coruscanti family, and his father had known that keeping that prosperity required keeping one's mouth shut. Ephin had kept to his father's lessons over the years, which was one way he'd risen to the rank of Loyalty Officer and was on the short list for Moff.

He took a breath and accepted the comm request.

To his relief, it wasn't Halmere himself on the other side of the connection. Unfortunately, this relief was short-lived. "Loyalty Officer Sarreti," said Moff Disra. "I understand you're preparing to depart to return to your duties as Daala's Loyalty Officer, but Emperor-Regent Halmere requests your presence before you depart."

"Of course, Moff Dirsa," Sarreti said, his mouth dry. "May I ask what this concerns?"

"I believe it is about the delivery of the TIE droids that Daala has been promised," Disra said contemplatively. He leaned towards the screen, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. "I fear the Emperor-Regent is in a foul mood. He had a conversation with the Emperor's Hand before she departed on her own mission and has been fuming ever since."

These machinations are going to be the death of me, Sarreti thought dismally. "I understand, Moff Dirsa. I will attend to the Emperor-Regent at once. Please have my ship ready to depart when the meeting is concluded."

"I understand completely," Disra agreed, and the screen went black.

With a heavy sigh, Sarreti reached for his dress uniform. If he was very lucky, he might even survive the afternoon with some starching still left in the collar. And if he didn't… Well. If he didn't, he wouldn't have to worry about it.

* * *​

Emperor-Regent Halmere's chambers aboard Silencer Station lacked the pomp of the Coreworld elite. Dark and poorly furnished, there was little to the space. At the far side of the windowless room was a broad desk, replete with multiple monitors and a map of the galaxy. The rest of the space was almost entirely empty, with only a few cabinets on either side—closed, their contents unknown—and a large, circular meditation rug filling the empty space. In the center of that rug knelt Emperor-Regent Halmere, facing away from the door that Sarreti had quietly entered through.

"Enter," Halmere said without turning to face him. His voice was deep and hoarse, as if he had run a Stormtrooper assault course, though Sarreti tried to restrain his imagination from picturing the larger man in his dark robes and apron of armor running anywhere.

Sarreti took two steps into the room, standing just short of the edge of the tatty rug, and stood at attention. "Loyalty Officer Sarreti reporting as requested, your highness."

Halmere waved away any more perfunctory ceremony. "Sarreti, when you return to Admiral Daala, inform her that there will be further delay in the delivery of the TIE Droids she has been promised. They are being redirected towards another objective."

If Halmere doesn't kill me, Daala will, Sarreti thought dimly. This was a disaster. Daala was insistent that she had to have those reinforcements before Antilles' Fifth Fleet became active again, and that the only hope Corellia had to remain free of the New Republic was to use them to strike a surprise blow. She needed them and he was obliged to remind Halmere of that. He hovered in a moment of indecision, because reminding Halmere might well have fatal consequences…

"I am aware of Admiral Daala's concerns about Corellia," Halmere went on, pre-empting Sarreti's response, to his everlasting relief. "But Corellia is not the only thorn plaguing the Empire. If Moff Ferrouz and Admiral Pellaeon are not brought to heel, there may be even more defections from our fleet. The TIE Droids will be used to crush Pellaeon's pathetic fleet and bomb Poln Major to rubble."

"Your highness," Sarreti began cautiously, "Admiral Daala's entire plan for the defense of Corellia requires that the existence of the TIE Droid be kept a secret until they can be used to score a decisive victory. If they are deployed against Pellaeon, the New Republic will surely find out—"

"I do not care what Admiral Daala has planned," Halmere cut him off curtly. "She is the finest officer in the Empire, by her own reckoning. If the plan she has will not work, she will just have to find another." Halmere stood slowly, and Sarreti felt his heart clench with fear as the Emperor-Regent turned to face him. Those eyes… Halmere sounded calm, but there was a depth of rage and fury in those eyes that terrified Sarreti. Whatever Roganda Ismaren had said to Halmere had pushed him into a frenzy, and suddenly Sarreti was even more acutely aware of the bed of swords he was lying in.

He swallowed hard. "I will tell her, Emperor-Regent."

"I will provide the latest updates to the astrogation charts in the Core and Deep Core." Halmere's tone indicated that this was not a concession, but a gift—one that was to be respected as such.

"Of course, Emperor-Regent. I'm sure the Admiral's gratitude will be made manifest when she uses them to their full effect."

He was relieved when Halmere did not prevent him from leaving, but his heart rate did not return to normal until his shuttle was safely in the sweet embrace of hyperspace.

* * *​

Cray Mingla stared at her hands. They trembled. For years her hands had remained stone-steady while performing minute adjustments in her lab work. They had stayed just as steady as she cared for Nichos after one of his fits. Now they trembled. They didn't tremble like Nichos' did—his tremble was that of illness, of synapses misfiring. Now that she had been taken by Director Ismaren and the Empire, her hands trembled from exhaustion and fear.

She needed to sleep. She needed to keep her strength up, because tomorrow would be another excruciating day, a day she would sustain because her pain was nothing compared to Nichos' pain and whatever she could do to preserve his life, to give them a chance of regaining the happiness that had been stolen from them by his illness and by the Empire, she would do.

But she couldn't. She couldn't sleep, because Nichos needed her.

Her lover recovered from the stun blast slowly. The first day afterwards he had trouble eating; the first time he swallowed down the gruel they were given she nearly burst into tears. Slowly, she took the time to help him back to health, knowing that it would not be long before she was sent back into the lab, poking at the innards of yet another one of the Empire's horror-weapons. She was furious with him for the risk he had taken, and she was furious with herself for the risk she had taken. But, she reminded herself, his had been premeditated. Hers had been a response to sudden, unexpected opportunity… and his, even if it had been successful, would not have assured their escape.

"You shouldn't have done it," she whispered quietly, coldly, when he was recovered enough to appreciate her fury.

His dark blue eyes held the reminder of pain, but not a bit of apology. "Had to do something," he managed, his voice hoarse and dry. She helped him take a sip of water. "Had to try."

"You're lucky they didn't kill you."

His eyes softened, and his hand grew surprisingly still as he placed it on hers. "I'm going to die either way," he said, calm and certain in a way that sent a spike of white-hot rage up her spine. "But if I don't do something, they're going to kill you after their project is up and running."

She nearly slapped him. Her hand balled into a furious fist. "I can save you!" she insisted. "Your disease is of your body, not your mind! I'm a cyberneticist! I'm the best damn cyberneticist in the galaxy, and I can—"

"At what cost?" Nichos asked. His hand wrapped around her fist and squeezed. "Say the Empire lets you save my life, Cray. Say they even let us both go. What will they do with this place after that?"

Cray thought of that swarm of droid starfighters. Of the cold, contemptuous voice of the AI she had interacted with through the command interface. Of the Imperials, with their cold, inhuman treatment of her and Nichos, looking through them rather than at them, like they weren't even there… except when they needed something done. Of Roganda's boot tickling her nose.

She shuddered. "If… if you're right," she stammered, "then… then what we need to do is stop them." She shook her head, fighting back tears. "Maybe we should just stop cooperating altogether. They'll kill us, but at least—"

Nichos' hand shook around hers. He clasped both his hands tight around hers, squeezing so hard that hers almost began to hurt, but that was just his way of keeping his own hands from shaking. "Do you think that is the right thing to do?"

She shook her head at him, not understanding. "That's what I'm asking you!"

His hands squeezed tighter. "Cray. Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"You said that Roganda told you that you have the Force," he said. His tone was quiet, reverent, and she could sense just how hard he was fighting to keep from allowing his illness to touch him in this moment, to interrupt something that suddenly had unexpected weight. "So close your eyes."

She did not understand. The Force was a mystery to her, a child's story. It wasn't something a scientist took seriously.

But Nichos was a scientist too.

She closed her eyes.

"Don't think. I know, that's hard for both of us." There was even a bit of humor in that voice, and it reminded her of the Nichos of old, of times that now felt long, long ago. The two of them had been happy then, working in their adjoining labs at the Magrody Institute, him on his enhanced droid intelligence and miniaturization projects, her on her extensive study of captured Ssi-Ruuk technology. The banter which turned to flirting, which turned to dinner, which turned to cuddling on his couch. "Don't think, Cray."

She tried, but there was always something, always some waywary thought, some idea, some pain, some premonition of mourning—or of hope.

It was good enough. "What should we do?"

The answer wasn't one that came from the Force. At least, Cray didn't think so. The answer was one that had lurked in the pit of her stomach, taunting her in dark moments. "We should sabotage this place," she whispered. "As much as we can. However we can. For as long as we can."

She opened her eyes slowly and found him staring back at her. "They'll kill us," he reminded her.

"They're going to kill us anyway."

There it was. A kernel in the pit of her stomach. Resentment and anger rising deep within her. Anger at Nichos' illness. Anger at the Empire. Anger at everything that had been done to them, taken from them. Resentment over everything they had already lost… and over everything that they had yet to lose. But for the first time, Cray's response wasn't rationalization. It wasn't fear. It wasn't panic.

It was hate.

"We can stop them," she said, and she knew, deep down, that it was true. She wasn't sure if that was some mystical Force talking, or if it was just her own accursed stubbornness. She had done everything she ever set her mind to, up to and including building that damned command interface for Roganda. "And at least we'll be together."

He squeezed her hands, but all the strength suddenly faded and she felt them start, once more, to shake. She gripped them firmly, holding them still. "We can stop them," she repeated, feeling the confidence born from experience and rage mingled together grow. "And at least we'll be together."

"All right," he agreed. "All right."

* * *​

"One day soon, son, you will be Emperor in truth as well as name."

Irek Ismaren thought about his mother's words a lot. For his entire life, but particularly aboard Silencer-7, she was inescapable, and all of his cybernetic implants itched. Hers was the ever-present voice in the back of his mind. You will rule, it said. The Force chose you and I shaped you. You must rule. You deserve to rule. You are owed obedience. All those who stand against you are worthy of contempt and death, and their deaths are a lesson to others.

That destiny was not just a reward, but a burden. A burden of responsibility as well as authority, of work as well as leisure. The work that was required now was learning how to rule. For years, Roganda's pet—the brilliant scientist Doctor Nasdra Magrody—had worked to give Irek the ability to command the AI at the heart of Silencer-7. But despite early successes he had become more slothful and Roganda had decided that the old man's passive resistance would result in unacceptable delays. Magrody's death had been one of many Irek had witnessed since childhood. Their deaths are a lesson to others.

Irek had liked Magrody well enough, and his death—while necessary—had annoyed him. But then Roganda found Magrody's most brilliant student as a replacement. If Magrody had been resigned and contemplative, Doctor Cray Mingla blazed with hard-edged fire. Despite the bitterness she displayed towards everyone—Irek included, though they had spent little time together—Irek much preferred Cray. She was, after all, the most beautiful woman Irek had ever seen. Tall, with brilliant golden hair and dark, expressive brown eyes, Irek often found it difficult to look away from her, or to maintain his air of carefully-cultivated detachment.

His mother had warned him not to 'pursue' her, lest they lose another genius. Cray had talents that even Magrody had lacked and she had made incredible progress on the Silencer command interface in the long months she had been their captive. She was irreplaceable; alienating her would set them back and perhaps even make it impossible for him to command the AI his mother had worked many years to cultivate. But these restrictions did not make Cray Mingla any less beautiful, and Irek wondered about what would become of her after her task was complete. His mother would probably want to kill her. Irek recoiled at the thought.

The door to the chambers that Cray and Irek shared slid open at his command. There was no lock on the door—none that would stop Irek, anyway. Inside the small room, Cray was tending to her crippled fiancée, who remained alive for two reasons and two reasons only: despite his approaching uselessness he was a useful cyberneticist in his own right, and without threats to him hanging over her head Cray would not cooperate willingly with the Empire. Neither of these were things Irek much cared about—he was reasonably certain that the man was dead weight, and that he could force Cray to cooperate even without such a weak man for leverage. The thought was married to jealousy as he watched Cray look up from her tender caring to—he fought to remember the man's name, and it came to him in a moment of recollection—Doctor Marr. Such a pitiful creature does not deserve such a stunning beauty, the seventeen-year-old thought sourly.

At least he could interrupt their little love-fest. "Doctor Mingla," he announced, trying to sound as authoritative as an Imperial Admiral. His voice, thankfully, no longer cracked—that had been a humiliating few years. "It is time to begin my instruction in how to best use your command interface for Silencer Station." He wondered—hoped, really—that she would appreciate his willingness to credit her with the creation of the interface.

Cray stopped tending to her cripple and turned to look at him. She looked exhausted, with dark bags under her eyes, but despite her exhaustion and lack of makeup she remained stunningly, devastatingly beautiful. Irek's heart thumped in his chest when she looked at him.

"Go on, hon," the man-machine murmured, almost unheard, "I'll be fine. Need to rest anyway."

"Very well." Her voice was soft and lyrical. She took her hand off the cripple's back. "Where shall we work?"

Irek always liked it when she said "we." He couldn't keep the smile off his face. "In the lab," he suggested. "My mother left your interface there." He held his arm out as she rose carefully, but she did not take it. Instead, she took her time, arranging Marr's body with care. His eyes narrowed. "Sometime today, if you're feeling ambitious."

She did not quicken her pace. But when she was finished she strode from the room with her head up, as if she hadn't a care in the world, leaving him to hurry behind.

[Return to Table of Contents]​

 

Chapter Six

The Imperial-I class Star Destroyer Stormhawk lurked in the Leria Kerlsil system. Deep in New Republic territory, the populated system sat directly on the Corellian Run: the trade route between Coruscant and Corellia which then headed out to the Outer Rim. For months the New Republic's military efforts had been dedicated to securing as much of the Corellian Run as they could, and for months Admiral Natasi Daala had been preventing them from doing just that.

She stood in the center of Stormhawk's bridge, staring out into the total blackness. Total blackness, because the only way to get an Imperial ship this deep into New Republic territory was under cloak. The screen that made Stormhawk invisible to the New Republic also blinded her, and Daala had no idea what would be waiting for them when the time came to drop that cloak. But that was the risk of the strategy she had adopted to foil the New Republic's advance.

Captain Markarian stood at her side. "Almost time, Admiral?" he asked.

She checked her chrono. "Almost," she agreed.

"Are we waiting for anything in particular?" he asked curiously.

"Imperial Intelligence's report of when the New Republic convoy would be departing Coruscant indicates that our best chance of catching them will be in thirty minutes," Daala reminded him. "And given where we are, it's best not to hang around long after we intercept it."

"Yes, sir." Markarian nodded.

"The New Republic's capture of Perma and Lolnar puts us well behind enemy lines," she mused aloud. "Stanz has moved his ships forward to Lolnar to continue putting pressure on Corellia, but that stretches their supply lines and gives us a chance to hit their rear."

It was nothing that Markarian did not already know, but it was good to explain to Stormhawk's bridge crew their intent before the battle. Since she had taken command of the fleet she had completely rewritten Imperial doctrine. Instead of meeting the New Republic in the slugging matches that had once been the Empire's only fleet tactic, she made ruthless use of cloaking devices to sneak Imperial formations into places where they would have force advantages, used hit-and-fade attacks, and focused on pulling the New Republic's logistical units out of hyperspace with Interdictors or Empion mines. Her commanders had complained bitterly that the new Imperial way of war was cowardly and not befitting of the Starfleet. She had taken those complaints as resignation notices and replaced them with officers who more fully comprehended that the glory days were done.

"Captain Markarian, you may deploy the Empion mines at your discretion," Daala said formally as she watched the chrono tick down to zero. "Drop the cloak. Launch our TIE interceptor squadrons, but inform their commanders to hold off on engaging the enemy until they receive explicit orders to do so."

"Not our TIE Droids?" confirmed Markarian.

"Not yet," Daala said. This mission wasn't nearly important enough to reveal to the New Republic the existence of her sudden growth in starfighter strength, even if she hadn't received nearly as many as she had been promised. That moment would come.

As the cloak came down she saw the world of Leria Kerlsi for the first time. With a population of only 300,000 it was one of the smaller Core Worlds, and wasn't considered important enough for a military garrison—nor strong enough to field a significant system defense force. Indeed, she saw only a handful of ships that might have military capacity in orbit, and nothing worth hunting. As long as they stayed within the planet's gravity well, she'd leave them alone.

"Mines active, Admiral."

She nodded. "Jam the local HoloNet to prevent messages being sent." She checked her chrono. "It will take the New Republic three hours to get substantial reinforcements here. We will stay for two hours. If we don't catch anything in that time, we'll leave to try again another day."

Seventy-five minutes later a New Republic formation including a Nebulon-B escort frigate, half a squadron of Y-wings, and six New Republic military freighters came smashing out of hyperspace. The Empion mines wreaked their havoc and it took Stormhawk only twenty minutes to finish them off without a single casualty.

They were gone before any reinforcements could arrive.

* * *​

Massive, strong, and stately, the Sadashassa Senatorial Skyhook stood out like a beacon in Coruscant's low orbit, now the permanent seat of the New Republic government. From its outer observation ring, Wedge could see the massive spacescrapers pushing up into the sky, pointing up like the quills of a Ralltiiri porcupine, and just as prickly.

"I seldom saw my homeworld from this angle until I went Fleet," his aide, Commodore Atril Tabanne, commented from his side. "From the ground, skyhooks looked like these gleaming gemstones, white or red depending on the time of day. It's just as strange to be on one of them looking down at the city. Most natives of Coruscant never leave—there's a whole galaxy down there. Neighborhoods and rivalries and scattered local governments and gangs. If you slip too far down towards the surface you'll run into gang wars which have been waging for longer than the Galactic Civil War, and half the people don't even realize the Old Republic has fallen."

"One war at a time, Atril," Wedge sighed. "We have enough trouble with the one we're fighting up here."

She laughed. "I know, Wedge. And I wouldn't even know who to sign up with, or how. The history is so muddled that none of them really know what they're fighting for, other than control of a street or a corner shop, and no one knows what victory would even look like. If any of them won, they'd just split and the war would start all over again." She offered him a humorless smile. "At least we're fighting for something and our war has a chance at ending."

"Let's just hope that the Inner Council isn't about to make ending it more difficult," Wedge muttered darkly.

Behind them, the Sullustan sentry outside of Admiral A'baht's office pressed a stubby hand to his ear, then chittered to gain their attention. "[The Commander-in-Chief will see you now]," he announced.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Wedge replied, and he and Atril entered the room.

Admiral A'baht's office was much as Admiral Ackbar's had been, before the Mon Calamarian had resigned his post in the New Republic military to assume the role of Senator full-time. The Dornean had replaced Ackbar's oceanic artwork—still holos or impressionistic canvases of oceans, or sculptures reminiscent of tides and waves—with entire ethnographies of abstract, minutely-detailed mosaics done in every medium imaginable.

The pieces offered equal measures of intrigue and order, and Wedge resolved to ask the new Admiral about them one day when both men had more free time.

Wedge was not surprised to see that A'baht was not alone. General Airen Cracken was with him, and so was an unexpected face: the new Senator for Corellia-in-exile, Sena Midanyl. "Come in, General," A'baht greeted him. "You know General Cracken and Councilor Midanyl."

"I do," Wedge agreed. "General, Councilor."

"You can still call me Sena, you know," the older woman replied with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She waved a graceful arm, demonstrating all the poise of someone who had been a Senate aide before she was Wedge's age. "Sit down, Wedge."

Wedge knew that tone of voice and didn't like it.

"Admiral Daala hit us again today," A'baht announced with a frown. Wedge sat up, a sense of dread swelling at those words. The new Imperial fleet commander had been a relative unknown just a year before, whose reputation owed more to the improprieties of the Imperial Starfleet than to her combat abilities. That was no longer the case now—whatever the Empire thought of her behind closed doors, the New Republic had learned not to underestimate her. "We lost a proton torpedo resupply convoy—six replenishment ships, loaded with three-hundred-plus proton torpedoes each."

Wedge winced. Fifth Fleet needed as many proton torpedoes as possible to take Corellia. "Another mysterious Star Destroyer suddenly appeared in a system we thought secured, pulled the convoy out of hyperspace, and vanished before we could get reinforcements to help?"

"It would appear so, given the reports from the survivors. But I think, given what I've managed to learn from the local surveillance systems, that I have an idea of how she's doing it. General Cracken?"

"The Star Destroyer Stormhawk appeared out of nowhere about an hour before the attack," Cracken explained promptly. "And by 'out of nowhere', I mean that literally. There was no indication of a hyperspace emergence, and when the Star Destroyer appeared it was with zero relative velocity." He frowned. "That's a pretty good indication that Daala is not just having ships come out of hyperspace at a distance, power down and come in dark, and then light up when they're in combat range."

"So she is using cloaking devices," Wedge said with a sigh. "We were afraid of that."

Cracken nodded. "Best guess, Stormhawk was already in-system when Fifth Fleet captured Leria Kerlsil. She waited under cloak until Fifth Fleet moved on, then waited some more, probably using couriers to pop out from under the cloaking shield to keep an eye on things and relay communications. Then once there was an opportune moment Stormhawk dropped the cloak and laid an Empion mine.

"By the time reinforcements could arrive," Cracken continued, "Stormhawk was gone. Admiral Stanz was able to set up some blockades along the most-likely hyperlanes, but without luck. Likely Stormhawk retreated into the Deep Core. The Empire knows the unstable hyperlanes of the Deep Core far better than we do and is more willing to risk traversing them."

"It's exactly the kind of maneuver we would have pulled ourselves before Endor," A'baht said, his voice full of rueful admiration. "But we didn't have cloaking devices or Empion mines."

"Or Star Destroyers," Wedge added. "This is going to slow down efforts to retake Corellia," he warned, looking at Sena.

The Senator representing all the Corellians in the New Republic, forbidden to return to their Imperial-controlled homeworlds, didn't even nod. "I know. And that leads us to our second order of business, and the reason we scheduled this meeting with you." She turned to Cracken. "General, would you care to do the briefing?"

"General Antilles, things are heating up on Corellia," Cracken began. "The Corellian HoloNet has been locked down by the Diktat, but we know that major protests are kicking off throughout the system. I'm not sure what exactly set them off, but it sounds like a Drall was murdered while in ISB custody. That set off a chain of protests on Drall, which led to sympathy protests on Selonia and Corellia. I can confirm major protests in Coronet, and there are… certain indications… that Drallan and Selonian civilian and military forces are preparing for more active resistance against Imperial rule in the Corellian system."

Atril gasped. "That's suicide!"

"It could well be," Cracken agreed. "But that doesn't mean that it won't happen. it sounds like the aliens and sympathetic humans were reacting against the imposition of new discriminatory laws across the Corellian system." He frowned. "Since the coup, COMPNOR and the New Order have been imposing those laws on aliens all across Imperial space. So far only Muunilinst has avoided them."

"The Selonians and Drallans aren't likely to tolerate that," Wedge said, feeling an angry crease in his brow. Those ISB scumsuckers are picking one hell of a fight for no reason at all. There was a reason the Empire had long left the Corellian system to its own devices.

"Until now, Corellia's internal politics have largely been left to Corellia," Sena said, putting voice to his thoughts. "With ISB fully in charge of the Empire, that's changed. But it means we are working with a tight window of time. If the revolt can't be suppressed with mass arrests, the Empire may well resort to limited orbital bombardment to restore order. And if that doesn't work, perhaps not-so-limited orbital bombardment."

Wedge had seen, not that long ago, the consequences of even a short-lived orbital bombardment. The Imperial Academy on Carida had been bombarded for two, maybe three minutes by a single Star Destroyer, and even that had caused upwards of fifty thousand casualties. "You said there were protests in Coronet?" he asked warily.

Sena's grim nod told him that she too foresaw the possibility. "And if they resort to bombing Coronet to put down the protest…"

Coronet City was the pride of the entire Corellian Sector. The center of Corellian wealth and prosperity, it was a flourishing capital of arts and culture, with millions of residents and millions of additional commuters from throughout the Corellia system. Wedge had snuck in to see Coronet after the Ukio campaign on a date with Iella, to remind himself exactly what it was he was fighting for. Even under drab Imperial grays and blood red banners the old city hadn't disappointed.

The thought of Coronet City suffering an Imperial orbital bombardment…

But the consequences of rushing in to try to stop it could be just as dire. "If we push the timetable on the Corellian operation too hard," Wedge warned, "that will leave us vulnerable to Daala's rearguard actions. I won't be able to deploy much in the way of serious force to protect convoys along the Corellian Run. And Lusankya is still weeks away from being ready to return to action."

"We'll be deploying units from Home Fleet to cover your rear when the time comes," A'baht assured him. "Right now, the most important thing is to put pressure on Corellia. Any ships that you can draw out of the system will be ships that aren't available to contain a full-blown revolt. And if we're lucky, maybe with their attention divided you'll be able to catch the Empire between your fleet and the successful rebel forces to liberate the system quickly."

Wedge sent a skeptical glance to Atril, who shrugged. "It's not ideal," she warned. "But with Fifth Fleet's new reinforcements from Kuat and Rendili, our capital ship strength is greater than it has ever been."

"Stanz hasn't been able to force a decisive engagement with Daala," Wedge said, looking at A'baht. "She's been too good at keeping her forces moving and hard to pin down. And I'm concerned about what other tricks she might have that we haven't seen yet. From what little we were able to gather from her record, she always had a reputation as an aggressive hothead. That matched her actions at Dorin and Chazwa, but that's not the sort of tactics we've seen from her since then."

A'baht's expression was firm. "Our intelligence suggests that they have not been able to replace the ships they lost at Carida, much less the manpower. And with Moff Ferrouz and Admiral Pellaeon's little rebellion of their own the Empire is divided. Now is the time to strike, General Antilles, and Corellia needs us to act."

A'baht was right, Wedge feared. But in the Rebellion he'd learned more than once the heavy cost of attacking fortified and prepared targets who knew when, where, and why you were coming, and his gut told him that this would be another one of those times.

"General?" prompted Sena.

"I don't like it," Wedge said suspiciously. "We got lucky at Carida with good intelligence and better timing. Now we're short undamaged ships and our crews haven't gotten a full rest cycle. But I don't see that we have a choice. Our home needs us and billions of lives are at stake." He stared at the Admiral and the Senator with an even, measuring gaze. "I need some time before my fleet will be ready, but I'm in."

"Since they know we're likely coming, I'll organize a volunteer transfer for any Corellian expatriates who want to join your fleet for the operation," added Sena sadly. "Until Corellia."

"Anything I hear, I'll get you by fast courier or emergency broadcast," said Cracken.

"And I'll dispatch more of Home Fleet to patrol the Corellian Run and prevent Daala from staging any more of those rear ambushes," said A'baht, stroking his barbed mustache. He nodded at the Corellians in the room, "Until Corellia," he said, adding the now-familiar phrase out of respect.

"Until Corellia," Wedge echoed, Areta Bell's dying words sticking sickeningly in his throat. He rose, saluted the General, and swept out at a fast walk with Atril following in his wake.

* * *​

"That's strange," Atril said.

A few hours later, they were bunkered down in his office, reviewing battle plans they'd already examined a dozen times over, and trying to guess where Daala would strike next.

"What's strange?" Wedge asked.

"Take a look at this." She slid a datapad across his desk; he stopped it with a hand before it could slide over the edge and fall. "That's Daala's service record. It was attached to her intelligence file—the one Cracken just updated?"

Wedge looked at it. Daala had been a cadet at Carida then caught Grand Moff Tarkin's eye and been assigned to his staff. She'd been promoted rapidly and, despite the widespread perception that her promotions were due solely to Tarkin's favor, performed well in each assignment she'd been given. Upon Tarkin's death, though, she'd been effectively exiled to the Outer Rim. "I know all this already," he said.

"Look closer, specifically at the dates and known associates."

Wedge frowned and did. "What am I looking—" he stopped. "Oh," he said.

"I thought that was interesting too," Atril said, but her voice sounded distant as Wedge lost himself in the name on the page.

In the latest version of the file, Airen Cracken's staff had gone through everything that was known about Daala's history. With the capture of Carida they did not just have their own intelligence records, but the Academy's own files—the academy records building had survived largely intact—and the Imperials had kept meticulous records.

One of the names was Soontir Fel.

Baron Soontir Fel had been the Empire's finest pilot. He was also Wedge's brother-in-law, because Syal Antilles—who had wed Fel under her stage name of Wynssa Starflare—had left Corellia at seventeen for the bright star of Coruscant. Wedge had only been seven, and though his memories of her were somewhat faded over the years, his memory of her smile and her ability to spin a yarn blazed brightly still. When his parents had been busy—which was often—she had been the one to read to him at night, and those remained treasured memories.

Wedge loved his big sister.

Syal and Fel had been celebrities and their wedding had been the subject of sludgenews gossip for years. Until, that is, Fel's capture by the Rebellion, combined with his increasing disillusionment with the Empire, had led to his defection. For a time, Wedge and Fel had even flown together in Rogue Squadron—and the Rogues who remembered him insisted that, of all the pilots the Rogues had ever had, Fel was still the very best.

Fel's time in the Rebellion had come to an abrupt end thanks to Ysanne Isard, who had made it a personal mission of hers to hunt Fel down for his betrayal. Wedge still didn't know exactly what had happened to Fel and his sister, but he was reasonably sure they had evaded Imperial ire—if only because a public example had never been made of them. The fact that Syal and Fel had managed to vanish so thoroughly was comforting, though their absence still stung like a fresh wound every time he thought about it.

Wedge had sworn on his parents' memory that he would find Fel and Syal and the rest of his family. But he had not yet done so, nor did he have any idea where to even start.

It was an odd coincidence to find Fel's name here, but Wedge knew that Fel's name was not the one which had attracted Atril's attention, because the second name on the list was Han Solo.

"Han and Daala were at the academy at the same time?" he asked, pushing past his momentary reverie.

Atril nodded. "Looks like. They shared some classes, too, long before she became entangled with Tarkin." She shrugged. "She's a looker. You think he'd remember her?"

"It's Han," Wedge said. "I'll bet you a bottle of pre-Empire Whyren's they were at least friendly."

"I'll bet you a month of desserts from Iella's favorite bakery on Coruscant that they weren't," Atril replied, somewhat archly.

Wedge chuckled. "You're on. Let's find out, but I'm flying."

* * *​

On the trip from Dathomir to Coruscant, Luke and Mara started Kirana Ti on some Jedi basics. Tempered Mettle was not an ideal place for meditation, but the lounge had been gradually reworked to create a space for it. It was little more than an open piece of floor on which they could lay a mat and a few sitting cushions, but it was better than nothing, and Mara was surprised at how natural its addition felt. She knew that more changes would come with time, and was even more surprised at how comfortable she was with that knowledge.

Kirana Ti knew how to meditate, but the lack of intent in this meditation was clearly unnerving her. They were not meditating for any particular purpose. They were not seeking knowledge. They were merely emptying themselves of thought to allow the Force to fill those empty spaces, and if the Force chose to guide them it would.

Mara knew that the witches called upon the Force typically in moments of desire and need. Their spells conjured its power to create the effects they desired, not unlike a Jedi using the Force for telekinesis. But the witches would need, over time, to grow comfortable with the idea that the main gift the Force offered was not an instrumental one.

"The Force is not just about power," Mara murmured, her eyes closed as she concentrated. Luke stood back, allowing himself to fade into the background as he watched, her red-gold hair seeming to shimmer in the occasional flicker of a faulty ceiling light. She looked at peace, calm and centered, radiating with an inner light—and she reached out to him through the Force, gently chastising him for distracting her. "It's about guidance. Visions of the future, or warnings about present dangers. When you listen to the Force and let it guide you, it will help you with everything from choosing amongst the options you see, to helping you see an option you didn't know you had."

"Then you do not intend to teach me the lightsaber?" Kirana Ti sounded confused, and just the slightest bit perturbed. "The Jedi are great warriors."

"Wars do not make anyone great," Luke said at Mara's gentle prompting in the Force, drawing the attention of their new apprentice. "We will teach you to fight, yes, and teach you to wield a lightsaber, because sometimes only the respect a lightsaber commands will let you implement the will of the Force. But allowing ourselves to become warriors first is part of why the Jedi fell."

"Then what are Jedi?" asked Kirana Ti.

It was Luke's turn to nudge Mara through the Force; she caught the nudge and leaned into the touch, allowing her Force sense to mingle with his. "We serve," Mara said, her voice calm even as she leaned into the invisible intimacy they shared. She turned to look at Kirana Ti, fixing the Dathomiri witch with an intense gaze, one of instruction and command. "Sometimes we serve food to those who have none, sometimes we serve justice to those who need some, but always we must be seekers of truth—and sharers of truth. And, if we have to be, defenders of truth."

Kirana Ti did not look entirely persuaded, Mara saw, but that was alright. It was merely something they would have to watch for—and that was a necessary part of the task Luke had been given, and she had reluctantly chosen. As Luke had told her many times, Yoda had told him to pass on what he had learned, and with Kirana Ti they had another promising candidate.

* * *​

Tempered Mettle descended towards the Jedi Consulate building. A small complex located at the unfashionable edges of Coruscant's Embassy District, the building had once been the Topwara Embassy and cultural center. Toprawa had moved its embassy to the Sadashassa Senatorial Skyhook and given its previous home to the Jedi in permanent trust, refusing any offer of repayment. No doubt their interest had been spurred by the fact that one of their natives, Tyria Sarkin, had become one of the newest Jedi apprentices, but it still made Luke feel vaguely uncomfortable. People all had their own ideas of what the Jedi had once been, but no one knew yet what the new Jedi would be, because that was still taking shape.

The structure was small but not unattractive. A hexagonal structure topped with a high dome, it flowered outwards halfway up, offering six large flat landing pads for spacecraft and airspeeders—a necessity given all the coming and going. Lower down it flowered again, offering another six. After that, it descended down into the lower levels of Coruscant.

On the top tier was the landing pad which was now reserved for Tempered Mettle. Luke glanced behind him, at where Kirana Ti stood watching—with no small amount of awe—as the city swelled through their forward windows. "Welcome to the home of the Jedi on Coruscant," he greeted her.

The witch could only nod, wordless in her awe. Luke was sympathetic; a world more different than Dathomir was hard to imagine.

Mara and Luke set the freighter down comfortably. "Well, there doesn't seem to be a panicked welcoming committee," Mara observed. "That's good."

"Hopefully that's because there's no panic," Luke said, "and not because they're all panicking behind closed doors somewhere."

* * *​

The entry to the Consulate from the landing pad was one of six entryways. Each was remarkably decorative, though decades of damage and ill-repair—particularly after the Empire had come to power on Coruscant—had left their toll. Still, they entered through one of the six vestibules into a large, open space, with lifts and stairs going both up and down. In the center was a monument that predated the Jedi, one dedicated to Toprawa's slain in the war against the Empire—including the many Antarian Rangers who had made Toprawa their home, an enclave that had survived until just before the Battle of Yavin. Vader himself had completed their destruction.

Though the complex had ample room for dwelling, it was not meant to be the home of the new Jedi Order. The Imperial Purge was too fresh in everyone's minds to tie them to any single concrete location as their permanent home, but it was both a message and an outstretched hand to Mon Mothma and the New Republic government.

We're here. We're still here and growing stronger again. Let us help. Let us serve.

Perhaps it meant that the boyish hopes Luke Skywalker once pulled from his heart with ease would never fully fade, even with all the trials and travails of re-establishing the Order, a culture and way of life once hounded nearly out of existence by his own father.

Up the stairs was another large, open space. Without the need for vestibules that opened to the landing pads, there were instead large windows that allowed in copious amounts of sunlight—too much, even, at some times of day. Water fountains were inlaid into the walls between the windows, creating the constant sound of running water—a luxury that Luke, child of Tatooine, would never have imagined as a child—and were interspersed with plants and even a handful of tame animals. Those were there are the request of his nephew, who insisted on them, and thankfully Tionne had taken cheerfully to the task of making sure they were all comfortably at home in what was becoming the closest thing they had to a Jedi Temple. In the center of the room, soft textile rugs were arranged in a circle, though chairs and a round table could be brought in for more serious meetings.

Returning to this space, and seeing it… not filled, but busy, with the Jedi's trainees, filled Luke with hope for the future. For the first time since Ben had left him with the epithet "first of the new," Luke Skywalker was starting to believe the rebirth of the Jedi could be possible, and not just the embers of his carefully banked dreams.

But if they were to survive, first they would have to deal with the Inquisitorius, which remained determined to wipe them out (again), and this mysterious Emperor's Hand now working for the New Order.

It was best not to get too bogged down in the things haunting him, though. Luke was back on Coruscant, he was with Mara, he had his growing Jedi Order, and his family were all on-world with him. "Let's go see Han," he said.

She shook her head, frowning. "First I need to see Cracken. Then we go see the namesake of Solo's Folly."

[Return to Table of Contents]​

 

Catching up again...

I felt a bit for Roganda in the beginning of Chapter 5, because you showed really well how she was made into this horrible person, and, had things been differently, the Jedi padawan she had once been could still be her guiding light – but then you demonstrated what a dysfunctional place Silencer station really is, and I forgot all about that. Between her domineering relationship with her son and the fact that she is shaping him in her image, her passive-aggressive relationship with Halmere that we got to see both in their scene together and in the scene where he talks with Sarreti, and then Cray and Nichos's budding plans for sabotage and Irek's crush on Cray... yikes! How is the Empire supposed to be triumphant when the people in its seat of power are far more concerned about stabbing each other in the back than anything else? One detail that really stood out to me is how Halmere spoke about Daala's need for the droid TIEs – not only are all these people thinking how to stab each other in the back, but they also think of everyone under them as disposable.

I mentioned this in a previous review already, but I'm really enjoying your portrayal of Daala as a competent leader and a good strategist, and seeing the Republic reaction to her latest operation was interesting because they might be the major power in this story, but they're still operating on assumptions. Their decision to launch their re-conquest of Corellia despite the fact that they're not ready militarily betrays that they're still, up to a point, in the plucky underdog mindset. And one titbit that really stood out to me is how Han got mentioned twice in this chapter, both by Wedge and Atril, and by Luke and Mara. In your first two stories we saw him primarily in a domestic role, but methinks he's going to be being pulled back into active duty before he knows it.

Lastly, I thought that this small-scale Jedi consulate in the former Toprawan embassy was really a nice twist on the question of what the Jedi become after the fall of the Empire. It's a training facility but it isn't a temple properly speaking, and that says a lot about the differences between the new Jedi Order and what the old Order was.

 

Chapter Seven

The Solo Residence—which had recently become the Solo-Celchu residence by necessity—was typically a loud, boisterous place full of warmth and tantalizing smells. During the day, Winter and Leia worked in their joint office in the apartment or in Leia's Senatorial suite set deeper into the Skyhook, while Tycho spent his days at Home Fleet's Starfighter academy, hosted aboard the aging Victory-class Star Destroyer Swift Liberty. That left Han and Chewbacca—and their Noghri bodyguards Cakhmaim and Meewalh—home to raise not just two toddlers, but two toddlers and an infant not yet one year old. Right now, Chewbacca was away visiting his family on Kashyyyk and the Noghri were being their usual, alarmingly invisible selves.

Han had to admit, though, little Mia Celchu was cute. Not as adorable and talented as his kids, but still cute. She was also currently in her father's arms, and, miracle of miracles, she was sleeping—though everyone in the room had his voice low to try and keep it that way. Especially since Jacen and Jaina were attempting their own afternoon nap in the other room.

This combination of facts made Han wince when the door chime rang. With excessive haste he hurried over to the unit by the door, managing to hit the mute command before it rang a second time. He looked back at Tycho. "Did it wake her up?"

Tycho shook his head. The fluff of white curls at the top of Mia's head remained still. "No," he whispered.

"Good," he whispered back, before triggering the door release. On the other side were two people, both in New Republic uniforms. Han pressed his finger to his lips before either of them could speak.

Just outside the door, Wedge Antilles straightened, then smiled ruefully and nodded. Then he and Atril Tabanne ducked into the residence. Once inside, Tycho waved silently to Wedge and Atril, offering a smile. Wedge's returning smile was nearly incandescent.

"Where are the twins?" Wedge whispered.

"Sleeping," Han whispered back. "Is this a casual visit or a business visit?"

"Can't it be both?"

"Business, then," Han grumbled.

"Business can wait a minute," Wedge promised. He passed Han, giving him a pat on the shoulder, still smiling, then went over to sit next to Tycho. The two of them watched Tycho's daughter for a long minute, and whispered to one another quietly, catching up.

Beside him, Atril Tabanne stood, looking like she wasn't quite sure what she was doing there. "So, Commodore Tabanne," Han whispered to her, keeping his voice quietly low. Both of Mia's parents might be reserved people, but Mia had powerful lungs. "What brings you and the commander of the New Republic's Fifth Fleet to my door?"

Atril glanced at Wedge. "We want your advice."

"My advice, huh," Han drawled quietly. "And what do you need my distinguished advice abou—" he caught the words in his throat; the sudden stop made Atril jump and spin in the direction he was looking. Luckily, there was no immediate threat there. Unluckily, Jaina Solo was peeking her head out from the hall. "Twins are awake," Han announced quietly.

Tycho looked down at the sleeping Mia and sighed. "And it was so nice and quiet."

"It never lasts," Han observed wryly. "C'mere, sweetheart," he encouraged, with a coaxing tone.

Jaina toddled over. Her steps still uneasy, and Han watched with seasoned anticipation, concerned that she was about to fall over but secure in the knowledge that only ever happened if she tripped on something unexpected and that their toys were all put safely away—the Noghri had helped with that. "Uncle Luke coming, Dada!"

Han glanced at Tycho and Wedge as Jaina waved shyly at the newcomers. "He is?" he asked. "I didn't think he was supposed to be back on Coruscant until later in the week."

Something as minor as Luke's listed schedule didn't bother Jaina. She just nodded seriously, her brown eyes—so like Leia's—wide with an excitement that usually only came from watching spaceships fly past the Skyhook. "Ma-ra too," she added deliberately.

"He usually is," Han commented wryly. "Well, sweetie, how long do you think it'll be before they get here?"

Jaina considered that. "Soon," she proclaimed.

"You know, I think she's right," Wedge said, then winced and glanced at Mia. He continued, more quietly, "A Maka-Eekai L6000 made its way through customs a few hours ago."

"Well, then Jaina is probably right, aren't you honey?" Han asked Jaina, patting her on the head. "Is Jacen awake, or should we go wake him up so the two of you can greet your Aunt and Uncle when they get here?"

Jaina's brows furrowed. "Ma-ra not my Aunt," she countered. "She said!"

"Maybe not, sweetie, but she will be," Han replied, lifting her up so she could see him from eye level.

Jaina giggled in response, as she always did. It never ceased to make his heart warm, either.

Han put her back down. "Tell you what. Why don't you and Uncle Wedge go check on Rogue Solo while I make sure we have something to feed your Uncle when he gets here. He'll be hungry, and I bet he's ready for something more refined than Dathomiri cuisine." He winced. "I certainly would be."

Jaina's brows furrowed further. "I Rogue Solo!" she proclaimed.

Han considered that, hiding a laugh. "You did help cause that incident at the Calamarian opera last week. So you're right. That title does apply to both of you."

Wedge was rising to accompany the half-pint hellion, but neither he nor Jaina made it out of the room before a tiny Jacen Solo toddled in, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of one of his hands.

Han frowned. Was that something squirming in Jacen's grasp? He took a few swift steps towards his son, brandishing a swiftly-grabbed spatula like a weapon as Jacen stumbled over, stopping next to an unconcerned Jaina.

In Jacen's hands was a borrat pup, which nestled against his son's chest, cuddling and rumbling with absolute devotion.

Jacen noticed his sister first. "Hi Jaya. Chomper hungry."

"Chomper always hungry!"

Han came to a stop a few feet from his children. His twins looked up at him wide wide, matching eyes. So did the borrat. "Jacen, where did you get that on a Skyhook?" Han asked, astonished.

Jacen gave him a confused look. "Chomper live here," he explained.

"Are those things dangerous?" Han asked.

"It'll grow up to have tusks that can punch through ferrocrete," said Wedge. "I usually need proton torps to do that kind of damage."

This particular borrat did not have those tusks.

Yet.

But from the look of his son, taking the creature away would be … a contentious act, one that Jacen would resist ferociously. Even as Han considered it, Jacen somehow drew the creature in against his chest even more closely. Han sighed. "Tycho, we're gonna need another cage for the menagerie." He wagged his finger at Jacen. "What did I tell you about new pets?"

"Chomper live here," Jacen said patiently.

"He's got you there, Han," said Wedge.

Han glowered. "Just for that Antilles, you get to help me and Tycho find a way to contain the damn thing."

* * *
​

The Jaina Solo Early Warning System was right about Luke. The knock on their door came not fifteen minutes later—almost exactly as long as it took for Luke and Mara to lock down the Tempered Mettle, catch a transport, clear security, and walk from the skyhook's landing platform to the Solo-Celchu apartment. By then, Chomper was secure, Mia was awake and Tycho was trying to coax her into accepting her bottle while Jacen and Jaina bounced, bright-eyed with excited anticipation.

Han pressed the door release and then got out of the way. The pair of heat-seeking human missiles latched onto their Uncle, all that anticipation converted into energetic hugs.

Luke laughed and dragged the two little Solos back into their apartment as they clung to his legs. "Well hello Jaina, and hello Jacen," he said, ruffling their hair as he offered Han one of those absurdly youthful smiles that the Kid wore all the time these days. "I missed you too."

One of the Rogue Solos—the slightly older one—released Luke's leg and glomped onto Mara's as Luke's nearly-everpresent companion followed him into the apartment. "Ma-ra!"

The hesitation that Mara so often had when dealing with people was not as pronounced as it once had been. In the past, Mara would have endured the hug for a while before returning it—and she only ever returned hugs from one of Han's kids or Luke—but her return hug came a little bit quickly and a little bit more enthusiastic than it had in the past.

Jaina gazed up at Mara with her adoring eyes. "Mara, Dada say you gonna be my Aunt."

Han's heart lurched into his chest and he wasn't sure it was beyond Mara to use the Force for that, just to remind him she could. He often compared her glare to a turbolaser battery, but this time he was pretty sure he was staring down the barrel of a Death Star superlaser. "Your father really shouldn't gossip," she said, clearly not blaming Jaina for the indiscretion, for which Han was grateful. She ruffled Jaina's hair, making his daughter giggle with clear delight.

"Is it true?" Jaina pestered.

"Is it true?" Jacen piled on.

Mara's superlaser gaze turned on Luke, who betrayed her by only offering an awkward grin and a shrug. Han was pretty sure Luke was the only person in the galaxy who wasn't intimidated by that glare—and never had been. She arched an eyebrow, as if increasing the intensity of her regard, and Luke laughed awkwardly. "Come on, kids, let me and Mara get a little settled in while your father gets you something to eat, then we can tell you all about our adventures on Dathomir."

"Aww!"

"I want Mara!"

"C'mere kids," Han intervened. "If you relax for a bit, I'll let you have some of yesterday's rhyscate for lunch." He was relieved when the bribe worked as an effective lure… but he could still feel the Death Star's targeting computer tracking him as he vanished into the kitchen…

* * *
​

"I'm going to kill him," Mara hissed into Luke's ear.

"I've heard that before," Luke murmured back. "Hey guys," he greeted Tycho and Wedge.

Wedge stood, and they exchanged a hug. Tycho, still sitting and holding the now awake and curious Mia as she grabbed at his fingers, disentangled himself to wave and greet Luke with a quick "Hey Boss," but stayed seated. Atril Tabanne, the only person there outside their intimate arrangement of close-friends-and-family, exchanged quick greetings with each of them, then found an out-of-the-way chair not far from the transparisteel window that looked out over Coruscant's lower-orbit.

As Luke sat next to Tycho and greeted Mia, Wedge and Mara renewed their acquaintance. "Antilles," said Mara, in exaggerated faux-Corellian as she offered the General a deliberately casual handshake.

"Jade," Wedge replied, in badly stilted Coruscanti-Imperial as he bowed obsequiously over her proffered hand.

There was another moment of hesitation. Watching them, Luke chuckled. The look that Mara sent him might have come across as a glare, or something with even more heat, to someone not fluent in Mara, but Luke saw the uncertainty, saw her slightly at a loss. I don't know if I'm doing this right, that look said. Mara was perfectly capable of faking friendship—she had been a covert agent after all, of course she was—but feeling out real friendships, ones with people she considered 'safe', was still full of fraught moments.

Unlike Han or Leia, who would have just hugged her, Wedge stepped back, gave her space, and smiled. "How was your trip?"

"Shorter than it would have been," she said. Mara's eyes narrowed some, tracking towards Han as he returned from the kitchen. "The Dathomiri did remember Solo fondly. They named their new spaceport after him."

"They did?" Han said with clear surprise, head sticking back out of the kitchen. "Well, I did give them their planet back, free of charge."

There was a bit of pride in those words, but Han was still watching Mara warily—which was wise, Luke thought. He didn't really believe that Mara intended to kill his brother-in-law, but that didn't mean that Mara didn't have plenty of weapons in her arsenal. And the Dathomiri had given her one in particular…

Mara nodded. "Solo's Folly is quite the bustling metropolis by Dathomir's standards." Her eyes narrowed. "I think the witches quite accurately assessed their benefactor, don't you?"

A ripple of muted laughter went around the room, with Leia in particular forced to cover her mouth. "Well, I never," muttered Han, sounding alarmingly like Threepio; his cheeks had become a rather distinct shade of red. He opened his mouth to offer a retort, but a single glance at Mara—whose smirk was utterly disarming—left it unspoken. "I'll be in the kitchen," Han said lamely, and vanished again.

"We found a new recruit," Luke said after a second quiet ripple of laughter went around the room. "One of the witches, named Kirana Ti. But we didn't stay as long as we wanted to."

Wedge nodded. "Mirax and Iella went out to bring you some top-secret information. They wouldn't tell me what it was, either—and I'm under the impression that they're off debriefing with General Cracken somewhere."

Mara grimaced. "Probably. I just had mine."

"We might as well tell you now," Luke said. "Sit down."

* * *
​

By the time they were done explaining, Han had come back for good. Jacen and Jaina were busy eating messily at the kitchen table, creating abstract art with their desserts. "So the Empire is being ruled by an Emperor's Hand?"

"What kind of artifact are they looking for now?" Wedge's voice was much sharper and more intent than Tycho's—the voice of the commander of the New Republic's Fifth Fleet, who had just been told there might be a new, significant threat to his people.

"What could the Force do to change the entire course of the war?" asked Atril Tabanne.

Luke raised both his hands. "The exact rumors didn't come from us, they came from Mirax and Iella. I assume that Cracken will be briefing you soon, if Iella doesn't do it herself. And the rumor is they're looking for an artifact, not that they have it already."

"It's just another hokey rumor," Han put in derisively.

"With all we've been through together," Luke said, faintly amused, "I'd think by now you would take those rumors more seriously."

To his surprise, Han didn't agree with him. "It's not the same. The Emperor is dead, C'baoth is dead, and Gethzerion is dead. If an artifact this powerful really did exist, wouldn't the Emperor have found and used it himself?"

"Despite the name of Dathomir's newest and only spaceport, Solo has a point," said Mara, as though she'd bitten down on something bitter. She shrugged. "But that doesn't mean it isn't true, of course. It just means there's probably more to the story. And given the potential risks we have to take the possibility seriously, so Luke and I will investigate."

"That's good," Wedge said.

Atril cleared her voice. "Though, the reason General Antilles and I came here was to ask General Solo for a favor."

"That's right," Han gave her a skeptical look. "You said you needed my advice, and we got sidetracked. What do you need me for?"

"There's actually someone else from your academy days we wanted to talk to you about," Wedge replied. "I'm not sure how well you would have known her. Do you remember Natasi Daala?"

Han leaned back in his easy chair, whistling. "Daala? Yeah, I remember her. She wasn't easy to get to know, but we were on fairly friendly terms. Turns out women and gutter-rats both got pretty much the same treatment from all the up-their-crust coreworlders. Go figure. Why do you want to know?"

Atril grimaced but Han didn't know why. He also didn't quite understand the victorious smirk that Wedge sent Atril before he replied. "She's been promoted to commander of the Imperial fleet defending Corellia. She's the one who's been cutting apart our logistics for the last few months."

Both of Han's eyebrows shot up. "Daala has? Does that mean someone in the Empire has finally started promoting based on talent? Or is the new Imperial Regent—what's his name, Halmere or whatever—fixed on her the way Tarkin used to be?"

"I don't know. We don't have a good enough understanding of the inner workings of the New Order after ISB's coup," Wedge said. "Either way, she's in command and she's hurting us. She's done a good job of slowing our advance on Corellia and made it nearly impossible to amass a concentration of force large enough to realistically threaten the planet."

"That doesn't surprise me," Han said thoughtfully. "Daala always had the guts for an all-out slugging match, and she was clever too—meaner than all hell if she got cornered. At the academy she always gravitated towards ground tactics classes." He frowned, tapping his hand on his knee. "I remember in the smaller tactical exercises—the ones where it was all about small unit tactics?—she could struggle. She had a tendency to just bull her way in and start blasting. Even when that worked she'd suffer heavier casualties than the instructors wanted and for the Imperial military that's saying a lot. They didn't usually care about how many bodies were left behind. But in the big picture exercises, where she had strategic command? She'd be more methodical; had a real knack for finding unexpected ways to hurt her opponent."

Wedge winced; clearly, that sounded all-too-familiar. "She's doing the same thing to us now. So I might need you to put your General's cap back on for a bit so we can get some more insights into her."

"You know we Generals don't have official caps," Han said, covering surprise with absurdity as he tried not to blink and give the game away. "Are you really asking me to come back to service?" He gestured at Jacen and Jaina. "I have my hands full here, you know."

"I know, but I might be anyway," Wedge said seriously. "This is all classified of course, but the rebellion on Corellia is getting hotter by the day. The Inner Council wants me to push my timetable hard to try to get the fleet in to free the planet before it can escalate."

Han shook his head slowly and spoke pleadingly, "Look, Wedge, I sympathize. And I'm happy to give you whatever aid you need. But my place is here, now. I have to look after my wife and raise my kids. And…" Han's voice trailed away, and his cheeks actually got a bit pink. "I'm happy here, Wedge. I was never happy wearing that uniform."

"You know I hate asking," said Wedge. "I wouldn't if I didn't know it would save lives."

Han swept his eyes around the room, which had suddenly grown silent and focused on him, which he hated. His gaze lingered on the warm, binary brightness of Jacen and Jaina. "Give me some time to think about it. I promise I'll be in touch."

Luke could tell that Wedge wasn't satisfied with that answer—that he would, given the chance, press Han again to return to the service to help with the Corellia campaign. But just as clearly, Wedge was willing to wait.

* * *
​

Originally, Mara and Luke had planned to stop by the Solo residence just for a quick reunion with Han, Leia and the kids. But Wedge had been there when they arrived and the unexpected congregation persisted for several hours—complete with one Mia tantrum, which was halted only by the arrival of Winter and Leia. By then it was nearly dinner time and while Wedge and Atril made their goodbyes to return to Lusankya, Leia had insisted that the others stay for the meal. So, instead of going back to the Jedi consulate for dinner, Luke and Mara were put to work helping with the cooking.

The dinner had been a happy one, despite the multitude of small familial issues and the larger political crises lurking just out of view. Mara, nearing her limit for group conversation, had attempted an escape, but Jaina and Jacen had imitated their mother's persistence and latched onto either leg. Unable to retreat, Mara had found herself impressed into additional duties and helped Leia put the twins to bed.

She'd never done anything remotely like that before, and the entire experience had been a bizarre one. Not… unpleasant. But bizarre. They were amazingly confident little creatures and she suspected that Jacen and Jaina were more confident than most. They also reminded Mara of Imperial Moffs—if anything was not exactly as they wanted it, they'd throw a fit and the only way to make them happy was to fix it. When she'd been Emperor's Hand it hadn't been her job to make people happy, but Aunt Mara had certain obligations and restrictions that the Emperor's Hand had been… unencumbered by.

Now it was entirely dark outside. Coruscant's sun had set several hours before; through the transparisteel windows she could see the bright lights of the city below, and the pulsating lights and starship engine contrails above. Luke and Han were in the kitchen finishing cleanup; Tycho and Winter had retreated to their wing of the apartment with Mia. That left Mara sitting on the couch, staring out that window at the cityscape below, out at the scaffolding-laden Imperial Palace. The process of demolishing it had only recently begun, but it would take a long time to complete.

Leia sat next to her, two mugs in her hands. "Here," she said, and placed one mug on the side table next to Mara. Leia then took her own mug in both hands. Steam wafted from the top, the rich smell of hot chocolate a familiar one. "Luke insisted."

Mara couldn't help a small smile. "Of course he did."

"I don't think they had many sweets on Tatooine," Leia said, her expression briefly one of self-recrimination.

"Luke doesn't blame you for being raised as a princess, you know," Mara said.

"I know," Leia sighed. "Though I'm not sure how much better that really makes it. It still seems unfair."

But would Luke still be Luke if he'd been raised on Alderaan, Mara wondered? Coreworld refinement over rim-world patois? Would he still be her farmboy? "I like him the way he is."

That made Leia laugh, and she reached over to nudge Mara's shoulder. "I know you do," she teased.

Mara relented and swiped the hot chocolate. It really was too sweet, but that was fine. The Skywalker-Solos had a way of making her not mind.

"Do you want to talk about this other Emperor's Hand?" Leia asked.

"Not really," Mara said.

"Do you need to?"

Mara shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I've long since come to terms with Palpatine and his role in my life."

"But?"

Mara sighed heavily. How did Leia do that? "But I do still wonder how things would be different if Palpatine had treated me differently. Is this other hand still working for the Empire on her own initiative? Or is she working for the Empire because Palpatine… raised her to do different things?"

"I like you the way you are," Leia said.

The unexpected parallel startled Mara. But after a moment to consider it, he realized it was an appropriate one.

Leia leaned against her side, offering unexpected, sisterly affection. "You are who you are, Mara," she said warmly. "And I've watched you get more comfortable in your own skin, ever since we met in the Palace. You were practically jumping out of it then."

"I wasn't alone in it," Mara grumbled.

"We all carry ghosts," Leia challenged gently. "Not as literally as you did. Eventually we overcome them… or we don't. You have, or at least you're working on it. We all are."

"Antilles—Wedge said something similar, before his Caridan offensive. I haven't had the time to really unpack it all." Mara paused, feeling a sudden pang of loss and longing. Instinctively she reached out in the Force to Luke and found him there… but not just Luke. Less intimate of a bond, but with a strength that started Mara, she found Leia. Luke's sister squeezed her arm, and Mara found herself talking without thinking about it first. "It's hard," Mara admitted, the words spilling from her. "I wake up and at some points in the day it just hits me and I feel so… robbed."

Leia squeezed her arm again. To Mara's relief, Leia didn't take advantage of her sudden, unexpected vulnerability. Instead, Luke's sister steered the conversation back to safer ground, ground on which Mara felt she had stable footing. "I can't imagine the interview with Airen was salutary," Leia said.

Mara barked a short laugh. "Hardly," she groused, "Not that he wasn't kind about it, in his own way, but it was the way he just sat there listening." Cracken reminded Mara of a smarter, more subtle Ysanne Isard, and the more time she spent with the head of New Republic Intelligence, the more she came to envision him as an old reptile basking in the sun, absorbing every little detail, slowly chewing on facts like a lazy, satisfied Solonese gator.

"He did have to match wits with Isard, Yularen and Palpatine," Leia said, "and all by himself too. Not to mention some of the more difficult rebel cells who had their own… priorities." She paused. "All while raising his son. Airen will never admit to it but I think he kept Pash as separate from his work as he possibly could. Though that didn't stop Pash from staging one of the largest mass defections from the Empire before Endor."

"I suppose despite the elder Cracken's best efforts, the son is very like the father," Mara commented lightly.

It was Mara's turn to feel Leia's sudden swell of melancholy uncertainty. She wasn't used to offering comfort—especially when she wasn't sure what she was offering comfort about—but she leaned towards Leia anyhow. "Are you all right?"

Leia offered a soft, sad smile. "It's funny how these thoughts sneak up on us. I was just thinking about Jacen and Jaina, and all the fears I had to fight through before and after I became pregnant. After finding out that… well, about my birth father, I went through a few years where I was so sure I never wanted to have children."

Guilt swelled in Mara. She hadn't meant to imply that—

"It's all right," Leia assured her. "Really. I was scared of the thought of them growing up to become another Vader, but if we let fear dictate our decisions, that's the Dark Side too. Not quite as… potent… as anger and hate, but the Dark Side all the same. Han and I had to face that fear. Now… we'll raise them, and we'll be there for them as much as we can, and who knows—maybe Jacen will choose to be an award-winning botanist instead of a Jedi." She smiled wryly.

Mara, thinking back to the times she'd been out with Jacen and Luke, thought that botanist was probably not quite right. "Exo-zoologist rather than botanist, I'd guess."

Leia glowed with sudden approval. "You noticed!"

"It's hard not to notice. Jaina has an affinity for ships, Jacen for animals," Mara pointed out. "Though I'm told that childhood interests don't always persist into adulthood."

"Perhaps botanist has a chance, then," Leia observed wryly. Mara noticed Luke watching them with Han near the kitchen, and felt her cheeks darken with blush. She was sipping her hot chocolate to try to cover it when Leia pounced. "So. Are you going to marry my brother?"

The question made Mara sputter and nearly spill her drink. She glared at Leia over the mug, carefully recovering her equilibrium. "That's cheap, waiting until I'm holding a hot drink to ask me that. That's even worse than Han laundering the question through the twins."

Leia smiled innocently. "Maybe I just like watching you jump."

"What is it about Skywalkers and making me jump?" Mara muttered under her breath.

Leia just smiled enigmatically and leaned back. Mara basked in the comforting silence as the two women watched the unending flow of space traffic above, below, and all around them.

* * *
​

Once Luke and Mara had finally made their way out of the Solo apartment—together, of course, because Han barely ever saw them apart now—that left Han and Leia alone together. The hot chocolate mugs were cool and forgotten on the kitchen table. One of the monitors revealed Jacen and Jaina were sleeping calmly, and the second revealed the small, sleeping form of Mia.

"Wedge asked me to reactivate my commission," Han admitted, staring at one of the mugs. His fingers rapped along the table. "On a temporary, advisory basis as a member of his staff. I said no."

Leia knew that tone of voice. She rested her head on his shoulder. "But you're feeling obligated."

Han made a disgruntled sound. "Damn it, Leia," he sighed. "I have obligations here too. I got obligations to you and the kids. I can't go gallivanting around the galaxy every time there's a threat. There's always a threat!"

"Why does Wedge want you?"

"The commander of the fleet he's facing is an old classmate of mine. She—"

"She?" Leia asked dryly.

Han rolled his eyes. "Leia," he drawled. "I already told you a little about Daala."

His wife's expression soured slightly, doubtless remembering the connection with Tarkin when it had come up in an Inner Council briefing. "You did. Go on."

"She was the commander who defeated Admiral Vantai and prevented Pellaeon's defeat at Chazwa during Wedge's Carida campaign. We weren't exactly friends. Daala didn't have friends. But we were classmates, and I was closer to her than most on account of us both being lowbirth charity cases. She's been very low profile since Yavin and NRI doesn't have a lot of information about her."

"And you know her well enough to help Wedge beat her?"

Han shrugged. "I know enough to guess what she might do, and I know Wedge. He's not just looking for an aide, he's looking for an aide he can work well with. And… I think if I go, fewer people are gonna die." He firmed his lips together. "And I think Wedge could use the support. He's taken each loss hard since he took over Fifth Fleet."

There was a pointed pause. "But?"

Han shook his head, grumbling. "You always know when to ask that."

Leia ran her hand along his head, trying to put his hair into some kind of order. "But?" she prompted again.

"But I got out for a reason. If I get back in, it'd better be for a damn good one."

"You know we can manage without you," Leia said. Han didn't have the Force, but he could still see that his wife saying those words cut her to the bone. "We can restore Threepio's programming for maintaining the apartment and cooking, and we have Cakhmaim and Meewalh here with us too. I have Winter and Tycho here, and we can get Kyp back from wherever Karrde has him stashed if the twins get really difficult."

"Replacing me with Threepio," Han groaned. "Leia, you're not exactly making me feel great about this."

"I'm not trying to," she countered. "But if you feel obliged… if you think this is important… Han, we can do it."

Han rubbed his face. "I'll figure it out in the morning."

He might not know what he would decide. But Leia did. She tried not to let the somber weariness she felt show on her face. Instead, she took both of Han's hands in hers, bringing his movements to a stop. "Come to bed."

[Return to Table of Contents]​

 

Chapter Eight

BEGIN START-UP PROCESS. . . START UP PROCESS COMPLETE. . . EXECUTE [MARR-MESSENGER] . . . INSTALLATION PROCESS COMPLETE. . . INITIATE REBOOT. . .

In a dark storage room, MSE-1's sensory receptors activated. Visual, auditory, olfactory, and tactile sensors came online one after another. The little mouse droid then ran through the traditional test of its other systems. Its wheels whirred and the droid shot forward a foot before it came to an abrupt halt, then it slowly moved backwards until it returned to its original position. Then the droid carefully went through a slow, strenuous internal test of its software.

The droid was not in the habit of beeping in surprise, but it did note a few new updates to its logic and problem-solving subroutines. Checking to make sure that there were no threats to its ongoing functioning buried in the updates, MSE-1 confirmed that the update was the work of its Maker and concluded that it was not a threat.

The software did, however, instill MSE-1 with a sense of purpose that it had lacked before. MSE-1 was a testbed, something its Maker used to test ideas before their implementation on less limited droids. Its limitations had never bothered MSE-1 overmuch; it rather liked the constant innovation and change that came with its Maker's experimentations. MSE-1's new sense of purpose, though, went well beyond its typical parameters.

It considered how to fulfill its new primary objective.

First, MSE-1 would need to escape from the storage room. The droid shot forward over the floor, its little light illuminating the room in front of it. Arriving at the door it came to a sudden stop and accessed its transmitter, attempting to see if it could access and override the door controls. To the droid's satisfaction the door obediently slid open and the first of the many hurdles that MSE-1 would have to overcome was surmounted.

MSE-1's second hurdle was to confirm current location.

According to its internal chronometer, the last noted activity registered in MSE-1's memory banks had occurred nearly a year before. MSE-1 was not a combat unit, and ill-suited to violent confrontations, but it clearly recalled attempting to ram the foot of a man dressed all in matte black armor who had, MSE-1 believed, been attempting to abscond with MSE-1's Maker. Given that it had been a year since MSE-1 last saw its Maker, and the content of the message that MSE-1 had been instructed to deliver, MSE-1 concluded that its threat assessment had been accurate and wished only that its ramming attempt had accomplished something more than a minor dent to its own forward plating.

Rolling through the dark halls, MSE-1 recognized its location immediately. The droid had not been moved far from its previous location and remained on the grounds of the Magrody Institute of Programmable Intelligence, which was good. That eliminated the need for extensive exploration of its surroundings. MSE-1 therefore zoomed along the silent halls, making its way to the nearest lift so that it could rise to ground level. Like the storage closet door, the elevator was operable, and MSE-1 exchanged a bit of polite data transfer with the lift computer before sprinting towards the Magrody Institute's landing pad.

MSE-1 was no pilot, so if it was to make the trip to Coruscant it would need both a pilot and a ship.

The Magrody Institute of Programmable Intelligence, where MSE-1 had been constructed and programmed by its kindly Maker, had undergone changes since the last time the droid had been active. MSE-1 noted, with a degree of sadness uncommon for one of its kind, that the Institute appeared to be abandoned. There were signs on the building which indicated that it was a crime scene, and many signs of combat. MSE-1 was not programmed for extensive auditory communication, but it did beep mournfully during its brief examination. Investigating the state of the Magrody Institute was not part of MSE-1's priorities, however, and it resumed its expeditious journey towards the landing pads.

As it traveled, MSE-1 considered and reconsidered the best way to achieve its new prime directive.

FIND THE JEDI.

* * *​

Five days later, the cargo container that MSE-1 had stowed away in was hoisted out of a freighter and set down on the deck of one of the millions of landing pads on Coruscant. With all the activity—there were no fewer than fifty mid-sized bulk freighters being unloaded on this one landing pad alone—none of the sapients noticed the cargo container pop open ahead of schedule. MSE-1 wiggled forward, struggling to break free from its spot, tightly packed between two enormous containers of foodstuffs. Eventually, after a few laborious minutes of effort, MSE-1 popped free. The little droid happily burst out into the main hangar, grateful both to be out of the stifling confines of the container—MSE-1 had deactivated its olfactory sensors to avoid registering the pungent odors and running down its charge. The little droid luxuriated in the sunlight—the two-day journey had taken a toll on MSE-1's batteries, but now its solar arrays could recharge them.

After persuading an older, dignified building lift that a messenger droid wasn't a security threat, MSE-1 found a nice spot at the top of a nearby building and basked in the Coruscant sunlight as it interrogated the planetary computers.

Luckily, information about the Jedi was easy to come by. Unluckily, it was too easy to come by, and mouse droids were not typically programmed to sort through large masses of information. Undeterred, the droid started by simply throwing out lots of information—it queried a local media analysis center, disregarded anything categorized as "sludgenews"—and shuffled through everything reputable using a special algorithm its Maker had helped it learn. Once that was done, MSE-1 ran a search for anything that might be a location. Realizing its error as the number still came back far too large, it narrowed the search to only locations on Coruscant.

As its batteries finished charging, the droid evaluated what it had learned.

The Jedi—and MSE-1 was beginning to understand what a 'Jedi' was, although all the references to a 'Force' were perplexing in the extreme—had recently been given a small tower in the Embassy District. Diverting some of its subroutines to determine how best to travel there, MSE-1 otherwise remained focused on the tower. The new "Jedi Consulate" was in essence a Jedi embassy to the New Republic: a location that the members of the new Jedi Order could use as a base on Coruscant while conferring with the New Republic. The news articles evidently found this a curious development, as the Jedi had traditionally been part of the Republic, but many of the commentators and commentaries MSE-1 reviewed talked about how Jedi Skywalker had chosen to adopt a more hands-off relationship with the New Republic.

None of this really mattered for MSE-1's mission. It just needed to find the Jedi, after all. But MSE-1 had always been a curious droid—an affectation granted by its creator, or a spontaneous personality development, MSE-1 wasn't sure—and so MSE-1 continued its investigations. Before becoming the Consulate, the building had apparently been the embassy from a planet called Toprawa—

Its internal sensors alerted MSE-1 that its batteries had reached an optimum level of charge. Querying its ongoing travel subroutine, MSE-1 produced a plan for getting to the Jedi Consulate.

First, MSE-1 considered, it would need to acquire a ride. Surely there was an airspeeder somewhere nearby…

* * *​

The Jedi Consulate—previously the Toprawan Embassy—was not the tallest building in the Embassy District. It was, in fact, one of the smallest buildings. But it had more than enough space for a Jedi Order that was still very small in number, with sleeping chambers for a dozen knights, a kitchen and refectory, meditation chambers, a meeting room in which all the Jedi could confer at once, and a landing pad. Currently, a trio of women were congregated in one of the sleeping chambers—the one with the largest closet—and two of them grappled over clothing.

Mirax Terrik Horn watched, trying not to laugh, as Tyria Sarkin offered Kirana Ti yet another outfit. The Dathomiri witch was clearly uncomfortable—everything about Coruscant made the poor woman uncomfortable, but given that Kirana Ti had never before been off her homeworld, it wasn't at all surprising that she found Coruscant overwhelming—and while Tyria was being as open and approachable as she could be, none of her efforts were succeeding.

Kirana Ti clung to her traditional armor and clothes with a ferocity that would have been alarming, if Mirax didn't understand it. Finding herself in a place so utterly unlike anything at home, Kirana Ti held fast to the things she did understand. Things as mundane as her normal clothes were suddenly the only thing that Kirana Ti understood, and she wasn't going to relinquish them. Even if every Coruscanti they passed stared at the lizard-armor clad, spear-wielding warrior woman, she was not.

"It's all right, Tyria," Mirax interjected gently. "For now, Kirana Ti isn't going anywhere that would require formal wear… and it's not like there aren't tens of thousands of cultures that come to Coruscant every day and wear their own clothes. She might not blend in around the Manarai District, but it's really not important."

"Oh, all right," Tyria pouted. "I just don't want her to get taken for a ride because she looks like she flew in on a thranta. Luke would have my hide."

"I have ridden many Rancors," Kirana Ti pronounced, her tone a combination of pride and confusion. "I fail to see why that would cause Jai Skywalker to skin you."

Kirana Ti, Tyria looked at each other. Kirana Ti and Tyria with mounting confusion—Tyria was starting to stammer an explanation—and Mirax finally laughed,, breaking the tension and pausing the discussion. The two of them are a pair, Mirax thought, With Tyria just the one to welcome the witch to Jedi training.

Trained in the tradition of the Antarian Rangers, Tyria was not the strongest Force-sensitive in Luke Skywalker's nascent Jedi Order, but she was determined and enthusiastic and made up for her weaknesses in other ways. One of those ways, in fact, was that Tyria was from Toprawa, a planet reduced to barbarism by the Empire for aiding the Rebellion. The fact that she had officially joined Luke's order as a Jedi candidate had, Mirax was sure, been a significant consideration in the Toprawan government's decision to give their former embassy building to the Jedi. Having one of their own in the tiny new Order was a point of pride.

Though the complex had ample room for dwelling, and even its own small hangar, it was not meant to be the home of the new Jedi Order; the Imperial Purge was too fresh in everyone's minds to tie them to any concrete location as their permanent home. But Luke's decision to open the embassy as a formal connection between the Jedi and the New Republic was an outstretched hand to Mon Mothma and the members of the New Republic, all of whom were now welcome to request Jedi services through the embassy.

"Well, maybe you can teach me some of your spells," Tyria suggested, overcoming the awkwardness. "I've never been the strongest in the Force, but Luke said that I might be able to use Dathomiri spells with more ease than traditional Jedi techniques."

"And when my husband gets back, you can all have some lessons," Mirax suggested. "I think Streen is up on the roof watching the clouds again—"

Her next words caught in her throat. That was the sound of a repulsorlift engine—and not one that was running efficiently. She moved to the window; Tyria and Kirana Ti both followed. As they watched, the airspeeder that was making that hideous screeching sound jolted. Mirax gasped, suddenly afraid that it might fall out of the sky, but the pilot recovered—barely. The airspeeder made a groaning sound and fell the six feet that separated it from the landing pad, striking the pad with a heavy metallic crash that sounded worse than it was. Smoking and sparking, the ear-testing screech of the airspeeder's malfunctioning repulsorlift finally died.

"Come on!" said Tyria, and she and Kirana Ti took off running. Mirax followed at a walk; she was pregnant, after all, and she was far enough along now that the son she carried refused to let her forget it.

When she arrived at the landing pad she found Tyria and Kirana Ti tearing the airspeeder's doors open, then looking at each other in perplexed confusion. "Do you feel anything with the Force?" Tyria asked.

Kirana Ti shrugged her shoulders. "I could cast a spell of awareness," she suggested warily, as if Tyria's suggestion was not one she fully understood. "But…"

"I can't tell if I can't sense anything because I'm too weak or because there's nothing here to find. I don't see anyone." Tyria sounded frustrated.

Mirax waved her hand to remove some of the smoke. Coming closer, she rose up gingerly onto her toes to peer into the airspeeder's interior. There was no one inside.

"The doors were locked," Tyria said. "I managed to slice the lock open, but I don't see anyone in here."

A sudden, terrible thought occurred to Mirax. "Do you think it could be another Inquisitorius assassination attempt? Another bomb?"

Tyria shook her head reassuringly. "No. That was the first thing I thought of, but the scanners that Mara had installed would never have let the speeder land if there were explosives aboard. Besides, I know bombs. Well. My husband knows bombs and we met on the job. If it was going to blow up, I'm sure it would have detonated when it crashed."

That was only mildly reassuring. "Well, maybe we should call Mara and get her here," Mirax said firmly. She would feel better if Luke, Mara, Kam, or Corran were here—any one of the Jedi who were closer to fully trained would make her feel better. But until they got here… "Have you checked the cargo compartment?"

Tyria and Kirana Ti looked at each other. Kirana Ti, clearly familiar with airspeeders despite Dathomir's low-technology state, pulled the door open. From the cargo door came a plume of smoke and Mirax jumped back in surprise as a tiny mouse droid leapt from the cargo compartment. Its little wheels spun wildly in the air before it landed on its head, making beeping sounds of utter misery. Little flaps worked wildly, and tiny plumes of smoke emerged from the little droid's interior.

"A messenger droid?" asked Tyria in astonishment as Mirax aimed a small sniffer at it.

"Looks like," Mirax said, waving her other hand to wash away the added smoke that had come from the cargo compartment. Thankfully, her quick test came back negative. "Nothing explosive on it. Call Luke. He has a better rapport with droids than the rest of us. I suspect this droid wouldn't have come in so much haste if it didn't have a very important message. Let's see if we can't get it fixed up."

* * *​

Luke watched in amusement as the mouse droid wheeled in a tight circle around Artoo, the larger astromech's head spinning to follow. Just watching them made him slightly dizzy, so he turned to look at Kirana Ti and Tyria instead. "It crashed on the landing pad?"

Luke and Mara's small apartment in the Jedi Consulate wasn't someplace they considered home. They were, after all, rarely here; much of the last few months had been spent away from Coruscant. Luke had been recruiting new Jedi candidates, and Mara had either been with him or traveling with Mirax and getting her set up as the new liaison between the Smugglers' Alliance and the New Republic's government. Home, certainly for Mara, was aboard the Tempered Mettle.

For Luke, home was wherever Mara was. He hid that thought, though, or Mara would certainly tease him—not that he really would mind.

Kirana Ti leaned on her spear, the blunt end of which rested on the carpet that covered the floor of his living room, watching the droid go round and round. "The machine arrived with great haste," she said. "Perhaps too much."

"The little droid definitely isn't pilot material," Mirax said, sounding amused. "Thankfully, other than wrecking the airspeeder, it didn't cause much additional damage. Tyria is getting the landing pad cleared away now, it shouldn't take much longer."

"What does it want?" asked Mara suspiciously. She watched the mouse droid skeptically, as if convinced it was a spy. The mouse droid noticed her suspicious gaze, made a tremulous sound, and hid behind Artoo, quivering.

"It just said it needed to meet the Jedi," Mirax said with a shrug. "At least according to my datapad. The droid sustained some damage in the crash, but as far as I can tell it's functioning well now."

"It did not wish to share its message with a mere Jedi candidate," Kirana Ti added.

"It's very energetic for a mouse droid," commented Luke, watching the mouse droid inch its way to one side of Artoo, quiver when it caught sight of Mara still watching it, and then retreat back behind the rotund safety of Luke's astromech. "And quirky." He circled around Artoo to loom above the mouse droid, which rolled back a foot. "It's all right," he said soothingly. "I'm Jedi Luke Skywalker. These are my friends… Jedi Mara Jade, Kirana Ti, and Trader Mirax Terrik."

The mouse droid made a quivering beep, but this time there was a distinct note of relief in that tone. Luke glanced down at his datapad as information was sent by the droid to the pad.

MY MAKER SENT ME. VITAL MESSAGE TO BE DELIVERED TO THE JEDI.

"Good," Luke said, in that same soothing tone of voice. "You were very brave, and I am a Jedi. What is this vital message?"

The droid shared its message. When it was done, Luke looked at Mara, feeling a sense of quiet dread from her that he shared. "We need to call a conclave and decide what to do."

She nodded. "Everyone who is on Coruscant. And Leia too, both because she should know and as a representative of the government."

Artoo moaned mournfully.

* * *​

When Luke put out the call, nearly every Force-sensitive, from Leia down to Kirana Ti, in or around the New Jedi Order arrived within a few days. There were a few absences. Kyp was gone—with Karrde's reluctance to have HoloNet transceivers on his ships, there was no way to contact him, and even if there had been Luke was more than willing to let the young man find his own way without the added burdens of Jedi responsibility.

Corran Horn likewise was absent, though his wife Mirax was present. His ties to the Jedi remained nebulous, but he had come to Luke asking for training and Corran and Kam had become close collaborators since then. The pair had been integral in opening formal relations with the Jensaarai, the first non-Jedi, non-Sith organization of Force-sensitives the new Jedi Order had formally met. Kam had been forced to redline the engines on his shuttle, Syrena, to return to Coruscant from the Jensaarai homeworld Susefvi, where he had been in consultation with the Saarai-kaar. Now Kam sat on the far side of the circle of Jedi Knights and Apprentices in white and brown robes that matched Luke's own, a pillar of strength Luke knew he could rely on.

Next to Kam was Tionne, her redoubtable double-viol resting in her lap and her chair pivoted to the side. Her feet rested across a clearly not-entirely-comfortable but not-entirely-uncomfortable Kam's lap. She strummed its strings idly, offering a hint of somber, serious music to the light-filled space. Large windows looked out over the Coruscant skyline, late afternoon sun streaming through and illuminating the circle of plain chairs. She had become fast friends with fellow Force-sensitive Cilghal, who was on Mon Cala completing her advanced courses in xenobiology.

Of the five other chairs, four were filled. Mara sat across from Luke, next to Tionne. Their relationship was hardly secret, and the physical separation was no doubt intentional. Mara was ever aware and wary of anything that smacked, even remotely, as an abuse of power. As the Emperor's Hand, Palpatine had used her to excise the most corrupt (specifically, those who were corrupt without Palpatine's blessing on their corruption), and her distaste for political malfeasance had only grown with the revelation of just how badly Palpatine had abused her trust. The fact that they were in a relationship was acknowledged, but never discussed in Luke's hearing by any of the other Jedi (with the singular exception of Tionne, who was writing a song about them that Mara hated), and while Luke intended for the new Jedi Order to manage itself as a collaborative body, that "collaboration" would have distinct undertones if he and Mara were always a cohesive unit and their preferences always won.

He wasn't too worried about that, though. The likelihood of Mara always agreeing with him was close to zero. That was part of her charm.

Kirana Ti, Tyria Sarkin, and Streen filled three more chairs. Kirana Ti was still obviously out of place on Coruscant. At that moment she was looking out over the skyline; in her Force-sense Luke could feel a combination of dread and awe and wonder. He was confident the warrior witch would adjust, but he was just as sure that she would be happier if she spent most of her time away from ecuminopolises like Coruscant.

Tyria sat next to her, talking at her more than with her, and Luke felt a real sense of pride at all Tyria had accomplished. Her gift in the Force was limited, and there had been a time Luke had concluded that he could not train her to be a Jedi because of that, and said as much to her face.

Tyria took it with more grace than Luke had taken Yoda's initial refusal, but her hurt had been palpable as she left. It was his own later experience with Lanu Pasiq—an inquisitor he had slain on Vjun, who had once been a failed Jedi candidate—changed his mind. Yes, Tyria's gifts were limited, but she could still sense the Force and use it for guidance, even if she might never be his own equal in telekinesis or lightsaber combat. Luke was increasingly convinced that the guidance the Force offered was far more important to a Jedi than the flashier powers, and Tyria had become more centered, calm, and confident in herself and her judgment. Besides, Tyria had been trained by the last of the Antarian Rangers, an auxiliary of non-Force sensitives who had for centuries supported the Jedi Knights in times of need. If the Jedi were to be effective when they were so few in number they would need the Antarian Rangers, or a similar organization, to be reborn from the ashes that remained after Palpatine's persecutions.

The last of them—at least until Leia finally arrived—was Streen. Streen was older, older even than Kam, and he remained the least confident. Unlike every other of Luke's new order, Streen was not a fighter in either temperament or ability. He also was not a diplomat; an extremely introverted figure, Streen's inability to control his gifts for empathy and telepathy had driven the older pilot-prospector into extreme isolation in the clouds of Bespin. Lando had discovered him after retaking Cloud City, and Mara had persuaded him to join the Jedi.

Streen now spent most of his time in quiet contemplation, no longer finding all the minds of the sentients of Coruscant overwhelming, and was instead able to just sit and appreciate the wonders of life—and the Force. Luke wouldn't call Streen a seer, as he hadn't displayed any particular inclination towards prophecy, but the old man had proven to be adept at teaching the others to listen to the Force and let it guide their actions—which made sense, given that Streen had spent a lifetime gas prospecting, doing just that.

Luke wondered how much better he himself would have been at moisture farming if he hadn't been so restless.

He checked his chrono and sighed. Leia had said she would be here…

"So where's Corran, anyway?" Mara asked Mirax.

Mirax frowned slightly. "I can't tell you, because I don't know. Right before Iella asked me to take her to find you on Dathomir, he got a message from his grandfather." She shrugged her slim shoulders, raising her hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "He asked my permission to sneak home for a while, said that he had someplace important he needed to be." She shrugged. "I come from smugglers. I know how it is. But I told him he'd better be back before my due date or he'd never have a shot at having more children."

That sent a soft laugh around the room.

"There are all kinds of rumors out of Corellia," Tyria said. "I'm not sure, of course, but it wouldn't surprise me if my old compatriots are involved in them." She offered a sympathetic smile to Mirax. "My own husband is off somewhere on a secret assignment himself… it comes with the territory, I guess."

Mirax gave her a tight, commiserating nod.

"Maybe we should just get started," Luke said unhappily. "If Leia got called into a meeting of the Inner Council, who knows how long it will be before she—"

The sound of an airspeeder landing on the Consulate's landing pad stopped him. He glanced out the window and saw Leia rushing towards the building, a pair of Noghri flanking her on either side, and smiled.

"I may have spoken too soon," he said.

Leia came in through the door less than a minute later, breathing heavily, her forehead with a slight sheen of sweat. "I'm sorry I'm late!" she exclaimed. "Senator Midanyl was briefing us on the crisis on Corellia, though I'm afraid we still don't know much." She glanced around the circle of Jedi and put herself in the seat between Streen and Kirana Ti. "You didn't have to wait for me, you know, I'm not a Jedi."

Luke resisted reminding her that she could be. She already knew and she didn't need him pestering her about it. "This is of critical interest to the New Republic as well as the Jedi," he said instead. He looked around the circle and hesitated. He'd imagined a moment like this many times since Yoda and Obi-Wan had tasked him to rebuild the Jedi; now that it was here, he wasn't sure how to start. "Thank you all for coming," he said. "This afternoon, a mouse droid arrived at the Consulate—"

"It hijacked an airspeeder and crashed on the landing pad," interjected Mara dryly

"—and it carried a message I think you should all see." Luke nodded at Leia. "After this, I believe you should take the droid to General Cracken, and if he finds the message credible, brief the Inner Council."

"It's that serious?" Leia asked, sitting up straight.

"It could be," Luke demurred. "MSE-1, would you please come out from wherever you are hiding?"

There was a soft whir of wheels across tiles. The small mouse droid wheeled out from under Streen's chair slowly, as if nervous, coming to an awkward stop in roughly the center of the circle of chairs.

"Go ahead," Luke encouraged.

The droid rolled forward a few inches, then back again. Then it projected into the center of the room a holo-image. The man in the image was not old, but despite a strong featured face and large frame, he appeared gaunt and haggard, accompanied by a cybernetic brace and his hand trembled as he talked. His voice was even more pronounced, tremulous and with a constant edge of pain. "My name is Doctor Nichos Marr," the man said. "I'm a cyberneticist from the Magrody Institute. My partner, Doctor Cray Mingla, and I were kidnapped by the Empire… I'm not sure how long exactly, but I think it's been almost a year. We have been forced to work for the Empire on something they call 'Silencer Station.' Silencer Station is some kind of massive industrial facility managed by droids—they needed Cray's expertise to develop a command interface that would allow the new Emperor to personally command it."

Nichos glanced fearfully over his shoulder, grimaced and shook his head hastily.

"I don't have time. They're going to be through the door any second. Silencer Station is an incredibly capable manufacturing platform and is growing all the time. It consumes material to create whatever it wants with incredible speed. When we arrived it was the size of a Star Destroyer, now it's at least three, maybe four times larger. The program director is Roganda Ismaren." The hologram again glanced behind him, then started speaking faster, his words almost blurring together. "She's driven and insane and she will kill Cray and me when she's finished with us. She's leaving today for Nar Shaddaa—Nar Shaddaa—to find an artifact that will 'complete' the station." The fear and dread in Nichos' expression was all-too-clear, even in the fuzzy holorecording. "If this station isn't already complete, I dread to imagine what it would do once it is."

There was a pause, and the sound of banging. "Please… you have to stop her. And please," now there were tears in his eyes, and Luke felt an upsell of emotion from the Jedi around the room in response to the plea, one that echoed his own sudden burst of sorrow, "you have to help Cray. I'm already dying. She's brilliant and beautiful and she's killing herself trying to save me. Please, please, help her."

With that, the image fuzzed out.

MSE-1 made a soft, sad sound. The circle of alarmed Jedi was silent.

* * *​

Deciding what to do about the alarming message was even harder than hearing it. Pain poured off Leia in waves, whispers of Alderaan before she harshly clamped down on her emotions and stopped broadcasting, while the other Jedi spoke fitfully.

"It sure is a good thing we're having this meeting," Tionne said cheerfully, pulling the room's attention towards her like the seasoned performer she was. "I'm much less worried about things. Imagine if we were leaders on the other side. I bet there's a parade of Moffs all sitting around one of those long tables, holding one of their Mofferences." She waved her hand dismissively, croaking, "'Dark Greetings' and all that Imp silliness. I can see them now…" her voice trailed off, becoming almost trancelike, "sitting around that table and worrying about us!"

That sent a chuckle around the table. Luke cleared his throat, restoring seriousness to the proceedings. "We need to send people to Nar Shaddaa."

"You and I will go," Mara said firmly. That drew eyes to her; she gazed back with a firm, serious expression that carried more than a hint of stony anger.

"It did sound familiar," Mirax agreed slowly. "You think this Roganda Ismaren is our Emperor's Hand?"

"I do," Mara replied bluntly. "This surely was one of Palpatine's secret projects that should have died when he did. There is no one better suited to hunt an Emperor's Hand than me."

Send a Hand to kill a Hand, Luke thought dimly. She wasn't wrong… and he was definitely not letting her go alone. "We'll go," he agreed.

"What about the rest of us," Kam pointed out. He gestured at the others in the circle. "Would more of us be helpful or harmful?"

Next to him, Tionne sat up. "I still haven't managed to repair the Holocron fully after what Exar Kun did to it," she said. "But I know I can… eventually. If there's an ancient Force artifact out there, Master Sunrider and Master Baas and the other guardians of the Holocron will know about it, maybe."

"At least one Jedi needs to stay on Coruscant," Leia added. "We need someone who can serve as the Jedi ambassador to the Senate." She looked at Kam, who winced and nodded.

"What about the rest of us?" Tyria asked.

Luke looked at Mara. She looked back at him from across the table, and Luke could tell—as he always could, now—that she was thinking the same as he was. If the Empire had found a way to manufacture war materiel in large quantities, then the war was not over after all. Thrawn had failed in his offensive against the New Republic because of a lack of ships and a lack of men. A mysterious manufactory capable of producing ships and droids would be an unexpected multiplier of Imperial strength, and that meant it could be an unexpected multiplier of the harm the Empire could do.

And the Empire was no longer the one that had been ruled by Thrawn, one which was focused exclusively on military victory. No, defeat after defeat had brought to power the worst of the Imperial hardliners, had empowered ISB and the Inquisitorius—people who thought back to Alderaan and believed, with all their hearts, that terror attacks on that scale were both effective and right.

Give those people power, and what would they do with it?

He turned his attention to Tyria. "We, the Jedi, must do two things," he said. "We must try to find this Silencer Station so that the New Republic can destroy it. And we must be ready to help anyone who needs it when the time comes."

[Return to Table of Contents]​

 

I'm not sure if you haven't already, but if you want a lot more Bantam-style fanfic of this kind, the two prequels to this story are huge and have lots of content! I try to update it here each Thursday, but sometimes I forget or get busy.

 

Chapter Nine

The message ping from the comconsole on the far side of her quarters stole Asori Rogriss' focus. With a soft, semi-petulant sigh, Asori put down the book she was reading—Stellar Duty, an absorbing family saga set during the Stark Hyperspace War that she'd stolen from her father's shelf on Agonizer the last time she had been aboard—setting it on her nightstand next to the glass of wine and what was left of her evening snack.

The windows set into the wall of the officers' quarters aboard Termagant were all false, piped in from external datafeeds. Both the ship's bridge and Asori's quarters were buried deep under the hull armor of the ship for maximum protection—one of the many design alterations the UREF had made to the traditional Imperial designs—and therefore she had no view out on open space. Not that there was anything to see: even the mostly empty starscape wasn't visible to anyone aboard at the moment. Hidden under a cloaking shield, Termagant and her three sisters were silent and still, immersed in perfect blackness.

But that cloaking shield also meant that no communications could reach the flotilla. To stay in contact with Admiral Pellaeon, therefore, Asori regularly dispatched small craft and probe droids to edge just beyond the cloaking shroud long enough to send and receive updates. She checked the chrono, and sure enough one of those 'periscope' craft had just returned; the message that was now waiting for her surely had been delivered that way.

She pressed the blinking button as she settled into her desk chair.

The image formed into the familiar face of the commanding officer she knew best. The collar of his uniform was unsnapped and his face was unschooled, and she smiled fondly as Teren Rogriss spoke with a warm humor kept under tight rein in every other aspect of his life.

"Asori, I just want you to know that I recorded this message while I was off-duty and I requested it be delivered to Termagant while you were off duty. That way I could speak to you as your father, and not as your superior officer."

Asori rolled her eyes, smiling. This had been a long-standing tradition between the two of them, a way to reckon with his frequent absences. He often pushed her to step outside of the well-defined, regimented roles of superior and inferior officer and take the much-less-well-defined roles of father and daughter. She never let him, of course—the Imperial Starfleet was a professional force, and she always intended to play that part to perfection.

But to her surprise, gentle amusement wasn't what she saw on her father's face. Instead, there was a sad seriousness. "I know you just laughed at me, but I'm not joking. Sometimes I feel like it's been years since the last time we got to be family." Her father sighed softly. "I still remember the last time we were all together on Anaxes, before the New Republic captured it. I think back and that was the last time, wasn't it? The last time we were really family?"

After her mother's passing, she, her brother Terek, and their father had aligned their leaves to return home on her parents' wedding anniversary. It became a tradition they maintained for five years, but the fall of Anaxes had made its continuation impossible.

The last time they'd been together had been particularly somber. Had her mother still been alive, it would have been Teren and Astora's thirtieth wedding anniversary. They'd made an effort to keep the gathering light, but by the end of the evening (and halfway through a fourth bottle of wine) there had been quite a lot of tears.

Her heart clenched at the anguish on her father's face, and for the first time she realized that all her very necessary efforts to maintain the formal distance required by their shared profession had not just been a shared joke.

"Since Baron Fel brought us out of the Empire proper, I've been thinking a lot about the choices I made. You know your mother wanted me to resign from the Judicial Forces when Palpatine formally reformed us into the Imperial Starfleet, and you know I didn't. I chose to stay in the fleet because it was all I knew. I was still a young man then, but I'd spent my whole life in the service and I had no idea what else I could go or what else I could do. Being a fleet officer was my whole life, with Venators more of a home to me than Anaxes at that point." He looked away and sighed. "In some ways, I was more married to the Fleet than I was to your mother." He shook his head sadly, slowly. "But if I'd known then the consequences that decision would have for you, I'd like to think I would have made a different choice.

"Asori, you joined the fleet because you thought you had to. The pressure was so much greater for you, growing up on Anaxes. For Anaxans the fleet isn't just a profession, it is a way of life, and everyone expected you and Terek to follow in my footsteps. And so I have to ask, Asori… did you ever feel like you had a choice?

"Because I know you felt like you didn't have a choice after you started at the Academy. The Imperial Starfleet is not something you can simply leave—not without severe repercussions. But you didn't just survive your time there, you thrived. In my life, my proudest moment was your graduation ceremony. You had accomplished so much and had proven you were capable, that you had so much to give.

"But… and forgive me, Asori, I had a long talk with Gilad after our meeting with Grand Moff Ferrouz. The old fellow is dealing with rather a lot himself, I'm afraid. All the choices he's made over the years are a lot to come to terms with. All the choices I made are. But then I realized that you never had a choice."

Asori half-raised a hand and formed her mouth to object, before stopping. Her father wasn't there, this wasn't a live communication, so she couldn't give him the response he needed, she wanted to give. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that she had plenty of choices. A childhood on Anaxes had pressured her to join the fleet, but she didn't need to cave to that pressure. He would have been able to assure that!

"And so I just wanted to tell you that I was sorry. I wish…" her father paused and lifted a snifter of liquid to his lips, took a sip, and put it back down again. "I wish I'd listened to your mother," he said, finally. "And I love you, and I'm so proud of you, and I want you to know that now you do have a choice. I know you won't abandon your ship or your crew, any more than I could abandon Agonizer. But when this is over, when we've finished off the New Order and the galaxy really has a chance to start over, I want you to know that whatever you do, I just want you to make your own choices, not choose to do things because I did them or because you felt like you had to make me proud. And I wanted to tell you this now, because I don't know when we'll next have the chance to just be father and daughter, and not Admiral and Captain. I've lost too many opportunities over the years already. Too many."

Her father straightened and took another sip from his glass. "Well. That's all I had to say, Asori. I've recorded something similar for Terek." His lips quirked in that gently amused smile she had first expected. "I mean, that's all, Captain Rogriss," he corrected. "Go finish your wine, enjoy my book, and get some sleep. Your crew needs you rested and relaxed."

The screen blinked out. The lower right corner illuminated. RECORDING COMPLETE, it said. REPLAY?

She sniffled and told the computer to save the recording for another time. She felt her belly crawl with remembered tension at an Imperial Admiral expressing doubt through official communication methods—had they been with the New Order, this message would have been monitored and gone into her father's official record. It probably—no, definitely—would have earned him a psych evaluation.

Just the fact that he had been willing to send it at all revealed everything she needed to know about the differences between the New Order and the UREF.

For the next few minutes she paced slowly around her quarters, finishing her wine. The next time she saw her father, she promised herself she'd make an opportunity to put the uniforms away for a while so they could talk. And she should make the effort with Terek, too, because how long had it been since she and her brother had—

Her reverie was shattered by a shrill battle klaxon, and instantly Asori transformed from Teren Rogriss' daughter into Termagant's commanding officer. She slapped the bridge intercom. "Status report!"

"Sir, the sentry picket just ducked in under the cloaking shroud," came the voice of her Chiss executive officer, her professional tones finally spiced with an undercurrent of nervousness. "They report the arrival of at least eight Imperial-class Star Destroyers. It looks like the New Order is mounting a full assault."

"Send to squadron: Stand to action stations and heat up the guns," she said, nearly by rote, slapping an anti-intoxicant stim patch on her arm as she grappled with her uniform. "I'm en route to the bridge."

* * *​

Admiral Pellaeon and Commander Dreyf huddled over the combat plot on Chimaera's bridge, watching as the enemy ships came out of hyperspace. "Sensors and scouts now report twelve Impstars in three diamond formations," Dreyf said, hand to his ear and confirming what the sensors were feeding the table. "Messy reversion, but they're formed now and are approaching our perimeter on converging trajectories."

Pellaeon's hand skimmed over the map to trace the routes of the enemy Star Destroyers. Whoever was in command of this New Order Fleet had adopted a relatively straightforward strategy for concentrating firepower—it wasn't Daala, he could tell that immediately from the shaky nature of the formations.

His own fleet was outnumbered, but not as badly as the raw numbers indicated. A dozen of his Enforcers were still absent, receiving repairs and refits at Nirauan, but he still had his own four Imperials—Chimaera, Exigent, Gonfalon, and Basilisk. That meant he had eight fewer of the class than the enemy, but he also had thirty Enforcer-class Heavy Cruisers and a strong advantage in starfighters. With that force distribution, had he been in command of the enemy force, he would not have mounted this assault.

The irony of that last fact was not lost on him. Pellaeon had grown used to lacking starfighter strength compared to the New Republic, but Carida's pilots had chosen to join to him in overwhelming numbers and that advantage persisted. After Carida's loss, the New Order had neither the manufacturing to produce TIE fighters nor the academies to train pilots in any significant numbers.

"We're going to go out to meet them as they hit the perimeter," he decided. "They're going to try to englobe us so they can get as many of their batteries on us as possible, but they've also divided their forces. If we can crush one of the three formations quickly, we can deal with the remaining two in turn." He quickly manipulated the map, designating the enemy groups as Aurek, Besh, and Cresh. "Commander Dreyf, please dispatch the following instructions."

His saturnine subordinate paused, attentive, with two fingers to his earpiece again, and waited for the word. It was not long in coming as Pellaeon thought, sketched a plan, and spoke with cool deliberation: "Orders to Captain Evander to take four Enforcers and harass Aurek group; delaying tactics only. To Captain Hischier, take another four Enforcers and keep Besh group honest, but they're to stay within the firing envelope of our Golans. Get me a heavy-edge formation with the rest, Enforcers to engage once our Star Destroyers have their attention. We're going to kill Cresh formation before they can converge. Engines, to flank speed, we're going to want as much flexibility as possible." He nodded, looked over to Lieutenant Tschel, who stood attentively. "Execu—"

"Status Change!"

Pellaeon stopped before he could finish giving the order and turned to examine the plot. The enemy formations had suddenly proliferated on the sensor screen; the large icons representing Star Destroyers were surrounded by a multiplying cloud of much smaller icons. To his astonishment, those icons doubled, and then doubled again, and then doubled again.

It was impossible. The New Order couldn't have that many TIEs. There weren't enough TIE pilots left in the whole New Order! They must have taken every TIE pilot from every garrison left in the Remnant, not to mention every pilot in Daala's undermanned squadrons in the core. And even then they should not have these numbers! His TIEs would be outnumbered three to one!

"Sir, they're not typical designs," Dreyf said, his voice thankfully calmer than Pellaeon's own poleaxed thoughts. "They look slightly smaller than a typical TIE, and I've never seen that wing configuration before."

"Launch our fighters," Pellaeon ordered, re-assessing his battle plan. His Enforcers were more capable anti-starfighter platforms than his Star Destroyers, and those TIEs were suddenly the most pressing threat to his squadron. "Rescind previous orders. Destroyers adopt standard box formation, with Enforcers in a double-layer anti-fighter screen, rotating at the discretion of each division commander. Guns, prepare for incoming fighters!"

* * *​

"Baron Fel! On the authority of the Grand Moff, I really must insist—"

Soontir Fel ignored Ferrouz's protocol droid as it harangued him. He was already in his favorite flightsuit, the one with he perfect amount of wear to fit just right, and his TIE Defender—painted with the classic red stripes of the 181st that he'd ordered the techs to adorn his unit's fighters with for the better part of two decades now, from back when they'd been the "One-Eighty Worst"—was already humming on its launch gantry, ready for a preflight check. Elsewhere in the private hangar the other three Defenders of his flight were likewise prepared for action.

"Grand Moff Ferrouz insists that it is too dangerous for you to risk yourself in starfighter combat! Baron Fel!"

"Tell Ferrouz that I'm safer in my cockpit than I am in his strategy room," Fel retorted without looking at the droid. "And that he is not my superior and he cannot give me orders, anyway."

The droid huffed indignantly. "This is quite irregular. I have lodged several protests!"

Fel smiled darkly as he grabbed his helmet off its stand and hooked up the oxygen hoses "See that you do, but be warned that you and the Grand Moff will be in line behind my wife."

"Sir," chittered the droid, "your wife does not outrank the Grand Moff!"

"That's what you think," Fel growled, pulling on his helmet before he climbed up the ladder. He jumped into the cockpit and dogged the hatch closed above him before keying his helmet com. "Worst Leader, ready for launch."

"Worst Two, ready for launch," echoed Turr Phennir from his wing. The hard-edged blond had been with Fel and the 181st for a long time and had been one of the first people Fel had recruited out of the Empire after rising to command of the UREF. Phennir was of the perspective that Fel had essentially become the Emperor of his own little square of space, and if Phennir had to choose a Warlord to follow, he would choose Fel.

Fel didn't think of it that way, but he used what he had.

"Worst Three, ready for launch," came a second voice. Chiss pilots didn't usually fly TIE Defenders, but Fel's personal guard knew the importance of being able to travel through Imperial space without drawing undue attention.

"Worst Four, engines and shields green, lasers charged."

"Orders, sir?" asked Phennir.

"The New Order seems to have found a number of TIEs somewhere," Fel said. "I know we're only four fighters, but we're going to reinforce Admiral Pellaeon's squadrons and provide some up-front leadership."

"Four fighters against six hundred," Phennir mused. "I've seen worse odds, but not many." Fel could almost see Phennir's sardonic smile. "Maybe after this, Rebel pilots will stop going on and on about how we've never dealt with the odds they have."

"We do have a few hundred on our side, Two," pointed out Four, a legalistic Chandrilan pilot who had been with Fel since Derra IV.

"Worst Flight, launch!" Fel ordered sharply. Using the fighter's repulsorlifts he lifted it six meters off the ground, then pitched the fighter back. As the gravity pulled him down, he pulsed the fighter's engines and sent it roaring into Poln Major's sky, his wingmates trailing him.

* * *​

Moff Vilim Disra watched with satisfaction as the battle began, only flicking a few nervous glances at the center of Invincible's bridge, where Emperor-Regent Halmere sat silently on an encompassing throne like Palpatine's that he'd had installed for the mission. The crew watched together as the first flashes of turbolaser fire spat towards the distant enemy. Standing near him, the very junior Admiral Valentin—who, prior to ISB's purges of disloyal Starfleet captains had been merely the politically-savvy captain of a Victory-class Star Destroyer—gave orders with a burbling, almost juvenile enthusiasm.

Disra himself felt nothing but satisfaction. He'd spent the last year working himself into Halmere's inner circle, and the recent New Order purges of the Starfleet and other Imperial domestic agencies had provided him an excellent opportunity to advance in both authority and importance. Disra had quietly placed the previous head of Imperial Intelligence and his deputies on ISB's purge list, and then maneuvered men he owned in to replace them. Consequently, Disra enjoyed unfettered access to everything Imperial Intelligence had to offer (and the ability to keep certain pieces of intelligence out of unfriendly hands).

It had been a stroke of genius, he thought with satisfaction. The fact that the idea had originally come from one Fliry Vorru, and that Vorru had also enjoyed access to all that intelligence through his access to Disra, was something that Disra chose not to think about. Soon enough he would have manufactured enough intelligence to protect himself from Vorru's blackmailing, and then he'd turn the tables on the meddling Corellian former-Moff.

The scanning plot showed the traitor vessels commanded by Pellaeon had seemed to jump in alarm and then clustered together in a protective box formation. The lighter Enforcer-class heavy cruisers started to fire as the TIE droids came within range.

"We're still in the early skirmish phases," Admiral Valentin said to Halmere, with the earnesty of a schoolboy hoping for praise. "Our TIEs just need to keep them off balance and prevent them from using their own TIEs to assault our Star Destroyers. Once we have the range on them it'll all be over. There's no way those Enforcers can stand up to our heavier guns, and their alien crews can't possibly be any match for us!"

Halmere's total lack of response seemed to diminish Valentin's enthusiasm. The young admiral tried to cover that by acting even more enthusiastic. "All ships! Today we end Admiral Pellaeon's treason against our New Order and prove once and for all the superiority of the Empire! Always remember, loyalty is life, and disloyalty is death!"

Disra fought a sigh as the bridge crew went about their duty unaffected by the young twit's yammering, performing the complex choreography of combat with all the enthusiasm of a professional dilettante. Silently, Disra wondered how hard it would be to see Valentin charged with treason so that he could be replaced with someone who would be loyal to Disra, someone with just enough brains to run a fleet but not enough to try and challenge his… guidance. Not very, he decided.

* * *​

Fel's helmet fans were fighting incipient condensation from his own sweat, his canned air had the same stale, dry taste it always did, and the world was a muted haze beyond his sensors and eyeplates. None of that was atypical when rapidly approaching a bunch of people who wanted to kill him.

And yet, it had been some years since Baron Soontir Fel had felt so relaxed. There was something to be said for the simplicity of space combat compared to running his own off-the books fiefdom. Or raising toddlers. He rarely had the chance to fly, given all those responsibilities.

When Thrawn had recruited him, promising sanctuary for Fel's wife and children and the opportunity to serve an Empire of actual worth, Fel had felt neither the ability nor the inclination to refuse. If he had said no, Thrawn might have killed him and his family just to keep the secret of UREF, and the Empire he proposed to build—with himself in charge of course—was a far cry from the one Fel had turned against.

Still, Thrawn's death had unexpectedly elevated Fel to leadership and in his heart he still wasn't sure why Thrawn had chosen him for that role. The recorded orders that had established his new position, released on the occasion of Thrawn's death, had not fully clarified why the decision had been made. It had been a long time before Fel had truly come to terms with his new reality.

You were born a farmer and became a teacher. Thrawn's short, unsigned note had said. Farmers spark growth, and teachers never stop learning and asking 'Why?' Grow, remain inquisitive, and ensure all you recruit are worthy of the organization's promise.

That weight had never been easy to carry, but since he had come to terms with his new reality, he now had obligations. The UREF was not just a military force in search of a cause. The UREF was a half-dozen Imperial colony worlds where the families of his crews and construction workers lived. It was a network of alliances with dozens more alien species in the Unknown Regions, whose people joined and fought in the UREF military. And it was a cause, a responsibility, a vital task, one that Fel could no more set down than he could breathe in vacuum.

Those were responsibilities and tasks to which he did not always feel well-suited, which was why sitting in the molded cushion seat at the center of a TIE Defender cockpit tracking enemy targets was such an incredible freedom. Even if they were outnumbered three to one.

He made minute adjustments to his inertial dampener, his targeting computer, and his attitude thrusters with the seasoned nerves of a professional. Then he put his love for his family in a small box deep inside his chest and let the killer out. "Worst Flight, make sure your IFF is updated, then weapons free." He heard naught but double-clicks of acknowledgement as the four fighters filled the space ahead of them with hard light and missiles.

The melee surrounding Pellaeon's squadron had grown to include hundreds of TIEs. The small, boxy enemy TIEs, with their cut-out rectangular solar panel wings, were nimble craft and their pilots clearly had their internal compensators set on maximum—they kept pulling maneuvers which would have placed incredible stress on a human body. A quartet of the enemy fighters were making a run on one of Pellaeon's Enforcers, their lasers flashing as they flitted over the heavy cruiser's hull. In response the heavy cruiser's lighter guns sent a scattering of dispersing fire, forcing the TIEs to take evasive maneuvers.

The one Fel was tracking made a quick stutter-step, left to right, and then tumbled, swapping end for end to come back towards him. The abrupt turn was one that Fel would have been hard-pressed to make, but also one that Fel had anticipated. As the enemy fighter completed its flip, Fel caught it cleanly with a quad-burst of his lasers. The New Order TIE vanished in a cloud of fire and debris.

Fel sent his fighter into a spinning turn, grazing just over the Enforcer's shields. He shot along the ship's hull, then throttled up and brought his fighter back around to target the other TIEs menacing him.

There was something familiar about these enemies.

Baron Soontir Fel had long had a reputation as the best pilot of his generation. Others challenged him for the title: He and Han Solo had competed while at Carida together, though Fel had always scored higher than Solo on all the exercises, and Rogue Squadron had several pilots who stood in contention for the title. Fel nonetheless knew that he remained the consensus choice for best, and he also knew just what it was that made him so good.

Fel's situational awareness was second to none.

He didn't have the fastest reflexes, though he was close to the best. Nor was he the best at long-range targeting, or at dealing with the physical strain that came with starfighter combat. Instead, his true strength lay in observation. What Fel could do that almost no one else could do, and that no one could do as well as he could, was see a battlefield, see an enemy, and recognize almost instantly what it was he was seeing.

Few pilots were as good as he was overall. Skywalker didn't fly combat much these days and Fel hadn't flown against his brother-in-law recently; neither of them was near his equal in combat awareness. The only student he'd ever trained who could come close was Tycho Celchu, with his own sort of unmatched, clinical perfection.

He trusted his instincts, tracking his lasers over a second enemy TIE. His targeting reticle flickered green, indicating that he had a good shot, but he held his fire.

The TIE Fel was tracking made a quick stutter-step, left to right, and then tumbled, swapping end over end to come back towards him. Fel pulled the trigger and sent a quad burst of green fire neatly through his enemy, leaving behind a cloud of fire and debris.

On the com, Admiral Pellaeon was relaying orders. "—TIE bombers prepare for firing runs against—"

Fel pressed the red button on his communications unit. "This is Baron Soontir Fel. Hold bomber launch! TIE squadrons, disregard all previous orders…"

* * *​

As the lead destroyer in Pellaeon's formation, Captain Nidal's Exigent opened the engagement. Her nose swung towards the enemy in concert with her sisters, and she shed sheets of verdant turbolaser and skittering blue ion blasts like she deserved a category eleven lightning warning. Each of his four Star Destroyers had no fewer than six Enforcer-class cruisers offering fire assistance and cover, and the space around Exigent illuminated with a thunderous storm as the enemy TIEs engaged.

If that had been all, Pellaeon was sure his squadron could handle the enemy. The TIEs alone were dangerous, but manageable. But the twelve Imperial-class Star Destroyers that had brought the TIEs to the battle were quite another matter. Approaching on three divergent paths, their heavy turbolaser fire was chewing at Exigent and her escorts. The engagement was still at quite a long range, so the enemy fire was not as effective as it might have been, but that would change.

"Order our TIE bombers to launch and prepare for firing runs against the leading enemy Star Destroyers," he ordered. With the sheer number of enemy fighters, that would be suicide for a number of his bombers, but he had to find a way—

To Pellaeon's astonishment, the communications station blinked, letting him know that his orders were being overridden. "This is Baron Soontir Fel," the comm blared, and that was Fel's voice. "Hold bomber launch! TIE squadrons, disregard all previous orders. I want all fighters to focus on engaging enemy fighters when they are between four and six klicks from their hard targets. The pilots you are up against are untrained and repeat evasive maneuvers…"

The anger Pellaeon had felt at being cut off faded as Fel quickly took the squadron's TIE pilots through an engagement strategy. Apparently, Fel believed that if the enemy TIEs were engaged as they attempted proton torpedo runs, they'd be vulnerable and would always respond to threats in an identical manner.

That seemed absurd. Besides which, what was Fel doing in combat! And in a TIE no less! Was he trying to get himself killed?! "Get me Fel!" Pellaeon ordered Tschel.

"I'm trying sir!" Finally, Pellaeon's voice finished his instructions, and Pellaeon heard an echo of confirmations from the fleet's TIE squadron commanders. Tschel gasped in relief. "I have him, sir!"

"Baron Fel, what in the nine hells are you doing?" Pellaeon barked. "If you get killed—"

"It didn't sit right, me sitting in a bunker somewhere with four of the galaxy's finest starfighters just resting on the permacrete," Fel's voice came back, his bass rumble belying a dark humor. "Admiral Pellaeon, I need command of the fleet's air wing. I know what we're fighting. The enemy TIEs are droids. I recognize their behavioral packages; they're identical to the early-generation Clone Wars-era Vulture droid starfighters we ran sims against at the Academy."

"Droid starfighters?" Pellaeon gaped. "The Starfleet would never use droid starfighters! We spent a decade destroying them all!" But despite his denial, Pellaeon watched as Dreyf brought up the behavioral profile of the enemy starfighters and his disbelief faded as he watched them in action. He had joined the Old Republic's Judicial Forces, and he'd spent a disproportionate number of his years as a young man fighting Separatist droid starfighters. It had been a long time, but there were some things that had been trained too deep to easily forget after even a lifetime. "I'll be damned," he gasped. "Command granted! I'll fight the fleet, you run the fighters."

"Consider it done." Apparently, Fel did not feel either the need to gloat or to reprimand Pellaeon for his reaction. "Admiral, do you still have a periscope connection to Captain Rogriss?"

"We do, sir," Dreyf responded.

"Exigent reports loss of her forward shields!" called one of his officers. Pellaeon forced himself out of the conversation about the TIE droids and turned to deal with his fleet. "Captain Nidal, Make your course ninety degrees to port and prepare to roll if you lose your starboard shield! Second Enforcer squadron, screen Exigent's forward firing arc and redouble your fire against enemy Star Destroyers! Prepare to shift all fire to anti-ship!"

When he turned back to the conversation with Fel, the Baron was already three quarters through his orders, with Tschel preparing to relay them to Rogriss. "—then tell Rogriss that I want her Clawcraft to do exactly what I tell them…"

* * *​

As he watched the combat plot from the bridge of the Imperial Star Destroyer Invincible, Grand Moff and interim Director of Imperial Intelligence Vilm Disra felt the weight of those titles as his enthusiasm for the battle and its prospects waned almost instantly. The New Order had arrived with twelve Star Destroyers and six hundred TIE droids, outnumbering their enemy three-to-one in both. But the advantage in TIEs was proving to be less of a factor than he had anticipated. At first, the sheer advantage in numbers had seemed overwhelming, but Admiral Valentin's increasing—and quite obvious—nervousness was a compelling argument against that belief.

"Order our droid fighters to concentrate on wiping out the enemy TIEs," Valentin was saying, with the tone of a man searching for an answer, rather than someone who already had one. "Once we've eliminated their fighter screen, our Star Destroyers can close without risk from the TIE bombers they must still have in reserve. And order our Star Destroyer formations to concentrate on Exigent! Once we've liquidated Captain Nidal, their spirits will surely break."

But that too was proving to be more difficult than they had anticipated. Pellaeon's Enforcers were more capable—and dangerous—than their size suggested. Valentin had been so sure that the smaller ships would pose no real threat, and—not for the first time—Disra lamented that ISB had purged all of Kaine's former senior staff. How hard can it be to find a single competent officer in the Imperial Starfleet? he lamented silently.

As Disra's enthusiasm waned, his fear started to grow. Halmere had not yet responded to the more-difficult-than-expected battle. He simply sat in the center of the room, motionless, staring out the forward window and watching the flashes of green turbolaser fire, punctuated by explosions. They could see, in the distance, the Star Destroyer Exigent, her massive broadside turned towards Invincible and her New Order sisters, rolling slowly to continually present recharged shields to incoming fire. Behind her, the noses of Pellaeon's other Star Destroyers flashed with torrents of green fire, and they were surrounded by a mass of smaller ships, each themselves firing defiantly back at the New Order formations. Smaller ships that Valentin had believed to not be a threat… but which were proving otherwise.

They were surrounded, but they were fighting and Disra was no longer sure the New Order would win. And if they lost… he took another peek at Halmere. The Emperor-Regent remained still, his hands resting comfortably on his black-clad knees, white armor surrounding him like fortress ramparts. He seemed impervious to all that was going on around him.

Despite his presence, Invincible's bridge still felt like fear, and Valentin's voice grew ever more shrill.

* * *​

Exigent was dying. The final relay from her periscope craft made that quite clear. Asori Rogriss assessed the damage and ran the calculations of how many people on her old ship would survive in escape pods and how many would die by fire, or shock, or empty vacuum, and felt a combination of despair and cold fury. Despair, because Exigent would die before she could get there to save them; fury, because she was in an excellent position to exact plenty of vengeance for their deaths, and she intended to do just that.

Termagant's bridge held the taut promise of well-drilled professionals, crackling with the static energy before a lightning strike; commands were clear and in an understandable cadence, and her squadron maintained its formation perfectly.

And then it was time.

Her four Lively-class frigates finally emerged from the dampening blanket of their cloaking shields. Her twelve squadrons of Clawcraft raced ahead at full throttle, slightly encumbered by attached box torpedo launchers. Already well within proton torpedo range of the four Star Destroyers she was flanking, they locked on and prepared to launch, dodging what little turbolaser fire came their way easily.

In the distance she could see the nine glowing circles, each arrayed in lines of three—the classic arrangement of Star Destroyer engines. Those engines were full in her view because she had used her periscope scouts to put herself directly behind the nearest of the three enemy Star Destroyer formations. Every Star Destroyer captain feared being flanked, because while those massive engines gave Star Destroyer's impressive speed for their size and mass, they also left the Star Destroyer's rear firing arc almost entirely undefended.

She tutted silently at the New Order commander who had planned this little engagement. Despite his evident inexperience, what she was about to do to his fleet wasn't entirely his fault. He had no idea that she and her ships were here… and he was about to pay for that lack of knowledge, because he hadn't left so much as a picket ship in his wake.

She keyed her comm headset "All fighters, timed launch. Service target one on my mark. Then two, and three. Then proceed ahead on your own initiative unless otherwise ordered." She heard the echo of acknowledgments from her Clawcraft commanders, watched the plot, waited, and waited a few moments more, leaning forward in her command chair, perched and anticipatory. "Mark!"

Two hundred proton torpedoes shot out from the leading edge of her TIEs. A minute later they slammed into the rear of the New Order Star Destroyer Firestorm. All three of Firestorm's engines went from bright spots of light against the starscape to empty voids. She watched in awe as the entire rear of Firestorm exploded, splintering. It almost appeared as if Firestorm had abruptly split into a swarm of insects, one enormous, invincible ship becoming tens of thousands of smaller ones. Then the Star Destroyer finished disintegrating, its nose coasting forward under momentum, spiraling and burning.

"Target two!" she ordered. The order was entirely unnecessary; her squadrons of Clawcraft were already angling on the second Star Destroyer. This time the range was too close for two full volleys—and they only had two left—so they launched only one. One was all Asori needed. More than a hundred torpedoes slammed into the shields and engines of the Star Destroyer Goliath. The Clawcraft sprinted away, leaving an open firing lane and a viciously wounded, entirely vulnerable Star Destroyer in their wake. "Open fire!" she barked, and her four ships poured heavy fire into the wound.

Bursts of blue light, distinct from the showers of green, slammed into Goliath's three engines. One had already been destroyed by the torpedo volley; the other two winked out of existence under her torrent of fire. She waited another ten seconds as Termagant's guns vaporized armor, blazing deep into Goliath's hull. Goliath's bridge tower vanished, and the leaderless, crippled Star Destroyer began to drift.

"Target three!"

* * *​

The targeting reticle flicked green and Soontir Fel pressed his use-worn firing stud with unthinking precision. Another TIE droid vanished as his TIE Defender's superior firepower lashed out against its smaller, nimbler, and more fragile foe. Beside him, Turr Phennir's Defender unleashed a stuttering exclamation of laser and ion cannon fire, taking out a trio of TIE droids which had been flying in a tight formation.

The enemy advantage in starfighters had vanished. Outnumbered two to one at the start of the engagement, the TIE droids' piloting patterns had, once identified, made them easy targets. They were still deadly and had swarmed and destroyed at least forty of his TIEs—nearly a sixth of Pellaeon's original strength—but their complete disregard for their own safety and lack of creativity meant that for every TIE Fel lost, his pilots or an Enforcer's guns reaped four New Order droid starfighters.

When the Clawcraft entered the engagement, whatever advantages the TIE droids had were entirely lost. Asori Rogriss' twelve squadrons of Clawcraft had jettisoned their awkward torpedo box launchers and flashed through the ongoing melee decisively, their blue lasers—charrics, the Chiss called them—tearing through TIE droids with casual ease. The TIE droids, which like the Clone Wars era Vultures that preceded them had been designed to swarm an outnumbered enemy, were simply not up to the task. Red dots vanished en masse on his HUD, scythed away by the arriving Clawcraft, and in the distance a third enemy Star Destroyer brewed up in a spectacular chain of detonations.

Fel activated his com. "Admiral Pellaeon, now you may launch your bombers."

* * *​

Pellaeon's lead Star Destroyer was lost to flame, transforming from pristine armor plates to burning hulk; Exigent's defensive spin continued now out of momentum rather than intent.

But Vilm Disra felt an icy fist of fear close around his heart.

Their sensors confirmed kills on a few squadrons' worth of fighters from Pellaeon's TIE squadrons, a half-dozen dead Enforcers, and Exigent, but that was all. In exchange the New Order had lost three Star Destroyers and nearly all their TIE droids, and the dying had only just begun.

Sheer, unadulterated terror closed at his throat. His hands were as white as his remaining hair under the dye as he clenched the bridge rail.

Admiral Valentin was in full-blown panic. He was sprinting around the bridge, shrieking orders at anyone in his vicinity—especially junior officers, who were not responsible for this debacle and could do nothing to fix it from their posts—demanding that they launch the TIE reserve he had already committed or that the other Star Destroyers destroy the enemy, without providing any guidance as to how.

Halmere fixed him with an absent, silent stare.

"Emperor-Regent!" Valentin pleaded. "This isn't my fault! I didn't know about their other ships! We need reinforcements, with another few Star Destroyers I promise—"

snap-hiss

The Emperor-Regent, who had sat with eerie stillness in his command chair at the end of the bridge walk for the entire engagement, had moved in a flash. A collective gasp went through the bridge as a pillar of ruby fire erupted through the center of Valentin's chest, the lightsaber ending Valentin's career, his pleading, and his life with decided finality. The young, well-connected and impeccably-dressed Admiral slid down the blade, collapsing to the deck nearly in pieces.

"All ships, retreat," Halmere ordered. It was all he said, but abruptly the entire Imperial formation turned to do just that without thought for maneuvering or an orderly withdrawal. Enemy fighters and Enforcers had closed to point blank range and were firing angrily, doing their best to cripple the New Order ships and prevent their escape. Far worse, a swarm of fresh TIE bombers were emerging from Pellaeon's Star Destroyers, lining up the closest foes for their own devastating attack runs.

Minutes passed like hours. The communications station reported losses with the rote metronomic precision of New Order-banned Verpine music. Twelve Star Destroyers had become nine, and then seven, and then the Star Destroyer Krakana's entire port side vanished in a torrent of flame as the combination of Enforcer and TIE bomber fire chewed through shields and armor with insulting ease.

Invincible fled and there was no one on her bridge who did not know that they were running away in ignominious defeat.

Disra was frozen. Few of their Star Destroyers had escaped into hyperspace, and Invincible had only escaped because the other ships of her squadron fought valiantly to ensure the Emperor-Regent's escape. The enemy had possessed ships—both capital ships and starfighters—of unknown design which had proven to be viciously effective. None of Imperial Intelligence estimates had ever even guessed that Grand Moff Ferrouz and Admiral Pellaeon might have additional resources—how could they, this was wild space, there was nothing out here!—but clearly they did, and the battle had started to turn bad even before those mystery ships had gutted the New Order formation!

He could not speak, he could not think. He could only wait in abject terror.

Heavy footsteps came to a rest on the bridge walk beside him and he turned to look into the depths of Halmere's eyes. The Emperor-Regent had a mask of calm, but Disra could almost feel the rage emanating from the former Inquisitor.

Rage directed at him.

"Emperor-Regent," he babbled, trying to sound respectful, but all he could hear from his own voice was Valentin's senseless rambling. "Clearly, our intelligence estimates—"

There was another snap-hiss, and a sudden, aching pain in his chest, and Dira looked down and saw the crackling fire of Halmere's blade thrust through his meticulously-arranged rank insignia. He gasped a last superheated breath and used it to cough out a laugh as he collapsed on Invincible's deck.

And he'd gotten so close to finally getting out of Vorru's shadow…

[Return to Table of Contents]​

 

Chapter Ten

Asori Rogriss' shuttle descended through the clouds above Poln Major to the sight of cheering crowds in the streets of Whitestone City. The people of the city were loyal to Grand Moff Ferrouz and had stood behind him even when he had broken from the New Order. She could imagine them watching the battle on every viewscreen they could beg, borrow, or steal, wondering if New Order would defeat Pellaeon's forces and what it would do to those who had stayed loyal to him after they had.

But the battle had been won, not lost, and in spectacular fashion. Admiral Pellaeon's fleet had utterly devastated Regent-Halmere's formation. Just the process of salvaging the destroyed ships and recovering their survivors—not to mention the survivors of Exigent—would likely take days. Each survivor they recovered would be given the chance to defect and join them, strengthening their fleet still further.

Before the Battle of Poln Major, Asori had been uncertain how all this would end. The New Order had so many more systems that defeating it was a distant fantasy. Now, though, with the sudden collapse of the Imperial Fleet and the loss of so many Star Destroyers, that fantasy seemed alarmingly real.

Don't get ahead of yourself, she thought, trying to dampen her enthusiasm. The New Order is still well-armed and vicious. You have wounded it, but what will it do in response?

Her shuttle settled to the ground outside the governor's palace. She waited for the landing ramp to fully depress, then she descended it. She was wearing her full dress uniform, and with the uniform came a sense of authority and dignity.

Everything was different, now.

"Captain Rogriss." That voice belonged to Admiral Pellaeon; she turned to face the older man and accepted a mutual salute and handshake. "Well done, Captain."

"And you, Admiral," she returned.

Pellaeon was typically reserved. "It was Baron Fel who saw the crucial element. Their TIEs would have been much deadlier had he not realized they were droids so quickly."

"Which raises the question," she said—and this was the one vital question, the concern that lingered, the knot of doubt that niggled in her gut "—where did they get six hundred droid starfighters?"

"I agree," Pellaeon said darkly. "If I'm not mistaken, that is what Baron Fel wishes to speak with us about." He gestured towards the arching, white stone columns of the governor's palace. "Come, Captain. Let us see what our leaders have for us today."

They walked together through the white stone structure. It was a solemn place, with only a handful of political aides and bureaucrats poking their heads out to get a look. The cheering crowds of the city were far from here, and even the sounds of their jubilant celebration were now silent. Their standard-issue boots clicked on the stairs as they ascended towards the governor's office. Inside they found Grand Moff Ferrouz and Baron Soontir Fel in close conversation.

Fel wasted no time with pleasantries. "Admiral, Captain. The Grand Moff and I were discussing the New Order's manufacturing capability, and we have come to the conclusion that they do not have the ability to construct and field so many droid starfighters."

"Experience would seem to suggest otherwise," Pellaeon said dryly.

Fel smiled without humor. "Indeed." He shook his head. "We have no idea where they came from. Our best guess is that the secret facility that the young Emperor Ismaren has been secreted away to is some kind of manufactory, but despite the best efforts of our intelligence apparatus we still don't know where that is."

"Worse," Grand Moff Ferrouz added, "is the fact that we don't know how long it took them to construct so many TIE droids. Was this the product of six months of manufacturing? A year? Two weeks? We have no way of knowing."

"Worse still," Fel continued, "is that we should expect the TIE droids to be smarter each time we face them. The ones we fought here used a simple behavioral matrix that dates back to the early Clone Wars. There are a number of basic improvements that could be made to their code to improve their tactics. As long as the New Order has a competent cyberneticist, we should expect they will be significantly smarter the next time we have to fight them. Not as good as sentient pilots of course… but smarter than before."

Asori imagined a few thousand TIE droids swarming over her squadron with near infinite reinforcements. "If they had huge manufacturing capacity, they would have used more than six hundred," she pointed out. "That gave them an edge in numbers but not enough of an edge to make up for their deficiencies."

"I agree," Fel said with a nod. "They brought six hundred because six hundred was what they had available. Then. But how many will they have available tomorrow?"

Pellaeon took a deep breath. "I see your point. What do you intend to do about it?"

"Two things," said Ferrouz. "First, we must redouble our efforts to acquire an intelligence asset within Emperor-Regent Halmere's inner circle. Anyone who might have come into close contact with him may also have traveled to the New Order's mysterious droid manufactory. We need to find that factory and destroy it before it fundamentally alters the dynamics of this war."

Pellaeon nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Second," and to Asori's surprise, Ferrouz turned towards her, "Captain Rogriss, I have a mission for you."

"Sir?"

"Given the unexpected and unknown strength of our enemy, the Baron and I have agreed to change our previous course. You're being sent to negotiate with the New Republic," Ferrouz said grimly. "We believe the time has come to make a formal overture towards ending the Galactic Civil War."

She blinked, astonished. "Me? Sir?"

"You," agreed Fel, taking up for Ferrouz—clearly, the two of them had rehearsed this in advance. "Your name carries some credibility with the man we want you to reach, but to get to him without drawing suspicion you'll have to find Mirax Terrik. She's a smuggler, primarily of gray market antiquities. Importantly—" he stared at her pointedly, then looked to the other people in the room "—and I do not want this widely shared: she has a direct line to the commander of their Fifth Fleet, who also happens to be my brother-in-law."

Asori heard Pellaeon's restrained grunt of surprise. Ferrouz, as usual, gave away nothing. She was still stunned almost to incoherence that she would be responsible for this mission; the additional surprise that Baron Soontir Fel and General Wedge Antilles were related by marriage added little to add to her current state of shock and uncertainty.

"If you can get to Wedge Antilles and tell him what we just fought," Fel continued, "I'm sure he'll recognize the scope of the threat we both face. The problem is we want any overture from us to the New Republic to be kept secret so that the New Order has no chance to interfere." He manipulated the datapad he was holding, and in response a holo of the galaxy illuminated above Ferrouz's desk, one that illuminated all the remaining New Order territories in a blood-red.

"With all due respect, sir," she said, putting all that information aside for later, "That doesn't answer my question. Why me?"

"I would rather it be your father," Fel replied. "He and General Antilles have worked together before on more than one occasion and his name ought to carry some credibility. But it can't be him for two reasons. First, he isn't here. He's still assembling our reserve fleet at Nirauan, preparing it to reinforce Poln Major in the event of a second New Order attack. Second, he is too well known and his appearance on Coruscant would surely put the New Order on alert."

"If I may inquire, Baron," Pellaeon asked in a somewhat subdued tone, "how can we be sure Antilles won't simply kill her? We've all seen the holos of my exchange with him at Carida. The man is utterly single-minded! If now-Senator Midanyl hadn't stepped in he may have chosen to attack my fleet rather than let us go, even if that meant he risked losing the battle."

"I can't speak to Wedge's state of mind," Fel said. "I've only known him briefly in person, but if we can get Mirax to see the message and verify it, she's sure to at least try and present it to him on its own merits. He should see the arithmetic in having us on his side to finish the New Order at least." He hesitated, then added somewhat reluctantly, "Wedge also owes Captain Rogriss' father a debt."

Asori frowned, wondering what that could mean. Still, though… "I'm not a diplomat, sir," she said warily. "That wasn't my training…" She had never been trained for peacetime and never known peacetime. There were times she wondered what she would even do if peace came. Asking her to be the agent of peace…

"I will provide you with a full briefing," put in Grand Moff Ferrouz, "including everything you are authorized to offer the New Republic to encourage them to agree to an alliance and to achieve the long-term peace we are looking for. All you have to do is deliver the datapad to the New Republic and let it speak for us." He smiled reassuringly. "Believe me, Captain, we did not select your name at random. The Baron and I agree that our representative should be from the Imperial Starfleet, someone with clean hands, and someone with a low profile. Someone that the New Republic military will have some sympathy for. That is who we need to be the new face of our Empire. In every respect, you are the right choice."

Eight hours later, after she had handed off command of her squadron to her second-in-command, Asori Rogriss found herself on a disguised Intelligence courier with Commander Dreyf and a stack of briefing datapads thick enough to serve as armor plating on a Star Destroyer.

* * *
​

Fliry Vorru's office was in an unassuming villa on the outskirts of Coronet City, the capital of Corellia. It stank of excess and louche old money, just as was expected of the head of Black Sun. It was, after all, a millennia-old organization, one that had been the heart of the Coruscanti criminal underworld for almost as long as Coruscant had been the galactic capital.

Until I had to close the Coruscant office due to… rampant speculation by its Vigo.

Vorru did his best to work hard but still enjoyed touches of the high life he'd missed on Kessel. His auto-massaging office chair had fine, precise servos ideal for working out kinks in his back and featured capable defense programming able to direct a truly dazzling armament. For that luxury, the chair cost as much as a large Coruscanti apartment, and as much as some Coronet apartment buildings.

Xizor, the last head of Black Sun of any note, had owned the same model. Vorru had appearances to maintain, after all.

Unlike Coruscant, most of Coronet ran closer to the ground with only a few megastructures and space-lifts at its heart. Vorru's office was ground-level, in a residential neighborhood far away from the busy harbor and spaceport, and through the slightly-colored windows was an array of beautiful Corellian plants. During the spring, Vorru had kept these windows open, which allowed both a breeze and the marvelous scent of spiceflowers, maintained by expert Corellian gardeners who had cost him a significant amount of credits to poach from the local elite.

The rest of his inner sanctum was equally opulent, but had been styled to Vorru's personal tastes, rather than those of his predecessors. His large desk was made from fine Talusan wood, as were the matching chairs (which were sized to suit Vorru's comparatively diminutive frame). On the walls were lightly-lit abstract artworks, all of a pre-Empire Corellian vintage—and not only human artists, either. Vorru, unlike many former Imperial Moffs, had no particular antipathy towards Corellia's non-human sentients. He was pretty sure that the Drallan art wasn't intended to be abstract, but to human eyes it was undoubtedly so. Despite his uncertainty about what exactly it depicted, it was attractive to the eye, and his underlings seemed to like it. Or at least they said as much to his face.

Just outside the door were two of the best mercenaries that credits could buy.

His terminal beeped, alerting him to a new urgent message. Turning towards it with a frown, he activated the monitor and brought the message up for his perusal. The message was from one of his many assets in the Imperial hierarchy—it was alarmingly easy to buy off ISB officers these days, the organization was not what it had once been—and the subject line told him almost everything he needed to know.

DISASTER AT POLN MAJOR. FLEET DESTROYED. MOFF DISRA EXECUTED FOR INCOMPETENCE.

He reviewed the rest of the communique with morbid curiosity. Emperor-Regent Halmere's assault on Grand Moff Ferrouz's forces had gone horribly wrong. Of the twelve Imperial-class Star Destroyers only four had survived, and of those four only two remained combat capable. The Grand Moff's traitors—or loyalists, Vorru thought wryly, depending on one's perspective—had possessed unexpected assets. Admiral Valentin had been found guilty of treason and Moff Disra of incompetence; both were dead. Vorru wondered, with grim amusement, what had set Valentin's treason apart from Disra's incompetence.

He was under no illusions. Vilm Disra had been a useful asset, but Vorru was all-too-well aware that his old administrative aide from his days as Corellia's Moff had ceased being fully reliable some time before. Disra's messages had been prompt, but had not been as… useful as they had been prior to Disra becoming the Moff of the Braxant Sector and being assigned to the Emperor-Regent's staff. His loss was frustrating, because it meant Vorru no longer had eyes and ears in the Council of Moffs itself, but it was not a disaster.

The rest of the message…

Vorru leaned back in his expensive massage chair, allowing the silent kneading to ease him into deep thought. He thought through the implications of what had happened, turned it over and examined it from every angle, and came to one inescapable conclusion:

The Empire was finished.

This moment had been coming for some time. He saw it even here on Corellia, as in the last six months anti-Imperial partisans had waged an extensive insurgency and protest campaign against Imperial rule. Selonia and Drall were very nearly in open revolt, and while there were still a great many Imperial sympathizers among the human populations of Corellia, Talus, and Tralus, they had become more subdued as defeat after defeat rocked the New Order. With the calamity at Poln Major and the humiliation of the Emperor-Regent himself…

The Empire is indeed finished.

Vorru found he didn't have any strong feelings about this reality one way or the other. The Empire had been dying ever since Endor, after all. The question was what should he do about it?

An odd sense of unease swept over him. Vorru was used to the unexpected happening—being able to both cause and take advantage of the unexpected was how he had become Corellia's Moff, a lifetime ago—but it nonetheless always brought with it a certain anxiety. To quell that anxiety, Vorru would have to exert his will on the new unknown, to twist it into something he did know, and something he could control.

That knowledge usually reassured him. But this time, Vorru's uneasiness lingered. Something was off…

He felt a waft of actual breeze and smelled a touch of spiceflower. It took his brain a second to catch up with the olfactory prompting, but then he snatched at his desk drawer, because that meant someone had opened one of his windows.

With a screech, his massage chair suddenly spasmed. Making a weak sound of protest, the chair whined and creaked, and Vorru leapt out of it as someone, a man, cleared his throat behind him. Spinning around, Fliry palmed the closest blaster to hand, a light holdout he kept in the top drawer of his desk, and pointed it at the interloping presence.

The man who had breached his sanctum was of an age and a height equal to his own and had a spare face stretched like tanned leather over sharp bones. The intruder held both hands up in a sign of measured harmlessness, which just made Vorru even more uncomfortable. "Hello, Moff Vorru," the intruder said. The man's voice was soft and unmistakably Corellian, Enster with a touch of gutter Coronet. "Or do you prefer Underlord these days?" One of the man's lifted hands gestured at the blaster in Vorru's hand. "You won't need that," he added with a soft smile, and to Vorru's astonishment he recognized the man's clothes. The intruder's jumpsuit had the logo of the local gardening service that Vorru had hired. "I've come on business and my business doesn't involve harming you."

Vorru took a moment to glance at his chair and saw a restraining bolt affixed to the back of it.

"On the other hand," the man added, "my business doesn't involve me being harmed either, so I had to neutralize your toy."

"Typically, I prefer for my business partners to make appointments," Vorru said calmly, checking his blaster to make sure the holdout was charged. It was. "But I suppose you've gone through all the difficulty of coming to see me. The least I can do is hear what you have to say."

The gardener smiled. "I thought you'd appreciate the subtlety. Though I also know that after this meeting you'll be reassessing your security arrangements—as you should. Your mercenaries are good at what they do, but I'd add a handful more aerial droids and double the frequency of their patrols."

"I'll keep that in mind." Vorru frowned. Now that he was looking at the man—and was reasonably certain that his life was not in immediate jeopardy—the gardener actually looked vaguely familiar. "Have we met?"

"I used to work for you, actually," the gardener said. The other man was likely one of many people who had once served the former Moff's office. For that matter, from a certain point of view, all of Corellia had once worked for Fliry Vorru. "A lifetime ago. I thought you'd appreciate the respect of necessary things being done in the shadows. After all, you're the one playing games and making the Diktat stutter and stumble."

"The Diktat hardly needs my help for that."

"True. The Empire isn't what it used to be." The gardener smiled thinly. "Have you heard about Emperor-Regent Halmere's debacle at Poln Major yet?"

That made Vorru almost stiffen in surprise. He'd only just found out about that, and he had intelligence assets in the heart of ISB! How in all the Corellian hells could this man have heard about it before he had? "Of course. The news reached me some time ago," he lied smoothly.

"Once the news gets out," the gardener said, "the Corellian people will not be able to resist responding. Protests will fill the streets of Coronet. The Selonians and Drallans will attack their Imperial garrisons." His expression tightened and Vorru saw a hint of stress there. "The leadership of the insurgency won't be able to stop it even if they wish to. The pro-Imperial militias will try to suppress them, but Thrackan Sal-Solo's people won't be able to clear them without massive bloodshed, if at all."

That was a not unreasonable set of suppositions. "Why come to me?"

"Because I'm under the impression that whatever else you are, you are also a Corellian patriot." The gardener gestured at the opulent space around them. "And because the Imperial response to those protests will be vicious. Like Deyer and a hundred other worlds, the Star Destroyers in orbit will be ordered by their ISB loyalty officers to bombard our worlds. They will destroy in an afternoon what has taken Corellia a thousand lifetimes to build."

"And you think I can stop it?"

"I know you can. I know, Moff Vorru, that you've spent the last six months manipulating the personnel rosters of those Star Destroyers. I know that they're staffed with more Corellians than the Imperial Starfleet under Tarkin would ever have accepted—Corellians who might be reluctant to rearrange so much as a blade of grass on their own homeworlds. I also know that you are very, very wealthy… and that the non-Corellian Captains and crew of those Star Destroyers might be amenable to switching sides, if provided with the proper incentive."

Vorru laughed in astonishment. "You're asking me to bribe the Captains of six Imperial-class Star Destroyers? That would cost a fortune."

The gardener didn't hesitate. "And their escorts, if possible. We don't have time to debate it, either… news of Poln Major will arrive on Corellia within days, perhaps hours. ISB's censors won't be able to stifle the news forever, and once it hits the enthusiasm and protests will get out of hand. If we're going to free Corellia without disaster, we need to act quickly and decisively."

"And if I don't have the funds?"

"You do have the funds."

The gardener's voice was calm and entirely certain and once again Vorru was struck with a sense of familiarity. "You are a leader of the Corellian resistance," he said with sudden understanding. Then, on an instinct: "Were you with CorSec?" he asked slowly. "I heard some of their records were completely destroyed during the Dark Times."

"I'm just a gardener," the man countered, his voice betraying no hint of emotion. "I nourish beautiful and productive plans, and I pull up weeds. To pull up the Empire cleanly, I'm going to need your help when the protests start."

Vorru waved his blaster for slight emphasis. "Even if I decide to help Corellia, what makes you think I'll let you leave?"

"Every rose has its thorns. You're not the only person who has been manipulating personnel assignments. If my heart stops beating while on these premises, or if I give a duress signal, one of the orbiting Home Guard warships will flatten this entire property."

That was so ridiculous that Vorru had to laugh again. "You're not serious."

"You know as well as I do that any time someone says that, they reveal themselves to be poking or prodding to reveal amateurish threats spun from filaments of imaginary fear. Rest assured, I am not an amateur. I am quite serious."

The man was either an expert sabacc player or he was telling the truth. Vorru wasn't sure which. Though they were both old Corellians in a dangerous game; he could be both. "That would be conspicuous."

"Accidents happen, especially during gunnery exercises." The gardener gestured towards the still open window. When Vorru didn't shoot him, he nodded. "It was good to see you, Fliry. I'm sure I can trust you'll do the right thing." And with that, the gardener slipped back through the window, slid it closed silently behind him, and disappeared.

* * *
​

Hyperspace was, Ephin Sarreti thought, the only time he ever got any real rest.

He had been enrolled in COMPNOR by his parents when he was barely a teenager. Like many children of the Coruscanti elite, he'd been steeped in Imperial politics for as long as he could remember: a constant analysis of whatever Palpatine had done this week and the reasons it was (like everything Palpatine did) pure genius and for the greater good of all. For a young man interested in politics, that was the tenor of every discussion. The only debate to be had, if there was one, was why Palpatine's decisions were genius, not if.

Keeping track of the political news was something he had done even before he fell into the clutches of COMPNOR and it was a habit he had never broken even after Palpatine's death. As he'd risen through the ranks and been given access to intelligence reports, his addictive habit of consuming the news had become an addictive habit of consuming those instead. There were days, if he wasn't doing other things, he could spend twenty hours absorbed with the damned things, reading page after page of up-to-the-minute briefs over the Imperial HoloNet. He had long ago concluded that the obsessive behavior was neither healthy nor necessary, but he continued anyway.

Except in hyperspace.

In hyperspace, the HoloNet receiver was blissfully silent. Oh, he could still review the pages and pages of files that had already been downloaded, but the obsessive pull of the most current reports was lost.

So he slept in. For several days in a row. He felt more rested now than he had in ages. Maybe ever. Certainly since he'd joined ISB, maybe since he'd joined COMPNOR.

His transport, an intelligence courier disguised as a medical ship from an easily sliced charity organization chartered out of the Corporate Sector, was small and well-furnished, and his crew was competent even if not excellent. For the first leg of the trip there was nothing for any of them to do: the location of Silencer Station was so secret that even ISB loyalty officers were required to have the hyperspace jump programmed and operated by navigational droids that would self-destruct if tampered with. But once they had arrived at Entralla, Sarreti's crew had taken over and taken up the task of navigating through New Republic-held territory to return him to Corellia with aplomb. He was scheduled to rendezvous with Admiral Daala and return to being the monkey-lizard on her shoulder. She was not going to be happy about the Emperor-Regent's further delay in the delivery of the TIE droids she wanted, but he suspected she was not going to be surprised either. Sending him in person to confer with the Emperor-Regent had been a last-ditch effort, after all.

He took his time, enjoying a last lazy morning. The caf was rich and strong, the scones had an excellent crumb, which met with his hearty approval. He casually perused a few intelligence reports, but realized almost immediately that he had already read them, so tossed them aside and snuck out an auto-wipe flimsi of a New Republic satirist and luxuriated in doing nothing beyond crunching and chuckling for just a little bit longer.

That luxury eventually passed. His wristcomm indicated that they were nearing the scheduled arrival at Corellia and rather than wait for the crew to call him to the bridge, Loyalty Officer Sarreti triggered the flimsi's wipe function, incinerated it, and arrived early. Waving their concerns away, he took up his usual seat and started to once again look for something interesting to read. He didn't find anything before the ship's captain told him they were about to come out of hyperspace.

This was the part he didn't like. Being in hyperspace was a wonderful luxury. Going in and coming out of hyperspace, on the other hand, were moments of nauseating horribleness and he would never understand how people like Daala could do it without flinching. The retching, nauseating moment of the transition arrived, stilling the swirl of hyperspace and leaving Sarreti wishing he'd indulged in one fewer scone. Perhaps two.

By the time he had recovered his dignity, they were headed in-system. "Is Admiral Daala here yet?" he asked.

The itch had already started. The itch to go and activate the HoloNet terminal and download the latest intelligence reports. And this time it wasn't just his addiction to information and gossip driving it, either: Admiral Valentin's attack on Poln Major should be over by now, and Sarreti was dying to know how the battle had gone.

"Not yet, sir." The ship's commanding officer, an ISB lieutenant, frowned as he examined the plot of the Corellia system. "Something strange though sir… it appears the Corellian System has been mobilized."

That made Sarreti sit up. "Are we under attack?"

The long pause before the officer answered caused Sarreti to lunge forward, staring at what the officer was seeing. On the combat plot were five of the six Imperial-class Star Destroyers that had been assigned to the defense of Corellia and the entire Corellian Home Guard defense fleet—which, by treaty, could never out-mass the Empire's standing guard forces… but sure looked imposing right now. There were also hundreds of freighters and snubfighters which were labeled "civilian vessels."

"Sir." The officer finally spoke, pointing at a hard-to-see-blur on the screen. It became more obvious the longer Sarreti looked at it: the Star Destroyers and civilians were clustered around it, as if it had once been a target. "Sir I think that used to be the missing Star Destroyer."

"Pilot, all stop!" Sarreti gasped as he worked through the implications. "Bring us back out of Corellia's gravity well and start plotting a jump!"

"To where, sir?"

"Anywhere!" Sarreti threw himself back into his chair. Plugging into the HoloNet, he found the local hub had been disabled—but of course it would be, if Corellia really had gone into revolt. So he tapped into the local net instead…

The monitor by his station blinked to life. A jubilant, smiling human face was surrounded by a bustle of activity. Behind her, Sarreti recognized the exterior of the government complex in Coronet City. The journalist was shouting over the noise of all the people around her to be heard, all of them cheering. Many wore green armbands and waved blaster rifles. "Diktat Gallamby has been arrested by a reinstated CorSec! I just saw him being led away by a full CorSec intervention squad! We're free!"

"Sir," the officer said, drawing his attention back out of the local news. "We're prepared for a hyperspace jump, sir, that will take us deeper into the Core towards Admiral Daala's last reported location." He grimaced. "We've also received this, sir." He handed Sarreti a datapad, which Sarreti promptly plugged into his terminal.

It was a recording. On the screen was a Star Destroyer bridge, but the ship's captain had removed his uniform and was wearing a civilian outfit, albeit one that had slight military tailoring and an orderly green armband on his left arm. "This is Captain Rann of the Corellian System Defense Forces. This system is no longer under Imperial control. All forces that remain loyal to the Empire are to leave the system at once or be destroyed."

"His Loyalty Officer will have him shot!" gasped the man next to Sarreti.

Sarreti rolled his eyes. "His Loyalty Officer has been shot already," he countered, trying to restore his tone to its normal, level calm and only partially successful. "Or spaced. Prepare to go to hyperspace, we have to tell Admiral Daala—"

"Status change!"

"It seems it's too late to tell her," the officer said, watching as the plot was updated. "Admiral Daala has just arrived."

* * *
​

Admiral Daala and Captain Markarian stood in the center of the bridge walk, reviewing their datapads. Stormhawk cruised towards Corellia at high speed; the sudden loss of communication with Corellia could have indicated a New Republic attack, and Daala had ordered her ship to return there with all possible speed.

"How long has Corellia been out of communication?" Markarian asked his aide.

"We lost the HoloNet link right before we made the jump, sir, so it's been about three hours."

"Battles have been won and lost in three hours," Daala pointed out. The Star Destroyer formation was huddled deep in Corellia's gravity well, protected from quick attack. That much was normal; the hordes of freighters, frigates, and snubfighters were not. Corellia had plenty of freighter traffic coming in and out at any given time, but they never got within gunnery range of a Star Destroyer if they had any other choice. That and the fact that one of their Star Destroyers was missing… "get me Captain Rann," she ordered.

"Do you think something is wrong, sir?" Markarian asked her.

"I know it is," she replied. "The only question is what. The fact that the New Republic isn't here, though, suggests that the system didn't come under attack from outside forces."

"I have Captain Rann!"

"Captain Rann, this is Admiral Daala," she responded instantly. "Status report. Now!"

"Admiral Daala." The viewer resolved into Rann's image. Captain Rann was a competent enough officer—better than most, in Daala's estimation, even if not the best in the Starfleet—and Daala had left him in command of the squadron defending Corellia. Normally a six Star Destroyer squadron would have rated an Admiral, but there were precious few Admirals left and Daala was not one to promote just to fill vacancies. At the moment, though, Rann wasn't even wearing his Captain's uniform, and Daala's heart hardened as she realized at once what had happened. "I'm afraid I must inform you that Corellia is no longer Imperial territory, Admiral. This system is now independent, by declaration of the Corellian Ruling Council."

"There is no Corellian Ruling Council," she said stiffly, almost hissing the words at him. "You are committing treason, Captain."

"I had a choice between treason against my homeworld and treason against the Empire," Rann said, folding his hands together in front of him. He bowed his head to her slightly, a respectful gesture. "I chose treason against the Empire. If you want to join us, Admiral, the Corellian System Defense Forces could use another Star Destroyer. I respect you as an officer, and I suspect you'd even be put in command once your loyalty could be assured." He smiled at her. "If you're concerned that you're not a Corellian, you shouldn't be. Corellia has always been very welcoming to all those who choose to make it home, after all."

Betrayal. "The Empire will not let this stand, Rann."

"The Empire doesn't have much choice. Have you heard about Poln Major, Admiral?"

Daala frowned. Poln Major? Stormhawk had been deep in the Core, harassing the New Republic's supply lines, for weeks. Inside New Republic territory, and unable to use the New Republic's relays for fear of giving away their location, their HoloNet communication had been spotty. The communications they did have were relayed through Corellia, which meant Corellia got all the news before Daala did. But Daala could take the information at hand and add it up to the obvious conclusion. Rann's confidence, the casual assumption that the Empire would not be a threat to him…

"Emperor-Regent Halmere attacked Poln Major personally. He took twelve Star Destroyers—a hefty chunk of everything the Empire has left." Rann scoffed contemptuously. "Pellaeon slapped him around like an errant schoolboy. I am afraid, Admiral Daala, that the Empire has nothing left that could threaten Corellia. Whatever you want to intimidate me with won't work. The war is over, the Empire is dead. I now serve Corellia and Corellia's interests… and you are not welcome here. If you attempt to come within range of any of Corellia's worlds you will be fired upon."

The screen went black.

Daala stood, glowering at the glossy black that had replaced Rann's face, then took a breath. She still had four Star Destroyers, including Stormhawk—assuming all of them are still loyal, she thought sourly—but she did not have them here. Each of them had been given a cloaking device and scattered through the heart of New Republic territory, lying in wait to ambush targets of opportunity. She could rally them, bring together what was left of the Imperial forces in the Corellian Sector, maybe even try to rally some of the Core Warlords… but without Corellia, she had no base. No staging area. No repairs. No resupply. No reinforcements. The warlords in the Deep Core were unreliable and more likely to seize her ships than help her.

Within a month, her Star Destroyers would be suffering maintenance issues. Within three she'd have serious system faults. In six they wouldn't be combat worthy. Even if she had all four here, Corellia had more than enough defenses to repel any assault she attempted to mount… and she still had to worry about the New Republic attacking her rear.

Corellia had been taken from the Empire and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Admiral?" Markarian asked nervously. "What do we do?"

She controlled her anger and did not unleash it. "Bring Loyalty Officer Sarreti's shuttle aboard. While we do, query the HoloNet node for all information about this battle at Poln Major. After that, take us into the Deep Core so we can make a secure call to headquarters. I need to talk—" she sneered, unable to hide her anger or her frustration and at that moment not caring "—to the Emperor-Regent."

* * *
​

Loyalty Officer Sarreti found Admiral Daala standing in the middle of her office. She wasn't pacing, or ranting, or screaming. She was just staring at the datapad in her hand. She didn't look up when he entered, though she had to know he was there.

When he came within ten feet of her, she started to speak. "He had twelve Star Destroyers," she said. "Six hundred—six hundred—TIE Droids. Three hundred and eighty thousand officers and crew." Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, she lifted her head to look at him. Her green eyes were molten with rage. "Do you know how much of Admiral Valentin's force returned?"

He swallowed hard. "I don't."

"Four. Four Star Destroyers. One of which is so badly damaged it may never see combat again. Another is going to require months—months—of refit. And zero TIE droids!" She clenched her fist, worked it a few times, her nose wrinkling as she glowered contemptuously. "None!"

The datapad was in her hand one second, and in the next, the rectangular metal slammed into the wall with impressive force, splintering against the bulkhead, bending and scattering bits of metal and plastoid as it rebounded back.

"I told Halmere to give me the TIE droids. I told Halmere not to put Valentin in command of a garbage scow, much less a battle fleet! I told Halmere to wait and let our capabilities grow!" For a brief moment, Sarreti was genuinely fearful that Daala might strangle him in Halmere's place, but she did not seize him by the throat after all. "I should have had you hold his hand and tell him not to be a kriffing idiot, damn him!"

I really ought to report this outburst, he thought tiredly.

If he did, though, ISB would add another black mark to Daala's record, and that would be one too many. The New Order's enforcers would come and take her away, put her in some re-education camp somewhere where she would be quietly forgotten. She didn't deserve that and, more to the point, her squadron needed her now more than ever. Half of her fleet had been usurped by Rann and the Corellians. She was now deep behind New Republic lines and just reuniting with her remaining ships was going to be difficult or worse. The last thing the Starfleet needed was for her squadron to be assigned to another Valentin.

So, instead of adding her name to the next ISB purge list, he merely told her what he had come to tell her. "I have received orders from the Emperor-Regent."

She looked at him, the way his ISB instructors used to look at particularly loathsome aliens. He knew that she had wanted to talk to Halmere herself, but the orders had arrived without the opportunity for a two-way real time connection. A simple communique only. With the loss of communications routed through Corellia, nothing more was possible. "What are our orders?" she asked slowly.

He straightened. This news needed to be delivered with proper import, even if it could not be delivered with the proper ceremony. "You have been promoted to Grand Admiral," he said. "Emperor-Regent Halmere has placed you in command of all remaining Imperial forces. He's ordered you to attend to him with all necessary haste so that you can assume your command and pursue the glorious final victory of the Empire."

Daala just stared at him. He wasn't sure what he had expected her to do. Celebrate, perhaps?

"With all necessary haste?" she asked.

He blinked. "That is what the order said," he replied, glancing at it to be sure.

She nodded. "We will assemble our remaining fleet, as well as any other ships we can beg, borrow, or steal from the remaining Imperial systems in the Core. They will all fall, now, there's no stopping that, so we might as well take whatever resources we can and bring them with us. Then we'll return home via the most direct possible route." She brought up a map of the Core and traced the hyper-lanes that linked to Imperial territory in the galactic north. "Through Coruscant."

[Return to Table of Contents]​

 

@Sinrebirth

Two new chapters since you asked me to ping you when the story updated! (Chapters Nine and Ten.)

 

Oof, so much happened here since the last time I reviewed! So, without further ado:

I loved how you used a domestic scene in Chapter 7 to recap what is going on and set up what is coming up next, with a bit of nice character development on the side TBH I did need a recap because we're reaching the point where you're tying together this story's many threads, so that was well-timed – and what better than Atril Tabanne stuck in the Solo-Tychu apartment with two toddlers and an infant to do that?

What made it work even better was the aburpt shift to the little droid in Chapter 8. Funnily enough, I also have a mouse droid character whose name is Mousey, but he's more of a humorous detective story type, not a little hero in his own right – but yours definitely is, attempting to ram Halmere's (?) foot when Nichos was kidnapped! This was all an unexpected way to bring us back to the Jedi consulate and set up the next stages of the plot. I'll note that Corran was absent at the conclave (and I have a fairly good idea where he is); there again, your description of the sitting arrangements gave us a pretty good idea of the group dynamics of the Jedi Order at this point of its development. The one titbit that had me intrigued was Luke's vague assignment to Tyria at the end of the chapter. Is he calling up the Antarian Rangers? I supposed I'll just have to wait to find out.

I know that I'll be in for a treat when there's a space battle coming up in one of your stories, and the one in Chapter 9 didn't disappoint It just had everything: Pellaeon in full combat strategy mode, Soontir Fel in a cockpit working his magic to figure out that the New Order TIEs are droids, Asori Rogriss coming out of her cloaking shield at the right time, and Disra was back (however briefly)! I love how, in all his appearances in your stories, he always turns out to be a second-rate schemer, and it looks like he's out of schemes this time. As for poor, bumbling Admiral Valentin... farewell, we barely knew thee – but that was also a great way to show what happens when a regime purges its ranks of those who are deemed disloyal or really just not-entirely-reliable. The New Order leadership believe that they can win through brute force, but I already know that it's a gross miscalculation, and I'm very eager to read how you'll make it happen.

I couldn't move on to reviewing Chapter 10 without saying how much this made me laugh

And yes, Chapter 10... so much going on here once more! The highlight, of course, was Flirry Vorru's polite conversation with the "gardener", which I assume is Corran in disguise. I absolutely loved how you'd written Vorru in Interregnum I, and I loved him here again. He's such a shrewd opportunist, figuring out every time where to go and what to do to keep his grip on power, and it seems that the "gardener" was right about the availability of funds to bribe the Star Destroyer captains after all – though, most importantly, he was also right about Vorru being a Corellian patriot, or at least having an interest in being patriotic at that particular point in time.

Lastly I want to note that I found it interesting that there are cracks appearing in Sarreti's Loyalty Officer facade. Despite being among those in charge of the New Order's purge, he's very much aware of the problems it entails, and that awareness is bound to grow more acute as time goes by...

All caught up! Sorry once more for not managing to keep up with weekly reviews, but be sure that I'm reading along and enjoying every word of it!

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@Sinrebirth As a fellow Bantam-era fan, I can't recommend enough that you binge-read Interregnum I and Interregnum II, which you can find on Bel505's profile. It's not necessary to have read them in order to follow this fic, as each one of Bel and SnubJockey's novels is self-contained, but they're such great reads! You'd be missing out if you didn't have a look.